Maha Geeta #72

You will not understand until you yourself are utterly enlightened. What appears as condemnation and criticism from the plane of ignorance is, from the plane of knowing, only compassion: so you do not go astray; so you do not fall into the false; so that when the supreme is available you do not choose the inferior.

Remember too, truth has infinite expressions. And every expression of truth is born carrying the feeling “I am right.” Truth is self-authenticating. So whenever truth is realized, whatever expression it finds comes with such intensity that it includes the sense that anything beyond it is wrong.

Buddha criticized Mahavira. Mahavira criticized Makkhali Gosala. Krishnamurti is doing nothing new. Lao Tzu criticized Confucius. And Christ criticized so much that people could not rest until they nailed him to the cross.

Yet I understand your difficulty at your level. You know only condemnation and criticism. So when you hear someone like Krishnamurti make a statement, you paint it with your own color. It seems to you that a true master should not criticize. But has there ever been a true master who did not?

Those who did not were not masters—far from “true masters,” they were political leaders. A politician calculates. He says what you want to hear. He has no concern with truth; his concern is ruling you. Whomever you are with, he declares that too to be right. For him the value is not whether what he says is true or false. The politician will often speak of “synthesis.” The true master will stand firmly in what he is saying, bring proofs born of being, and declare what contradicts it to be wrong.

But a great insistence on “synthesis” has grown in your mind. A wrong notion has arisen that anyone who criticizes cannot be enlightened. Politicians have done much propaganda in the name of synthesis. The harm caused by that propaganda has been greater than by anything else.

Take Mahatma Gandhi: the Quran is right and the Purana is right; Mahavira is right and Krishna is right—he goes on declaring everyone right. He has no concern with Krishna, Mohammed, or Mahavira as such. His concern is with those who believe in them. He desires that all fall in line behind him. If he criticizes Krishna, the Hindu is offended; if he criticizes Mohammed, the Muslim is offended; if he criticizes Mahavira, the Jain is offended. He must keep them all pleased, keep them all following. He must praise all their gurus—even if what those gurus said does or does not cohere with each other.

Now what harmony can there be between Krishna’s Gita and Mahavira’s utterances? I am not saying there is no harmony between Krishna’s ultimate realization and Mahavira’s realization. There is. But the expressions Krishna gave and those Mahavira gave have no harmony; not the slightest. They could hardly be more opposite.

Mahavira says, seek refuge in no one. He found truth by going to the feet of no one. So he will say what he found. And that is what a man of integrity should say. He should speak only of the path he has known, the experience he has lived; otherwise the listener will be misled. And Krishna says, “sarva-dharmān parityajya mām ekaṁ śaraṇaṁ vraja”—abandon all dharmas and take refuge in me alone. Leave everything and come to my refuge. Krishna came to know by surrender, by refuge.

So Krishna will speak as he came to know, and Mahavira as he came to know. Now if someone goes to Mahavira and says, “Krishna says surrender; you say no refuge. What should I choose?” then a man of integrity like Mahavira will say, “Krishna must be wrong.” He says this out of compassion for you. Because if Mahavira says, “Krishna is right and I am also right,” you who are already confused will be even more confused. Your knot will not loosen; it will tighten.

Out of kindness to you, Mahavira says, “Krishna is wrong. Try to understand what I am saying: if you go to the refuge of no one, self-refuge will happen. If you go to the refuge of anyone, you will miss the Self. And to know oneself, to be oneself, is the first condition for knowing truth. How will one who is not even himself know the truth?”

Go to Krishna and say, “Mahavira says, no refuge; don’t surrender; stand on your own feet; do not lean on another’s shoulder, for every leaning is slavery; if you depend on anything, bondage will be created—how then will supreme freedom, moksha, arrive?” Krishna will say, “He must be wrong—certainly wrong, because I found by bowing. When I stood stiff, I remained empty; when I bowed, I was filled. From my experience I tell you Mahavira must be wrong.” And Krishna too says it out of compassion for you.

The result is this: those to whom Krishna’s words resonate set out on Krishna’s path; those to whom Mahavira’s words resonate set out on Mahavira’s path. If both were to say, “He is right and I am right,” no one could walk any path. People would waver: where to go? And these are such opposite pointers—no-refuge versus refuge—where to go? Mahavira says there is no God; whose refuge will you take? Only the Self is.

So should you choose Mahavira or Krishna? If Mahavira himself said, “Krishna may also be right; I too am right,” your confusion would increase, not decrease. Mahavira must be very clear: “What I say is right; no other is right.”

Two outcomes then follow. Those to whom his words ring true walk Mahavira’s path with an untroubled mind. Those to whom they do not resonate walk Krishna’s path with an untroubled mind. There is no harm at all in this. The harm comes from people like Mahatma Gandhi who say, “That is right, this is right; all are right.” In ‘all are right’ everything becomes wrong. “Master one, and all is mastered; try to master all, and all is lost.”

Mahavira and Krishna are not politicians; Gandhi is. Yet you like Gandhi’s way. He declares everyone right. You think, “This is how a saint should be.” You do not care for compassion in this. Perhaps there is another reason: you too do not want to walk. This century does not want to go toward truth. So those who loosen the way to truth appeal to you. Gandhi’s “all are right” pleases you.

The total outcome is that you go nowhere. Neither Quran nor Gita; neither Mahavira nor Mohammed—you grasp nothing. You say, “All are right.” If all are right, what is there to grasp? Where to go? The one outcome of “all are right” is that you do not take any road. You stand at the crossroads. And I tell you, if I say, “All four roads are right,” the total result is that you remain standing at the crossroads. I should say, “One road is right: this one. I have walked it; I have gone by it. It is familiar to me. The other three I do not know; I have not gone. They must be wrong. Man reaches by this road. I speak having arrived.”

Then people will divide at the crossroads. Each will go with the one whose words fit, whose inner harp begins to play in his heart, whose love he is flooded by. He will set out on that path with an untroubled mind. He will not even look back to wonder what happened to the other three paths. There are three hundred religions on earth. If you keep trying to synthesize all three hundred, chanting, “Allah and Ishwar are one,” you will never walk. You will die standing at the crossroads.

Therefore a true master criticizes. There is not even a trace of condemnation in it. There is compassion—deep compassion. The point is that you move, that you reach somewhere.

And his statement should be absolutely clear. There should not be the slightest room for doubt. Kabir criticized, Nanak criticized, Ashtavakra criticized. Can you name even one true master who did not criticize? Then he is no true master. For criticism simply means: of the other paths he says, “Those are not the way; this is the way,” so that you can choose. You are already standing tangled—sick, ailing, deranged. Should your derangement be increased? Should your mind be filled with further distortions?

So the master criticizes. There is no condemnation there at all. Condemnation is directed at a person; criticism is directed at a doctrine. Condemnation tries to show the other person is bad. Criticism says, “Don’t go by that path...”

You ask, “Why does Krishnamurti, though supremely enlightened, denounce and criticize the work of other true masters?”

You are using “condemnation” and “criticism” as if they were synonyms. Condemnation is aimed at the person; criticism at the path.

And then you should not worry why Krishnamurti criticizes. What have you to do with Krishnamurti? If his words resonate, set out. If they don’t, leave them. If two true masters criticize each other, choose for yourself whose words ring true.

But you are very clever. You decide that both must be wrong because they criticize. Instead of choosing either, you choose yourself. You take no path. You say, “They cannot be right—look, they criticize each other. Do true masters ever criticize?”

Name one true master who did not. Time passes and people forget. Time passes and people don’t even turn the pages of the scriptures. You are listening to Ashtavakra these days—did it occur to you that anyone could criticize more sharply than Ashtavakra? Could there be a deeper refutation—of meditation, of yoga, of samadhi, of renunciation, of austerity, of mantra-japa, of sannyas, of heaven, of liberation? Such profound criticism! A sword’s edge—cutting one by one.

But it is out of compassion for you. If you decide Ashtavakra must not have been enlightened—otherwise why would he criticize?—you will miss. Do not make prior definitions like “A true master does not criticize.” That is a wrong stance. Survey the true masters from ancient times till today and you will find: all have criticized, and profoundly.

Mahavira and Buddha lived at the same time and criticized each other a great deal. Not even a grain of hesitation—because even a grain of hesitation makes the one behind them waver. They must be utterly clear.

Even so I tell you: all true masters arrive at one place. The destination is one; the paths to it are many. And when a master criticizes someone, he is criticizing the path. From it, take only this much: what seems right for me?

It happened in one town that two confectioners began to quarrel. Their shops faced each other. Confectioners being confectioners, they started throwing laddus and barfis at each other.

A loot began. A crowd gathered. People caught laddus and barfis midair. And they said, “May such a fight happen every day—what a delight!”

If two confectioners quarrel, you catch the laddus and barfis. Don’t worry that the confectioners are fighting. Perhaps they are fighting precisely so that you may get a few more sweets.

There are so many angles from which to view truth. One is the traditional angle, as the scriptures, the tradition, the sects have said. Another is the angle of personal experience. Both kinds of people have always been there. Mahavira views truth within the definitions given by the twenty-three Tirthankaras before him. Buddha is beginning a new tradition. Conflict is natural. Buddha gives birth to a new language. Mahavira molds his experience within an accepted language. That too can be done. It is not necessary that when you have a new experience you must coin a new language. The old language can be used. The experience of truth is ever-new. One uses the traditional idiom; another mints a new idiom. That depends on the individual.

Buddha coined a new idiom. A new tradition was born. Now consider: one casts his new experience into the old tradition; another, out of his new experience, creates a new idiom and gives birth to a new tradition. In one, tradition stands behind; in the other, tradition follows. The arrangement differs. Tradition stands behind Mahavira; ahead of Buddha—yet tradition goes on anyway.

All revolutions become traditions. And every tradition, if you dust off the ashes, can become revolution again. Tradition and revolution are not two separate things—they are two faces of one coin.

Krishnamurti chose to say things in a new way. Fine—beautiful. Ramana chose to say them in the old way. Each one’s choice. And no one’s choice can be imposed on another. Ramana spoke with great depth—using the old idiom. He dusted off the old words and the embers glowed again. Embers do not die. Wherever truth once burned, truth is. Dust gathers over time. Wipe the dust and Ramana made the old embers glow. Krishnamurti kindles a new ember. But dust will gather on the new ember too.

For forty years Krishnamurti has been speaking, and in forty years his followers have begun to repeat his words. Dust has begun to settle. A sect begins to form. However much he says, “Do not be my followers,” what difference does it make? People follow even that. People, as followers, say, “You are right; that is exactly what we too believe.”

A follower means: we believe. We believe what you say. You say, “You are not my followers”? “Exactly—right. We are not your followers. We follow you precisely.” A follower is born.

Wherever truth is proclaimed, followers arise. Wherever religion is, a sect arises. This cannot be avoided. Wherever there is a sect, religion can still be born; wherever there is religion, a sect gets born.

Each to his own taste. Old words delight Ramana. There is nothing wrong with old words. Another delights in minting new words. There is nothing wrong in that either. Each one’s joy.

Some of you will like the new idiom—fine. However you walk, walk! Some will like the old idiom—also fine. However you walk, walk! Do not be caught in this quibble, this irony—“Which is right?” Whichever tastes right to you, in which you find your rasa, set out—do not waste time.

Krishnamurti’s statement is rebellious. But such was Ashtavakra’s in his day. Such was Buddha’s. Such was Krishna’s. Later, sects formed around them. You cannot avoid sects. Nor can you remain silent, because what is found longs to be expressed. What has happened wants to overflow. The clouds have grown heavy; they want to rain. The flower has bloomed; fragrance longs to be given away. A dance is born; life wants to throb. A song has arisen; it must be hummed. And when you hum, some head will nod, someone will fall in love; a sect will form. Then you can beat your head as much as you like—nothing changes.

There is a culture to friendship,
a standard to enmity.
Friends never learned consideration;
enemies, at least, know the art of opposition.

There is a level even in enmity, a grace, a mystery.
There is a culture to friendship,
a culture to enmity too.
A standard to enmity.
Friends never learned consideration;
enemies, at least, know the art of opposition.

You choose even the wrong friends; a true master chooses even the right enemies. There is great joy in a worthy fight. But remember, even enmity has a culture, a refinement. Enmity is not just enmity.

The clash between Mahavira and Buddha benefited centuries. Had Mahavira kept silent and not refuted Buddha, and had Buddha kept silent and not refuted Mahavira, the polish and the edge you find in their words would not be there. Where would that edge come from? Conflict brings edge.

If you want to sharpen a sword, you must grind it on a stone. When two cliffs like Buddha and Mahavira collide, both gain an edge. That “enmity” is not enmity. In a deeper sense, it is a great friendship. And it harms no one. Do not get trapped in words. Do not think friendship is always auspicious. What kind of auspiciousness does your friendship have! Even out of your friendships, only hostility comes—what else? There is also such hostility from which friendship emerges.

Knowledge and culture, history and philosophy—
people will think over these matters.
In the difficult workshop of life,
may there come an age of leisure.

Knowledge and civilization—people have thought and will go on thinking about such issues.

In the difficult workshop of life,
may some interval of leisure come—
some empty space where, for a little while, we can rise above life,
peep beyond it, where some window opens.

These masters are not mere thinkers. They open a few windows in life. And when you want to invite people to your window, there is no other way but to say, “All other windows are futile. Where are you stuck? This window has opened!”

Remember, it has to be done—because people are stuck at windows. Perhaps those windows have long been shut; time has sealed them. Perhaps layers of dust have gathered over them for centuries. But people remain stuck there. When anyone opens a new window, he has to look for his companions among those very people already stuck at some window or another. Therefore criticism becomes absolutely necessary.

Suppose I open a window. When I open it, people are already divided—some Hindu, some Muslim, some Christian, some Jain. How to call them? If I say, “Wherever you are standing is perfectly fine,” then the window I have opened—fresh now—will be covered with dust by tomorrow. And those windows where people are standing were once fresh too. Now dust has piled upon them; nothing can be seen. Yet they stand there—out of old habit. Their fathers stood there, their forefathers stood there; they too stand there. The queue drifted there; as the queue inched forward, they too arrived at that window.

When nothing can be seen, they think, “There must be something wrong with my eyes. My father could see; his father could see; our ancestors could see. If I do not, it must be my sin, my karma. Perhaps some defect in my eyes. I must correct my character, change my conduct—then I will see. The time will come; God’s grace will descend—then I will see.” They console themselves thus and stand blind at a window layered with centuries of dust.

When I open a new window, people are already divided. How to call them? There is only one way: “From where you stand, truth cannot be seen. Come to where I am. A new window has opened. A new spring has been tapped. Come, drink, and be fulfilled.”

Soon enough, dust will gather here as well. You who have come to me—at least you chose. You took a risk. You left some window to come. You were Hindu, Muslim, Jain, Christian—you were something. You were standing at some window, holding some scripture. You have renounced something; you have left certain conveniences and taken on inconveniences. You dropped security and chose insecurity. You took courage. You dared the unknown. You undertook a journey.

But your child has simply followed, clutching your coat. When I am gone, dust will begin to gather on this window, and you will also be gone, but your son will still stand here. He will say, “My father could see. If I cannot, it must be my fault. Let me correct myself. Perhaps my sannyas is not genuine. Perhaps my meditation is not firm.” And his sons will stand behind him, and their sons behind them—the layers will keep piling up. Time will heap a thousand kinds of dust.

After a thousand years someone will be needed to open a new window and call, “Where are you standing? There is nothing there—it is a wall.” And I tell you, he will be right. By then the priests who have taken over my window will be angry. They will raise a clamor—because their people will start leaving. They will say, “True masters never condemn or criticize. What is this?”

“We are right and you are right”—that is what the priest says. Because the priest is in politics. He says, “Your people should stay with you, ours with us. We are right, you are right. You don’t steal our people, we won’t steal yours.” A pact—a conspiracy. And when a true master is born he will shout, “Leave all windows! New light has descended—come! I bring a new message; a new messenger is here—come!” Then there will be outrage.

The priests at these windows also claim to be true masters. They merely live on an old credit. Go and look—at your Jain muni, at the Shankaracharya of Puri, at the Pope of the Vatican. The credit Jesus created two thousand years ago—on that credit the Pope still lives. In the Pope’s life there is nothing of Jesus—no light. Only prestige remains. An old shop; the shop’s reputation. Even a shop’s name sells. Hang up a sign that says “established two thousand years” and business runs. Credit accumulates. But it is only the first scent of Jesus that is still fresh.

Hindus stand at their windows; there is the Shankaracharya of Puri. A thousand-year-old inheritance—living off the capital created by Adi Shankaracharya.

Krishnamurti has no such support. I have no such support. We are not owners of any old shop. We have to shout, “All this is wrong.” And when we shout, “All this is wrong,” the Hindu will be angry, the Muslim angry, the Christian angry, the Jew angry, the Jain angry. Naturally many will be offended—because all the priests will be. And those sitting in those shops, who are deceived and deceive others by posing as true masters, will also be offended.

And naturally it will seem to you that if the Hindu guru opposes a man, and the Muslim guru opposes him, and the Christian, the Jewish, the Jain gurus all oppose him—how can he be right? But I tell you: take this as a touchstone. When all the old shops oppose one man, remember—there must be something in that man. Otherwise so many would not oppose him. Something powerfully magnetic must be there—because the old shareholders, the old investors, the old contractors have become afraid, restless.

Let the domes of royal palaces tremble,
let the ground beneath the priests shake;
let the wildness of the alley-wanderers awaken,
let the grief-stricken find rebellion.

Let the domes of power tremble,
let the towers of temples and mosques shake.
Let the soil beneath the priests’ feet quiver.
Let the vagrants of the streets awaken from their stupor.
Let sorrow’s children discover revolt.

That is why there is criticism—not a trace of condemnation.

The second question is also related to the first:

If you are a disciple, you will choose what resonates with your heart and move on. You will not bother about who criticized whom. Nor will you oppose the one who criticized. Who are you to judge! A disciple, and he decides who is a true master and who is not? The very idea is foolishness.

It is like a blind man deciding who can see and who cannot. How will the blind judge who sees? The blind need only know: “I cannot see.” Having found a friend, take his hand and walk. Then, through your own experience, see: walking with this person, do I fall into pits? Walking with him, do I keep bumping into things? Walking with him, do I end up breaking my hands and feet?

If your experience shows otherwise, then to think, “This man must have eyes,” is at first only an inference. But that inference will be confirmed, little by little, by your own experience. And walking together like this, one day your own eyes will open.

And that is what a disciple means: one who has given his heart to someone. One who has given his heart can listen at ease. If you go to listen to Krishnamurti and you find him criticizing me and you get angry, then you have not truly chosen me. Your anger only shows that you are still shaky. If you have chosen Krishnamurti and you come to me, and I criticize him and you get angry, your anger shows you have not chosen Krishnamurti with your heart. You still fear that if you listen to me you might change your path; to protect that fear you become angry. If you have truly chosen, you will listen to me calmly, joyfully. From my words too you will find something that strengthens what your heart already knows.

We had already given the heart away to that grace and charm—
Where is the mind left to weigh beauty’s demands?
Where is the time, where the convenience to ask whether you are beautiful or not?
We had already given the heart away to that grace and charm—
At the very first sight, at the very first glimpse, it was settled. We lost ourselves. There was no way to choose any more.

That is why I say it is good that true masters criticize each other. By it, the unbaked pots crack, and one is freed of the hassle. Suppose some unbaked pot of Krishnamurti wanders here—then Krishnamurti is freed of that nuisance. If some unbaked pot of mine reaches there—my nuisance is gone. The fired pots remain; the unfired drift here and there. Good! The sooner they go, the better. What does “true master” mean?

When I first saw you, my heart fluttered so—
As if a forgotten face had returned to memory.

A true master is one in whose presence, on seeing him, your forgotten remembrance returns. In whose eyes you see your own eyes reflected. In whose voice you hear the distant music within yourself. In whose presence you remember how you ought to be. What you can become, your potential—its seed cracks open and begins to sprout.

When I first saw you, my heart fluttered so—
As if a forgotten face had returned to memory.

This is not a decision of the head and intellect—“true master” is a matter of the heart. It is falling in love. It is a kind of divine intoxication.

Once you become a disciple… remember, if you become one through the intellect you will break; if not today, tomorrow you will fall away. If you are joined by the intellect, any criticism will separate you. If you are joined by the heart, no criticism can separate you; every criticism will only make you stronger. Every storm and gale will drive your roots deeper. Every challenge will make your heart steadier, firmer. It is in challenges that it is revealed whether there are roots or not!

A true master means: you are effaced, only he remains. Then he enters your every breath.

All night upon tear-damp eyes the waves kept rising—
Like breath, you kept coming and going.

It is still night. You are asleep. Waking will take time. A true master means: while still asleep you have taken someone’s hand. He has become the breath within your breath. Now let there be a thousand condemnations, a thousand criticisms, a thousand oppositions—nothing will make a difference. And if it does make a difference, that too is good; then choose someone else. Perhaps your heart did not truly harmonize with the one you had chosen.

The real question is to reach truth. Whom you choose to reach by is secondary. Whether you travel by bullock-cart, by train, by motorcar, by airplane, or on foot—it is irrelevant. Reach the truth.

Therefore I say: one true master criticizing another is greatly beneficial, auspicious. It benefits the one who wavers in it, and it benefits the one who is steadied by it. In the storm that criticism raises, the one who is uprooted only indicates this much: our roots were not here; we will set them elsewhere. Good—trouble ended quickly. We will root ourselves in another soil; some other ground will be our ground.

The one who stands more firmly in that storm becomes stronger. He says, now even tempests make no difference. Now no one can separate me from the true master. But you are weak—so incomplete, so lukewarm. Someone offers a little criticism and you are flat on your back! Someone says something against your master and it also begins to sound right to you—that is why you become angry.

What is the cause of anger? Someone spoke against him and, to you too, it began to sound true. Now you are frightened. As the roots begin to loosen, you panic. You start seeing that person as an enemy. You are trying to protect yourself. No—such protection is not needed. Go. Roam. Listen, understand. Only if, after hearing many, you return to me—then come. If you have heard no one, have not heard criticism of me, have not heard opposition to me, and that is why you remain here, then your remaining will not be of much use.

Even criticism benefits the disciple. Nothing can harm the disciple. One who has bowed with the heart is benefited by everything.

I never told you to fight. That is exactly what I am saying: do not fight the ego; otherwise you will never win. You think you are fighting the ego, but in truth, the one who is fighting is the ego itself—so victory is impossible.

Who is it that is fighting? Who is it that wants to conquer the ego? The very desire to conquer is the ego. Earlier you wanted to conquer the world; now you want self-conquest. But you are intoxicated with victory—you must win. First you wanted to defeat the world; now you are busy trying to defeat yourself. But still, it is winning that you want. This inner obsession with winning—that is the ego.

Now you say, “What is this ego! Whenever I tried to break it, it shamelessly overpowered me and guffawed.” The one who is trying to break it—that itself is the ego. That is why the shameless guffaw continued, and will continue. You have not understood. No one has ever won by fighting the ego, only by understanding it. And even then I do not say you will win—because when the ego is understood, it is found not to be; there remains nothing to win. Fix your gaze sharply on the ego. Drop this madness about winning and losing. First understand: what is this ego? Does it even exist? First be sure. The enemy you have gone to fight—does he even exist? Perhaps in the darkness of night you have begun to fight with shadows. A loincloth hangs on the line and you think a ghost is standing there—and you start fighting it. You will be defeated; defeat is certain. You will get into trouble. First light a lamp and look properly: isn’t it possible that the loincloth is simply giving the illusion of a ghost?

And whoever has lit the lamp and looked has found there is no ego. The ego is not; that is why conquering it is so difficult. If it were there, you could conquer it. How will you win over what is not? If you fight with darkness, you will be defeated, because darkness is not. Fight with light and you may win, because light is—you can extinguish light, you can kindle light. What will you do with darkness? You can neither light it nor extinguish it nor remove it.

Do you see how helpless you will become? In a small room filled with darkness, you try to shove it out with your hands. One day you will be defeated, tired, harassed by yourself. Then you will feel that darkness is very powerful: “Look, how much I fight, yet I keep losing.” The truth is the opposite: you are losing because darkness is not. If darkness existed, some method could be devised. You could do push-ups and squats, exercise, practice yoga postures, bring in four or five wrestlers, invite friends, hire servants—you would push it out. You could bring swords, do something.

But if it is darkness, will a sword work? The sword will whirl, but darkness will not be cut. How will you cut what is not? With darkness only one thing can be done: light a lamp and see. Light the lamp and you will find that darkness is not, never was. Darkness is the absence of light.

The absence of awareness is ego. Therefore do not fight the ego—light the flame of awareness. Awaken awareness. Sit a little silently and gather the capacity to see; make yourself a vessel fit for vision. And one day you will find: there is no ego. Then you will laugh. Right now the ego is guffawing; then you will laugh and say, “How crazy I was—I was fighting with that which is not.”

At the moment of life’s transition, when you turn from the outer to the inner, this is what happens. The dissatisfaction that was outside gets attached within. Before, there was money—and you wanted more. There was position—and you wanted it higher. There was a house—and you wanted to build a palace. Your dissatisfaction was fastened outside. Now you have turned your mind away from the outer, so outside there is a sense of satisfaction. Consider this: earlier there was no dissatisfaction within; within there was contentment, outside dissatisfaction. Now you have changed the arrangement. You turned the mind inward. You said, “Know what is within. Recognize the Divine, seek the self, have the vision of truth, attain liberation.” You redirected the dissatisfaction toward the inner, and the satisfaction shifted to the outer. They are two sides of the same coin.

It is as if you were holding a coin in your hand: on top was the first face of the coin—say, the emperor’s image—and behind it the other face. Now you have flipped the coin. The image has gone to the other side and the reverse face has come before your eyes. Contentment and discontentment are two sides of one coin.

Earlier you were dissatisfied outside, so inside there was satisfaction. A worldly person has no dissatisfaction within. He never even thinks that the soul should be found—more soul, more truth. When he hears people speak of truth and such, he is startled: “What has happened to them?”

A great Western thinker, John Wisdom, said in a lecture that anyone who raises questions of philosophy and theology—consider that his mind has gone out of order. I was reading his statement yesterday. It’s a funny statement. And his name is John Wisdom! Yet he has made such an unintelligent remark. He says that instead of explaining and persuading such a person, he should be taken to a psychiatric hospital for treatment.

It seems right—this is how it appears to most people. If someone is running after wealth and you say to him, “I want to attain the soul,” he will ask, “Are you in your senses? What kind of mess are you getting into? Have you lost your mind? Leave this for lunatics. Come to your senses; be practical. What are you doing?” Or if you say, “I want to find God,” people will laugh. “I will have the vision of God”—if you start singing such a song, they will be worried: “Now what should we do? Get him treated or what? How does one find God? Speak plainly—say you want to go to Delhi. The elections are near, go to Delhi. Contest, become a minister, become a chief minister, become a prime minister, become president. There’s so much spread out before you—what are you doing talking about God? Who has seen him? Who has heard him? Leave this to the mad.”

So when your dissatisfaction is attached outside, within you are satisfied. You have no concern for the inner. There is no disturbance within. Then you changed—the moment of transition.

Sannyas means transition. Sannyas means you changed the whole orientation. You said, “Now, let us go within.” You saw the outside, found nothing—or what you found was futile. What you took to be wealth turned out to be rubbish; what you took to be love was only the web of the mind’s imaginings, dreams. The dreams broke.

You grew weary of the outside; you came inside. But what happened? Now the dissatisfaction that was tied outside got tied inside. Now you say, “More meditation, more meditation… and samadhi. Beyond even this—let God be found, let liberation be attained, let there be nirvana. And what lies further?” Now you run. Now you begin building big mansions inside.

Now there is no contentment within. Outside, now there is contentment. You say, “Outside there is contentment now.” Until yesterday there was none. And the outer situation is still what it was before; by taking sannyas it can hardly have improved—if anything, it may have become a bit disordered. The outer situation is still the same, but outside there is contentment.

Understand this a little. Satisfaction has no relationship with the situation. Because outside everything is as it was. The same wife, the same house, the same job, the same shop—perhaps a little more disarrayed. Because this new work that has begun also takes energy, doesn’t it? So fewer customers may be coming.

As a child I used to sit at my father’s shop. My uncle is a poet, and I would be amazed watching him. If a customer came to the shop, he would quietly signal him to move on. And he would tell me, “Don’t tell anyone.” I’d ask, “What’s the matter?” He’d say, “Right now a link is descending. How can this customer come in the middle!” Gradually everyone came to know that whenever he sat in the shop, no sales happened at all. What is this? If someone else sat there, sales would happen. Customers began to complain: “What is going on? Whom have you put in charge? We come to buy and he signals us to go ahead—as if we’ve come to beg! Shopkeepers call customers in: ‘Please come, be seated.’ They offer betel nut. He waves his hand and says, ‘Don’t even speak—slip out quietly.’ What is this?”

For a poet, a shop is a great hindrance. A link is descending. Those links have no idea that a customer is coming! When a link descends, it descends. A humming is arising in him, and this gentleman arrives. Now he drags him down to the ground: buy a sari, buy cloth, this and that. Quote the price… and in that time everything is lost.

Now that you have become a sannyasin, sitting at the shop, meditation will happen. While working, inner absorption will begin to arise. So the outer condition is not going to improve; if anything, it will get a bit shaken. When you start turning inward, the outer is bound to wobble a little.

People come to me and ask, “If we meditate, will comfort and conveniences increase?” Nothing is certain. Something will surely happen inside, but about the outside I can say nothing. It may increase, it may decrease, it may not increase, it may remain as it is—there are a thousand possibilities. I cannot reassure you with any guarantee. Yes, within, the juice will well up. Within, there will be a great rain. About the outside, I can say nothing.

They get very troubled. They say, “But Maharishi Mahesh Yogi says that whoever meditates, wealth and comfort increase.” Then I say, if you want to increase wealth and comfort, look for someone else. I cannot make you that promise, because that promise is fundamentally false. And if there is some ‘meditation’ that increases outer wealth and comfort, then it is not meditation. Either that promise is false, or that meditation is not meditation—one of the two. Because once the current of your being begins to flow toward the inner world, in the outer world some hindrance is bound to arise.
You say there is abundant gratification outside, that now everything can be satisfied. The one who has asked—I know he doesn’t have much—but still, outwardly there is satisfaction. Until yesterday the satisfaction was within; today it is without. Inside there is dissatisfaction.
Understand. Understand the nature of this dissatisfaction. Just as you drop it on the outside, drop it on the inside too. Throw away this very coin. Let the whole language of satisfaction and dissatisfaction go. Be absorbed in this moment. The very meaning of satisfaction–dissatisfaction is: tomorrow… tomorrow there will be more.

I tell you: now, now—never tomorrow. Tomorrow never comes. Either now, or never. Live this moment.

But even when you listen to me, my words go in and become a new cause for dissatisfaction. You get more frantic, a fever rises: “O Lord! Let the meeting happen soon.”

No—there will be meeting. Union can happen now; this “soon” has to be dropped. The craving for “more” has to go. The day your sense of “more” disappears, that very day the “more” arrives—never before.

And don’t be overly anxious about the goal. The journey is very delightful. Don’t you see? Don’t you feel it? The journey itself is blissful. Meditation is delightful in itself; drop worrying about samadhi. Love is delightful in itself; what more do you want?

Rahrav-e-rah-e-muhabbat, rah na jana rah mein;
Lazzat-e-sahrā-navardi dūrī-e-manzil mein hai.

O traveler on the path of love! Don’t get stuck on the way.
The joy of wandering the wilderness lies in the very distance from the goal.

That far-off destination has little juice. The way that leads toward it—the roaming in the forest—that is where the joy is. Lazzat-e-sahrā-navardi: the delight of wandering in the wild. The distant goal is only a pretext to roam the forest.

Samadhi is a pretext for meditation. Don’t turn it into the target. It’s just a peg on which to hang your meditation. Don’t start thinking, “When samadhi comes, then I will be blissful. Right now I am only meditating.” Then even meditation will not taste sweet. And if meditation has no taste, samadhi will never ripen. Take meditation as if there is nowhere to go.

You are listening to me; you can listen in two ways. One way is to keep taking notes in the mind—“Let me jot down the practical points I’ll use to attain God as quickly as possible.” That is shopkeeper’s listening. That is mathematical listening. And mathematics doesn’t work in life.

I had enrolled in an English-medium school. Our mathematics teacher was a thorough mathematics man; math was his vision. I often clashed with him, and usually had to stand outside during his class. The moment I stood up he’d say, “You, out! Don’t create trouble. You’ll waste everyone’s time. Go outside. When you can sit quietly, then come in.”

He got angry with me over one thing. He asked, “If ten laborers can build a house in three months, in how much time will twenty laborers build it?”

I said, “Before you ask your question, let me ask one. From your question it’s clear you think twenty laborers will build it in a month and a half; forty in three-quarters of a month; eighty in three-eighths; one hundred sixty in three-sixteenths. Which would mean with a hundred thousand or two hundred thousand laborers, it would be built in minutes.”

He was furious. “Out!” he said. I told him, “With a hundred thousand laborers it would take years. Your mathematics is fundamentally wrong. You’re asking a wrong kind of question.” He said, “Get out—and don’t talk like this again. You don’t even know what mathematics is.” I said, “It’s simple: life doesn’t run by such math.”

But many people’s whole way in life is mathematical. Even when they sit here, inside their arithmetic runs: “If I do this and this, in how long will samadhi come?” “Fine, I’ve got the key—let me keep it safe.” Some even bring a notebook, quickly scribble so they don’t forget—because they plan to experiment tomorrow. But tomorrow…

There’s another way to listen: just listen. Don’t think that what I’m saying is a means—“How can I get liberation faster?” Don’t think that at all. Just listen to me to your heart’s content. Listen as if you are sitting in moksha already. There’s nowhere to go. Where will you go—you’re in moksha. Just look around: moksha is here.

And I’m not giving you techniques to go anywhere—I’m only singing my song. Listen as one listens to a song while sitting in liberation. Then you’ll be amazed. The moment the arithmetic drops, the race to attain drops, you’ll find a rain of contentment pouring down—such a rain as you’ve never known. Every pore tingles. Every breath becomes fragrant. Every heartbeat dances. In this very instant you step into another realm.

Why postpone what can happen now to some other time? Don’t defer. I tell you, you are sitting in moksha. And whatever should happen to you can happen exactly as it should in this very moment. But the mathematics must go. And this dissatisfaction you’ve brought inside from the outside—this too must be dropped. Drop the dissatisfaction itself.

This question must have arisen in your mind yesterday after listening to Ashtavakra’s sutra: “The knower, even being satisfied, is not satisfied.” But that is the mark of the enlightened—not yours. It speaks of the ultimate state. Ashtavakra has said only this much—that the knower, though satisfied, is not satisfied. The sutra is incomplete. If you meet Ashtavakra, tell him to complete it: the knower, being unsatisfied, is also not unsatisfied. Otherwise the sutra is incomplete—many unenlightened ones will get into trouble with it.

In truth, whatever he is, the knower is not that. Neither, being satisfied, is he satisfied; nor, being unsatisfied, is he unsatisfied. Neither, being miserable, is he miserable; nor, being angry, is he angry. Neither, while laughing, does he laugh; nor, while weeping, does he weep. Because the knower is an actor. Because the knower has dropped the doer-attitude. There is no way left for him to “be” anything. Now, whatever happens through the knower, it is God who happens. Now the knower only acts. He says, “Thy will.” However you make me dance, so shall I dance. If you don’t make me dance, I won’t dance. The knower, on his own, does nothing.

Therefore, not even his satisfaction is his. In his satisfaction, it is God’s satisfaction. And in his dissatisfaction too, it is God’s dissatisfaction. The knower is the one who has stepped out from in between—who has moved out from between himself and the Divine.

An inch—you have already slid that much. The very understanding, “We will not move”—you have moved. Is this awareness too little, that you have recognized you are stone?

The one who has recognized, “I am stone,” the journey has begun. The stone is no more. A blow has landed. The very fact that this has come back to you means the work has started.

And remember, stones are not as stony as they appear. Have you seen it? A river falls from the mountain onto the rocks. How hard the rocks, how soft the water! Yet the river keeps falling day after day. On the first day, the stones must think, “Keep falling; nothing will come of it.” But every day, at exactly eight in the morning, it falls. It just keeps falling. The stones must think, “All right then, it’s pleasant; it brings coolness. We’ll enjoy your falling.” But one day you will find the river still falling—and the rocks have become grains of sand and disappeared into the ocean. Stones do break.

“The rope, coming and going, leaves its mark upon the rock.”
A rope makes a groove in stone—by a rope! Simply by coming and going every day.

Go on sitting. This is exactly what I tell you: keep enjoying the talk. Even if you do nothing else—if you simply go on savoring my words—if this taste keeps growing on you—intoxication? Fine, let it be so. Keep drinking me like a drug; you will change. At first you will feel you are like a stone. Then one day, suddenly, you will search and you will not find the stone. What you had drunk like a drug will begin to flow within you like a current.

No, you will not be able to stop. Change must happen. Change has already begun. And the reason for change is this: if truth is, revolution happens around it; it cannot be stopped. It is not very much a matter of your doing or not doing.

By mere hearing!
Ashtavakra says, by merely hearing, revolution happens.
By mere hearing!

Just keep listening. Just allow me to come inside. Do not obstruct. Let this stream reach your heart; all your stones will melt and flow away. For how many days can you go on denying the truth of what I am saying? Today you may listen just for enjoyment, but how long can you deny its truth? In listening, its truth will begin to come within your grasp. Perhaps even without your knowing, the truth will begin to be recognized by you.

And then the shadow of what I am telling you will be seen in your life too—here and there, everywhere. If today I have said to you, “What is there in the temples?” and you heard it, even if you forgot, one day, passing by a temple, you will remember: What is there in the temples? If I said today, “The scriptures are mere words,” then some day, leafing through the Gita, turning the pages of the Bible, you will suddenly recall: In the scriptures there are only words.

And this remembrance will deepen. Because they are only words. You will not be able to leave the truth of this aside for long. Today you heard that the renunciates sitting in your temples and mosques are hollow, that nothing has happened in them. Some day, when you bow your head to your monk, to your swami, you may see his eyes, his empty face, the stupidity, the stupor spread around him. You will not be able to escape. The truth will be remembered.

By mere hearing!
Keep listening. And then every event of life will remind you. If I have said, “All that appears is a dream,” how long will you be able to avoid it? “It is a dream”—this will begin to prick you like a thorn again and again at countless moments. And I have told you, “This life is moving into death; this life is turning into death; this life will go; this life only dies and nothing else happens.”

How long will you escape? Seeing a bier pass along the road, you will feel you yourself are going, bound to that bier. These are not just words; these are expressions of truth. Let the words go within. Along with them a little truth slips in; behind the words truth slips in—by mere hearing!

And day after day, moment by moment, occasions will come when the truth of these sayings will begin to reveal itself. And evidence will start to gather from life. What I am saying are only fundamental principles; the proofs you will find in your own life. Your life will gather the evidence for them.

Now where is the state of the beginning of love, Hafiz?
After sinking my boat, she stepped onto the shore.

One day you will find that youth, that love, that enchantment—all of it drowned your boat; the flood subsided, and you are left robbed, standing on the shore. The caravan passed by, and you stood watching the dust. Will you not remember then? Will you not be jolted awake that day?

No, you cannot escape, because there is truth in these words.

String some pearls, O bride, into your necklace—
but foreign, borrowed beauty will not bind into your adornment.
A gust of wind; life is a guest of two brief moments.
Where is there any staying? Here every house is pawned.
This golden sunlight is in vain, and this silvery moonlight is in vain—
with every light comes the recognition of some darkness.
Do not preen so, dusky one, over your glittering bodice and veil—
at the final procession everyone receives the same shroud.

Keep listening.
Do not preen so, dusky one, over your glittering bodice and veil—
at the final procession everyone receives the same shroud.

However many tricks you try here, the false cannot be made true. Your life is an attempt to make the false true. What I am telling you is straightforward truth—by mere hearing. Let its blow fall.

Today you are listening for pleasure—listen for pleasure. Under the pretext of that very enjoyment, the truth will sink deep. The stones will be cut. Because your life is false and what I am telling you is true. The false cannot win. However long it takes, the false cannot triumph. Satyameva Jayate—truth alone triumphs. Truth alone wins.

So it is. It’s a difference of expression—two vocabularies for one reality. Krishna says, “Become a mere instrument.” Ashtavakra says, “Become spontaneous.” One who becomes a mere instrument becomes spontaneous. One who becomes spontaneous becomes a mere instrument.

Understand it. Nimitta-matra means: you are no longer the doer; let the Divine do. Drop the very language of doing. Become a flute, a hollow reed. Let the Lord sing and flow through you. Do not obstruct.

If you become such a hollow flute and the Divine flows through you, suddenly you will find that the Divine flowing through you is your very nature. That Divine is not other than you—it is other than your ego, not other than you. All that was to be dropped was the ego. You drop it and become a mere instrument. In becoming an instrument you do not vanish—remember, for the first time you are. You are by disappearing. You win by losing. You gain by letting go.

Jesus has said: Those who try to save themselves will not be able to save; those who lose themselves will be saved. His words are wondrous.

What will you save? You will try to save that which cannot be saved—the ego, the stiffness. Lose it. The moment you lose it, you find what has always been safe, that which cannot be lost, the foundational, your very nature.

Become a mere instrument and you are free. Leaving everything in the hands of the Divine does not make you a slave—you become the master.

When people come from the West, surrender seems a great stumbling block. They say, “If we surrender, we’ll become slaves. If we surrender, where are we?” It takes time for them to understand that surrender only means: give up what is not yours. I tell them: give me what you don’t have but think you have, so that what you do have but think you don’t, becomes visible to you. I give you only what is already yours. And I take away only what you never had, do not have, cannot ever have—just a delusion.

Nimitta means: as the ego goes, your nature reveals itself. The rock of ego removed, the spring of your nature gushes forth—that is freedom. In Krishna’s language it is called God.

In Ashtavakra’s language there is no talk of being an instrument; he speaks directly of spontaneity. Become spontaneous. Find your own cadence. Let what lies deep within you be revealed. Do not wander on the periphery; let the center manifest. Do not hover on the surface; go deep, deeper—touch your ultimate depth and allow it to come forth.

The moment it manifests, you will find you have become a mere instrument. For that depth is not only your depth, it is also the depth of the Divine. In truth, at depth we are one; on the surface we are many. Our center is one; our peripheries differ. As we go inward, we find our oneness.

Think of waves upon the ocean—millions of waves. On the surface one wave seems different from another, but if each wave descends into its depth, all are in the same ocean. One who descends into spontaneity, into himself, arrives at the ocean—arrives in God—becomes an instrument.

These are differences of language. Whether you become an instrument or become spontaneous, seen from above they look opposed. This is the difficulty—the language of the wise. From the surface they seem contradictory; to reason they look opposed. Nimitta means: lose yourself as a doer—then how will you be free? Spontaneity seems to say: deny God and all that, proclaim yourself. They look opposite. But in experience, they are not. They are two ways of saying one thing.

And some can become instruments; they should not get entangled in becoming spontaneous. Some can become spontaneous; they should not get entangled in becoming instruments. On the path people differ; in the goal they become one. In the end we all meet—Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Buddhist, Jain. But at the beginning, our paths are very different.

So many paths are needed because there are so many kinds of people. No path is useless; each is for someone. There is someone on earth who will arrive only by that path. Therefore no path should disappear from the earth. In fact, more paths should be born. There are still some for whom no path yet exists. As human consciousness deepens, paths will increase.

Someone asked me two days ago, “Why so many religions in the world?” I told him, if consciousness grows, there will be as many religions as there are people. Each person will have his own religion. Because truly each person is so unique—how can he walk another’s way?

Have you ever noticed? Ever tried to wear someone else’s shoes? Try it—go out today and put on one another’s shoes. You’ll hardly find a pair that fits you, even if the number matches, because feet still differ.

You go to a shop and a size ten fits you; the same size ten fits someone else. But once one person wears a shoe, its number changes. The foot slowly reshapes the shoe—here a toe, there the heel, somewhere the edge makes a different mold. Once someone has worn a size ten, another person of size ten will find it won’t do—this doesn’t sit on my foot. Every foot is different.

If you can’t wear another’s shoe, how will you wear another’s path? Neither another’s shoes can be worn, nor can you walk in another’s footprints. Each must find his own way. With a true Master you receive courage, confidence, encouragement. He says, Go on. Don’t worry. Don’t fear. Don’t hesitate. There is a path, and beyond the path a reachable goal. I have seen it—now you walk. Take heart.

Strictly speaking, a true Master does not give a path; he gives courage and self-trust. And even when he gives a path, that path slowly reshapes itself to your mold.

I watch different people. Sometimes I give the same meditation to two persons, yet ultimately the outcomes begin to diverge. I gave the same-sized shoes, but they began to take on different forms and shapes—as they must. Naturally. As your fingerprints differ, so do the imprints of your souls.

So, the one for whom being an instrument feels natural, easy and simple—good. He’ll reach the very place the spontaneous one reaches. And the one to whom spontaneity appeals—he too will reach. Don’t be anxious; the destination is one, because Truth is one. But there are many doors.

Jesus has again said: In my Lord’s temple there are many doors, and in my Lord’s house there are many rooms. The temple is one; doors many, chambers many.

Nimitta means: whatever happens is being done by the Divine. Accept it. Tathata—suchness!

It is a garden—winds of every kind wander through it;
One a bride of the sandal-breeze, one a sister to the storm.
It isn’t possible to behold the spring and not the fall;
However costly the sheet, some crease will lie upon it.

Nature is a garland of two-colored threads, and yet
There is a corner where everyone’s adornment is equal.
Don’t get stuck laughing at the flower, nor fling away the thorn weeping;
O traveler, over you here, everyone has an equal claim.

Curse not that night which drank your home’s dawn;
Sulking not at the dream that could not become yours.
Be not annoyed with time; blame not the lightnings
That fell each time you set out to make your shelter.

Creation is a chessboard, and we are all the pieces here;
King or pawn—when check comes, the stroke is equal for all.
Don’t get stuck laughing at the flower, nor fling away the thorn weeping;
O traveler, over you here, everyone has an equal claim.

The flower and the thorn; day and night; life and death; joy and sorrow—all have equal rights.

Nimitta means: accept both—accept both with equanimity. Let what is, be. Let it be as it is happening. I have no will otherwise. If this suits you, then there is no need to speak of spontaneity.

But if it doesn’t suit you, that doesn’t mean the Divine is narrow and reachable by only one road. If this doesn’t suit you, then what is its opposite—does that suit you? Does spontaneity suit you? Does rebellion suit you? Does it appeal to declare: Enough—I will live in my own way? Then live so. Shape yourself to your own cadence. Live in complete freedom. Do not become an instrument. Do not surrender. Live spontaneously.

What Ashtavakra calls spontaneity, Mahavira calls asharan—without refuge. What Krishna calls becoming a mere instrument, Chaitanya and Mira call surrender. They are the same things. If I distill all this, I would say: one path is feminine, and one path is masculine. The masculine path means: he cannot surrender, cannot become an instrument; he will proclaim himself. The path of spontaneity, of being without refuge, will suit him. Feminine means: she will not proclaim herself—that’s not her nature. She will be humble, she will bow, she will surrender; she will become a mere instrument.

Mind you, when I say feminine/masculine, I don’t mean all women will go by one path and all men by the other. Not the body—the mind. Many men have a feminine mind; many women have a masculine mind. So don’t look at the body.

Often a man comes to me with such a surrendering heart that you could hardly find a woman like that. Sometimes a woman comes with a nature so free that you could hardly find such a man. So these words “feminine/masculine” are symbolic. But there are only two kinds of paths: the proclamation of spontaneity, or the surrender of becoming an instrument.

Only take care to choose what truly suits you. Do not impose. Don’t press with insistence or stubbornness. Don’t force or suppress. Sādho, sahaj samādhi bhali—seekers, the natural samadhi is best. Remember this. Keep remembering it, and you will not go astray. Whatever fits your nature—that is the path of truth for you. Keep testing on the touchstones of nature and ease.

Often the opposite happens. Often you impose what doesn’t suit you. Fasting doesn’t help, still you fast. You starve, yet you fast. You become a lover of suffering—find relish in self-torture. What doesn’t feel natural has a certain attraction for the ego. And the ego is the obstacle.

Let me repeat it: the ego is attracted to choosing what doesn’t suit you. Because in choosing the suitable, the ego doesn’t survive; in choosing the unsuitable, it does. The bigger the mountain, the more the ego wants to climb it. The harder the thing, the more it wants to do it. In the simple, the ego finds no juice. “What’s the point in the simple!”

I saw Mulla Nasruddin sitting by a lake, fishing. I asked, “Nasruddin, caught anything?” He said, “No—been here all day, the sun’s about to set, not a single fish.” I said, “You know, there are no fish in this lake.” He said, “I know.” I said, “Right nearby there’s another lake—fish upon fish.” Mulla said, “What’s the point of catching there? Anyone can catch there—even children. That’s exactly why I’m sitting here—where no one can catch anything. If I catch here, I’ve really caught something. If I catch there, what have I caught!”

The ego always wants to make the impossible possible—and the impossible does not become possible. The ego wants to make two plus two into three or five—and that never happens.

So because of the ego, people often choose what is difficult. And no one ever arrives by the difficult. Sādho, sahaj samādhi bhali—the natural absorption is best. Choose what suits you, what is utterly natural. Let it happen so simply that not even a whisper is heard. Let it be like a flower, not like a thorn that pricks. That is the path.

If you remember this, you won’t wander; you will arrive. Arrival is certain. No one has ever gone astray on the natural path.

That’s all for today.