Maha Geeta #68

There is another kind of pulsation, another kind of life, where there is no ego-sense, yet there is being; where I am not, God is. The ego has died, gone, become past—but beyond the ego there is still life, a pulsation. In truth, that alone is life.

So the sage, in one sense, dies—and in another sense becomes supremely alive. He dies in this sense: now, through his being, God lives; he no longer lives as himself. He dies in this sense: the ego has become a tomb. The selfhood is gone; now there is only the Divine. And the Divine is overflowing. Now God flows.

The wise man has become a hollow bamboo reed. When the Lord sings, a song is born. The flute does not sing on its own, yet there is a song of the flute. The song arises through it. The flute becomes a medium; it does not obstruct.

In Jesus’ life this is explained very precisely. On this side the cross; on that side new life. With one hand, crucifixion; with the other, the great Life—resurrection. This is the story of all the wise.

The question is natural. Ashtavakra says: the knower becomes without pulsation. No personal pulsation remains. If there is no personal desire, how will there be pulsation? If there is no personal craving, how will bubbles arise? If there is no personal urge, no running, no hustle and bustle, nowhere to reach, nowhere to go—then what pulsation can there be? But God is moving. God is motion, movement, pure dynamism.

The sage has dissolved as himself; now there is only God. Only when the seed breaks does the sprout appear. The death of the seed is the life of the plant. If the seed remains intact, the plant cannot be born. When the sage melts, disappears, he becomes a passage for God.

O seekers, we are pieces in a game of chaupar!
Some fair, some dark,
Some big, some small!
From this square to that square,
From tanner to lord,
Time, the master-player, plays,
Grabbing each by the topknot!
O seekers, we are pieces in a game of chaupar!

Some get beaten, some get spared,
Some weep, some laugh—
All play this brazen game,
Even if they win no bread!
At times one throw loses every coin,
At times, suddenly, a windfall falls;
One cast builds a nest,
The next snatches your loincloth!
Each move is a snare, each snare a move,
Each house a conjurer’s trick;
Every fate here is like
A morsel in a dog’s mouth!
As long as the cloth is spread and the stall is set,
So long this whole commotion;
Then one sack comes,
Tying everyone in one fat bundle!
O seekers, we are pieces in a game of chaupar!

As soon as that which is hidden within—the real pulsation, the One truly living through us—begins to be seen, we realize we are pieces on the game-board. Some small, some big; some poor, some rich; some wise, some ignorant—but we are pieces on the board. Someone else’s play is on; someone else laid out the board. Someone will lose, someone will win—but we are merely the pieces. Neither our loss nor our win.

The wise man begins to live like a dry leaf in the wind—wherever the wind takes it. If east, then east; if west, then west. O seekers, we are pieces on the game-board! Now there is no personal longing left. Nowhere to go by one’s own intention, no plan. Hence, neither melancholy nor the frenzy of elation. There is a supreme peace. Where, then, is pulsation? One’s own pulsation has gone—gone along with oneself.

Gone are the days when the ego wove dreams; when the ego plotted grand strategies of winning and losing; when the ego trembled, got frightened, arranged security. Those days are gone. There, indeed, death has happened. The ego is ashes now. That little lamp we blew out and extinguished.

Now a flame has descended that neither goes out nor is ever born. The Eternal has descended. Now it is the Eternal’s pulsation.

So, in one sense, the wise man dies—and in another sense, only the wise man truly lives; you are all dead. Kabir has said, “O seekers, this is a village of the dead.” All these are corpses here. None is truly alive among them.

One morning Jesus placed his hand on a fisherman’s shoulder by the lake and said, “How long will you keep catching fish? Is there nothing else to catch? Come to me, come with me. I will teach you to cast greater nets, in which not only fish, but men are caught. Not only men—God Himself is caught.”

The fisherman was a simple man—neither schooled nor lettered. He looked into Jesus’ eyes and trust arose. Had he been educated, doubt would have arisen. Had he been a thinker, he would have said, “I will consider it. What is this? Take your hand off my shoulder! Who follows anyone just like that?” But he looked simply into Jesus’ eyes; trust arose. These eyes could not lie. That face was proof. He dropped his net right there and followed.

They had not even left the village when a man came running and said to the fisherman, “Madman! Where are you going? Your father has died.” His father had been ill, could have gone any time. The man said to Jesus, “Forgive me. I was coming, but fate has placed an obstacle. Give me a few days—one week, half a week. Let me perform my father’s last rites, and I will come.” Jesus said, “Leave it. There are enough dead in the village; let the dead burn the dead. You follow me.”

“O seekers, this is a village of the dead!” In one sense, you are utterly dead. What is your life? What is there in it? As long as the fist is clenched, it seems there is something in it. Open it a little and see. People say, “When clenched, it’s worth a lakh; when open, it’s dust.” They speak true. Keep it clenched and you feel assured there is something. Don’t open the safe. Never peek here or there into your life; otherwise you will be alarmed—there is nothing there. You are making a din for nothing. Look closely: what is this life? Getting up each day, eating each day, changing clothes each day, going to the office, the shop, the factory; returning at dusk; sleeping again; the same in the morning again.

Is going round in this wheel what you call life? Is this life? Animals live like this too—and better than you. Trees live like this too—they eat, drink water, sleep at night, awaken in the morning—and they live better than you: carefree, greener. Sometimes they blossom; you never blossom. Sometimes fragrance arises from them; from you, except stench, what else arises? Anger arises, hatred arises, violence arises. Love—you only talk about it; does it ever arise? Compassion—it is written in scriptures; where is the experience? God—the word you have heard, empty and dry; where is the recognition? Where is the meeting? How is your life life?

This so-called life that looks like life but is not—that is what dies. Then another life is born, which as yet is unseen, invisible. That life alone is life.

You ask rightly. In one way the renunciate dies; in another way he comes alive. He dies as you are, and in a new, utterly fresh way life makes its advent. Call it God, liberation, nirvana—whatever you please.

It may not be right to say they had no guru. It is more accurate to say that the whole of existence was their guru. Those who do not yet have the courage to take the entire existence as their guru will have to make at least one person their guru—out of stinginess. If you cannot make everyone your guru, make at least one. Perhaps through that one, a window will open. Then, slowly, courage will grow, a taste will come; as your daring increases, you can take others too as your gurus.

On the surface it looks as if Buddha had no guru. But if you look deeply, you will see: Buddha did not make any one person his guru because when the whole existence is your guru, whom will you appoint? Rivers and mountains, moon and stars, plants, animals, and birds—all are gurus.

There was a Sufi fakir, Hasan. When he was dying, someone asked, “Who were your gurus?” He said, “Don’t ask. Don’t touch that subject—you won’t understand, and I don’t have much time left. I am near death; I won’t be able to explain much.” People became curious. They said, “You are going anyway—don’t leave us with this puzzle, or we will regret it forever. Say it in brief. You still have a few breaths.”

He said, “Understand only this much: I was sitting on a riverbank when a dog came, panting with thirst. He looked into the river and saw another dog there. He got frightened. He barked, and the other dog barked back. But his thirst was so great that despite his fear he had to jump into the river. He gathered courage—he hesitated many times, trembled—and then he jumped. The moment he jumped, the dog he saw in the river disappeared; it had never been there—it was only his own reflection.

“Sitting on the bank, I watched and bowed to him. He was my first guru. After that, I had many gurus. That day I understood that wherever there is fear in life, it is my own shadow. And that thirst should be such that you step in despite the fear.”

People come to me and say, “We want to take sannyas, but we feel afraid. We will take it when the fear is gone.” Then you will never take it. Will there ever come a moment when there is no fear? You will take it only if you take it in spite of fear. Do you think those who have taken sannyas felt no fear? They are people just like you; they also felt afraid. The only difference is that they said, “All right, let fear be there—we will take it anyway.” Their thirst is deeper. There is fear, but the thirst is so deep—what else can one do? Either be afraid or die of thirst; between the two you must choose. The thirst is so deep that fear has to be set aside. And only the one who sets fear aside is freed of fear. Fear dissolves through experience. But you say, “We will have the experience only when the fear is gone.” Then you have set a condition that can never be fulfilled.

Mulla Nasruddin wanted to learn to swim. A neighbor said, “It’s no big deal. Why make such a fuss? Come with me; I’ll teach you.” They went to the river. Slime had gathered on the steps; Mulla slipped and fell with a thud. He scrambled up and ran toward home. The one who was to teach him—the “master”—shouted, “Hey, where are you going? Don’t you want to learn?” Nasruddin said, “I’ll come to the river only after I’ve learned to swim. This is too risky—my foot slipped, I was flat on my back; if I had fallen into the river I might have lost my life. And who knows about you—whether you’ll come through at the right moment or not! I’ll come to the river after I’ve learned to swim.”

But no one learns swimming on mattresses and pillows. However much you thrash your arms and legs lying on your bed—it’s comfortable, there’s no danger—but where there is no danger, there is no learning. Learning is in the risk. Experience is in the risk. The greater the risk, the greater the treasure hidden there.

If you have sworn that you won’t go near the river until you’ve learned to swim, you will never learn. If you want to learn to swim, you must have the courage to step into the river without knowing how to swim. And you will have to trust someone. There is no logical reason for trust—because who knows, when you start drowning, whether this person will save you or run away? When you start drowning, will he help you or not? How will you know until you actually drown a little? Maybe he has saved others—but what guarantee is there that he will save you? Others may testify, but what proof is that? And what proof do you have that those others aren’t his hired helpers? Perhaps he has set up the whole net just to trap you—how can you be certain?

Fear will remain. And then, a river is visible; you can even collect certificates for the swimming instructor. You can go to the riverbank and see him teaching others; others have learned. But the river of life is invisible. And the ocean of the divine cannot be seen. In that unseen, unknown, unfamiliar realm, no certificates will help. There one goes utterly alone. You won’t see anyone going.

So many people are around me—you won’t recognize who among them is going and who is not. You will recognize only when you yourself begin to go. After you have gone, then you will recognize others: who has gone. The same fragrance that arises within you will begin to be discerned in them. The aura that comes into your eyes, the humming that begins in your being—once you have heard it there, you will hear it near anyone’s heart. What we have not known within, we can never know without.

Hasan said, “Watching that dog, I understood I must set fear aside. I saw this too: if the divine is not available to me, there is only one reason—my thirst is not enough. My thirst is incomplete. And if even a dog could dare, I said to myself, ‘Get up, Hasan—now dare! Learn something from this dog.’”

Someone asked Bayazid—another Sufi fakir—“Who is your guru?” Bayazid said, “I was passing through a village. A small boy was carrying a lit lamp to offer at a shrine. All day I had found no one to whom I could explain something, to whom I could give a little ‘knowledge.’ Knowledge I did not have.

“Those who don’t have it are the keenest to give—because in giving they get a little reassurance that they have it. At other times there is no certainty. Only when they give advice to someone do they appear intelligent; the rest of the time they are fools. In the moment of advising there is a slight glimmer—‘Yes, I too know something.’

“So I grabbed the boy and blew out his lamp. I asked him, ‘Son, tell me—just now the lamp was burning; where has the flame gone now?’ The boy said, ‘Light it again—let’s see.’ He ran, brought a match, lit the lamp, and said, ‘Now you tell me—where has the flame come from? It goes back to where it comes from. When it comes, we don’t know from where; when it goes, we don’t know where to.’

“From that little boy I received an awakening—that I still know nothing. I have no qualification to teach even this child. He defeated me. From that day I stopped teaching; now I will teach only when I truly know. That small boy became my guru.”

Those who have the courage to make the whole existence their guru have no need to appoint a single guru. But you do not even have the courage to make one person your guru—then how will you make all your gurus?

And do not deceive yourself. Deception is easy and the mind is very cunning. The mind can say, “We don’t accept one guru because we accept everyone as our guru.” Just make sure this is not a trick to avoid a living guru. Your life is yours; lose it or attain it—you are responsible. Deceive yourself or be saved—it is your business; no one else has anything to do with it. Just be alert that behind your refusal to accept one guru there is not an urge to escape. If truly all are your gurus, nothing could be more auspicious. If they are not, then this notion will become very dangerous.

If there is courage, teaching comes from everywhere. If the art of learning is there, every door becomes a temple and every path leads to the goal. If you don’t know how to learn—if the mind is not free, if it is surrounded by prejudice, burdened with doctrines—then even if a true master, a Buddha or an Ashtavakra, comes to you, you will still slip away. You will find some trick.

Perhaps that is why the question has arisen in the mind: “Buddha had no guru; Mahavira had none; Nanak had none—so why should we have a guru?” Yes—if you can do as Nanak, Buddha, and Mahavira did, then there is no need. Let this vast existence—from the tiniest to the vastest—be your guru; let every footstep for you be the feet of the divine—then there is no hindrance.

If that is not possible, then at least open one window. At least open one small window. Through a window you won’t see the whole sky, only a small patch. But that little patch will give you the taste. When the window is opened, an invitation from the sky will come. The vastness of the sky will appear confined within the frame of the window; but remember, the frame belongs to the window, not to the sky. The sky has no frame. Through the window you will get a glimpse: the sun’s rays will enter, new breezes will come, the fragrance of flowers will drift in, you will see birds flying in the sky—perhaps you too will become eager to leave your cage and fly. Thirst will arise.

This is all a guru is: a window into the divine. Through the guru you become skilled in seeing God. Once you have become skilled, the whole existence becomes your guru. Then why look through only one window? Why be stingy? You will open all the windows; you will open all the doors. Why remain stuck only with the East? You will open the window to the West too. Why be entangled only with the West? You will open the window to the South as well. Because if the East is so beautiful, the West will be too; so will the South, so will the North.

Then you will open all dimensions. One day you will say, “Let us step outside the house. Windows are not enough.” If from inside the house the sky is so beautiful, then standing directly beneath the open sky there will be a shower of incomparable beauty. That day the whole existence has become your guru. But in ninety-nine out of a hundred cases, you will first have to open one window.

How can rasa make you blind?
The Upanishads say, the divine’s very form is rasa: “Raso vai sah.” He is the embodiment of rasa. How can rasa make you blind?

No, it must be something else. You are blind. You go on hunting for excuses about who made you blind. No one is making you blind. You are sitting there with your eyes closed. Neither rasa is making you blind, nor money is making you blind, nor the world is making you blind. No one is making you blind. How could anyone? You are blind—eyes shut tight.

But even to admit this you don’t have the courage: “I am sitting with my eyes closed.” So you search for excuses. You say, What to do—lust has blinded me. What to do—greed for wealth has blinded me. What to do—we are entangled in the world; this is making us blind. The truth is the reverse: you are blind, therefore you get entangled. Money is not blinding you; you are blind, that’s why you cling to money. Rasa is not blinding you; in fact, where have you even tasted rasa yet? Ask yourself again—have you found rasa? At most you have seen a distant glimmer. Sometimes in a beautiful woman—from afar; come close and it all turns insipid.

A man was lonely. Tired of his loneliness, he prayed to God, “Send me a beautiful woman. Truly beautiful, not ordinary. Cleopatra, or Marilyn Monroe—truly beautiful. Sophia Loren—truly beautiful.” But God played a fine joke. God said, “Shall I send you a noose?” The man was offended: “What sort of talk is this? I ask for a beautiful woman, and you say, a noose! Neither scripture says this, nor have you ever spoken like this to any devotee. What are you saying? I only ask: send me a beautiful woman. What would I do with a noose? Are you going to have me hanged?”

Anyway, a beautiful woman arrived. Within three days the man realized: this has become a noose. God was right. I thought I was asking for a woman, but I was really asking for a noose and didn’t understand. He had spoken in the riddling, upside‑down way of the saints. He began to panic. Within seven days he was harried. After seven days he started remembering those days of aloneness—how beautiful they were! How pleasant!

Man is strange. What is lost looks beautiful. What you can’t have looks beautiful. What you do get pricks like a thorn. At last he said to God, “Forgive me, I made a mistake. I am ignorant. Send me a sword.” He thought, “I’ll finish this woman, then the old peace will return—the same solitude, the same ease, the same joy. Then I’ll live carefree.”

Again God said, “A sword? Why not send the same noose?” The man flared up: “You already sent one noose—still not satisfied? I’m only asking for a good sharp sword.”

Well, God relented; a sword came. He killed his wife. He imagined he’d live in bliss—but he was caught, sentenced to death. When they led him to the gallows he burst out laughing. The executioners asked, “What’s the matter? Have you lost your mind? Who laughs on the gallows?” He said, “I’m laughing because this is rich. God kept saying again and again, ‘Shall I send the noose? Shall I send the noose?’ I didn’t understand. Had I agreed at the start, I’d have been spared all this trouble.”

Whatever you get turns into a noose. Oscar Wilde said, “Blessed are those who do not get the woman they desire.” If she’s got, the trouble begins. Majnun is still shouting, “Layla, Layla!” He’ll go on shouting—and in great ecstasy. Had he got her, he would have known. Ask those who did get their Layla.

Whatever you get, from there the rasa is lost. Ask the rich—does money hold any rasa? The poor, yes, they find rasa in it. The poor have only one rasa: wealth. It hasn’t been attained; it’s at a distance. Ask the rich, who have attained it. He is amazed: Why are people so mad? Why did Buddha and Mahavira leave their palaces? There was no rasa, none found. The one who has no position feels great relish for it: “If somehow I could be in office!” Ask those in office—it’s a hanging. They can’t even return. How to face people if they step down? “You climbed with such struggle—what happened now?” And their mind won’t accept: “We were foolish, ignorant; that’s why we craved position.”

Where is rasa? Have you known it? The Upanishads say, “Raso vai sah.” The nature of God is fullness of rasa. He is rasa itself. And you say, “Rasa makes one blind.” No, rasa opens even the eyes of the heart—when there is rasa!

Rasa comes only when the mind is gone. How will the mind allow rasa to arise? The mind makes everything tasteless. Rasa dawns only when the vessel of meditation is ready. Rasa is found only by those with eyes. Rasa does not blind you; you are blind, hence you don’t find rasa. Open your eyes: it is rasa, only rasa. The ocean of rasa is brimming. Everywhere, waves of rasa are rising. In the greenery of trees, in moon and star‑light, in the birds’ chorus—waves of rasa are playing. Raso vai sah.

No, you have clung to wrong notions. And those who have taught you are as blind as you. They have not found rasa, you have not found rasa. The blind are leading the blind. “The blind push the blind—both fall into the well.” But what are the blind to do? They catch someone’s hand.

I have heard: a blind woman was standing on a New York street, waiting to cross—hoping someone would come to lead her across. Just then someone placed a hand on her shoulder and said, “Shall we both cross together?” She said, “I was waiting—come.” They held hands and crossed. On the other side the woman said, “Thank you so much for helping me across.” The man panicked: “What do you mean? You should thank me. I am blind—you helped me across!” Then both were alarmed, broke into a sweat. They had crossed, but only then realized both were blind.

How are the blind to know they are following a blind man? There are queues upon queues. You hold the one ahead; he holds the one ahead of him. At the very front some great blind man is walking like a mahatma. On and on you go. Neither you know, nor the one before you knows.

Mulla Nasruddin went to say his prayers—perhaps Eid or some festival. Thousands were praying. His shirt was tucked into his pajama. The man behind him didn’t like it, so he tugged and straightened it. Nasruddin thought there must be some ritual in it, so he tugged the shirt of the man in front. That man turned and asked, “What’s the matter? Why are you pulling?” Nasruddin said, “Brother, ask the fellow behind me. I thought it must be the custom. I’ve never been to this mosque before.”

We imitate each other. Where have we tasted rasa? What acquaintance do you have with rasa? If you find rasa, you find God. If you attain rasa, you attain all.

No—open your eyes. No one is making you blind. No one can make you blind. No one has that power. Only you have that power. If you wish, you can remain blind for eternity. It is your decision. You have decided not to open your eyes—your choice. But don’t blame anyone else. Drop these tricks.

You are angry, and you blame the other: “This man made me angry. He said something that provoked me.” If you were non‑angry, no matter what he said, anger would not arise. Lower a bucket tied to a rope into an empty well—rattle it all you like, haul it up all you like: it will not bring water. It will go down empty, come up empty. One who has no anger within—abuse him, lower the bucket, rattle it with all the curses you like; it will come up empty. Only from the one in whom anger is stored does anger come. The abuse at most becomes an occasion.

And if you ask the psychologists, they say something even stronger: even if no one provokes you, if anger is stored within you, you will find some excuse to discharge it. Even if no bucket is lowered, the filled well surges and seeks some outlet; by one pretext or another, the water will find its way out.

You yourself have seen it many times—an itch arises to collide with someone. Something wells up inside—you go around looking for a fight. You know that moment when you feel like saying, “Come on, bull, gore me!” If no bull gores you, you feel upset.

Mulla Nasruddin was sitting quietly at home, puffing his hookah. Suddenly his wife pounced, “Now don’t provoke me any further!” “Good heavens,” said Nasruddin. “I’m sitting silently, puffing my hookah; I haven’t said a word—precisely to keep my mouth shut I’ve put the hookah to it. And you say, ‘Don’t provoke me’! What’s the matter?” She said, “Exactly! You’re sitting so silent—that itself is provocative. Say something. What does this silence mean? Sitting there puffing while I’m right here!”

If he speaks, he’s caught; if he stays silent, he’s caught. People are ready—boiling inside—just waiting for a pretext. If none appears, they go hunting for one. If no pretext at all can be found—if you shut a person in a room—you would be astonished...

Psychologists have done experiments. They kept a man in solitude for seven days. Food was slid in through the door; no one spoke, no one moved around him. All arrangements were there: he could bathe, eat, rest in peace. But they told him to write daily when he felt anger. Now there was no cause at all—but he wrote in his diary: “Felt anger this evening.” With no cause, he dragged one out of the past: “Thirty years ago so‑and‑so abused me.” It still flares up.

You are seeking excuses. You are blind. You want to be blind. You think there is some vested interest in remaining blind. You believe it’s the only way to be. Then you say, “Rasa made me blind. What to do—this woman made me blind. What to do—this man made me blind. What to do—money lying on the road tempted me, so I stole.”

What are you saying? Because the mind to steal was there, you noticed the money lying on the path; otherwise you wouldn’t even have seen it. It would have lain there. If you weren’t a thief, you wouldn’t have noticed it. You are a thief. The money on the road only brought up what was already within. And look: money lying on the road is inanimate. Inert matter stirred you into action? Then you have fallen below the inert!

One day Mulla Nasruddin was walking with me. Suddenly he ran to the side of the road, bent down, picked something up, then flung it away angrily and began cursing. I asked, “What happened, Mulla?” He said, “If I ever find the man who spits like a half‑rupee coin, I’ll cut his neck!” Someone hawked and spat; it looked to him like a coin, and he was ready to cut the man’s throat!

You are blind. No one is making you blind. Rasa is the nature of the divine, the life of God. You have not yet tasted it.

Open your eyes—rasa will be found. And when rasa is found, life is blessed.

Now this restlessness too must be happening by His will! Such a small point doesn’t occur to you? You’ve grasped the big things: sannyas, spirituality, meditation—all is nonsense. You’ve become such a great wise man, and this restlessness sitting in the mind—you can’t understand this!

If everything is happening by His will, then this restlessness too is by His will. Accept it. Why be restless about restlessness? You say everything happens by His will. Then what is left? Let Him make you do whatever He makes you do. Watch whatever happens.

No—but you are cunning. You don’t want to meditate, so you say, “When it is His will, it will happen.” You are afraid to take sannyas—you are a coward—so you say, “All that is nonsense.” Yet you are searching for a trick to remove the mind’s restlessness. See these dishonesties exactly.

Sannyas is precisely for dissolving the mind’s restlessness. Meditation is the method to dissolve the mind’s restlessness. The ending of mind itself is what spirituality means. And you call these things nonsense. Fine—your choice. Then there is no remedy for the mind’s restlessness. You are calling the medicine nonsense and then you say, “I have the illness; now what should I do?” Then take care of the illness. Worship it. Build a temple for it; install your mind’s restlessness there; ring the bells, wave the lamps. What else will you do? “The medicine is nonsense!” And have you actually used the medicine? Are you saying this after trying it? Are you saying it after meditating? After entering spirituality? Do you have any experience of sannyas?

Don’t talk like children. Without experience, say nothing. On matters you have not experienced, make no statement. Do not speak beyond the limits of your experience; otherwise that very statement will become a noose around your neck.

Now you ask, “Yet a strange restlessness persists in the mind. Please guide.”
Now what on earth! You’ve left me no way to guide you. Whatever I say will be “nonsense” to you—because it will fall either into the category of spirituality, or meditation, or sannyas. Whatever I say…

Let us understand the questioner’s question rightly, because many are in this state.
“I can neither frame any question nor do I have any desire to receive an answer. Yet guidance…”
Even if someone gave you an answer, you aren’t prepared even to say thank you—that’s why you say you have no desire for answers. If there is no thirst for an answer, how will you take guidance? Only when there is desire, a deep longing, a mumuksha, a burning thirst, can you receive the answer; otherwise, how will you take it? My answer would be wasted; it would make no connection with you.

And you say, “Listening to you, and from some of my own experience…”
You have not listened to me. You may be sitting here—good for you—but had you listened, your life would have been transformed. This restlessness would have disappeared on its own. If you had listened, meditation would have begun. If you had listened, the flavor of spirituality would have arisen. If you had listened, sannyas would have descended. You have not listened to me. Yes, you have heard a few things—the things you wanted to hear.

The mind is very cunning, and its cunningness is very subtle. It hears only what it wants to hear—only what is convenient. What it does not want to hear, it does not hear.

I once asked Mulla Nasruddin, “Nasruddin, you read the Quran every day and yet you go on drinking wine? The Quran clearly speaks against wine.” He said, “It certainly does. But each according to his capacity—I do as much as I can.” I said, “I don’t understand.” He said, “Look, the Quran says: ‘If you drink wine, you will go to hell.’ I have reached only up to the first half—‘If you drink wine…’ Beyond that my capacity has not yet developed. Slowly, slowly I will go further. I will reach ahead too, but for now I relish up to ‘If you drink wine…’ This too is the command of the Quran. I am not going against the Quran.”

Man is very cunning. Here you are listening to Ashtavakra. Ashtavakra says there is no need of sannyas, no need of meditation, no need of spirituality, of scriptures, of the guru. You must be delighted: “Ah! This is what we’ve always said—nothing is needed.” But you are not understanding Ashtavakra.

Ashtavakra speaks from a great height. He says there is no need for the ladder because one has reached the terrace. And you are standing below, in the basement. Hearing “no need for a ladder,” you feel very pleased. You are the one who needs the ladder. Yes, a day will come when the ladder is no longer needed; that blessed day will come—but it comes only by passing through the ladder. There is no other way.

Right now you are at a point where even meditation is arduous; going beyond meditation is still beyond imagination. For now you are entangled in thought, in distorted thought. Ashtavakra speaks from the state of no-thought: that there is no need for thought. Since thought is unnecessary, meditation too becomes unnecessary.

Try to understand. They are saying: when there is thought, meditation is needed. Thought is the disease; meditation is the medicine. When it is understood that thought has no use, then meditation too has no use. But what will you do? You will continue in thought and grasp only that meditation is not needed. Thought will not disappear because of that.

If “meditation is not needed” has entered your understanding completely, it means that before that, it must have entered your understanding that thought has no use. When there is no use for thought, then there is no use for meditation either. Keep this as your touchstone. That is why the trouble is arising.

“Meditation, spirituality, sannyas—all are useless nonsense, and yet a strange restlessness remains in the mind.”
It will remain. Because you have taken up a very lofty statement while you are still crawling on the ground. You have dreamed of the sky and declared, “No need for wings.” You won’t be able to fly; you will just keep dragging.

That is why I say to you: there is no need of thought. But how will you drop thought? If your understanding is so deep, so intense, so sharp that on simply hearing this you drop thought, then there is no need of meditation either—the matter is finished. But then restlessness will not remain in the mind. The issue is finished. The mind is finished—where will restlessness be? No bamboo, no flute.

But if hearing this does not resolve it and restlessness remains, then you need meditation. Through meditation you will go beyond the mind’s restlessness one day. And when you go beyond mind, then throw both the bottle of meditation and the disease of thought into the trash. Do not carry medicines with you then. You won’t need them. Then the meaning of Ashtavakra will be revealed to you.

Yesterday I told you there are two possibilities: shravak and sadhu. The one who, just by hearing, arrives—who, between hearing and arriving, has not even a moment’s gap. The instant the point is understood, it happens. For such a one there is no need to become a sadhu; he has already become one. But if that does not happen, if restlessness persists, then you must pass through the process of the sadhu. Then you will have to cut it gradually. What does not fall in a single stroke of the sword must be cut little by little. That gradual cutting is called sadhana—spiritual practice.

Understand yourself. Your mind’s restlessness is itself the news that you will have to be cut gradually. You will have to pass through spirituality, sannyas, meditation, the guru—through all of it.

And do not delay. Nothing is certain: today you are, tomorrow you may be no more. Do not delay; time cannot be trusted. The time that has gone does not return. The time that is to come—whether it will come or not—no certainty. Only this moment is in your hands. Either become restless in it, or descend into meditation. Either wander in the world, or rise into sannyas. This very moment is in your hands: either now, or never. Do not think, “We will think tomorrow; we will do it tomorrow.”

What youth it was, that every flower fell in love!
What a beauty, that the mirror shivered to behold!
Here the earth rose up, there the sky arose—
Clutching my heart, whatever met the eye, arose.
But then one day such a wind began to blow,
Bud by bud was looted, lane by lane choked.
And we—plundered, battered by time—
Kept watching the intoxication of the wine of breath:
The caravan passed by; we kept watching the dust.

Soon you will be thrashed. Time beats everyone to a pulp. Soon you will be looted. The bandit of time cares for no one; he loots all. He recognizes no law, no state, no government. The bandit of time goes on looting, cutting the roots of your life.

And we—plundered, battered by time—
Kept watching the intoxication of the wine of breath:
The caravan passed by; we kept watching the dust.

Very soon this caravan of life will have gone. Only clouds of dust will remain on the road. The bier will be lifted soon. And then do not say that the bier and such are nonsense—mind that. Then you will not be able to say, “Death and so on are nonsense.” Then your plight will be great.

Before time runs out, before the opportunity is lost, do something—fill your begging bowl a little. Do not let this bag remain utterly empty.

And I tell you: if you can descend into meditation—if you can go straight into knowing—very auspicious. Out of a hundred, one or two may go straight; ninety‑nine have to go by way of meditation. That is why the Ashtavakra scripture, though so glorious, has never served many; it cannot. It is for the most select few. It is for people like an Albert Einstein, a Gautam Buddha, a Krishna, a Mohammed, a Jesus—just a few who can be counted on the fingers.

Therefore the scripture is unique, but many could not make a weapon of it to cut the net of life. To cut the net of life you must proceed according to your own capacity. You must look at yourself and then move. If, listening to Ashtavakra, you attain knowing, and your mind’s restlessness disappears—good. Then there is no need of any sannyas. But take your mind’s restlessness as the touchstone. If the restlessness does not end, understand that for you mere knowing will not do; you will have to go through meditation. Then don’t evade—enter meditation.

If you can enter meditation, one day thoughts will be cut away. The day thoughts are cut, that day meditation too becomes useless. A thorn gets stuck in the foot; with another thorn we take it out. Then we throw both thorns away. We don’t keep the second thorn carefully in our pocket, nor worship it as our savior. We throw that away too. A thorn is a thorn; keeping it close is dangerous—it too can prick. And if you keep it in your pocket, it will stab your chest. We throw both away.

Thought is a thorn; meditation too is a thorn. With the thorn of meditation we take out the thorn of thought; then we bid farewell to both—namaste. If meditation happens, both thought and meditation will go. Then you will know what sannyas is, what spirituality is.

Where there is no mind, there the flowers of spirituality bloom, lotuses open. Where there is no mind, the fragrance of sannyas spreads. For now, do not make such statements. From a small mouth, big talk. Ashtavakra may say so; you do not. If you must say it, then test it against your own mind. Then do not bring restlessness in between—and then do not ask for guidance.

You see contradictions because you do not yet have the understanding that sees the non-contradictory. You don’t have the eye that perceives harmony; so at once everything appears opposed. You haven’t seen that the thing hasn’t become contradictory—you have only looked at it that way.

Try to understand: “The strength of the weak is Rama.” But weak does not mean a beggar. And that weakness in which Rama is found cannot be beggarliness; that weakness becomes the gateway to a kingdom. “The strength of the weak is Rama” means: one who has dropped the strength of the ego, who has said, “I have no strength of my own now.”

By this, strength does not disappear—by this, for the first time, real strength arises.

It is your ego that is killing you; it is the stone tied to your chest, the noose tied around your neck. What strength is there in your ego? Only the pretense of strength. What can you do with your ego? Nothing at all. What do Alexander, Napoleon, Genghis, Taimur actually manage? All that strength lies there, useless. A gust of death comes and all the air goes out; the balloon bursts.

The bigger the ego, the sooner the balloon bursts. Have you seen children blowing air into a balloon, more and more? As the balloon grows, it comes nearer and nearer to bursting. When it is full, it pops. Napoleon and Alexander are inflated balloons.

What is your ego anyway? What strength does it have? What comes of it? Nothing.

“The strength of the weak is Rama” means: the person who has dropped the vanity of his selfhood, abandoned the feeling of “I, me.” From that side he becomes weak—because what he used to take as strength is gone. But in truth he is not weak at all. That is exactly what it means: as soon as “my” strength is gone, Rama’s strength is born. Rama’s strength is hidden within you, pressed down in your very life-breath. The moment you let go of the ego-balloon, it comes rushing in.

Rabindranath has written a lovely poem-story. One night he was on a barge. Full-moon night, the whole sky flooded. An enchanting night, pouring with moonlight. He was sitting inside his boat reading a book on aesthetics—on beauty—by the yellow, flickering light of a small candle. At midnight the book finished. He blew out the candle—and stood astonished. From the door, the window, from every crack of the barge, the moonlight entered within. Wondrous! He began to dance. Then he wept. For he remembered: beauty is showering outside, the moon is at the door, and I am sitting with this candle, reading aesthetics in its dingy light. Beauty stands at the threshold, and I am searching for beauty in a book. And this faint candlelight has kept the moon from entering.

Have you seen it? A little candle’s light, and the moon won’t come in. Blow out the candle—and moonlight fills the room, rushes in from everywhere. Rabindranath wrote: that moment became an auspicious moment in my life. That day I knew: the ego is such a candle. So long as it burns, the Lord’s light stands at the door; it cannot enter within. Blow out this candle, and the Lord comes running. The strength of the weak is Rama.

This does not mean that when you become weak you become a beggar. The moment you become meek, you become an emperor. Jesus’ words are: “Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth; for theirs is the Kingdom of God.” Blessed are the meek. The whole world is theirs, and they are the owners of the Lord’s kingdom. By becoming meek, a man becomes a sovereign.

So I say again: do not go to the divine door like a beggar. Beggar means: do not go like an egoist. Ego is a beggar. What does the ego have except asking? “Give me wealth, give me status, give me prestige, give me the chair.” What else does the ego have? “Give, give, give!” It keeps demanding. “More, more, more.” It goes on begging. It is beggary.

Who is an emperor? One whose asking has fallen away, who does not beg—that one is an emperor. And who will not ask? The one who has found Rama. Once Rama is found, what remains to ask? And Rama is found only by the meek. Blessed are the meek. They become emperors. Their meekness is strength—“The strength of the weak is Rama.”

But of course you must have seen a contradiction. Because when I said, “Go like an emperor,” your ego said, “Hear that? Now we must walk with stiff pride. Not like a beggar. May our flag fly high! Now we march in. We’ll even launch an assault on God—not going there like beggars! Take the brass band along. Let Him also be told that someone important is arriving.”

This is what you must have understood when I said, “Go like an emperor.” To go like an emperor means: don’t go with a demand. Go having dropped your demands. And if all demands fall, the ego will not remain, because the ego lives by demand. The ego is begging; it is a beggar.

But you do misread—I know it. You are compelled to misunderstand. The moment I said, “Go like an emperor,” your spine must have straightened. You must have sat stiff and thought, “Now that’s the real point. Me—go like a beggar? No way! At last, the path is clear!” Since then you’ve been strutting. Kindly set your spine right! I did not say that. What you hear is not necessarily what I have said; and what I have said is not necessarily what you have heard. So do not rush to conclusions. Reflect well. Listen again and again. Examine from every side. Otherwise you will be misled.

“The strength of the weak is Rama; to the defeated, the Name of Hari.” The one who is defeated—his is the Name. But what do you mean by “defeated”? Not this: the fox who leapt for the grapes and failed. She looked around—no one was watching—and walked away. A rabbit hidden in a bush had seen it. He said, “Auntie, what happened? You leapt and couldn’t reach?” Now that hurt the fox’s ego. She said, “Oh, nothing. No matter. The grapes are sour—hardly worth reaching.”

That is one kind of defeat. I am not speaking of that defeat—where you wanted wealth and couldn’t get it, so you say, “I kicked it away.” You didn’t actually kick anything—there was nothing there to kick! Only the one who has it has the right to kick it away.

I am not calling this failure “defeat”: you wanted to be President, couldn’t even become a municipal councilor, so you thought, “There’s nothing in this office stuff.” Immediately you began reading scriptures, attending satsang, saying, “There’s nothing in all this. It’s vain hustle and bustle. I have become spiritual.” You chased a woman and couldn’t get her because there were other competitors, so you convinced yourself, “What are women anyway? A heap of bones, flesh, and marrow; full of blood and phlegm,” and so on. You pacified the mind that way: the grapes are sour. Such lines are found in the scriptures.

Those must have been written by the first kind of defeated ones. For such as these I do not say, “To the defeated, the Name of Hari.” They are already defeated—what name will they take! They have never tasted life; how will they know its flavor? That fox who left after leaping—do you think grapes won’t haunt her mind? She can deceive the rabbit; perhaps the rabbit, simple and devout, accepted, “Yes, the grapes are sour.” But how will she deceive herself? She knows she leapt and couldn’t reach. Without tasting, how can one be sure they are sour? In the night she will dream again of leaping. Those grapes will circle in her mind.

That is exactly what happens with your monks and renunciates. They ran away from women, and women circle in their minds. The number of dreams about women that sadhus and monks see—no householder sees that many. The householder has no time to dream of his wife—she torments him all day; at night at least he seeks relief!

Those who have wealth do not dream of wealth; beggars do. Those who hold office do not dream of position; the positionless do. We dream of what we do not have. The taste that has not been taken—its craving remains.

No, I am not speaking of the defeated of that kind. Then which kind? There is another kind of defeat. One defeat comes from failure. Another defeat comes from success. When a man succeeds—and suddenly finds that though success has come, what lies in his hand is ash. The grapes were reached, plucked, tasted—and nothing was found; they were plastic grapes. Wealth was amassed in heaps, and suddenly it was clear: it is nothing; inwardly we remain the poorest of the poor. One sat in a high seat and found: what happened? We are just the same. Seated on the ground, we were the same; seated on the chair, the same. No difference at all. Our name spread across the world, everyone knew us—what happened? Nothing was gained. This applause came, but it fills neither the belly nor the soul. It all happens on the surface; within we remain empty.

There is a “failure” that comes from failure—I am not talking about that. Is that even a failure? When such a failed person takes sannyas, it is the celibacy of a eunuch. If a eunuch vows celibacy, what of it? I am not speaking of that. I am speaking of something else entirely.

A defeat that comes from success. A poverty that is discovered upon gaining wealth. You have gained everything, and suddenly it all feels insubstantial. You have tasted—and found the grapes are sour. And they remain sour; they never ripen. No grape of this world ever ripens—it stays sour.

After such tasting, no dreams come; no lust stirs. After this taste, the world does not have to be renounced; it falls away. In the first defeat, you have to leave it; you must make efforts. In the second, it drops effortlessly—natural, spontaneous. You have seen—and it drops. Seeing itself becomes revolution.

Such a person I call “defeated”—to him the Name of Hari belongs. Then the Name arises. In this defeat the Name arises. The ego has fallen in this defeat, the world has fallen; now Hari’s Name rises. Such a person does not take the Name out of melancholy; he takes it in the joy that the world has proved vain. His remembrance of Hari arises in rapture. Having seen there is nothing outside, he turns within—and a stream of nectar flows.

This is what I call an emperor. But I also understand your difficulty. You see contradictions because you listen with the intellect. The intellect sees contradiction in everything, because its very method is to break things into pieces. As a glass prism splits a ray into seven colors, so everything that passes through intellect splits into two—duality is born. Whatever passes through intellect becomes two at once. Reality is one; intellect makes two.

There is another way to see and understand life, beyond the intellect—of the heart; beyond thought—of love.

If love did not, upon the path,
hold the finger of this ailing age,
every pain would turn a harlot,
every tear go vagabond.
The mind is fickle as weather—
of all, yet belonging to none:
now of morning, now of evening,
now of weeping, now of laughter.
What is life? One thing that
barely comes to understanding—
who tells it, repents;
who hears it, repents.
But this very insoluble riddle
becomes child-simple, natural,
if, leaving logic, we made
our home with feeling.
Every courtyard is a stage,
and every breath a puppet;
love is only that string upon which
clouds dance and lightning dances.
Believe it or not, as you wish—
but I will still say this:
were love not upon the earth,
the whole world would be a wasteland.
If love did not, upon the path,
hold the finger of this sickly age,
every pain would turn a harlot,
every tear go vagabond.

Consider: the intellect is a prostitute. It cannot be trusted. Now it says this, now that. Through intellect there is never any certainty. The intellect is a wanderer; it is not chaste—now with the morning, now with the evening; now one, now two. It keeps wobbling. And to wobble it must extract two meanings even out of one; otherwise it could not wobble.

There is another way to see life: love, the heart. If you listen to me with the intellect, you will find contradictions every day—line by line, step by step. If you listen with the intellect you will go mad. There is another way: listen with love. Love means: where two become one, where all contradictions dissolve, where a single tone remains, a single resonance; where one meaning resounds.

And I am saying only one thing—however many ways I say it, however many words I use. Sometimes in the name of devotion, sometimes in the name of knowledge, sometimes meditation, sometimes yoga—but I am saying one thing. If you listen with love, you will hear that one. Then meanings will appear before you as they should.

Now it is simple: I keep saying, “To the defeated, the Name of Hari.” I have told you so many times, “The strength of the weak is Rama.” And how many times have I said to you, “Do not go like a beggar; go like an emperor.” Had you heard this with the heart, the meaning would have revealed itself. The meaning I have just explained—you could have found it yourself, had you listened with love. But you listen with the head. You are ready, always, to spot something that looks like a contradiction. Then you make no effort to build a bridge between them. If I have said both, there must be a bridge.

Seek the bridge. Set yourself to finding it. First search for the bridge within. When you cannot find it, then ask. And I tell you, gradually you will begin to find bridges, and your contradictions will start to vanish. In my apparent dissonances, you will hear the note of harmony. Because real dissonance cannot be. From where I speak, only the One abides. Sometimes I cast it in one color, sometimes another; sometimes I hum one song, sometimes another.

These differences are of words. Within me dwells only the One. That One is manifesting through many words. Remember this. Do not keep forgetting it. And whenever you see contradiction, call upon great awareness. Sit quietly, search—the bridge will be there somewhere. You will find it. And in finding it, a different kind of lamp of understanding will be lit within you—which we call love.

The purport is in losing yourself. It is not a matter of understanding; it is a matter of being lost. If you try to understand, the meaning will be lost. Do not understand—dive in.
The one who has asked is a person of feeling rather than of thought. For the one who has asked, bhajan—not dry meditation—will be the path. Take the plunge. Drop the prattle of “understanding” and so on. One who knows how to drown can stop worrying about understanding. One who does not know how to drown should understand, because then, by understanding, he will be able to drown; he will move forward inch by inch.
Do not ask for the literal meaning. But its essence is worth understanding.

“O dear friend, tell me
the charming tales of my Beloved.”

The lover always asks just this: give me some news of the Beloved—where is He? Where is He hidden? Where should I seek? What is His address? Say something about Him.

This is the true meaning of satsang: where the talk is of the Supreme Beloved; where four mad lovers sit together and sing His songs, offer praise. Wherever such lovers gather, there a temple comes into being. Wherever four lovers speak of the Divine, scriptures begin to be born. A temple is not a building of bricks and stones; the temple is where four crazy ones sit and speak of the Lord, shedding tears.

“O dear friend, tell me
the charming tales of my Beloved.
Meritless and stained is this body of mine;
I have put on no garland or adornment.”

And the lover always feels, “I am unworthy. What qualities do I have? I am not even clean; I am very soiled.” The lover carries no ego. Ego belongs to the pundit, the knower. He says, “I know so many scriptures, I have worshiped so much, recited so much, chanted so many mantras, turned so many rosary beads”—he keeps accounts. The devotee says, “I have done nothing.”

“Meritless and stained is this body of mine;
I have put on no garland or adornment.
I know nothing of love’s ways;
my little heart trembles with fear.”

And the devotee says, “If the Lord meets me, I grow nervous. What will I say? For I know nothing of love.” The lover always says, “I do not know love,” and the knower always says, “I know love.” The one who does not know says he knows; the one who knows says he does not.

The Upanishads say: Whoever says “I know God,” know that he does not. Socrates said: When I came to know, I knew that I know nothing. Love always feels, “I know nothing.”

“I know nothing of love’s ways;
my little heart trembles with fear.
The Beloved sits enthroned in the palace within,
while I linger, busy with household affairs.”

And the lover knows that the Divine is not far.

“The Beloved sits enthroned in the palace within.”

He is hidden here—hidden within. How could He be far? He is woven into the very life of life, digested into it. How could He be far? He is in every breath. Then what is the entanglement? Only this:

“While I linger, busy with household affairs.”

I am stuck outside; the Lord dwells within. He sits in His own house, and I am tangled in the works outside the house. A thousand preoccupations, and I am caught in them.

“The Beloved sits enthroned in the palace within,
while I linger, busy with household affairs.
Not for even an instant did I keep His company;
all the nights passed in vain.”

There is an episode in Jesus’ life: he was a guest in the home of Mary and Martha—two sisters. Martha set to work—cleaning the house, cooking; Jesus was a guest in the home. And Mary sat at Jesus’ feet and began to press his feet. Martha kept calling her: “Mary, make preparations; a great guest has come. Cook the meal. Others may come too—Jesus’ disciples—prepare.” But Mary sat entranced, pressing his feet.

At last, after Martha’s repeated urging, Jesus said, “Martha, listen. You go on preparing; Mary will not be able to prepare. You be busy; Mary will not be able to be busy. When the guest is in the house, Mary cannot be elsewhere. She too is in the house—she too is within. I see it in her eyes. Now she has lost her wits for all this: cleaning the house, cooking, guests coming, cutting vegetables, making beds—none of this will be possible for her.”

This mention in Jesus’ life—and Jesus said, “Leave her. You do the preparations—do what feels right to you; let her do what feels right to her. Each of you live by your own rhythm.”

Mary and Martha are two approaches toward God. One is to be busy outside, preparing, engaged in work. Even that preparation is for meeting God; it is being done for the Guest. But one becomes so busy in preparation that the Guest is forgotten. Martha never came and sat by Jesus; she remained entangled in work. She kept preparing for the guest, yet missed the guest. Jesus came and went, and Martha remained dry as dust. Mary was filled; she drank. She drank the nectar to the full.

“The Beloved sits enthroned in the palace within,
while I linger, busy with household affairs.
Not for even an instant did I keep His company;
all the nights passed in vain.”

And the devotee says, “I know You sit within and I am entangled outside. All this entanglement is futile. Had I kept Your company, this night would have become a wedding night. But the night has turned dark, sorrowful, full of anguish. In this night I saw only dreams of grief, while You were seated at home.”

A day comes when the devotee repents—the lover repents. That repentance is what is being voiced:

“The Beloved sleeps upon the high terrace,
where the creature has no inkling of love’s way.
By what path shall I go to meet Him?
In what manner shall I compose and send my letter?”

The devotee asks: the Lord abides on the lofty terrace—upon a very high plane,

“where the creature has no inkling of love’s way.”

No path occurs to the creature for going there. The creature cannot go to that height. The creature dwells in lowliness. To go to that height, the creature must be left behind. That renunciation is necessary.

Creature means the I-sense. God bound within the I-sense is what is called the creature. Defined, limited God is the creature; the sky confined within a courtyard is the creature; sunlight hemmed in by walls is the creature.

No, the creature cannot go. The circumference must be broken. The pot must be broken so that the sky within may merge with the sky without. The creature is the obstacle. Hence it is said: the creature has no way into love—no path, no means.

“By what path shall I go to meet Him?
In what manner shall I compose and send my letter?”

There is only one path to meeting—and that is to vanish. Man never meets God as man—hear this well. Man never meets God. When there is God, there is no man; when there is man, there is no God. The two never stand face to face.

Kabir has said, “As long as I was, You were not; now You are, I am not.” What a marvel! Kabir says, “I went out searching for You. So long as I was, I did not find You; and now that You are found, I am not.” What kind of meeting is this? It is not a meeting of two—it is only One.

Kabir said, “Love’s lane is exceedingly narrow; two cannot pass therein.” This meeting with God is not like meeting a person, a friend; not like wife meeting husband, husband meeting wife, mother meeting child. Meeting God is like the river meeting the ocean—by dissolving, it meets.

“By what path shall I go to meet Him?”

No, you will not be able to go and meet. That is why I told you: if, while singing, you lose yourself—that alone is the meaning. Drop the worry. Nothing more needs to be known. Lose yourself. Do not even remain as the one who wants to know the meaning. Lose yourself utterly. Take the plunge.

One day it will happen that before the bhajan, you are; in the singing, you are lost; the singing ends many times, and you return again and again. Again you lose yourself, again you return. One day it will happen: you will be lost, the bhajan will end, but you will remain lost—you will not be able to return. That day the meeting happens. That day the letter is written. That day the address is found.

Keep drowning. Practice drowning; keep taking the plunge. If not today, then tomorrow; if not tomorrow, then the day after—some day that auspicious moment will arrive: you will drown once, and there will be no coming up. Where you do not remain at all—there you will find that what remains is the Divine.

“Though by body You are separate in every way,
yet from the heart You are not far.
These hands have not touched those lovely feet,
these feet know not Your path.
These eyes have not seen Your playful glance,
these lips have not kissed Your dark tresses.
Smooth or curly, fair or dark,
gleaming or without a gleam—
within the pot You are utterly without qualities,
yet to the water-bearer You are not far.
Though by body You are separate in every way,
yet from the heart You are not far.”

The Lord is very near, not even a little far. He is hidden in love itself. Uncover love, and you will find the Lord. And the day you find the Lord within yourself, that day when you open your eyes you will see Him everywhere—everywhere, in every place. There is no other.

“Every mirror is Your mirror,
every glance is Your glance.
If I become the tears of any eyes,
to You alone I offer the libation.
Of dark skin or fair skin,
of sullied mind or pure mind,
of silver, gold, or sandalwood,
of vice, virtue, or beyond all qualities,
whether holy or unholy,
lovely or unlovely,
of the East or of the West,
of the North or of the South—
every image is Your image,
every face is Your face.
Whosever bridal parting I may fill,
it is Your wedding that I solemnize.
Every mirror is Your mirror,
every glance is Your glance.
If I become the tears of any eyes,
to You alone I offer the libation.”

That is all for today.