Maha Geeta #74

A psychologist is not a knower of the mind. He knows about the mind; he does not know the mind itself. Knowing about something is one thing; knowing the thing itself is something altogether different. Knowing about the mind can be done by the mind itself. Knowing the mind requires going beyond the mind. Only the witness knows the mind. To know the mind you have to be other than it, beyond it. You have to rise above the mind. Those who are enclosed within the mind will never know the mind.

One who believes “I am the mind” — how will he ever know the mind? Whatever we know requires a little distance, a gap; only then does perspective arise. I see you because you are at a distance. You hear me because I am at a distance.

The methods that create distance from the mind are what meditation is. The processes that make the mind itself into an object of seeing — that is meditation: the body seen, the mind seen, and you standing beyond them both.

A psychologist is not a knower of the mind. He has information about the mind — borrowed information. About his own mind he knows nothing. He has collected what others have said about the mind. By examining and testing human behavior he has settled on certain inferences, and he leans on those. A psychologist is a technician.

That is why it happens — and often — that the very relationships in which a psychologist counsels you, he himself is sick.

You will be amazed to know: no one goes mad as often as psychologists go mad. And their whole business is to make the mad healthy.

In the profession of psychology, madness occurs twice as much as in ordinary professions. Professors go mad, engineers go mad, doctors go mad — but psychologists go mad twice as much. It shouldn’t be so; a psychologist ought not to be mad at all. One who has known the mind — how could he be mad?

He has not known the mind; he has collected information about it. So he may advise others, but the advice he gives others does not work for himself. Remember also: in the profession of psychology people commit suicide twice as often.

These are disturbing facts. Film stars commit suicide, politicians, poets, writers, philosophers commit suicide — psychologists do so twice as often. A psychologist ought not to commit suicide at all. If you have understood your own mind, would such a diseased state as suicide happen to you? Impossible. But it doesn’t happen that way.

A psychologist said to his patient, “Good you arrived! Had you delayed ten more minutes, I was going to begin psychoanalysis without you.” There are such psychologists.

Another psychologist was listening to a patient who said, “I have this delusion that insects crawl all over me. I know it is an illusion, and yet all day I feel: there goes one, one’s climbing up my head, down my legs, into my clothes…” and he stood up and shook his clothes furiously. The psychologist said, “Wait! Don’t shake so hard — they might fall on me!”

The one we call a psychologist stands exactly where the sick stand. If there is any difference, it is a difference of information. It is not a difference of inner realization. The psychologist has studied about the mind; he has not yet become aware in relation to it.

That is why we do not call satgurus psychologists.

There is something else to note. Second: the psychologist’s work is to adjust those who have become maladjusted, who have fallen out of step with the current of life, who have in some way become sick — to make them adjusted again. To make them part of the flow once more: to get the laggards moving with life, to make the sick normal.

The satguru’s work is not toward the sick. The satguru’s work is to help the healthy. The psychologist helps the unhealthy — to become fit enough to go to the office, to the factory, to do their job, to take care of wife and children — and that’s the end of it.

The satguru’s work is to give you your own address, to give a taste of the ultimate source of life to one who has not known it, to bring you to God. He joins you to that which is the supreme truth of life.

The psychologist makes you a member of society. The satguru makes you a participant in truth.

Reflect: society itself is sick. By becoming its member you cannot become healthy! This society is utterly sick. It may be that those you call mad are a little more diseased, and those you do not call mad are a little less so. The difference may be one of quantity, not of quality. You may be ninety-nine degrees mad; the one you call mad has crossed a hundred. It’s a matter of degrees. Your business fails, your wife dies, and you too may reach a hundred and one. Those you don’t call mad can become mad any moment; those you call mad can become “normal” any moment. The difference is in degree, not in kind.

Society as a whole is mad. In three thousand years, five thousand wars have been fought. What greater madness do you want? In truth, individuals are never as mad as society is. Individuals have never committed as many crimes as society has.

To adjust a person to such a society is not health, nor is it a criterion of health. This society is diseased. To fit someone into its sickness is merely to harmonize him with the disease of the crowd.

There is a famous tale by Kahlil Gibran: A magician came to a town, cast a spell on the public well and dropped in a potion, saying: whoever drinks from it will go mad. There were only two wells: one for the town, one for the king. The entire town went mad, except the king, his vizier, and the queen. The king was delighted: “We are saved. Today the separate well has saved us.”

But people were thirsty; they had to drink, and there was only one well. The whole town went mad. The king gave thanks to God. By evening he discovered this “being saved” was no salvation: a rumor swept the town — “It seems the king has gone insane.”

When the whole town is mad and one man is healthy, the town will think that man mad. The crowd included the king’s soldiers, his commander, his guards, his bodyguards. The king was frightened. By evening the whole town gathered around the palace shouting, “Get off the throne! You have gone crazy. We will make a sane man our king.”

The king asked his vizier, “Now what?” The vizier said, “Nothing to fear: I’ll keep them engaged. You run and drink from the town well. Quickly now — no time to waste.”

The king ran. The vizier stalled the crowd. The king returned, half-naked, dancing. The town rejoiced. A great festival followed: drums, flutes, dancing. “Our king’s mind is sound again!”

When the crowd is mad, to adjust someone to it has no great value.

People run after wealth. If one man stops running, we take him to a psychologist: “What’s wrong? Why isn’t he like everyone else? Everyone is earning; he says, ‘What’s in money?’”

Recently in New York a very rich man drew ten thousand dollars from a bank. On the way an impulse seized him: “Let’s see what happens,” and he began handing out hundred-dollar bills to people in the street. First they couldn’t believe it; who just gives away hundred-dollar notes? Then they concluded he was mad. Soon the police arrived and detained him: “Are you out of your mind?” He said, “It’s my money — who are you to stop me from giving?” They said, “You must first bring a psychologist’s certificate that you are sane. Who behaves like this?”

Here people are mad for hoarding; if someone starts giving, he appears mad. Buddha looked mad when he left his throne. Mahavira looked mad when he renounced his kingdom — mad indeed.

He went to court: “This is strange. My money and I want to give it away.” The magistrate said, “Wait — a psychologist’s certificate.” No psychologist would certify him sane, because “a person like this must be mad.” He said, “Give me the certificate and I’ll draw another ten thousand to give away. I have plenty, and I’ve never enjoyed anything like this. I accumulated and accumulated — that never gave me this joy. Let me distribute it.”

The psychologist said, “If you’re going to keep distributing, you’ll get me into trouble too. I can’t certify you.”

Where the crowd is mad for money, one who gives it up looks mad. Where people are filled with violence, one who is filled with love looks mad. Jesus was crucified not for nothing: he looked mad. He said, “If someone slaps your cheek, turn the other also.” Only a madman would say such a thing, no? He said, “If someone takes your coat, give him your shirt too.” Has any clever man ever said such things? Some Kautilya, some Machiavelli? This fellow’s mind has gone off.

He said, “Love those who hate you; bless those who curse you.” Crucifixion became necessary. Even on the cross he would not drop his “madness.” His final words: “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

Ask the doers — they know very well: they are ridding themselves of a madman. What is this? Someone slaps you and you turn the other cheek?

A disciple asked Jesus, “If someone strikes us once, we should forgive — but how many times?” Jesus said, “Seven times… no, seventy times.” Then, looking more closely, “No — seventy times seven.”

But mind you: you’ll turn even that into a trick for madness.

I have heard: a Christian fakir was slapped. He offered the other cheek — Jesus has said so. The man, perhaps a follower of Friedrich Nietzsche, struck that cheek as well. Nietzsche said, “If someone offers you the other cheek, strike harder — otherwise you insult him.” After the second slap, the fakir leapt on the man’s chest. “Brother, stop! What are you doing? Your master said to offer the other cheek.” The fakir said, “I have shown the second cheek. There is no third. Beyond this, the master said nothing. Now I am on my own. Now I’ll show you.”

Man is mad. Even when he follows a rule, he does so only up to a limit — as long as it remains a dead rule. Beyond that, his reality comes out.

A satguru does not make you one with the herd; he frees you from it. How can we call a satguru a psychologist? You heard Ashtavakra yesterday? The knower, the wise one, does not behave like the world, not like the crowd. His life has no crowd, no herd-instinct. He follows no one and asks no one to follow. Imitation is not his way. He lives from his own awareness — free. Ashtavakra says: he is spontaneous. His freedom is absolute. If he lives, he lives from his innermost; what his inner voice says, that he does — whatever the price.

When Socrates was sentenced to death — to drink hemlock — even the magistrate felt pity and said, “Give us one pledge and we will release you: promise that you will stop speaking what you call truth.” Socrates said, “Then what will I live for? What meaning is there in a life where truth is neither spoken nor discussed nor fragrant? Better to die. Give me death, for if I live I will speak truth; if I live, there is no other way — truth will emanate.”

The magistrate must have thought: Socrates is mad — he chooses death. Would you choose death? You would say, “Forget truth; what’s the point? What did we get from it? Just trouble. If everyone lives by lies and life runs on lies, then prudence lies in lying too. Be like others — the herd.”

In a school, a teacher asked, “If there are ten sheep in a courtyard and one jumps over the wall, how many remain?” A weak student, who never raised his hand, waved it furiously. The teacher was pleased: “You answer.” The boy said, “Not a single one.” The teacher: “Are you mad? I said there are ten sheep inside and one jumps out — how many remain? Do you know arithmetic?” The boy said, “Arithmetic or not, the sheep are at my house. I know sheep. If one jumps, all jump. You understand math; I understand sheep. Sheep do not obey math. They live by imitation.”

The crowd is sheep. The satguru frees you from the herd, takes you beyond society. Society is temporal, momentary, changing daily — today this, tomorrow that. Its rules, styles, patterns, structures keep changing.

The satguru links you to that which never changes, which is as it always was — the Eternal. The satguru brings you to God. And God is your ultimate nature. That is why we do not call the satguru a psychologist — and a psychologist is not a satguru.

Remember also: you go to a psychologist when you are sick. You go to a satguru when you are healthy in every outward way and suddenly find life meaningless. Keep this distinction in mind.

Sometimes people come to me and say, “I have a headache.” I say, “Go to a doctor.” Someone says, “My health is poor.” Then take medical treatment. I am not here to take care of your ailments. That is what doctors are for. Let each do his work.

Come to me when everything is right — and still nothing is right. You have money, position, prestige — and only ash in your hands. You have succeeded — and there is nothing in your heart. No flower has blossomed, no song has surged. The throat is parched. Outside is green; inside is desert. Not a single oasis. No shade — only scorching sun, only restlessness.

When you have everything and you find you have nothing — seek a satguru. When your success proves to be failure — seek a satguru. When your wealth exposes your inner poverty — seek a satguru. When your cleverness proves to be foolishness — seek a satguru. Go to a satguru when this life begins to feel pointless — so he may take you toward another life, into a new dimension of journeying.

Your relationship to a psychologist is the same as to a physician. The physician is not your master. You hurt your foot; you go to the doctor; he dresses the wound — finished. The guru is a relationship of love — the most profound love that exists in this world. You can never pay off the debt of the guru — not until the state dawns where the guru hidden within you is revealed.

The guru’s connection is of a different order. In your heart an upsurge arises. Near someone, you glimpse the Ultimate. Someone becomes a window for you. In someone’s presence the music of the Eternal is heard. There is much noise in your mind, and yet, near someone, for a moment your mind falls still and space opens for the Eternal. In someone’s presence you begin to hear tones from afar, from beyond the stars. In someone’s presence, something starts to stir within, something asleep begins to awaken.

The satguru is a catalytic agent. In his presence something happens. The satguru does not do anything; the psychologist does. The psychologist is a technician. The satguru does not do — because in dropping the doer he has become a satguru. He has made God the doer; he himself is empty, merely a vehicle — a hollow bamboo flute. He does nothing, yet in his presence the great happens.

You cannot call a satguru a psychologist. First, a satguru is not a scientist. If anything, he is a poet of the Eternal. He may not rhyme, he may not compose in meter, he may not be rich in words or grammar, he may not know prosody — yet he is the poet of the Eternal.

That is why we have called the great ones rishi — seers, poets of the Real. Whatever they say, they have not said; the Divine has spoken through them. The Vedas are called apaurusheya — not created by man. The Quran “descended” — Mohammed did not compose it; it came as revelation. Jesus says, “I do not speak; the Father within speaks.” These words are not mine.

The satguru is the flute of the Eternal. And only if you fall in love — deep love — leaving aside argument, will anything happen.

With a psychologist you need not fall in love. In fact, you’ll be surprised to know: Freud, Adler, Jung, and the long line after them insist that if a patient starts falling in love with the therapist, the therapist must stop it — they call it transference. If the patient falls in love, and the therapist too, then who will help whom? How will help be possible? It becomes impossible.

Have you seen? A great surgeon with thousands of operations to his credit — when his own wife falls ill, he cannot operate on her. He calls another surgeon, even if he is number two. Number one calls number two because he himself trembles. Love is so much that the hand will shake, the heart will quiver: Will I succeed? What if she dies? Burdened with such anxiety he cannot remain detached. How will he be a surgeon?

Distance is needed. The surgeon must be utterly impersonal — without stake. Whether you live or die, he has no preference. He knows his craft and will apply it.

I have heard: a surgeon was operating on someone’s abdomen. He posted an assistant at the head to report anything special. After ten minutes, the assistant said, “Sir, stop.” “Don’t interrupt,” the surgeon snapped. The assistant fell silent, then tried again: “Please listen to what I’m trying to say: my end of the patient has died. The head end is gone — and you go on operating. This man is no longer alive; you are working in vain.”

The surgeon should not even need to know whether the man is alive or dead — he just goes on with his skill, without a ripple.

Thus Freud said: there must be no affective bond between patient and therapist; otherwise help becomes difficult. Distance must remain.

With the satguru it is exactly the opposite. If an affective, love-filled bond does not arise, the distance will remain too great for anything to happen. Only when such a bond arises does transformation become possible. When you go mad in love for the satguru, when you become intoxicated — only then. This relationship is of love. When the satguru takes residence in your heart, something can happen.

That fragrance has settled in my mind—
One grove of jasmine, one of bay,
A countless mingling of scents,
Finding me utterly alone,
These breaths it has bound tight—
That fragrance has settled in my mind.

One day west, one day east,
All the wings of fragrance wander,
With every pore flung open wide
It sank within, to the core—
That fragrance has settled in my mind.

Whose branches clutch the sky,
Whose buds burst on the earth,
Into the mire of my life
Unknowing, it fell and lodged—
That fragrance has settled in my mind.

Until the satguru’s fragrance settles in your heart, until you are madly in love, nothing will happen. The satguru–disciple bond is affective — like lover and beloved, though far beyond that, and only that comparison can be offered. It is a relationship of divine madness.

With every pore flung open wide
It sank within, to the core—
That fragrance has settled in my mind.

Only then is there transformation. You will change only when you bow in love.

With a psychologist, bowing is not necessary. There is no question of surrender; he is a technician. You pay for what he knows — and it’s over. Not even thanks are required.

A satguru is not one who “knows” something; a satguru is one who has become something. In his courtyard the sky has descended. On the empty throne of his inner being, God sits. Parsimony won’t do here. Only if you leap and dive will something happen.

That is why the West has begun calling even psychologists “gurus.” The East never called a guru a psychologist. Nor did the East ever need to invent psychology. Where there are gurus, there is little need for psychologists. The psychologist is a substitute — a cheap one. He himself is entangled in the very knots from which he tries to free his patient. The satguru is beyond those knots. And only the company of one who is beyond can truly help.

A satguru is not a person. Eastern seers call the satguru the Divine, Brahmasvarupa — the very form of the Absolute. There is a reason: the satguru has become impersonal. He has erased himself, dropped his identity, his ego. Now whatever functions through him is God. When the satguru takes your hand, it is God who has taken your hand.

If this does not appear to you, your relationship with the satguru has not yet begun. You are not yet a disciple. The seed has not even been sown; do not think of the harvest.

When the mind begins to slip toward ravines,
Who is it that suddenly holds from behind?
When life’s springs dry up,
And the banks are cut away by the current,
Who is it, in such hard times,
That gives life fresh mornings and evenings?

When darkness gathers in the eyes,
And life is battered by the waves of time,
Who is it, out of dimming shadows,
That gathers every grain of your life?

What unit of life remains
That the world could not divide?
Who is it, in lonely conjunctions,
That gives life new dimensions, day by day?

When, in a person, you behold the Impersonal; when, in a form, the formless glimmers; when someone’s presence becomes for you the dense presence of God — then you have met the satguru.

A satguru must be sought; a psychologist is bought. A psychologist can be had for money; a satguru is found by offering your mind. The two are entirely different.

It must be understood—understood deeply. Because this feeling arises in many minds. When I explain to you: disappear, be finished, so that the Divine can be; wipe yourself out, make room, so that He may descend—then a powerful urge arises to disappear. And in that very urge the mistake happens.
When I say “disappear,” I am saying: now do not desire anymore. Because if desire remains, you will remain. You exist only by the prop of desire. Sometimes the desire for wealth, sometimes for status. Desire, when it thickens, becomes the ego. Desire itself is the ego. So long as you are full of desire, you are. When you are filled with desirelessness—when no desire at all remains… and remember, not even the desire to be free of desire remains.
But you hear me and the meaning turns into something else. I say to you, disappear; I say, drop desire. You say, “All right, then we will desire this one thing—we will desire to disappear.” Then you ask, “O Lord, how can I die? Now make me die.”
Until now you used to ask, “How shall we live? How can life become more—more, and more?” Now you ask, “How shall we die? How shall we end?” But it is the same question. Nothing has changed. You wanted wealth; now you want religion. You wanted position; now you want God. You wanted pleasure; now you want heaven. Until now you ran after passions; now you have created a new passion—to be passionless. You missed. Again it has gone wrong.
I did not tell you to cultivate the desire to die. I only told you: if you stop desiring, you will die. This dying is a result, a consequence. You cannot want it. It cannot be an extension of your wanting. If you make even this into a desire, then desire survives. Desire gets new wings. Desire mounts a new horse. Desire has deceived your mind once more. Now you start desiring this.
Buddha has said: if you desire nirvana, you will never attain nirvana.
And Ashtavakra keeps saying again and again: if even the desire for liberation remains, freedom is far away. The desire for liberation is also bondage. Do not even desire liberation. Do not desire at all. In that moment when no desire whatsoever remains, in that very moment you have become the Divine. In the desireless instant you become God. So understand this—otherwise you will go astray.
People come to me; they ask, “How to enter meditation?” They arrive with a great desire. I tell them, “If there is desire, you will not be able to enter meditation. The first condition for meditation is: leave desire outside.” They say, “Good. Then we will be able to enter meditation, right?”
Do you see what they mean? They are saying, “If by leaving desire outside, desire gets fulfilled, we agree to that too—but desire will be fulfilled, won’t it?” Then where did you leave it? They try for two or four days and then come back and say, “We didn’t desire at all, yet still nothing has happened.”
If you truly did not desire, then why are you asking, “Still nothing has happened”? Desire remained. Desire kept burning within. Desire said, “Let’s do this trick too—people say that by dropping desire, desire is fulfilled. All right, do this act as well.” But you missed. You did not understand.
That is why it is said again and again in all the scriptures: what is said is not what is heard. It is not at all certain that what the true Master explains is what you actually hear. You hear something else. You do something else.
Seeing that nothing was gained in life, now you say, “How can I disappear?” But the notion of gaining is still intact.
Often it happens: someone meditates, and suddenly one day a ray descends; every pore is filled with nectar. He is overwhelmed. From that very day the trouble begins. Then he desires every day that it should happen again, and again. He comes to me, cries, pleads; says, “Great trouble has arisen. The event happened, but now why does it not happen?”
I tell him: when it happened, there was no desire. You didn’t even know of it—so how could you desire it? One desires only what one has some inkling of, some estimate of—perhaps from hearing, from a taste. One can desire only what one has some notion of. Now you have come to know. You have tasted. The ray descended. The petals of your heart bloomed; lotuses opened within. You were transported. Now you know; now comes the difficulty—the greatest difficulty ever. Now whenever you sit in meditation, this desire will stand there: let it happen again; again.
I read a Tibetan tale. They say that hidden in the far Tibetan mountains is a lake. On its shore stands a tree. The tree is unique, and the lake even more so. They say: whoever finds that tree and that lake, and leaps from the tree into the lake, is transformed. If by accident a bird falls into the lake, it becomes human. If a human finds it and jumps from the tree, he becomes a god.
One day it so happened: a monkey and a she-monkey were sitting in that tree. They knew nothing. And a man, after years of searching, finally reached there. He climbed the tree and leapt headlong. The instant he fell into the lake, he became a luminous, radiant deity. Naturally, a great longing arose in the monkey and the she-monkey. They had no idea—even though they lived on that very tree, they had never leapt from it, never plunged into the lake. They felt no reason to delay. Both jumped at once. When they emerged, they were astonished: both had become beautiful human beings. The monkey had become a man; the she-monkey, a most beautiful woman.
The monkey said, “Now let’s jump once more.” A monkey is a monkey! He said, “If we jump again, we will come out as gods.” The woman said, “Look, whether to jump again or not, we don’t really know.” Women are usually more practical. They think it over; take stock; see what is to be done. Men are reckless.
The monkey said, “Don’t worry. You sit and calculate. I cannot miss this.” The woman warned again, “We have always heard our elders say: ‘Excess is to be avoided everywhere.’ One should not go to extremes. Excess is forbidden. What has already happened—is that not enough?” But the monkey did not agree. Had he agreed, he wouldn’t be a monkey. He jumped. And when he jumped again, he became a monkey once more. That was the lake’s nature: jump once—transformation; jump twice—back to what you were.
The woman became a queen. A king fell in love with her. The monkey was caught by a street performer. One day the performer brought the monkey to the royal palace, and seeing his former she-monkey seated on the throne, the monkey began to weep. He remembered. And he thought, “If only I had listened—had not jumped again!” The queen said to him, “Don’t cry now. Just remember for the future: excess is to be avoided everywhere. Excess is forbidden.”
Meditation is such a lake. Samadhi is such a lake where your luminous divine form is revealed. But do not fall into greed. Excess is to be avoided everywhere.
Your question is full of intense greed. Look closely at it and you will notice: “I want to die, I want to empty out, I want to do, I want to be nothing.” I want, I want, I want. Desire and only desire. In every line, only desire. And I am explaining to you that with desire the world is born. The name of the world is desire. Now you are creating a new world. Now “dying, nirvana, emptiness, samadhi”—these have taken hold of you. Will you ever slip out of the net—or not?
Let me tell you another story.
They say: once the Devil got bored. Everyone gets bored. It is no wonder if the Devil gets bored. In fact, the Devil should be the first to be bored—he’s been doing devilry forever! So he decided to take sannyas. Then he began to put his slaves up for sale: wickedness, falsehood, jealousy, discouragement, pride, violence, possessiveness, and so on. He hung price tags on all of them. Buyers are always there. When has it ever happened that the Devil’s shop had no crowd? The temples of God lie empty; the Devil’s shop is always crowded—heaving crowds, long queues.
And when people heard that the Devil was selling even his most trusted slaves, they all arrived. Politicians came, rich men came—all sorts of mischief-makers came. For if you can get the Devil’s well-trained servants, what then? You can conquer the world! One after another the slaves were sold. The Devil’s devotees kept coming, each buying according to his own identity and preference. But there stood a very coarse and ugly woman whom nobody could recognize. Who was she? And the difficulty was this: the tag around her neck had the highest price of all.
At last someone asked, “Sir, it is astonishing—we cannot recognize this woman. Who is this servant of yours? She is so ugly, so crude that just to look at her makes one’s stomach churn. And you have put the highest price on her. What is this? No buyer has even gone near her. Who is this ‘goddess’? Tell us something about her.” The customer asked the Devil.
The Devil said, “Oh, her? She is my dearest and most faithful slave. With her help I can catch people in my grip very easily. What—didn’t you recognize her? Very few people recognize her; that is why, through her, deceiving is easy. No one recognizes her, but she is my right hand.”
Then the Devil burst into loud laughter and said, “She is Ambition! The ugliest and crudest of my servants—but the most skillful.”
Man lives in ambition: “Let me get this; let me have that; more, and still more.” Do not spread that same ambition into the direction of religion.
Sannyas is not the ambition to attain Truth; sannyas is the renunciation of ambition. Sannyas is not a new desire to gain moksha; sannyas is seeing the futility of all desire. Now do not desire anymore. Let desire go. Bid it farewell. The day you bid desire farewell, that very day you are out of the Devil’s grip. And the very moment you let desire go, you will find that what you always wanted begins to happen. It could not happen because of desire. No—do not make such ambition.
Now there are no surges, no tumult of longings crowding in;
only one yearning remains in this wounded heart—to be effaced.
Let even this yearning to be effaced go. This yearning too is a disturbance. Do not hurry. Why such haste for death!
Death is that secret that will, in the end, be revealed one day;
life is the enigma for which there is no ready solution.
Death will, one day, open by itself; one day it will happen. Why be in a hurry for it? Why desire even to die? Understand life. If you understand life, life opens. And where life opens, death opens—because death is nothing but life’s final summit. Death is nothing but the climax of life. Death is nothing but life’s last song. Understand being, and non-being is understood.
That is why I say to you: do not run away from the world. If you understand the world, moksha is understood. But you hurry. Without understanding the world, you set out to understand moksha. Then your moksha too becomes a new world.

Certainly I speak of dance, because for me dance itself is worship. Dance itself is meditation. There is no method more effortless than dance, no samadhi so natural. Dance is the most effortless, the simplest. For nowhere else can you melt your ego as easily as you can in dancing.

If you can dance with a full heart, you will vanish. You will be effaced in the dance. Dance is a wondrous path of self-forgetfulness, a miraculous alchemy.

And dance has another beauty: as you dance, your life-energy begins to flow. You have become inert. You were born to be a river; you have become a stagnant pond. You were born to flow; you have become blocked. Your life-energy must flow again, must gush forth again. Let the waves rise again. For a river one day reaches the ocean; a pond never does. A pond remains closed within itself. That is why I tell you: dance.

To dance means: let your energy flow. Do not stand there congealed—melt. Become wave-like. Become dynamic.

Second: in dance, suddenly you become joyful. Even a sad person, if he begins to dance, will find after a little while that sadness has lost its grip. Sadness and dance do not walk together. Even a weeping person, if he begins to dance, will find after a little while that tears slowly turn into smiles. Even a tired, worn-out person, if he begins to dance, will soon find a new current of energy starting within. Dance does not know sorrow. Dance knows only bliss.

That is why Hindus have called the supreme form of God Nataraj, and have portrayed Krishna in the posture of dance, flute upon his lips, peacock-feather crown upon his head. This is not accidental, not without reason. This whole life is dancing.

Just look at the trees, look at the birds. Do you hear this birdsong? Look at the flowers, the moon and the stars. A cosmic dance is going on. The rasa is going on—this unbroken rasa! Become a participant in it. Do not sit shrunken within yourself. Do not be a miser. Flow.

Dance happens when the dancer disappears. Dance happens when the dance is there, and you are not. The one who dances is not. Even the memory does not remain.

In the West there was a great dancer, Nijinsky—perhaps unparalleled in the history of humankind. He had some extraordinary qualities. One was this: when he came exactly into the state of dance—the state I am calling the state of dance, when the dancer is erased—Nijinsky would make such leaps that scientists were astonished. According to gravitation such leaps should be impossible. And in an ordinary state even Nijinsky could not do them. He tried many times; on his own he tried again and again, and every time he failed.

When someone asked him, “What is the secret?” he said, “Don’t ask me. I myself don’t know. I too have tried many times—when it happens, it happens; when it doesn’t, even a thousand tricks won’t make it happen. And when it does, I am amazed. For a few moments it feels as if gravity has no effect on me. I become as light as a bird’s feather. How it happens, I don’t know. One thing I do understand: it happens in those moments when I have no sense of myself, when I am missing. When ‘I’ am not, then it happens.”

This is an ancient sutra of yoga, the old foundation of tantra. Nijinsky had no idea what he was saying; had he known the scriptures of the East he could have explained it.

Science says… Newton discovered while sitting under a tree. A fruit fell and Newton thought, everything falls from above downwards. If we throw a stone upwards, it too comes down. So there must be some gravitation—some pull—in the earth; the earth draws things to itself.

Newton saw one thing. We have seen something else as well, which Newton did not see. And remember: only that is seen for which we are ready to see. Krishna saw something else; Ashtavakra saw something else. They saw that there are moments when, if there is no ego, a person begins to rise upward—as if there is a pull, an attraction in the sky. Just as scientists speak of gravitation, the seers of the innermost have spoken of the attraction of the Divine. From above a descending energy begins to draw you. Call it levitation, or grace—prasad.

That is what was happening to Nijinsky. Sometimes he would become so absorbed—so utterly absorbed, so dissolved, so lost—that the dancer would no longer remain, only the dance. No organizer remained within, no controller remained, no doer of the dance.

This is exactly what Ashtavakra is telling you. He is interpreting this very dance: let the doer go, and God will take care of you right now. As long as you are taking care of yourself, God gets no chance to take care of you. You let go. Say, “You take care. You know. Yours is this world. Yours is this life. You gave birth; you will give death. You take care. I have come in the middle.”

We have heard the tale of existence only from the middle;
We have no news of the beginning, nor is the end known.

We are in the middle. We do not know why birth happened; we do not know why death will happen. We know nothing of the beginning, nothing of the end. We are in the middle. One who does not know the beginning or the end—why is he anxious about the middle? He who looks after the beginning and the end will look after the middle too.

One who can let go in this way—that is whom Ashtavakra calls the knower, the seer. He is no longer the enjoyer, no longer the doer. And where the enjoyer and the doer are lost—that is where God is.

I give you the definition of dance: when the dancer is gone. Dance in such a way—such a way—that only the dance remains. Let energy remain, but no center of ego.

And nothing can bring you near to the Divine as easily as dance can. Dance is utterly natural. Man alone has forgotten. The whole existence is dancing—except man. Man too used to dance. Primitive people still dance; only the civilized man has been deprived. The civilized man has forgotten to dance. He has become inert, like stone; not a waterfall that flows, not a spring.

Melt yourself a little. Allow the Divine to touch you a little.

Has Phagun brushed the mind a little?
The camphor-white body has turned abir-hued.
Have sweet songs touched the lover’s lips?
Every heartbeat has become a pair of cymbals.
Saffron beds have spread across the limbs,
The sky prepares to take you in its arms.
Suddenly the tresses grow playful,
The boundaries of the veil draw tight.
Have intoxicating breaths touched your breath?
The Malayan breeze is fragrant now.
Has Phagun brushed the mind a little?
The camphor-white body has turned abir-hued.

If even Phagun touches, the body becomes abir, the body becomes musk. Imagine: if God touches you, you will dance. And if you dance, God will touch you.

Now don’t ask which comes first. Don’t raise the chicken-and-egg question—if you get entangled there, you’ll never resolve it. I tell you only this: it is a circle. If you dance, God touches you. If God touches you, you dance.

That God touches you is not in your hands; one thing is in your hands—that you dance. Dance, and give Him the opportunity to touch you. He can touch you only while you are dancing. Right now you sit all stiff. You have frozen like water into ice. Melt a little. Flow a little.

Flow a little this way, and the Divine will touch you. He touches you, and you flow more. You flow more, and He touches you more. It is a circle. Slowly, slowly, you will gather more and more courage. The dancer will be lost; the dance will remain.

The sky is singing upon the earth,
Separation draws near to union.
All around, enraptured life,
Shaken to the depths, dances.
Behold the dense dark clouds,
The peacock-mind, enchanted,
Dances in the ripple of water—
Become a ripple for a while.
Behold the dense dark clouds,
The peacock-mind, enchanted,
Dances in the ripple of water.
All around, enraptured life
Shaken to the depths, dances.
A rainbow is lavished upon you,
Nature and Spirit are lavished upon you.
O peahen, dance—mind-lost, mind-lost;
O peahen, tinkle and chime as you dance;
Peahen, dance—enraptured heart, dance;
Peahen, dance—enraptured heart, dance.
Monsoon clouds have spread across the sky,
Why then wouldn’t the Beloved come to mind?
Peahen, dance in every courtyard;
Peahen, dance—enraptured heart, dance.

Dance. Dance with an open heart. Dance after dropping all miserliness. One day you will find—suddenly, wonderstruck, amazed, hardly able to believe it—that you are gone and the dance continues. The day you find you are not, and the dance is happening, that day you will have found all that is worth finding—everything; and without that, all other findings are futile.

If you remain the master and keep the inner control going, that is a human dance; the divine cannot dance. You have not handed the reins into his hands. Give the reins into his hands—then dance happens. Then you become a part of this vast dance.

A name is just a name. If I have to give one, I give a beautiful one—why give an ugly one? If I wished I could say, “Swami Chuhadmal Fuhradmal.” A name is just a name. And if I must give it, I give a beautiful one. There isn’t much in it.

What meaning can a name really hold? Meaning belongs to action. Don’t get stuck relying on a name. If you do something, something will happen; if you allow something to happen, something will happen. However beautiful a name I give you—what will that do? If only life changed by changing a name—how simple it would be!

By giving you a beautiful name I am expressing my aspiration, my longing for you. By giving you a beautiful name I am blessing you: I have desired the most beautiful in you! Now you must do something. By giving you a beautiful name I have handed you a great responsibility; you must fulfill it. By giving you a beautiful name, I have thrown a challenge at you. I have given you a call, an invitation: now the journey is to be undertaken. Now remember this name. Now this name will keep pricking you.

Let me tell you an old story—very old. A boy’s parents named him Pāpak, Pāpi—“Sinner.” People are amazing: they name someone Popat, Ghasitamal, Ghasiram—as if there were a shortage of names! Pāpak? The man is a sinner anyway—at least don’t name him that; have that much kindness. But they did.

I used to go to Mount Abu to conduct a camp; there’s a garden there: Shaitansingh Garden. Someone’s name is Shaitansingh—“Devil-Lion.” And no other name came to mind?

So someone must have named him Pāpak. When the boy grew up, the name began to gall him. Everyone would say, “Hey, sinner! Where are you going?” It’s not that he wasn’t a sinner—he was, as everyone is—but the name became a misery.

So he pleaded with his master, “Bhante, please change my name.” He said to his guru, “At least do this much. This name dogs me. It is unpleasant, inauspicious.” But the master said, “A name is only a designation—for use in the marketplace of life. What will be proved by changing it? Better change the sin itself so that no one dares call you ‘sinner.’” The man said, “Master, that is a bit difficult. At least change the name.”

So the guru said, “All right. Do this: wander through the whole village and see what name delights you—come back and tell me. We’ll give you that one.” Since he insisted, the guru said, “Fine, we’ll change it. Go, find one. Still, I tell you: meaning is established by action, by transforming your deeds. But if you wish to improve only the name, go—search the village.”

He set out. He bumped into the first man and the man snapped, “Hey, can’t you see?” “Brother, I am blind,” he answered. “All right, no matter. What is your name?” “Nayanasukh,” he said—Delight of the Eyes. He was startled. “This is the limit! Name ‘Delight of the Eyes’—and blind!” “So what?” the man replied. “What’s that to you?” But he thought, “Nayanasukh for the blind—this won’t do.”

Further on, a funeral bier was passing. “Brother, who has died?” “Jivaka,” they said. He thought, “Listen to that. Jivaka means ‘the one who lives’—and he’s dead! That’s bad.” Jivaka was the name of Buddha’s physician. Kings gave him that name because his medicine was so potent it could almost raise the dead. But Jivaka died too. Neither the medicine worked, nor the name.

He thought, “Jivaka won’t do either. The bier will be tied for me someday, and people will laugh—‘Behold, Jivaka is dead!’ All my life they laughed because my name was Pāpak; at my death they’ll laugh because I’m Jivaka. That won’t do.”

He walked on and saw a poor, wretched woman being beaten and thrown out of the house. “Mother, what is your name?” “Dhanpali,” she said—Guardian of Wealth. He reflected: “Named Dhanpali, yet penniless, begging for coins.”

Farther along he found a man asking passersby for directions. “Brother, ask the way later—first tell me, what is your name?” “Panthak,” he said—Man of the Path. Pāpak fell into thought again: “Panthak—yet asking the path, forgetting the path?”

He returned. “Master,” he said, “the matter is finished. There is nothing in names. On the road I met one born blind—named Nayanasukh. I met a lifelong sufferer—named Sadasukh, ‘Ever-Bliss.’ I’ve seen enough. Better I change the sin itself. What will changing the name do?”

Even so, when you take initiation from me I give you a beautiful name. I have a love for the beautiful. If I am giving a name, why be stingy? I give with an open heart, the most beautiful name that comes to mind.

Take it as a challenge for you. Do not take it to mean that you have already become it. The name is not yet fulfilled; it is a possibility. It is what you have to become.

Someone I name Satchidananda. That is what you have to become. Don’t think you have already become it: “He has given me the name; the matter is over. What is there to do? I have become Satchidananda.” It isn’t that cheap. A human being is a possibility of becoming. Man is not yet; man is a possibility of being—a seed.

An ancient tale says: when God created nature, created all, and then created man, he made man out of clay. When man was made, God gathered all the gods and said, “Behold, my supreme creation is this human being. Above this I have made nothing. In the whole spread of my nature, he is the highest, the most dignified.” But a skeptical god said, “All that is fine—but why made of clay? The highest made of the lowliest? It is hard to understand. Make him of gold! If not gold, at least silver. If not silver, make him of iron. Clay? Was nothing else to be found? The loftiest fashioned from the basest?”

God laughed. He said, “Whoever is to become the highest must journey from the lowest. Whoever is to reach heaven must plant his feet in hell. Whoever is to rise must touch the lowest.”

And God said, “Have you ever seen anything sprout from gold? Seen anything grow from silver? Sow a seed in gold—it will never sprout; it will die. Only in soil does anything grow. And man is a possibility, a promise. Man still has to become; he has not yet become. He can. The whole arrangement for becoming is in place, but the becoming must happen. That’s why I made him of earth, because only in earth do seeds crack open, shoots emerge, trees are born, flowers bloom, fruits appear, fragrance spreads. A festival happens.”

Only earth has possibility. Gold has none. Gold is dead; silver is dead. That’s why the dead-at-heart worship gold and silver. The living worship earth. The more dead a person is, the more he is a worshipper of gold. The more alive, the more his love, his attachment, his devotion is for earth. Earth is life. Well said by God: throw the seed into the soil—it blossoms, spreads, grows.

Man is a possibility. Man is a journey, not a destination. Man still has to become; man has not yet become. All the potential lies hidden in the unconscious; it has to be brought to light, expressed. You have brought a song with you, but it has not yet been sung. Your veena is with you, but your fingers have not yet touched its strings.

When I give you a name, I give you only a possibility. I say, “Become Satchidananda.” That is why I give the name Satchidananda. Do not take the name to mean that you are Satchidananda and therefore I have called you that. If you already were, what would there be to say? If you already were, initiation would not be needed. If you already were, there would be no reason for anything. You are not—but you can be. The door is open; you must walk.

Take your name as a distant goal. That Satchidananda-form beyond the stars—that is the name I have given you. I have linked you to it by the name. Now I have said to you, “Walk.” The journey is long. The path is arduous. The road is strewn with thorns. There is every chance of going astray; the chance of arriving is very small. But I have given you this name; like a distant star, it will give you light. And when you begin to wander, when you are about to fall, it will remind you, “Satchidananda, what are you doing? This does not befit your name.”

“Satchidananda, what are you doing—stealing? That does not match your name. Satchidananda, set on murdering someone? That does not match your name. Satchidananda, sitting dejected, dead inside? That does not match your name. Dance!”

Peahen, dance—chhan-chhan, dance!
Peahen, dance—beyond-mind, dance!
Peahen, dance—from courtyard to courtyard, dance!

To remind you, to keep you in remembrance.

It is not appropriate to fix anything about the enlightened. They are vast—like the sky. No boundary line can be drawn around an enlightened one. Only one thing can be said: to be enlightened means to be complete. In the complete, everything is included—tears too. Just as smiles are included, so are tears.

A Zen monk died in Japan. His disciple Rinzai was very famous—so famous that he was more renowned than his master. In truth, it was because of Rinzai that the master was known at all. Hundreds of thousands gathered, and Rinzai began to weep. The people around him said, “What are you doing? If people see you cry, what will they think? Do enlightened ones ever cry?”

Rinzai said, “Then take it that I am not enlightened. But crying is happening now—what am I to do? My master taught me only one thing: let the natural happen. Right now, tears are coming.” But people said, “You yourself kept explaining that the soul is immortal. Then why cry now?”

Rinzai said, “I’m not crying for the soul. This body too was very dear. The soul is immortal—who would weep for that? This body of the master was very dear. Now there will be no sight of it again. In infinite time this meeting will never happen again. A unique event is dissolving—won’t you even let me weep? You keep your enlightened man and your definition. I am as I am. But let me be natural.”

And I tell you, Rinzai was enlightened; that is why he could weep. Someone like you, a fool—if even tears were coming—you would hold them back: “Is this a time to cry? My whole prestige will be ruined. Cry later, in private, alone, with the door closed. Right now, don’t cry. In the crowd, sit stiffly: you’ve attained knowledge, what is there to cry about? Do the wise ever cry? Only the ignorant cry.”

No—certainly he must have been enlightened. Only then could he throw even the very notion of being enlightened to the dogs. He said, “Fine, you keep it—take care of it yourself. Then I am not enlightened. That’s the end of it. But whatever is happening spontaneously—let it happen.”

To be enlightened means spontaneity, totality. Life is whole. It’s hard to say. No prediction can be made about enlightened ones. They are as free as the sky.

It happened thus; it is mentioned in the life of Gautam Buddha that when, after twelve years, he returned home, naturally he wished to meet his father, his wife, his son. Ananda said, “It does not befit you. For an enlightened one, what father, what son, what wife? The matter is finished. You have attained knowledge.”

Buddha said, “I have—but they have not. Their attachment toward me still remains. I am free, but my debt remains. From them I took birth. And this wife I left twelve years ago, running away in the dark night—let me at least ask forgiveness. My journey is complete, but she still sits seared and resentful. Yashodhara is very proud. She has not forgiven me. And until I ask forgiveness, she will not forgive. Let me ask her forgiveness so that she too may be freed. The matter is past; what happened, happened.”

Ananda fidgeted a little. It didn’t sit well with him. “What has an enlightened one to do with all this?” Still, if he would not agree—“All right, go!”

When Ananda took sannyas—Ananda was Buddha’s cousin, an elder brother—before initiation he had said, “I have a few conditions. After initiation I will become a disciple, and then you will not listen to me; I will have to listen to you. Before initiation, in the capacity of an elder brother, let me ask for these conditions.” One condition was: “I will always remain with you. You will never be able to say, ‘Ananda, leave me.’ At night I will sleep in your room. I will walk like your shadow. You will not be able to persuade me, ‘Ananda, go to another village and teach people.’ I am not going anywhere. I will stay behind you.” He had placed such a condition beforehand, and Buddha accepted it.

When they were about to enter the palace, Buddha said, “Ananda, Yashodhara will not open up if you are present. She is a noblewoman. She will not be able to express her feelings in front of you. And you are my elder brother; she will draw a veil. She will not be able to weep, will not be able to show her anger. And in front of you, mindful of your status, she will say nothing. Please—today, stay a little behind.”

Ananda said, “What is this? For an enlightened one, what wife, what husband!” But Buddha said, “Leave off worrying about enlightenment and its definitions. I am not bound by any definition. This seems right.”

And it was right. Yashodhara would not have been able to forgive Buddha if Ananda had been present. When Buddha went in, Yashodhara broke down. She wept, screamed, shouted, was angry. She said, “You left me and ran away. You didn’t even trust me enough to wake me and ask? Do you think I would have refused? You did not trust my love, did not honor it. You could have asked—‘I am going.’ I would have let you go; but at least you could have asked. You could have woken me and told me; at the last moment I would at least have touched your feet. You didn’t even give me that chance? You didn’t trust me even that much? I am a kshatriya woman; if you had said that you must even cut off your head, I would have touched your feet and told you: ‘All right, you are the master. I am not your master. Do what you think is right.’ But you ran away like a thief—that is what galls the heart; it pricks like a thorn.”

She was very angry. She cried a great deal. In all this turmoil it did not occur to her that Buddha stood silently, not speaking a single word. Then she wiped the tears from her eyes and said to Buddha, “You are silent—you do not speak?”

Buddha said, “What should I say? Because the one who went has not returned. The one you are fighting with is no more. And the one who has come, you are wholly unacquainted with. Look at me, madwoman! The one who went was not me. The body may look the same to you, but everything has changed. I have changed from the very roots. Someone else entirely has come; it is another light. I am gone; I have come anew. Look at me. How long will you sit clinging to what is past? What happened, happened. Rise. What has happened to me I have come to give to you. I have attained the supreme bliss. You too become a participant in it.”

And Yashodhara took sannyas.

When Yashodhara had taken sannyas, Buddha said to her, “Explain one thing to Ananda. He is anxious. If I had brought Ananda in with me, would you have opened up?” She said, “Never could I have opened up. I would never have been able to forgive you again. First you ran away like a thief, and then when you came you brought a crowd so that I could say nothing. In Ananda’s presence I would have remained silent. I would not have shown you the sores of my heart. The matter would have ended. You would again not have trusted me; again you would have brought someone as a screen, a curtain in between.”

An enlightened one has no definition.

Nor is there only one enlightened one that a definition could be made! Every enlightened one is unique. Krishna in his own way, Rama in his way, Buddha in his, Mahavira in his, Jesus in his, Mohammed in his—so many flowers bloom on this earth, so varied: juhi and bela and champa and chameli; the rose and the lotus... and all different.

Every enlightened one is unique. So how can there be a definition? No, no definition is possible.

You ask, “Do enlightened ones also shed tears?”

They may shed them—or may not. It depends—on which enlightened one we are speaking, it depends on his individuality.

You have seen! One of Krishna’s names is Ranchhodas—a very amusing name: he fled, leaving the battlefield, Ranchhodasji.

Now you will say, “Can an enlightened one flee?” Krishna fled. “Can an enlightened one lie?” In Krishna’s life there are many lies. “Can an enlightened one break a given promise?” Krishna broke them. What will you do? “Can an enlightened one take a sword in hand?” Mohammed did. Although on the sword was written, “Peace is my message.” The meaning of Islam is peace. Now to write on the sword itself, “Peace is my message”—couldn’t you find any other place to write it?

It is hard to say. On one side there is a Buddha who says even to kill an ant is sin. On the other side there is a Mohammed who, sword in hand, kept cutting down men—and did not worry at all. On one side there is Mahavira who even drinks water after straining it. On the other side there is Krishna who says to Arjuna, “Kill. Kill without worry. For these have already been killed. You are only an instrument.”

As many enlightened ones as there are, there are that many kinds. Definition is impossible.

Mahavira stands alone. Krishna dances amidst a thousand women. Buddha sits under a tree. Mira dances from village to village. You cannot even imagine Buddha dancing. If you place a flute on Mahavira’s lips, it will look utterly absurd. Strip Krishna naked as a Digambara—he won’t suit.

All are unique. Each is as he is. Each enlightened one is a unique happening; therefore no definition is possible. Nothing definite can be said.

And all the enlightened ones have not yet been. Far more will be than have been; therefore even to close any definition now is not possible. Who can say what a buddha of tomorrow will be like?

One thing is certain; understand it as the fundamental: whatever an enlightened one does, he does it awake. If he weeps, he weeps awake; if he dances, he dances awake. If he stands alone, he stands awake.

Awakening is the very flavor of buddhahood. The word “buddha” means the awakened one. Whatever he does, he does in awareness. His awakening alone is the definition; all else is secondary. The lamp within him is lit.

Enough for today.