Maha Geeta #70

First thing: you will not be able to become a non-doer. Nothing you do will make non-doing happen. Whatever you do will only manufacture the doer. If you do, the doer is created. Even if you try to disappear, the doer will be created by that very trying. Humility, too, becomes an ornament of the ego. Even the declaration “I am not” rises from the I. This way you will be deceived; a great tangle will arise. You won’t be able to untie it.

No one can become a non-doer. There is no question of becoming a non-doer—because whatever “becomes” will remain the doer. Action, as such, manufactures the doer. So the questions you are asking are fundamentally wrong. The very direction is wrong: What should I do? How can I become a non-doer? How can I become his flute? How can I remove the “I-sense”? How can I recognize that this decision is his? Behind all of this, you are present. Who is it that wants to become his flute? Who is it that says, “How can I drop the I-sense?” That very one is the doer.

Then what to do? Nothing is left to be done. What then? Simply understand how the doer is constructed; slowly, slowly the doer disappears on its own. Nothing needs to be done. You ask, how to become his flute? You are the flute. It is not a matter of becoming. You have only assumed you are not the flute. You are the flute even now. This very moment that same One is listening within you and speaking within you. Not for a single moment can it be otherwise. When you committed sin, it was he who did it; when you did virtue, it was he. When you were a thief, it was still he; when you became a saint, it was still he. Not for a single moment can it be otherwise. How could you ever be other than That?

You ask, “How do we become his flute?” The mistake is already inside. The mistake is: “We are separate from him, now we must become his flute.” You are the flute—just know this. You ask, “How to recognize that this decision is his?” All decisions are his. The very talk of recognition is foolish. There is no decision that is not his. How could anything happen that is not his? Whatever has happened, is happening, will happen—comes from That. You unnecessarily come in between. Look at waves in the ocean. They seem separate. If waves were to acquire a little intelligence like yours, each wave would begin to ask, “How may I become one with the ocean?” A wave is already one with the ocean. First ask: How can a wave be separate from the ocean? How could it live if separate? Have you ever seen a wave apart from the ocean? How would it survive?

If a wave got clever, started doing satsang and sitting with saints, it would ask, “I get the point; now tell me how to become one with the ocean.” What would we say to the wave? “Foolish one, you already are one! Your notion of separateness is a delusion. You have never been separate. When you were dirty, it was the ocean that was dirty. When mud rose in you, it rose from the ocean. When dry leaves floated in you, they floated in the ocean. When you swelled big enough to drown great ships, it was the ocean rising. When you rose tiny and small, it was still the ocean rising. Big or small, filthy or pure, beautiful or ugly—under all conditions, in every state—the ocean spoke within you, the ocean appeared as you; there is no other way.”

In this vast ocean of consciousness we are waves. Our being separate is not. So do not ask, “How can we become one?” You have never been separate. And do not ask, “Which decisions are ours and which are his?” All decisions are his. The very experience, the seeing, the realization of this is what is called surrender. You do not have to become a flute; you are the flute. Just this much remembrance is needed.

Swami Arvind Yogi has sent a lovely song of Kabir. Remember it in answer to this question—
“The washerman dies of thirst in the midst of water.
Standing in water, the fool won’t drink—there’s water in plenty.
He knows not the secret of his own home, and pins his hopes on washermen.
In a moment the washerman weeps and washes; in a moment sits forlorn.
With his own feet he twists the rope of karma, with his own hands he slips on the noose.
He will not take the true soap that lies with the saints.
The old stain won’t leave though he washes for twelve months.
He strains with all his might at a speck, and leaves aside a full measure.
Says Kabir, listen, O seekers: the washerman dies of thirst in the midst of water.”

You ask how to quench thirst? “The washerman, thirsty in the midst of water.” And where you stand, all around there is nothing but water. “There is water in plenty—and the washerman, thirsty in the midst of water.”

If the question is wrong, there is no possibility of a right answer. Your question is wrong. And beware of those who will offer you ways, methods, paths: “So you may become God’s flute in this manner.” There are people ready to hand you techniques for union with God. I am not eager to answer a wrong question. I do want to tell you: your question is wrong. Do not carry a wrong question—your whole journey will go wrong.

We are saying something else entirely—just this much: only the Divine is; you are not. You ask, “How may we not be?” I am saying, you are not; you never were. You have seen a dream, fallen into a delusion.

A Zen mystic, Bokuju, one night slept. Whether he dreamt or not, who knows; the story is that in the morning he said to a disciple, “Listen, last night I saw a dream—will you interpret it?” The disciple said, “Wait, I’ll fetch water; please wash your face.” He brought a bucket, scrubbed the master’s face and hands. The master said, “I asked for an interpretation; what are you doing?” The disciple said, “This is the interpretation. It was a dream—what interpretation can there be of what was not? The unreal admits of no interpretation.” The master was delighted: “Good! Had you interpreted, I would have thrown you out by the ear.”

Just then another disciple was passing. The master said, “Listen, I saw a dream last night—will you interpret it?” He saw the water, the washing, and said, “Wait, I’ll bring tea.” He brought a cup. The master began to sip. “And what interpretation is this?” The disciple said, “Now that your hands and face are washed, have tea. Wake up. It’s morning. The night is over. Who asks about the night after morning comes? What’s the point? You yourself said it was a dream. Truth may be interpreted; can a dream be?”

You have dreamed you are separate—and now you ask how to become one. I say: wake up, wash your face, drink tea. You have never been separate; you have nursed a delusion. And when I say all decisions are his, understand: this is the revolution I want to introduce into your life. Your saints tell you, “The good is his; the bad is yours.” What stinginess! If you are giving, give the whole. And think a little: if the bad is yours, how will you ever be able to give away the good? Saints say, “The bad is yours; the good is his.” Inside you think the opposite: “The good is mine; the bad is his.” This inner bookkeeping—break it. Break it one-sidedly, once for all. What kind of accounting is this!

And when you think “the bad is mine,” how can the good be his? You think the theft is yours and the charity his? Impossible! That’s no longer arithmetic. If the theft is yours, the charity too is yours—that’s how you will reason. And your ego will explain: the theft happened out of compulsion—fate, circumstances; but the charity, I did. So the theft you’ll assign to the back door—circumstances, destiny. “The wife was ill; there was no money for medicine, so I had to steal.” Even if you don’t say directly “You made me do it,” you’ll say “circumstances” did. Who made the wife ill? Who made you starve? “In such difficulty I stole—hungry, how could I sing your praises, O Gopal? I stole so I could worship you.” One way or another, you’ll push the theft onto him. And when you donate—steal a hundred thousand and donate two, four, ten rupees—you puff your chest. Haven’t you seen roosters strutting, chests puffed out? Donors begin to walk like that: “Great benefactor!” This I did. Then you won’t say, “You did.” The ego cannot say that. It hoards whatever is auspicious and makes its own adornment out of it; it pins on the flowers and leaves the thorns to him. This is natural. The mistake is not yours; it is your saints’ who tell you “half yours, half his.” Either all his, or all yours.

There have been two kinds of knowers in the world. One says, “All is yours”—and he too speaks truth. Another says, “All is his”—and he too speaks truth. Those in between—“some yours, some his”—are ignorant; they know nothing.

Mahavira says, “All is yours.” This too is true. Ashtavakra says, “All is his.” This too is true. One thing is true in both: it is whole; it is not divided up. There is no division of labor: you do some, I’ll do some.

Mahavira says, “It is wholly man’s.” Then the bad is included and the good is included. Good and bad cancel each other, like credit and debit in a ledger. You are left zero. That zero is meditation. You become zero, you are no more—then you are the flute. Mahavira does not use the word “flute,” because in his language “God” is not used. He says: you become empty, meditative, attain to aloneness. But it is the same thing. In Ashtavakra’s language, you hand both to the Divine—and you are zero. In Mahavira’s device you say, “The merit is mine, the demerit is mine.” They cancel each other; you are left empty.

If you look closely, you will be amazed: the ratio of bad and good is exactly equal. They weigh the same on the scale; they cut each other. You do just as much bad as you do good. As your goodness increases, your badness increases in equal measure. Like a tree grows upward and its roots grow downward: the higher the tree, the deeper the roots. It cannot be that the tree rises a hundred feet and the roots go down only two or four feet; it would fall. It could not survive.

Nietzsche has a famous and precious saying: “He who wants to go to heaven must plant his feet in hell.” He is right. To reach heaven, you must spread your roots in hell.

The more you do good, the more bad will be. The ratio stays equal. You don’t see the bad; you avert your eyes—hence you feel you did so much good. But in this world the balance never breaks. Balance is the supreme law. Everything runs in a deep balance.

So Mahavira says: accept both bad and good as yours—because there is no God to leave them to; there is only you. Bad and good balance out; they cancel each other. What remains in the hand is zero. In that zero there is aloneness, nirvana.

Ashtavakra says: leave both to him. This is the simpler device. More workable than Mahavira’s. Mahavira’s way is a bit roundabout, long, unnecessarily difficult. But some relish difficulty—let them travel that way. Ashtavakra’s way is straight and clear: leave both to him; say, “All decisions are yours. I, too, am yours—then my decisions are yours as well. If I myself am not mine, how can my decisions be mine? You gave birth; you will give death; then life is yours too. Whatever happens between cannot become mine.”

You did not take birth by your own hand—you did not jump suddenly into being. You suddenly found that birth had happened. One day you will suddenly find that death has happened. Between the two is life. Neither the beginning nor the end is in your hands; the middle cannot be in your hands either. Ashtavakra says: all is in his hands. Knowing this, you become zero. This zero is surrender. The supreme state descends. Then the doer dissolves.

The doer is a mere belief. It dissolves in two ways—Mahavira’s way, or Ashtavakra’s way. But it does not go by trying to remove it. There is no method to remove it. When there is awakening to the ultimate inner state, you do not find the doer there.

So do not ask me, “How to recognize that this decision is his?” That will lead to trickery. The recognizer would still be you. The doer will hide behind the recognizer—and start its work again: “This is mine; this is his.” But “mine” remains. Do not protect it at all. It is your delusion.

First thing: “If one has accepted existence, then why words?”
Who told you that words are not a part of existence? The void is existence—and so are words. There is as much reality in silence as there is in speaking. As much truth is hidden in the seed as is revealed in the flowering.

The Zen poet Basho has said, “Flowers do not speak.” I never hesitate to say someone is mistaken, and yet it pains me to say Basho is mistaken. I am fond of Basho. Still I must say: flowers also speak. Basho says, “Flowers do not speak”; I say to you, flowers do speak. Perhaps Basho did not understand the language of flowers. Ask the bee whether flowers speak or not. The news travels for miles. Fragrance, sweetness, the invitation floats in the air—lines are flung out, webs of invitations spread. The hive miles away gets the message: a blossom has opened. There is a rush, a joyous running; the bees go in file! Ask the butterflies whether flowers speak or not. Ask the sunrays whether flowers speak or not. Ask your nostrils, your eyes; ask the flower’s colors and scents.

Flowers do speak. Their language is not the language of human beings. Why should it be? The flower’s language is the flower’s language. If flowers thought, they might say, “Humans don’t speak,” for we do not speak in their tongue. This existence is immensely eloquent—everything is speaking.

You ask, “If one has accepted existence, then why words?”
If you have accepted existence, where is the way to avoid words? The void is mine, words are mine. Silence is mine, expression is mine. Existence is the meeting of all opposites. But man is always busy choosing. If he chooses words, he will never choose the void. If he chooses the void, he will be afraid of words. Some go on speaking endlessly; some have sworn never to speak. Both are wrong; both are stubborn.

I have no insistence. As the divine wills! When he wants to speak, let there be speech. When he wants silence, let there be silence. If you insist, then you remain in the way.

Now you ask, “Why teaching?”
Why not? Understand this. If you think teaching is something given, you are mistaken. Those who “give” are not teachers in the true sense. Teaching happens. The Jain scriptures have an exact expression: they do not say, “Mahavira spoke.” They say, “Speech showered from Mahavira.” This is precise; it catches the truth. “He spoke” sounds like a doing. But “speech showered” is right—like light showering from the sun, like fragrance showering from a flower, so speech showered from Mahavira.

How can a flower stop its fragrance? How can the sun withhold its light? When the lamp within is lit, radiance will shower—sometimes as silence, sometimes as words, but radiance will shower; sometimes it will “speak” through words, sometimes through silence, but speak it will.

You ask, “Why teaching?”
You have not met a true upadeshta. You have seen preachers, lecturers; you have not known a giver of upadesh. You do not know the depth of teaching.

What is the difference between a lecture and upadesh?
Mahavira said, “I give upadesh, not aadesh.” Understand two differences. First, between lecture (vyakhyan) and upadesh. In a lecture, you are striving; you are trying to impose, to persuade. There is effort, strain, fatigue. If the other agrees, there is delight; if he does not, there is displeasure. There is success and failure, pleasure and pain. In upadesh there is neither success nor failure. That which welled up within is said; what arose within, showered. The spring that burst forth inside flowed. If someone drank—good; if not, that is his choice, his fate.

Upadesh is a natural process. Hence Mahavira also said, “I give upadesh, not aadesh.” Aadesh means, “Do as I say.” Upadesh does not mean, “Do what I say.” Upadesh means, “I share what has happened to me. If it resonates, take it; if not, drop it. If it helps—good; if not, forget it.” There is no command that you must obey. Birds sing: if you wish, you listen. A flower blooms: if you wish, you look. The moon rises at night; there is no order that everyone must stand at attention and look at me. No—he rises, plays, revels in the sky. Someone looks—blessed; no one looks—that too is fine. Even if no one on earth looks, it makes no difference to the moon. Upadesh is a spring.

You ask, “Why teaching?”
You do not know what upadesh means. Understand words too, because Sanskrit, Prakrit, Pali—these languages are so suffused by the streams of the wise that each word carries great depth. What is the literal meaning of upadesh? Desh means “space,” expanse, dimension. Upadesh means “to be near to that expanse”—just as Upanishad means “to sit near one in whom it has happened.” To be with the master—Upanishad. Upavas (translated as “fasting”) literally means “to be near what abides within,” to come close to the indwelling self.

Do not mistake anshan (hunger strike) for upavas (fasting). Starving is not upavas. Sometimes it happens that so much nectar flows from the soul, you are so inwardly fulfilled that food is forgotten—it drops by itself. That is different—that is upavas. A hunger strike is not upavas because you refrain from food by effort; the memory of food remains. What kind of upavas is this! Better to have eaten twice and been done; now you are “eating” food a thousand times a day in your mind. Upavas means the body is forgotten; you have come close to the self. Upanishad means you forget yourself and come close to the master.

What is upadesh? When that vast sky has manifested in someone—a Mahavira, a Buddha, a Krishna, a Muhammad, an Ashtavakra, a Christ—when the great sky is revealed within someone, you come near. Rays shower from that vast sky; let them shower, drink them in, assimilate them—like a thirsty one drinks water.

Upadesh is not for everyone. It is for the initiated. People ask me, “Why so many restrictions for coming here?” Because there are no lectures happening here. There is no appetite for a crowd. Entry is for those who truly wish to come close to the vast sky that has happened within me—to become a part of my sky. This is not a marketplace to be filled. Not a place for the merely curious: “Let’s see what it is,” as if going to a movie. Not for them. There are a thousand controls for such people. This place is only for the thirsty.

Upadesh means: the great expanse that has manifested within me—come, partake of it. That is why I speak. And consider: had the wise not spoken, there would be no Upanishads, no Gita, no Ashtavakra’s great song, no Bible, no Quran, no Dhammapada. Imagine—if the enlightened had kept silent, where would you be? In the forests. You would not be human. Even what has been spoken—though you have not truly heard it; had you heard, you would be in heaven—what you have only skimmed has, unknowingly, brought you far. You do not even know, and yet it has drawn you past the jungle, beyond the animals. Had you truly listened, you would have entered the divine.

My capacity is up to giving; receiving is in your hands. The gentleman who asks “Why teaching?” is really asking, “Why should I receive?” What do I have to do with you? Whether I speak or not—what is that to you? Who are you to set limits on me? At most you can do one thing: do not come. I did not invite you. You have come of your own accord. Even if you are not there, I will speak—to trees, to mountains, to stones, to the empty sky. You cannot stop me from speaking.

But truly, you mean something else. You do not want to receive. Teaching tastes like poison to your ego. The very idea of taking something from someone hurts your pride. Do not take it—your choice.

I am not eager to give. I have said it; my responsibility is fulfilled. God cannot say to me, “What you received, you did not share.” That responsibility I have fulfilled. If you did not take it, that is a matter between you and your God. I have nothing to do with it. If you do not wish to receive, do not. There is no command that you must. But please do not say, “Why do you teach?” Leave me be! I am leaving you be—I do not command you; grant me that grace too.

You ask, “If there is surrender, why an explanation of opposition?”
Without understanding opposition, how will you understand surrender? If someone asks you what light is, will you not say, “It is not darkness”? If someone asks, “What is life?” will you not say, “It is not death”? If someone asks, “What is meditation?” do not all the scriptures say, “It is not thought”? Without the opposite, there is no explanation. To explain surrender, one must explain opposition. When opposition is understood—seen, and thus drops—whatever remains is surrender. For truth to be known, the untrue must be understood. To recognize the right, you must recognize the wrong. To walk the right path, you must know which paths are wrong; otherwise you will keep wandering.

Edison was working on an experiment. He failed seven hundred times. It took three years. His students, colleagues, followers grew troubled: this is madness. Seven hundred failures—and he does not tire! Every morning he arrives fresh, joyous, enthusiastic, and begins again.

At last, one day they surrounded him. “Enough is enough,” they said. “There is a limit. We have failed seven hundred times—how long will this go on? Is there nothing else to do? Will we spend an entire life on this?” Edison said, “Fools! Seven hundred failures mean we have recognized seven hundred wrong ways. The right way must be near now. How many wrong ways can there be? If there are a thousand, we have identified seven hundred; only three hundred remain. When we have recognized two hundred and ninety-nine more as wrong, the right will be found. Every day we are coming closer to the right—why be sad? Without knowing the wrong, how will you know the right?”

To find your own home, you knock at many others. Before finding a true master, you wander at the doors of many who are not. It is natural. There is nothing unnatural in it. It is not wrong; it is according to the law. One feels one’s way in the dark.

So I also explain opposition; I tell you what is wrong, because I want to tell you what is right. The truth is, there is no direct way to say the right. Neti-neti is the way: “Not this, not this.” This is not truth, that is not truth—one by one, as every untruth is pointed out, when all untruths are exhausted, the master says, “Now what remains—this is truth.” There is no straight way to put a finger on truth and say, “This!”

Truth is too vast for a finger to land on it. Untruths are small; you can put a finger on them. So we place the finger on untruths: this is false, this is false, this is false. At last the moment comes when the false is exhausted. Truth is boundless; the false is limited. The false runs out; one day it is all counted. Then what remains beyond counting, spread like the sky—that is the truth. Neti-neti is the method: not this, not this. Then one day you will know what is.

Recognize the unreal and the portal to the real opens. Understand the world and the door to liberation opens. That is why the world is—to practice neti-neti. Attached to wealth, you discover it does not give joy—you say, “Not this.” Falling in love—man or woman—you find nothing is gained: “Not this.” Position, prestige attained—and only ash in your hand: “Not this.” Thus you keep saying “not this, not this”; one day you have known all the world can offer; suddenly the entire world becomes futile and falls away. What remains is nirvana.

And then you ask, “Isn’t it escape, even cowardice, to enter sannyas after leaving life’s search incomplete?”
I say every day: do not enter sannyas after leaving life’s search incomplete—that would be escape. That is why I do not break my sannyasin away from the search for life. I say: let life’s quest continue, and slowly assimilate the music of sannyas. Because tell me—how will you know the search is complete? How will you know the time has come to enter sannyas? Practice sannyas gradually—let the world continue, and also practice sannyas. Otherwise, if suddenly one day you find the world is meaningless, and you have no understanding, no thread of sannyas in your hand, you will commit suicide instead of entering sannyas.

Notice: in the West suicide happens in large numbers; in the East it does not. Why? Because of sannyas. In the West, when a man is utterly defeated by life and finds nothing of essence, only one thing seems sensible—finish oneself, what else remains? In the East man does not kill himself. When life becomes futile, he becomes a sannyasin. The East found a substitute for suicide. The West has no alternative; therefore suicide increases there day by day—and it will continue until sannyas reaches the West. Until the ochre hue spreads across the Western sky, suicide will go on increasing there. For as people understand life is futile, they ask: then why rise each morning? Why go to the office? For what? To suffer the same sorrow again and again? To keep watering the hell of one’s own life daily? End it.

Many great Western thinkers committed suicide. This is worth reflecting on. No great thinker of the East ever did. There is a stream of thousands of great ones—Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Rama, Nagarjuna, Shankara, Ramanuja, Nimbark, Vallabha, Kabir, Nanak, Dadu—not one committed suicide, not one went mad. In the West, the reverse: a great thinker rarely escapes madness. If one does, it only means he is not that great; he has not traveled far in thought. For thought, taken to its end, brings you to a wall beyond which there is no movement. There is no method of meditation available. When thought ends—what then? The mind begins to crack. When the world is seen as futile—one thinks of suicide. There is no sannyas, no alternative.

When I say stay in the world, I say it so that you do not step out prematurely. But how will you know when you are ripe? And will you dig a well the day your house catches fire? Start digging the well now; when the fire comes, it will be ready, and you can draw water. If you begin the well on the day of the fire, the house will not be saved.

So I say: let the world continue, and alongside let the music of sannyas be born. There is no opposition between the two. Sannyas belongs to God, and the world belongs to God. All is his. Sannyas is not the opposite of the world; there is no need to run away.

Now you ask me whether entering sannyas after leaving life’s search incomplete is escape. That is exactly what I am saying! Whom are you asking? If you had asked the Shankaracharya of Puri, it would fit; ask Acharya Tulsi, ask Muni Deshbhushan Maharaj—that would be apt. But you ask me? My revolution in sannyas is precisely that it can move with the world. I am trying to bring the temple and the shop closer—so that when you are in the shop, the temple is not so far that you cannot reach. It should be near—just a step, and you are in. Then you will be saved from suicide.

And note: sannyas is a kind of suicide—a very loving suicide: the dissolution of the ego. You die; you are gone. In truth, sannyas should be called the real suicide. The one who kills his body does not kill the mind; the ego survives. No sooner is the body gone than a new birth begins—again the womb, again the race. The same cycle resumes. Sannyas is the real suicide, for when one truly becomes a sannyasin and the ego dissolves, there is no need to return. You become an anagamin—non-returner. You merge in the divine.

But I know the questioner’s motive. He lacks the courage to take sannyas; so he consoles himself: “Sannyas is escape.” He asks, “Is sannyas cowardice?” The truth is opposite—he lacks the courage to take it. Try my sannyas and then decide where cowardice lies. Wear the ochre robes, the mala, and walk the marketplace, go home, visit family and friends—and then see. The whole world will seem to stand against you. Yes, if I told you to flee to the mountains, that would be cowardice. I tell you: do not run. Stand firmly in the world.

A friend came. He said, “I will take sannyas, but there is a hassle—I drink.” I said, “Drink at your ease. Take sannyas first; we’ll see.” He was startled. “You say I may drink?” I said, “That’s your business. I don’t concern myself with such small matters—what you drink, what you don’t. I am not a Jain monk to keep accounts of whether you strain your liquor or not. You drink—it is your responsibility. I will give you meditation, sannyas, then we shall see.”

About fifteen days later he returned: “I’m in a noose! Now I fear even walking past a liquor shop. On the second day after sannyas I went in; a man fell at my feet, ‘Swami-ji, how are you here!’” I said, “Your choice—if you have the courage, go.” “No,” he said, “I cannot. He said it with such feeling: ‘Swami-ji, how are you here!’ Perhaps he thought the swami had mistakenly wandered in—this tavern is no temple! How did you come?”

You call sannyas cowardice—try it. That man’s alcohol left him. After sannyas you will begin to see.

One young man took sannyas; he lives in Kalyan. Fifteen days later he brought his wife, “Give her sannyas too.” I asked, “What’s happened?” He said, “Trouble. On the train people grabbed me, ‘Whose wife are you running away with? You are a sannyasin—whose woman is this?’ Give her sannyas; otherwise there will be trouble!” Five, seven days later he brought his small son, “Give him sannyas too.” “What now?” I asked. “We were both stopped on the train: ‘Whose child have you picked up?’ My own child! But now how can a sannyasin have a child!”

There was an old idea of sannyas that included running away. I tell you: remain a husband, remain a wife, remain a mother, remain a father. I give you a struggle, a challenge. Your challenges will increase, not decrease. Your struggle will deepen. This is not escape.

But you want to save yourself. Save yourself if you must, but do not hide behind false words. You are the coward—and wish to convince yourself that sannyas is cowardice. Then in your mind you can think yourself brave. If you are brave—take the plunge. Do not be afraid. You have lived as a worldly person; now live as a sannyasin while remaining in the world. Then you will see whose struggle is greater, whose challenge is higher.

And listen—you say, “When I am ripe…” I tell you in advance: death will arrive before your ripening. Up to their last breath, people do not think they are ripe. Up to their last breath, desires chase them; dreams bind them; plans keep pursuing them. To the last breath the mind thinks, “Let me do something, become something—just a little more time.”

“My string of breaths—cruel time snapped it too soon.
Every morning and evening
Hope threaded pearls upon it—
All my pearls lay scattered.”

“A wild wind arrived,
Broke the tender bough
On which each bird
Had built its nightly nest—
All my pearls lay scattered.”

“The dark night deepened,
The bedside lamp began to die,
And before my eyes gathered
Boundless darkness on all sides—
All my pearls lay scattered.”

But then it will be too late—when the garlands of pearls and dreams have snapped and scattered, and darkness closes in on every side.

A woman wanted to take sannyas. She came many times, asked many times, understood—and each time said, “I’ll come tomorrow.” One day news came—the very day before she had said, “I will come tomorrow”—that she had met with a car accident. For six, seven hours she was unconscious. When she came to, the first thing she said was, “Run!” She told her son, “Run! I must take sannyas. I have been postponing for so many years”—she was around seventy—“and yesterday I said I would take it today; today death has come—now hurry!” But before the son reached me, her breath had stopped.

I told the son, “Her wish was so deep; she could not take it while living—no matter. Put this mala on her; place this name upon her chest. Wrap her in ochre and cremate her. What else can you do now?”

This is what I say to you: take it while living—awake, alert, consciously, by choice. Whether one is buried or burned in ochre after death makes no difference. The value of sannyas is that you chose it in supreme awareness.

“Hands were given—that I might comb the moon’s tresses.
Lips were opened—that I might call to every spring.
Pain was bestowed—that I might love every sufferer.
And breath—so I might bring heaven down to earth.
But nothing could be done. Evening turned to dawn.
A wave rose—and the forts crumbled, scattered.
And we, in fear, with eyes brimming,
Wrapped in our shrouds,
Stood watching our own mausoleum.”

“The caravan moved on, and we stood staring at the dust.”

“The parting in the hair had just been filled
By a new ray of light—
Drums began to beat,
Feet began to dance,
There was a cry: ‘Here comes the bride, the bride!’
The whole village surged,
Eyes swam with joy—
And then a bolt of poisoned lightning fell,
The vermilion was wiped away, the veil torn.
We, unaware, from a distant house,
Stood watching the palanquin-bearers with their load.”

“The caravan moved on, and we stood staring at the dust.”

Before the caravan passes and only dust remains on your path—before your eyes are watching your own tomb, your own bier borne away by the bearers—do something. Do not hide behind cleverness. Do not weave webs of words. See truth directly. If you cannot take sannyas, at least know: I am not taking it because I am a coward. Then one day you may take it—who wants to remain a coward? But if you conclude, “Cowards take sannyas; I am brave, so I do not,” then you will never take it.

The caravan will pass, and you will still be staring at the dust.
That is what awaits you.

As long as I was, there was nothing but mistake. Since I am not, there is no possibility for mistake. There is only one mistake: the being of the ‘I’. From that ‘I’ a thousand mistakes arise. As long as I was, all was mistake. How could it be right? Even what appeared right was not right; it was only an appearance, a seeming, an assumption, a contrivance. Then it was mistake upon mistake. Since I am no more, the doer is no more. If the doer is not, how can there be a mistake? Since then everything is simply right—because since then it is only God, only the Divine.

So long as you are, there is mistake. You disappear, and the mistake goes too. And remember: as long as you are, even what looks right will in the final reckoning prove wrong. Also remember: when you are not, then even what looks wrong will in the final reckoning be found right. That which happens through the Divine is right. What we, in our stiff-necked pride, think we have done—that is wrong. Only our arrogance is wrong; there is no other mistake. There is one sin only; that one sin has many transformations, many forms. One sin—my being, the being of the ‘I’.

All the body’s jewels are plundered,
All the mind’s dreams have slipped away.
If I meet You, life again
Will line her eyes with kohl.

The whole village is offended,
The world stands in enmity;
The night is in a temper,
The lamp in my hands makes excuses.

In every glance is hostility,
On every lip, rebellion.
To whose lap shall I entrust
This treasure of tears?

Feet worn out, the path unknown—
Still I keep walking.
If you will walk with me,
Every blister will smile.

If I meet You, life again
Will line her eyes with kohl.

As long as you are, there are blisters upon blisters. Let the Beloved be found...

If you will walk with me,
Every blister will smile.
If I meet You, life again
Will line her eyes with kohl.

With union with the Divine, even blisters turn into flowers. Thorns turn into flowers. Even a mistake turns into a blossom. And as long as you are—as long as there is your haughtiness, pretension, vanity, this poison of ‘I’—even flowers are not flowers, only thorns. Then mistakes are mistakes—and those which you do not even take to be mistakes are mistakes too.

Keep this in mind, because in my reckoning there is only one mistake and only one correction. I have made the mathematics of your life straight, clear, and simple. Your gurus have told you till now that there are thousands of mistakes and all must be corrected. If you sit to correct them one by one, you will never manage it. Correct anger, and attachment remains. Correct attachment, and greed remains. Correct greed, and lust remains. And by the time you reach lust, years have passed; the anger you had suppressed has returned to the surface. You will keep circling in this way. If mistakes are many, then there is no way for man to be free. Man’s strength is limited; the mistakes are endless.

No, it will not work like this. We must make a deeper analysis. We must catch hold of the root error on the basis of which the whole web of mistakes spreads. We must cut the root, not the leaves. Keep cutting leaves, and the tree does not perish. In fact, pruning the leaves may make the tree more dense, for where you cut one leaf, three may sprout.

I tell you: cut the root. And the root is ego. Lust, greed, pride, attachment, envy—all stand upon the root of ego. And the strange thing is: just as roots are hidden in the soil, so the ego is hidden underground, while the leaves are all outside. Mistakes are visible; ego is not seen. The roots remain hidden so they are not seen, so no one cuts them. Cut down the tree—no worry; shoots will come again. Life does not get destroyed so easily. That is why trees cleverly keep their roots concealed in the earth.

You have read children’s tales in which some king has kept his life in a parrot. Then, no matter how you kill the king, he does not die—until you twist the parrot’s neck. But how to discover where he has placed his life—was it in a parrot, a myna, a cuckoo—where? So you keep killing the king; he does not die, because his life is not there.

In just the same way, all your diseases have kept their life in the ego. Until you twist the ego’s neck, nothing will die.

You ask: mistakes? I made many mistakes. As long as I was, there were only mistakes. I did not do a single right thing. I could not—because the basic mistake was present; on it the leaves kept growing. Since I am not, there has been no mistake. Now it cannot happen. Even if I want to do wrong, it cannot happen. Before, even when I wanted to do right, it turned out wrong. Now, even if I want to do wrong, it still turns out right. There is no longer any way for wrong to happen. The root has been cut.

Attend to the root; it is the root that must be cut.

Both mean the same. Where two do not remain, there the All remains. One and the All carry the same meaning. The moment the One remains, the All remains.

So Kabir’s saying, “The lane of love is exceedingly narrow; there, two cannot enter,” has exactly that meaning. One could also say: the lane of love is vast—there, the All is contained.

But Kabir did not say it that way, and there is a reason. Because for you the second statement is useless; for you, the first one matters. You are still in twoness, and one has to be dropped. Sages like Kabir do not speak without cause. They speak to those before them, leaving a thread, a hint. Those to whom Kabir spoke were standing in duality. To speak to them of the All is futile for now. If even the One has not happened, how will the All be known? For the moment it is enough to say: you are two, and the lane of love is very narrow; drop this sense of twoness. Let one fall away; let only the One remain. When only the One remains, you yourself will discover that it has become the All. It was not losing; it was gaining. When a drop falls into the ocean, at first it must think, “I am finished, gone, lost.” In falling it finds, “I have become the ocean.” What seemed like loss now feels like gain.

So Kabir did not utter the second verse, deliberately. And there is no contradiction between the two; both point to the same.

This statement is not related to any path. It is a declaration of the supreme truth. This statement has nothing to do with Kabir, Krishna, Muhammad or Mahavira, Ashtavakra or Zarathustra. It is not concerned with means; it is a description of the goal—raso vai sah: He is of the nature of rasa.

And remember, raso vai sah does not mean “Paramatman is rasa”; it means “He is rasa.” Because “Paramatman” is a sectarian word. The Jains will not agree, the Buddhists will not agree. Then there will be different forms and colors of “God.” The Christian God has one style, the Muslim God another, and the Hindus have a thousand styles. With “God” the quarrels begin. The original phrase is raso vai sah—He is rasa. That word is right; it is uncolored. “That”—tat. Then it has nothing to do with any path. It is simply a pointer—to the supreme state, that the supreme state is of the nature of rasa.

Now you say it is right on Krishna’s path; then you have misunderstood. You have not understood the meaning of rasa. You think that Krishna, playing the flute and dancing with the gopis, is rasa. Then you have not understood at all. It is not that rasa being discussed here. Somewhere in your mind there must be the fantasy of playing a flute and making the gopis dance. You are deceiving yourself. Hence you say it is right on Krishna’s path and not on Ashtavakra’s. Ashtavakra could neither make any gopi dance nor dance himself—bent in eight places, ashta-vakra! The flute will not be played, and the gopis will not come. Leave aside the gopis—even the gopas won’t come. You have misunderstood.

The dancing that goes on with flute and rasa-lila has nothing to do with this rasa. Naturally, if you take it that way, then what of Buddha’s path? Buddha sits under a tree, eyes closed—what rasa is there? Mahavira stands naked—no peacock crown tied, no flute in hand—what rasa is there? And suppose you still manage to imagine some kind of rasa there; but Jesus is hanging on the cross, nails driven through his hands, life ebbing—what rasa could there be? No, you have not understood the meaning of rasa.

If you understand rasa, then what Jesus calls the “Kingdom of God” is a definition of rasa. What Buddha calls nirvana—where I am not left at all—is a definition of rasa. What Mahavira calls kaivalya, moksha, is a definition of rasa—supreme liberation.

What Kabir calls a shower of bliss, a shower of nectar—ami ras barse—is an exposition of rasa. Rasa means: the ultimate state is not insipid; it is drenched with rasa. The ultimate state is not gloomy; it is celebrative. It is dancing.

But do not take “dancing” to mean only that the body must dance. That ultimate state hums; within, there is only dance. Meera dances on the outside too; Buddha dances within—but the dance is there. Krishna dances playing the flute; Mahavira dances without flute, without peacock feather. Krishna’s dance can be seen even with your fleshy eyes; to see Mahavira’s dance you must open the inner eyes—then you will see Mahavira dancing.

That ultimate state is of festival, of great festival. It is of supreme love, supreme nectar, supreme bliss—sat-chit-ananda-rupa. That is all it means.

It is a pointer to the ultimate state; it is a definition of the ultimate state. It has no relation to the path. Whoever comes by whatever path—whether passing through Patanjali or through Ashtavakra—once one arrives, once one is fulfilled, he will say: raso vai sah—He is rasa.

All right, auspicious. As this verse says, may it happen inside you as well. Let it not remain only a verse. Let it not be that it was written merely in the mood of writing. It is beautiful; one feels moved to speak the beautiful. But remember: to speak the beautiful is pleasant; to become the beautiful is supremely blissful. Raso vai sah. May it be so—

“This is my life,
this is my devotion:
that your name came,
and my head bowed.”

If bowing happens, everything has happened. Once you have learned to bow, nothing else remains to be learned.

Ram, may your name abide on my lips;
may my heart endure whatever you send.
I do not ask rescue from sorrow;
I ask only the strength to bear sorrow.
Let me take even ill days as your grace—
the grace of remaining unafraid and absorbed in meditation.
Seeing your messenger of death, may I not fear;
may I not hesitate to offer myself up.
What you wish—may I give just that;
let me not be miserly, let me not beg for my life.
Ram, may your name abide on my lips;
may my heart endure whatever you send.
I do not ask rescue from sorrow.

Let it be so. Keep this in remembrance. Because there is the danger of getting lost in fine words. Poems are sweet. Poetry has its own flavor, its own entertainment. But until the heart itself becomes like that—soaked in poetry—do not stop.

Have you ever seen: reading someone’s poem, the mind is stirred, sways; but go to meet that poet and there is great unease. He seems worse off than an ordinary man. You are astonished—how did such a wretch receive the gift of such poetry! This often happens. Because what the poet is saying—he only gets glimpses of it; sometimes he leaps into the sky and then falls back to the ground.

This is the difference between a poet and a rishi. The poet leaps; for a moment he rises into the sky; then the earth’s gravity pulls him down, and he falls. Often, if the jump is too high, hands and feet break on impact. Leap too much and you tumble into pits and ravines; even the level ground is lost. So the poet is often in such a state—limping, lame, with hands and feet broken, crippled. In his poems there may be talk of the Divine, and if you smelled his mouth it would reek of liquor. His songs may outshine the Upanishads, and his life can be so insipid that you cannot trust a flower will ever bloom there.

This is the difference between a rishi and a poet. What the rishi says is his life. In truth, the poet says more than is in his life; and the rishi always says less than is in his life. He cannot say as much—so much does not fit into words. He has much; words are too small. The poet often says more than his life, and the rishi often says far less than his life. Life is an ocean; what can be said remains only a drop.

Do not get lost in poetry. Remember: let your state of life become like that.

In one of his prayers Saint Augustine said: “Lord, see to it that I do not win. See to it that you alone win. And it is not that I will not try to win—I will try; but even by mistake do not let me win. You alone must win. Let my efforts come to nothing. And still I tell you: my prayer is right, but I will try, I will try to win; I will wrestle with you, I will devise ways to defeat you—but you, do not be merciful. Do not let me win.”

Rightly said. Anand has said it rightly too—Lord, may your victory over me be forever! Naturally you want to win. The disciple wants to win even against the master. Such is the intense craving for victory, such is the savor of the ego. But your good fortune is if you do not win. If you win, you have lost. If you lose, you have won.

Go to Kaaba, go to Kashi,
take dips in the Ganges—
if the temple of the heart is unclean,
the whole religion-and-ritual is a noose.

From this direction to that,
everywhere love is spread;
everywhere there is a stir,
everywhere there is a fair.

There is no one here whose head
is not under someone’s shadow—
only I, who am here
utterly unfamiliar and alone.

Even my own breath is strange,
even my own corpse, alien.
If you would take my arm,
all heavens would gather in my embrace.

If you meet me, then life
will again line her eyes with kohl.

To be a disciple means placing your hand in the master’s hand. To be a disciple means giving your hand into the master’s, trusting that hidden in the master’s hand is the hand of the Divine. The disciple means: God is not visible; the master is visible—through his window comes a little glimpse of the Divine—so one surrenders. Yet the ego keeps fighting; it fights to the very last breath. To the last breath it strives not to lose. Remember this. Let this prayer go on echoing within your mind:

If you would take my arm,
all heavens would gather in my embrace.
If you meet me, then life
will again line her eyes with kohl.

Go to Kaaba, go to Kashi,
take dips in the Ganges—
if the temple of the heart is unclean,
the whole religion-and-ritual is a noose.

And the heart remains unclean so long as the ego abides. To lose means the ego has been erased. To lose means you are no more—you have become a zero. Therein lies your victory.

You ask, “Within, a sprout has been born that is waiting for the seed to break. When will it break and merge with the earth?”

Wait—and wait with patience. Do not hurry. In haste it often happens that one starts imagining: “The seed has broken, the tree has grown, flowers have already blossomed.” Do not start imagining. If you imagine, you miss. You miss just as you are about to arrive, you miss right at the doorstep. If you spread the net of imagination, the real tree will never be born. And in impatience, one begins to imagine.

Have you noticed? If you are waiting very impatiently for someone, and dry leaves scuttle along the road in the wind, you rush out—“Perhaps he has come!” You are waiting for someone; a gust of wind knocks at the door, you run to it—“Maybe he has come!” A thousand times you project your imagination. No—do not be impatient. Let there be a very patient waiting.

Now this is something to deeply understand: hidden within waiting is impatience. If there is no waiting, there is no impatience; but when there is waiting, impatience appears—this is the hitch. What is needed is: there should be waiting, and yet no impatience. Waiting plus patience—this is what prayer means. To say: “Come when you will. Come when you will—even if it is in eternity; for whatever time you choose will be the right one. How can I choose? Who am I? How can I know when the right moment has come, when the right season has arrived, when it is the time to bloom? Come when you will. However much I call to you, do not come out of season. Do not come without the proper season. Come only when you will. May your will alone always be fulfilled. And I will wait. I will not grow tired, I will not give up, I will not be sad, I will not be without hope, I will not despair, I will not be disheartened—I will wait. As I wait today, so tomorrow, so the day after—so for lives upon lives. My waiting will not go stale. Each morning I will rise with the same fresh enthusiasm and wait.”

Then perhaps the arrival may be today.

Where there is such deep waiting, there arises equally deep prayer. In that very prayer is the advent. Where prayer becomes complete, there God arrives.

For one, this is not really a question; so, as the question, so the answer. Here is the answer—
The body’s threshold has turned fragrant—
perhaps these are signs the Beloved is coming.
A vermilion line has appeared upon the mirror,
the anklets’ notes are scattered through the corridors.
The body has become musk, musk.
The tresses in the bun have loosened—
these are signs the end of separation is near.
The sunlight in the courtyard has turned golden—
these are the signs that spring is coming!

When ahobhava arises, spring has arrived. When ahobhava arises, the body becomes musk—musk. When ahobhava arises—
the body’s threshold grows fragrant:
perhaps these are signs the Beloved is coming.
Then surely the Dear One must be on his way. Ahobhava is the footfall of his coming.

A vermilion line has appeared upon the mirror,
the anklets’ notes are scattered through the corridors—
ahobhava: his anklets. Ahobhava: the gust of wind that precedes his arrival. Ahobhava: his first rays.

The body has become musk—musk:
ahobhava—the fragrance of his coming. Just as when you approach a garden, the breezes turn cool and scented, and the air fills with perfume; you may not yet see the garden, and yet you know the direction is right. Ahobhava is the sign of the right direction.

The tresses in the bun have loosened—
these are signs the end of separation is near.
The Beloved is very close, and the end of longing approaches.

The sunlight in the courtyard has turned golden—
these are the signs that spring is coming.
Ahobhava is the springtime of the spiritual.

That is all for today.