Maha Geeta #76

Because all scriptures are revolutionary. A scripture is never traditional. If it is truly scripture, it cannot be traditional. Around a scripture a tradition may form, yes—but the scripture itself is forever free of tradition. If a tradition has gathered around it, it can be broken; the scripture can be freed again and again. A scripture never goes stale; it is neither old nor ancient, because the event of scripture happens outside time, not within time.

Ashtavakra is as freshly new today as he ever was—and he will remain so forever. That is the glory of scripture—eternal, timeless, and yet ever new.

Yes, the dust of time settles. But because dust collects, does one throw away the mirror? One wipes off the dust. That is what I am doing—dusting away what has settled. The mirror remains what it is. These are not mirrors that fade or decay; these are mirrors of consciousness, stainless like the sky. Clouds gather, come and go; the sky remains pristine.

First thing: no scripture is a tradition. Around a scripture, tradition does get constructed. So I am at work to break the tradition. My effort is to save the scripture and break the tradition. Others also speak on scriptures—but mark the difference: they save the tradition and break the scripture. I save the scripture and break the tradition.

Merely speaking on scripture proves nothing about what work is happening within. There are those who preserve the dust and break the mirror. They too speak on scripture; I too am speaking on scripture. But I am saving the mirror and removing the dust.

So do not imagine that when the Shankaracharya of Puri speaks, he and I are saying the same thing. The Shankaracharya of Puri can also speak on Ashtavakra’s Gita, but the fundamental difference will be here: they will erase the scripture and preserve the tradition. The tradition is not Ashtavakra’s; it was made by those who came after him. I am wiping away all those who built the tradition.

No true master creates a tradition; yet tradition forms—inevitably. And to break that tradition again and again is equally inevitable. So understand:

Do not thrash tradition with a blind stick;
in it there is much that is life, life‑giving,
worthy, somehow, of being spared from ruin.

Within tradition the eternal also lies buried. In this heap of refuse, diamonds are lying too.

Do not thrash tradition with a blind stick;
in it there is much that is life, life‑giving,
worthy, somehow, of being spared from ruin.

What is tradition? A joining of two things: the experience of the fully awakened one, and the gathering of the unawakened around him. The seer grasping the eternal and bringing it into time—and the understanding of the unknowing. Their “understanding” is misunderstanding. From that misunderstanding, lines and rules are made.

As when light descends and plays upon the eyes of a blind man—he forms notions. From such notions, tradition is made.

That light which descended—that is scripture. And in tradition both are mixed: the words of those with eyes and the commentaries and interpretations of the blind. The blind men’s interpretations must be separated out.

The water spreading shallow over the plain—
that is called revolution.
But damming it to make it deep—
that is the work of tradition.

Let the struggle between tradition and revolution continue.
If a fire is burning, let the dry twigs burn;
but have compassion for the twigs that are still tender and green.

Grant me one point: there are some twigs that are forever green; they never dry. What dries is man’s; what never dries is God’s. What withers is momentary, finite, and of little value. Yet even in the momentary the eternal peeks through. In the bubble—the fleeting water bubble—existence flashes. However many clouds gather, behind them the blue sky stands. Through the clouds, its shade can be seen; through the clouds, it can be glimpsed.

The moment a true master speaks—a word is born. Spoken, someone hears—an interpretation is born. Spoken, someone follows—he will follow according to his own understanding. His understanding will get mixed in. Then centuries pass. It has been thousands of years since Ashtavakra. In these millennia, thousands added their own things—their commentaries, their meanings—and all that created distortion. If we cut away what has accrued over these thousands of years, Ashtavakra appears fresh, here, now, in this very moment.

And tradition has its use; it is not utterly worthless. I am saying something to you—if no tradition remains, if no tradition forms, the revolution will be completely lost. This is the wondrous paradox of life: even revolution must become tradition in order to endure—and by becoming tradition, the revolution is lost. Yet beneath the layers of tradition a lamp keeps burning. Whenever a mindful person makes the right effort, he will break through the layers and reveal that lamp again; the light will shine again.

Tradition is like the husk around a seed—protecting it firmly. For the seed is delicate; without a husk it would long ago have been destroyed—before it reached the soil, before the right season arrived, before the rain clouds gathered. The seed’s husk keeps it safe. But sometimes the husk becomes so hard that even when the right season comes, the clouds gather, the peacocks dance, the soil is ready, the husk still says, “I preserved you; I shall go on preserving you. I cannot leave you now. It’s dangerous.” The protector turns predator.

Tradition preserves. Without tradition, Ashtavakra’s words would not have survived. Tradition both spoils and preserves—remember this well. If tradition had not formed, Ashtavakra’s words would have been lost. Many true masters’ words have been lost.

Makkhali Gosala’s words do not survive. He must have been of the stature of Mahavira; one whom Mahavira had to criticize again and again must have been a man of worth. But none of his words remain—no tradition formed around him. So now there is no way to liberate him today. Had a tradition formed, Gosala would be in a prison—but we could break the doors, open the locks, melt the bars, and free him. Mahavira can still be freed—freed from the prison of the Jains. Buddha can be freed. How to free Makkhali Gosala? No prison was built around him; he is lost.

Similarly, Ajita Kesakambali is lost. And who knows how many such masters who knew—because no tradition formed around them, they were lost. Here is the irony: those around whom tradition formed were buried under it, and those around whom no tradition formed were completely lost. Blessed are those around whom a tradition did form; at least something remains. However many layers cover it, it is there; someone or other will be able to break through those layers.

So tradition is not utterly useless. It preserves and it kills. If one knows how to use tradition, it preserves; and in the right season, it sets free.

As I feel it, the right season for Ashtavakra has come. The season is here; the clouds have gathered. On this earth there is now more possibility of understanding Ashtavakra than there ever was. Human intelligence has developed; human awareness has grown; humanity has matured. The many hurdles visible in the world are visible because of this very maturity. Now we must go beyond this maturity—transcend even this. Ashtavakra’s words can be useful. But we must rescue them from tradition.

Naturally, the tradition that forms behind a person like Ashtavakra cannot remain pure, for purity would require more people like Ashtavakra. Such people are rare; they come only once in a while; there is no continuous stream of them—the chain breaks again and again.

To preserve Ashtavakra, one would need persons like Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna—but they too come only now and then. And when such persons do appear, the same problem arises: they find no one of exactly their state, their stature. Then the matter falls into lesser hands—and it will.

As water falls from the cloud and touches the earth—mud is stirred up. Until it touches the ground, the droplets are crystal clear. The moment they touch earth, mud arises. Ashtavakra will rain down and touch your mind—mud will arise. But it is still a blessing that at least mud arises; even in the mud, the water is present. Some connoisseur will be born who can separate the mud from the water.

Tradition is needed. Let the struggle continue—between tradition and revolution. The struggle is needed; the revolution must happen again and again, so that what was lost can be rediscovered again and again. And tradition must form again and again, so that what is newly rediscovered can be preserved. There will be revolution again and again. There will be tradition again and again.

I am not an ordinary revolutionary. I am not a revolutionary in the sense of being against tradition. I am a revolutionary who is free of both tradition and revolution. My revolution goes deeper than revolution itself. Because I can see that revolution and tradition are like day and night: after every day, night; after every night, day. Behind every revolution stands tradition; behind every tradition, revolution. It is an unending chain. I am only a witness. I tell you as things are. I am not a revolutionary like Lenin, Marx, or Kropotkin, who are anti-tradition. Nor am I a traditionalist—neither like Manu nor Yajnavalkya—who are anti-revolution.

I see that both revolution and tradition are necessary. Let revolution happen again and again; let tradition come again and again. Let tradition form, let it dissolve, and then let revolution happen again. Let this be continuous. Let revolution not stay too long; if it lingers, there is anarchy. Let tradition not stay too long; if it lingers, there is a cremation ground. Let everything be timely, let everything be in proportion.

Let tradition and revolution continue their struggle.
If there is a fire, let the dry twigs burn,
but have compassion for the branches still tender and green.
Grant me this one thing:
when tradition disappears,
the foundations of people’s faith collapse.
Like uprooted trees,
they are torn from their roots.

So tradition should not disappear altogether, otherwise people become rootless, ungrounded, uprooted. They cannot figure out where to go now, what to do, how to stand, how to sit. They lose their balance. They lose their direction. There remains no path for them. They become bewildered about what is to be done. At life’s crossroads they start running here and there like the mad, the deranged. There is no destination left.

Therefore, let tradition not break completely, otherwise roots are torn out. And let tradition not become so strong that the seed cannot split—otherwise the tree remains hidden.

Life is the name of balance between these opposites, the name of equilibrium. And whenever life attains balance—where tradition does its work, and revolution does its work, and where tradition and revolution walk hand in hand—then a rhythm is born in life, a song is born. Where tradition and revolution can dance together. This is my effort.

So on the one hand I speak of revolution; on the other, I reawaken the scriptures. You will see a contradiction in this, because you do not see the whole of life. I see the whole; I do not see contradiction. They are complementary.

Do not take offense,
do not smile in pride.
Who says you know nothing?
But a few things were known to the ancients as well—
for instance, they knew the sacred blossom blooms in solitude,
and the greatest happiness is for the one
who is neither angry with fate
nor resentful of destiny,
whose needs are few and integrity is great,
in short, who is content with oneself.

So do not be offended. Every century lives in this ego that what we know, no one ever knew. Every generation proclaims this identity: what we have known, only we have known; those before us were all fools.

See: the revolutionary says, those before us were fools. The traditionalist says, those after us will be fools. Both positions are foolish. The traditionalist says: if you seek wisdom, look back. Wisdom has already happened. The golden age has passed; Sat Yuga is gone. Ahead lies only darkness—Kaliyuga, gloom, hell. In the future there will be only more and more stupidity; every day talent will diminish, sin will increase. He says the golden summits are behind—return, look back.

And the revolutionary says: what is there behind? Those were ages of darkness, of tamas. People were foolish, superstitious. What lies there! Look ahead. The golden vessel is in the future. Day by day genius will be born. The wise are yet to come; they have not arrived. Their advent begins with us. The revolutionary says: with us the coming of the wise has begun. This is the first footfall of the ray; more rays will come—in the children, in the future.

Both are partial; both are wrong. Half-truths are worse than lies.

Do not take offense,
do not smile in pride.
Who says you know nothing?
But a few things were known to the ancients as well.

Show at least this kindness, grant at least this much: a few things were known to the ancients. And had they not known them, you could not know them either, because you come from them. You are their continuum. Do not call them fools; if they were fools, then so are you—because they were the seed and you are the fruit of that seed. And the fruit of knowledge does not grow from seeds of stupidity.

Do not call them superstitious; otherwise, where do you come from? You are their lineage, their continuity. At most, you may have changed your superstitions, but otherwise you cannot be different. Perhaps they believed in religious scriptures and you believe in scientific scriptures—but your superstition is not all that different. If they were superstitious, then so are you.

It is amusing: people hunt for superstition in old scriptures. They say, “God is not visible. If He exists, show Him; then we’ll believe.” And when modern physics says there is an electron, and it cannot be seen, they raise no doubt. Then Dr. Kovoor and the like do not ask, “How can we accept this? You say it exists and it cannot be seen. If it exists, show it.” No scientist has the capacity to show an electron. Yet the scientist says, “It exists, because we see its effects.”

That is exactly what the old scriptures say: the Divine is not visible, but the effects are visible. Look—this immense order, this vast orchestration! What further proof is needed?

Go into a desert and find a watch lying there—a simple pocket watch or wristwatch. You see no one; for miles there are no footprints. Even then you will say: a human being has certainly been here. From where did this watch appear? You will not be able to believe that by sheer accident the watch assembled itself. It still ticks, telling the time. Can you accept that by coincidence, over infinite time, it came into being—without a maker? You cannot. A single watch will put you in a quandary. However much you try to argue, the watch will insist, “There is a maker. Someone has been here.”

You cannot accept that the watch made itself—and yet, seeing this vast universe, you say it made itself! These moons and stars, this sun, this life; this such a wondrous play, such a complex web running with such simplicity. True, no one is seen; no hand is clearly visible.

The old scriptures say: there must be, there should be. The effect is visible. That is exactly what the physicist says: the electron must exist, because its effects are visible. In Hiroshima the effect was seen, no? Who will deny it now? How can you deny it? The physicist says: we have seen that the atom can explode—the result was that a hundred thousand people were burned to ash. The effect is clear: death happened; how will you deny it?

And it is true that electrons are not visible: they are so subtle, sheer energy. They cannot be seen. Yet no one raises a doubt. No one, claiming to be very intelligent, says, “This has become a new superstition. Earlier people named it ‘God’; now you call it ‘electron.’ What difference does it make? Names have changed, but the notion remains the same: that a thing exists and cannot be seen, and still you believe.”

Reflect: if the ancients were superstitious, you cannot be otherwise. You will not be applauded by abusing your father—for you come from him. The Ganga cannot remain Ganga by reviling Gangotri. If the source is corrupt, the river is corrupt—because we come from there; if the source is spoiled, we are spoiled.

Who says you know nothing?
But a few things were known to the ancients as well.

Have at least this mercy, accept at least this: they knew some things too. That “some” must be preserved.

For instance, they knew the sacred blossom blooms in solitude.
All the old scriptures sing the glory of solitude. You live in the crowd; you live like the crowd. You have forgotten that the sacred blossom blooms in solitude. You have become part of the crowd—crowd outside, crowd inside, nothing but crowd. The person within is lost. The person blooms in meditation. Meditation means solitude. The person emerges in aloneness, in utter aloneness—not in relationships. Freedom from relationships is sannyas; going beyond relationships is sannyas.

You have known: I am a father, I am a husband, I am a wife, I am a son—this and that—then you are a householder. Living in a house does not make you a householder; identifying as father, son, husband, wife—that makes you a householder. You may live in a house, but you know: how am I a father, how am I a son, how am I a wife! I do not yet know who I am. I have to look within and see: who is this seated inside me? And as you begin to see and recognize this, you will suddenly find yourself unrelated, unattached. Then sannyas is born.

For instance, they knew the sacred blossom blooms in solitude,
and the greatest happiness is for the one
who is neither angry with fate
nor resentful of destiny.

Understand: this is precisely the principle of tathata, of witnessing.

Who neither grumbles at fate
nor is resentful of destiny—
the one who never says “something wrong is happening”—only that one knows happiness. The moment you say “wrong is happening,” you miss.

I was reading the life of a Muslim fakir. A man stayed as his guest. In the morning they both sat for namaz. The guest was new to the village. He sat facing the wrong direction; one must face toward the Kaaba, toward Mecca. When he opened his eyes, he saw the fakir facing a different direction in prayer and was very upset—he had made a big mistake. He had sat down first, so he had not seen the correct direction.

When the fakir finished, the guest said, “Sir, you sat after me; you must have seen I was facing the wrong way. Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you let me make this mistake?” The fakir laughed and said, “I have given up seeing mistakes. Whatever happens now is right. We no longer see our own mistakes—how shall we see yours! Since we dropped seeing mistakes, we have been very happy.”

Who neither grumbles at fate
nor is resentful of destiny—
who sees no fault anywhere in life. What is, should be. What has happened, had to happen. What will happen, will happen. One who has known this—within whom such utter acceptance has arisen—then there is only joy. Then the juice flows. Then there is only ecstasy, only delight. All disturbances are gone. No thorns remain; everywhere only flowers—lotuses upon lotuses.

Whose needs are few and integrity great.
Our needs are large and integrity small. We sell integrity to satisfy needs. We sell integrity and purchase things. We think we are very clever.

Forgive me, but a few things were known to the ancients. They knew: let needs be cut down as much as necessary, no problem; but do not sell integrity. To sell integrity is to sell the soul. To sell integrity is to sell the very foundation of life. Then you will buy trash, and one day you will find your hands full but your being empty. At the time of departure, even if your hands are empty, let your being be full—then you have returned victorious from life; otherwise, you return empty-handed.

Whose needs are few and integrity great—
in short, who is content with oneself.
Such deep sutras they knew. These sutras must be released again.

Clinging to life and hating death—
the ancients did not know such things.
At sunset they did not weep,
nor did they rejoice at sunrise.
About life they had no attachment,
about the world no illusions.
They felt no joy in coming,
no sorrow in going.

They came—because He sent them. They left—because He called them. Neither was there joy in coming nor grief in going. They celebrated neither the sun’s rising nor wept at its setting. They had no preference.

Clinging to life and hating death—
the ancients did not know such things.
They neither clung to life nor hated death. These two are two sides of one coin. Whoever clings to life will be frightened of death; whoever is frightened will also hate it. And whoever clings to life and fears death will miss life—because they are two sides of one coin. One who avoids death will be deprived of life as well.

The ancients knew a few things. Some things they knew with great depth—Lao Tzu, Ashtavakra, Chuang Tzu, Zarathustra, Buddha, Krishna—the men of old knew a few things. Do not quickly fill yourself with such pride that you know it all.

About life they had no attachment,
about the world no illusions.
They knew it is transient; what is will pass. Therefore they had no attachment, nor did they nurse illusions.

They felt no joy in coming,
no sorrow in going.
The seed first becomes a sprout and then a tree,
and then, breaking, it lies down in the earth.
How simple is nature’s law.
Man does not die; he returns to his home.
Who says he is lost in non-being?

They were aware of a few fundamental truths. The scriptures I am discussing contain the keys to these fundamentals. I speak on them so that you may find those keys again.

I am not preserving tradition; I am breaking tradition. But no scripture is ever traditionalist. If it is traditionalist, it is not scripture—just an ordinary book.

Scripture is fire. Scripture is revolution. Scripture burns; it reduces to ash. What can burn, burns away. What cannot burn alone remains. What remains after passing through fire becomes refined gold, pure.

So do not put me in any category—that I am a revolutionary or a traditionalist. I am neither, or both together. And I want the same from you: do not choose. The moment you choose, you miss. You will get only half. And half-truth is worse than untruth.

Why settle for less than the whole? When the whole is available, why be content with less? The whole truth is that tradition and revolution are like day and night, like birth and death—together. Let both dance with arms around each other. Let the scale not tip too far to either side—neither toward tradition nor toward revolution—then you will be in balance. Then equipoise arises.

Any prayer that can be done is useless. On Ashtavakra’s path, doing is useless, action is useless, duty is useless, the sense of doership is useless. So the prayer that can be done is useless; yes—prayer that happens is not useless: a prayer in which, while it is happening, your doer is absent. A prayer that comes from arrangement is futile. That which happens unawares—sometimes, seeing the sun rise, your hands come together; not that you joined them. If you joined them, they didn’t truly join. If they came together of themselves, only then did they truly join.

And what kind of thing is it that you are doing Surya Namaskar because you are a Hindu? That makes it petty. Because you are a Hindu you salute the sun? Salute because the sun is rising. The sun is rising—and a Muslim’s hands don’t fold because he is a Muslim; a Hindu’s hands do fold because he is a Hindu. Both are pointless.

Here the sun is rising, and you are busy tallying Hindu and Muslim? This supreme beauty doesn’t strike you? Are you blind? Will you bow only if you are a Hindu? This miracle stands before you; will you bow only if you are a Hindu? This incomparable sun rises again. Again the mesh of light spreads all around. Again flowers bloom, birds sing, life manifests. All was lost in the night’s darkness; all appears again. Your hands don’t come together of themselves—you have to put them together? If you put them together, it is futile; if they come together, it is meaningful.

Make your heart a little sensitive. Open your eyes and look. As I see it, neither the Hindu’s hands truly fold nor the Muslim’s—because the Hindu closes his eyes and folds hands just because “the sun is there.” I notice that if someone switches on an electric light, the Hindu will fold his hands and bow to that, too. The light goes on—and he joins his hands. This is mechanical.

A gentleman used to visit me; he had this habit. One evening he came, we sat and talked till dusk. Then I pressed the switch nearby—as it was getting dark—and turned on the light; he folded his hands. I turned it off again. He said, “What are you doing?” I said, “You have spoiled it.” I switched it on again; again he folded his hands. I said, “Until you stop folding your hands, I’ll keep turning it off.” I must have done this fifty times. Finally, by the ninety-first time, he gave up: “Fine, I fold my hands to you! What is this about? Why are you turning it on and off?”

I said, “Because these hands—you are folding them; they are not folding by themselves. I have not seen a note of prayer in your life. These are dead hands, rising mechanically. You are a machine, not a man, because I have never seen you fold your hands when beauty manifests elsewhere. In the garden, a rose blooms before you—I have not seen you bow. What will you ever understand? The cuckoo sings—I have never seen you fold your hands. A beautiful woman passes by—I have never seen you bow. How then will you bow to the revelation of light?

“Light is manifesting in a thousand forms. This whole world is the play of light. These green leaves are also portions of light—the green band of the ray has been absorbed. Have you saluted this? And these red roses are also portions of light—the red band of the ray has been absorbed. The whole world is luminous, and you press an electric switch and then you bow? And I do not see on your face any feeling of salutation. Your hands rise mechanically.”

Gurdjieff used to tell his disciples: choose any one action that happens mechanically, and at that very moment give yourself a good slap. He was a strange man. Suppose you pass a church and automatically lower your head—he would say, slap yourself right then, even if you have to do it in the middle of the marketplace. Or choose a word you use mechanically, habitually, one that has become rote.

There are people who go on telling everyone: “I love you.” They love everything—from ice cream to the soul. “I love ice cream so much.” You are ruining even the word love. Ice cream may be ruined anyway, but you are ruining love. There is some value to love; words have meanings. What are you saying?

So Gurdjieff would say: this use of the word love is mechanical. Whenever during the day you use the word love, give yourself a hard slap. It will bring you to awareness. And it has great results. This method is useful. Because whenever you say “love,” you will slap yourself. Gradually, even before you say “love,” the thought will occur: “Now ‘love’ is about to come—and then the slap, and the disgrace, and the awkwardness, and people laughing.” Slowly your mechanicalness will begin to drop and awareness will awaken.

On Ashtavakra’s path, whatever has to be done is futile. What happens on its own—how will Ashtavakra stop that? What you have not done cannot be stopped. Only what you do can be stopped. Ashtavakra cannot stop Meera from praying; he can stop you. You are the one doing.

Now that I am speaking on Ashtavakra, questions reach me: “Ashtavakra says meditation and such have no essence, so should we stop the meditation we are doing?” Because you are doing it, the idea arises to stop it when Ashtavakra says, “Stop.” But for the one to whom meditation is happening—how will he stop it? What you started, you can stop. What you did not start—what started by itself—how will you stop that? Try stopping your breath, and you will know—it doesn’t stop. You didn’t start it; it started. It will stop someday—by itself. You cannot become the doer in between.

So keep this in mind: one prayer is that which is done; and another prayer is that which happens. Only that which happens is true. The prayer that happens is supreme good fortune.

And it can happen anywhere. It is not a matter of temple, mosque or gurdwara. It can happen anywhere, because the Divine is everywhere. Wherever a glimpse appears, there the heart will be shaken. There intoxication will descend. There your eyes will grow drunk. There you will sway. There you will bow.

Keep this in mind. Consider it: if, seeing a rose, you bent and knelt—your namaz is done. Are you turning your face toward the Kaaba, toward a dead stone? Here the living God is calling from the flower. And you are repeating a net of words—Gayatri mantra, Namokar. Here in the flower, Namokar is alive, Gayatri is manifest, and you are playing with dead words. Bow here. Drown in this flower. And you will know the taste of prayer.

Because of you, even prayer has been spoiled. The prayer in which you are present is not prayer. The prayer in which you are utterly dissolved—that alone is prayer.

And your prayers are the prayers of beggars—you are always asking for something. You are pitiable. No—prayer does not arise out of a begging mood. Prayer is offering, surrender. You offer yourself; you do not ask.

Prayer that rises from a begging mood, that asks for something, in which you become a petitioner—you have missed. Then it is not Ashtavakra’s prayer. It may belong to someone else, but in Ashtavakra’s scripture, on Ashtavakra’s path, there is no place for it.

Deep darkness spreads all around,
dense clouds have gathered.
The wind’s force runs contrary,
even mountain roots are shaken.
The ocean roars again and again—
who will carry us to the other shore?

Waves rise like mountains,
terribly they howl.
Ah, their foamy breaths
mock the little boat.
The oar has slipped from the hand—
who will carry us to the other shore?

To gobble the boat at will
the water-creatures roam and wheel.
Seeing the black, endless sea,
courage has come to its end.
The waves are heaving, boundless—
who will carry us to the far shore?

It is true that we are helpless. So prayer can take two forms. Either, in our helpless state, we ask Him to give something so we may find a support; or, in our helpless state, we simply bow—asking for nothing. In helplessness, we bow.

Deep darkness spreads all around,
dense clouds have gathered.
The wind’s force runs contrary,
even mountain roots are shaken.
The ocean roars again and again—
who will carry us to the other shore?

Nothing is being asked. Something is indeed being said: our helpless state is being revealed. Nothing is being asked; there is no demand. Our lack of support is being revealed; no support is being asked for.

Waves rise like mountains,
terribly they howl.
Ah, their foamy breaths
mock the little boat.
The oar has slipped from the hand—
who will carry us to the other shore?

Do you hear?
Who will carry us to the other shore?
There is no demand, no search for a helping hand, no beggar’s prayer—
only a submission, a statement of one’s state.

To gobble the boat at will
the water-creatures roam and wheel.
Seeing the black, endless sea,
courage has come to its end.
The waves are heaving, boundless—
who will carry us to the far shore?

And when, in such a mood, you bow, you will suddenly find—you have reached the other shore. In that bowing itself the bank is found. Because in that bowing the ego is lost. This tumult, these towering waves, this all-around dense darkness—this is your ego and nothing else.

Now understand the difference. The egoist bows before God so that he may find a few more props for his ego: “O Lord, give me something. My ego is breaking, pillars are shaking, roots are being torn—give me something. Strengthen me.” Then prayer is missed; prayer is not prayer.

No—you simply said: these roots are being pulled up; this is deep darkness; these are surging waves; everything is being uprooted.
Who will carry me to the other shore?
You simply submitted, and you kept silent. Your submission—and after submission, deep silence and stillness.

Who will carry me to the other shore?
It is only a question. You have not asked for anything. You have desired nothing.

For such submission there is no rejection on Ashtavakra’s path. But for your prayers there is a rejection. Your prayers are only parts of craving, a new form of desire. You go to gain something—world, heaven, liberation. You are busy filling yourself. True prayer arises only where you are empty, a void.

Who will carry me to the other shore?

The meaning cannot be explained; it has to be experienced. How will you explain it? A traveler is tired on the road—sun, dust, the weariness of a long journey. He has never found shade. And he asks, “What does it mean to rest under the shade of a tree?” How will you explain it to him? What can you do? What method will work to explain it? No—its meaning cannot be explained. You will have to tell him, “There are trees, there is shade—come, rest.” You will know only by knowing. You will know only by experiencing. There is no other way.

To be with the Satguru means simply this: you have lost trust in your ego. Now you say, “I followed this ego for so long and reached nowhere. I found only suffering and pain. It led me astray, entangled me, deluded me. I will not listen to it anymore.” Instead of listening to your ego, you have placed trust in the voice of a man of wisdom. And that voice of a wise one is not someone else’s voice; it is the voice of your own innermost being.

The Satguru is one who speaks the voice hidden in your deepest core. What you cannot find within, he lets you hear from without. The day you are able to search within, you will discover that this tree was not outside—it was spreading within you; this shade was arising from your own depths. The Master only pointed, indicated.

To be in the Satguru’s shade means to fall into a supreme love—one that cannot be defined, one that admits of no explanation.

There are three kinds of love in the world. First is to fall in love with someone’s body. That is the most petty. It comes quickly and goes quickly. It is the body’s lust—call it kama, call it sex.
Second is to fall in love with someone’s mind. Ordinarily we call this love—the second kind. It is superior to the first. A little deeper. It lasts longer. It is a little beyond the body. It carries a fragrance of poetry, a few wings with which it can fly a little.
Then there is a third love: soul with soul, love happening at the level of being. Then there is the whole open sky—the vast sky. We call this prayer.
First: lust. Second: love. Third: prayer.

To be with the Satguru means to sit prayerfully. You have fallen in love with someone’s soul. Someone’s being has drowned your mind, enchanted it. You have been dyed in someone’s color.

This ochre color I have given you is only a symbol. It is simply a sign that you are willing to be dyed in my color. It is only on the surface. It is only a beginning. It is like how we teach small children: “Aa for aam.” What has “aa” to do with a mango? “Aa” belongs to a thousand other things as well. But one has to begin somewhere.

Just the other day someone asked me, “If sannyas is only inner, wouldn’t it be fine to take it inwardly?” I said, “If you can take it inwardly, then there is no need to take it at all. It is only because you cannot take it inwardly that one must begin from the outside. If you had the capacity for the inner, then the very need to take it would end. But since there is still a need to take it, it only means that nothing of the inner is known yet.”

And you are standing outside. Even to go within, you will have to begin from the outside. If a man is standing on the road outside his house and we say, “Come, climb the steps,” and he says, “What harm if I reach directly inside?” we will say, “If you were already inside, then there would be no question of reaching. But if you are standing on the road outside, then you must make the journey from the outside.”

The one who was asking was afraid of the clothes; he was using lofty words like “outer” and “inner,” but he was frightened of the outer. Soon it came out: “Family, loved ones, the village, the locality—if I go there in these robes, people will laugh.” I said, “They laugh outside—how does that harm you? You were talking of inner matters. Those loved ones, the village, the locality—these are all outside, are they not? They are not within you.” He said, “You are right, but it will be difficult.” The difficulty is coming from the outside—and you claim to be standing on the inside!

But man is very dishonest. He finds lofty arguments to hide very small things. So I said, “Why not say it plainly: you are afraid of the outside.” He said, “If you won’t accept anything else, then yes, it is an outer fear.” Then that outer fear has to be removed from the outside—it cannot be removed from the inside.

These ochre robes are only the news that you are willing to be dyed. To be with the Satguru means you are willing to be dyed in his color. The Satguru is a dyer; he colors your veil. But your cooperation is necessary. The tree is filled with deep shade. But if you do not rest beneath it, the tree can do nothing. The tree cannot run after you. You must cooperate with the tree.

The Satguru can bring a revolution into life—an utter transformation can happen. But without your cooperation it will not happen. And your cooperation becomes possible only when the presence of the Satguru begins to feel more precious to you than your very life. Only then will you be willing to be dyed; otherwise not.

Death is good if my last breath leaves before your eyes;
If you are hidden from my sight, then life is not good.

When it begins to feel like that—

You ask about the strange hues of my heart:
Without you it is a wilderness; with you it is a town—

when it begins to feel like that—

Where am I, and where the longing for union with the Beloved?
For me, to see him even once is more than enough—

when it begins to feel like that. When even a single glance gives supreme contentment, then the meaning of being in the Satguru’s shade will be understood.

These are not matters of bookkeeping. These are the matters of madmen—beyond all accounting. The talk of the intoxicated.

Even if I don’t understand his words, even if I don’t grasp his secret,
Is it not enough that to me that angelic form revealed himself?

The Satguru’s words will not make sense to you—not all at once. How could they?

Even if I don’t understand his words, even if I don’t grasp his secret…

If his words are not understood, if his mystery is not known, if the secret is not revealed—perfectly fine. And yet the lover is drawn, irresistibly.

Is it not enough that to me that angelic form revealed himself?

Is it any small thing that the divine figure spoke to me? You did not understand his words, you did not understand his secret—let it be. You will understand someday—what is the hurry? But that he spoke, that he considered you worthy enough to pour himself out—Is that not enough?

When such a feeling arises within you, then you will know—by experience—what it means to be in the Satguru’s shade. There is no other way.

It is not a matter of more or less—weeping itself is devotion. And any devotion in which there is no weeping is dry; the devotion is not complete. Devotion without tears is a desert. With tears the oasis begins; the greenery comes. If devotion is empty of tears, then you bowed—and yet you did not bow. If the eyes do not fill with tears, what kind of bowing is that! Then the body bent, but not the heart; the form bowed, but not the feeling. When you bow only with the body, it is mere drill. But when you bow from the heart, streams of tears flow from the eyes.

Tears do not flow only in sorrow; they flow in supreme happiness, in bliss as well. Whenever something becomes so much that you cannot contain it, it takes the support of tears to flow.

Whether you bow before the Divine, before the true Master, or before the beauty of existence, this act of bowing is so, so deep that if it does not bring tears to the eyes and leave you inwardly overbrimmed, the bowing remains dry. It is like being thirsty and someone drinks an empty glass. Will thirst be quenched by an empty glass? The glass must be full.

Tears bring the news that your bowing is authentic. You have not bowed formally—you have truly bowed. So I call weeping itself devotion. If, on seeing the sun rise, the moon sailing the sky, white clouds wandering in the blue, tears come—devotion has happened. If, seeing a child laugh, your eyes fill with tears—devotion has happened. If the birds’ chirping moistens your eyes—devotion has happened. Feeling—this is devotion.

And such devotion does not leave. It is not that it happens and is over. Dry devotion—perform it and it ends; it scarcely happens and it is finished. But wet devotion, heartfelt devotion—once it happens, it happens. Once you are immersed, you are immersed. Then it keeps moving, keeps flowing through every pore, in every breath.

Remembrance has turned into a wound; otherwise
I did have some thought of forgetting.

Even the remembrance of the Lord becomes like a wound—a pain, a sweet pain that remains within, and does not go.

Remembrance has turned into a wound; otherwise
I did have some thought of forgetting.

Now, even by trying, you cannot forget. Even if you resolve to forget, you cannot. Often, when devotion has come into someone’s life, he thinks, Why get into this mess? Let me get free of it. A kind of panic comes: How did this start? What current is this that I have begun to flow in? What stream has seized me? The old life begins to go to pieces. The old framework starts melting and falling apart. What had been built till now begins to seem meaningless. Which path to take? What unknown road to walk? Many times the mind wants to turn back. The unknown is frightening; let me settle again in the known, the familiar—turn back. But this cannot happen.

Remembrance has turned into a wound; otherwise
I did have some thought of forgetting.

Then you cannot forget. Now you ask, How to remember God? And a time also comes when you will ask, Now how to forget God? When that moment arrives, know that devotion has happened; prayer has happened; the thing has entered the heart like an arrow.

Then you will say—
Some time did pass without remembering You;
all my life those moments have weighed heavy on me.

Then you will say: that little time of life which passed without your remembrance, I must carry like a burden. That alone becomes the sorrow—that time passed without You. The days that passed without remembering You sit on the chest like a stone, like a weight. Why was it not so that even then I remembered You? Why did I not call You then? Why did those days pass without Your remembrance?

Some time did pass without remembering You;
all my life those moments have weighed heavy on me.

For the devotee, His remembrance begins to come every moment, from every side—not only from flowers and the songs of birds, not only from the rainbow’s colors and the web of light— from everywhere.

Sitting quietly, the thought of my sins came to me:
perhaps today Your mercy remembered me.

Listen: the devotee is saying, Today as I sat, the sins I have committed came to mind. Surely Your compassion remembered me. It seems Your heart intends to forgive me; only then would You bring the memory of my sins. You are Rahim, Rahman. You are compassionate. Surely You wish to forgive me—why else make me remember these sins!

Thus even through sins the devotee remembers only the Divine.

Sitting quietly, the thought of my sins came to me:
perhaps today Your mercy remembered me.

Then everything begins to point in that direction. Every path begins to lead there. Every milestone seems to shape itself into an arrow pointing that way. From all sides—whether joy or sorrow, good or bad, auspicious or inauspicious, success or failure—one moves toward the remembrance of God. If there is success, he gives thanks. If there is sorrow, he gives thanks.

The Sufi fakir Bayazid has said: Lord, keep some sorrow always. Because when there is sorrow, I remember You more. Let me not forget in happiness. Keep a little sorrow. Let a few thorns prick me, lest I be lost among the flowers. When a thorn pricks, I remember You instantly. In sorrow, remembrance comes, does it not? So Bayazid says: keep sorrow for me; do not give too much happiness, lest I be lost in it. I do not trust myself; I trust only You.

But the one who has asked is probably disturbed by my speaking. He must have some hindrance. There are others who find delight in my speaking, who are immersed in the joy of listening—they say, “Speak more.” The one who has asked must be uneasy. Perhaps my words are breaking his securities. Perhaps my words are unsettling his doctrines. Perhaps because of my words his night’s sleep is spoiled. Perhaps because of my words his cherished beliefs are being uprooted. He has some hindrance.
Understand your own hindrance. Instead of asking why I speak, understand why my speaking makes you restless. Because that is your… your boundary. That is your problem. What has my speaking to do with it? If you don’t want to listen, don’t listen. I do not come to your house to speak. You come here to listen to me. Then don’t come. If listening causes some obstruction, some pain, if a thorn pricks—don’t come. But that is the trouble: you still have to come. You still have to listen. And listening creates trouble too—because listening begets revolution. The old will have to be dropped. Once you have heard, you are in difficulty. Now you cannot live without hearing, and yet you are afraid to keep hearing. So you pray to me: please, out of kindness, stop speaking.

No, I will not listen to you. When you are not listening to me, why should I listen to you? If you listen to me, I will listen to you. If you truly hear what I am saying, there will be no need for me to speak. Then the work will happen without words. Then the void will also speak; then letter to letter, emptiness to emptiness, silence to silence will meet. So you listen. There are also those who want to go on listening. There are those who, if I go away, will repent. There are those who, if I fall silent, will weep.

Those your words, those priceless pearls,
those silver moments, those droplets of your tears,
those salty lakes—those drops in which
the God of love’s music brimmed—
you spoke, you poured immortal nectar;
you, stubborn one, yet the strings upon
the screen of my heart
never managed to grow moist.
No, dear, I did not even truly hear
your words;
more than the words there beat within my heart
the drum of moments of joy—
those, your words.

They are there; for them I am speaking. Those who find listening a hindrance, let them not listen. The option exists for them—don’t listen. If not listening is difficult, if you must listen, then listen with an open heart. Don’t be miserly in listening. I speak for those in whose hearts a little nectar dissolves.

Those your words, those priceless pearls,
those silver moments,
those droplets in which the God of love’s music brimmed—
you spoke, you poured immortal nectar;
but the heart-strings stretched across my breast
could never quite grow moist.

I speak for those whose heart-strings still have not become moist, yet who are ready to be moistened; who are ready to be dyed; who are prepared. The obstacles are of endless ages, of births upon births; the hindrances are of conditioning. But those who are ready—if not today, then tomorrow—they will be colored. I speak for them.

And their heart’s state is such that whatever they are hearing—even if they cannot quite hear—still a drum of joy beats in their heart.

No, dear, I did not even truly hear your words;
more than the words there beat within my heart
the drum of moments of joy—
those, your words.

And when that drum of joy begins to beat, then whether you heard or not makes no difference. Because the journey is toward that supreme bliss. If the drum of joy has begun to beat, the matter is settled. These words are not mere words; they are a device to make the flute lying within you play. These words are not words; they are a device to pluck the veena lying within you. You have come carrying a music—do not leave without letting it be played. You have come carrying a song—do not leave without letting it be sung.

Every blossom has this unwritten covenant with its fragrance:
If I should fall without entrusting myself to the wind—I swear!

You too have this oath: do not leave without offering your fragrance to the winds.

If you wish to listen, listen. If you do not wish to, do not. But always remember: the problem is yours. It is not my problem that I speak. I speak because—why do birds sing! I speak because—why do flowers speak! I speak because—why do the sun’s rays speak! I speak because God is speaking all around.

There is neither any meaning in it nor any great cause. Or whatever there is, it is absolutely clear; it is straightforward: you are a follower of Rajneesh. Had you been a follower of Sathya Sai Baba, the conclusion would have been the opposite.

It is your ego. You are my follower, so my victory must happen—because your victory is hidden in mine. If you are my follower, then I must be a great mahatma, for only a great mahatma could have a disciple like you; not a small one. You—such a disciple—and of some small mahatmas?

Try to understand the games of your ego. You have nothing to do with Rajneesh, you have nothing to do with Sathya Sai Baba. It is your ego. You are imagining you have seen some great metaphysical dream, some very spiritual event—that a prophecy has descended into your sleep.

Don’t fall into this madness. There is no meaning, no big cause. It is only the sickness of your ego. It takes new and newer forms—even stands behind the guru. What purpose does it serve you? Whether I lose or win, what concern is it of yours? Yes, if you are my follower, there is a hitch: if I lose, you lose; if I win, you win. What you are worried about is your victory, not mine.

And there is no winning or losing left for me. It is already over. Whatever had to happen has happened. There is nothing more to happen. The journey is complete. I have returned home. No war is going on now. Your journey is still incomplete.

And your ego will take on many new forms—so subtle that you will not even suspect it is ego. That’s why you have asked this question with such gusto. You thought I would pat your back, say, “Well done—you even made me win! Much obliged!”

Don’t fall into this mistake. I will not pat your back, because that would be patting your ego.

There was a professor of philosophy at a university in Paris. He used to proclaim every day, “There is no greater man in the world than me.” Finally his students became restless. One said, “You are a professor of philosophy, a master of logic, and yet you say such a thing! There are hundreds of millions of people; how can you be the greatest of all? And if you assert it, then prove it.”

He said, “I will prove it.” He hung up a map of the world and said, “Tell me, which is the foremost country in the whole world?” They were all French. They said, “Certainly, none is greater than France.”

Every country has this madness. Ask Indians and they will say, “This is the land of dharma, the sacred land. Here alone God has taken birth again and again; nowhere else!” Ask the Chinese, the Russians, the Americans, the English—they all think the same about themselves.

So they were all French and said, “No country is greater than France.” He said, “Good—then the rest of the world is eliminated; we are left with France. If I prove that within France I am the greatest, will you accept it?” They said, “We will.” Then he asked, “Which is the foremost city in France?” They were all Parisians. They said, “Obviously, Paris.” The students began to feel a little uneasy—he was leading them down a path. “Paris is the greatest, the foremost city—without doubt.”

Then the professor said, “Tell me, what is the most exalted place in Paris?” “Surely the university—what could be higher? The temple of learning, the temple of Saraswati!” By now the students felt the trap tightening, but they still said, “The university.” He said, “Now tell me: within the university, which is the foremost department?” They were all students of philosophy. And philosophy—the science of sciences! Who is beyond that? So they said, “Philosophy.” He asked, “Who is the head of the department of philosophy?” “I am! And therefore I tell you: I am the greatest man in the world.”

That’s how such a person proceeds; all his arguments circle back to the I.

When you say, “The land of India is blessed,” you are not really saying India is blessed—you are saying, “Blessed is my birth here.” Because you were born here, India is blessed. Had you been born in Russia, Russia would be blessed—be sure of it! Not a single Russian says India is blessed. If you were Chinese, then China. Wherever you are, that is what you call blessed.

So remember: “India,” “Hinduism is the highest religion”—it is because of you. “The Vedas are the greatest scripture”—because of you; or the Quran, or the Bible. And when you declare, “Mahavira is the greatest Tirthankara,” remember—no one who isn’t a Jain will say that. A Hindu will say, “What nonsense! Speak of Krishna.” A Muslim will laugh: “Mahavira? Speak of Muhammad!”

Everyone is proclaiming his own, because through that “own” he is proclaiming himself. There is a saying: who calls his own mother ugly? But the proclamation that runs beneath it is of oneself.

Your dream is an extension of your ego. Be cautious of it. The dream has been kind; it has tried to warn you. Whatever appears in a dream must already be present in your waking mind—only then can it appear. There is no war going on with anyone—at least, I have no war with anyone. Yours may be going on. Spare me; I am not chasing you. I have no defeat and no victory. But your ego-identifications will lead you into many kinds of deceptions. It is essential to be alert to them.

I am neither the begetter, nor the creator, nor the director. You know, for twenty-three hours I stay in my room. I don’t even go out. I don’t step outside the room. Does anything get managed that way? Is that how creation happens anywhere? I am not even familiar with the whole ashram. I have no idea what is happening where. I haven’t even seen all the buildings of the ashram.

Is that how creation happens? No, I am not the creator, nor the begetter, nor the director. I am not, really. At the most, I am a pretext. And remember this: this is not my ashram. I want it to belong to no one at all. Let it belong only to the divine; let that run it. Let him use me, use you—but let us be no more than instruments.

And when it is that which is running it, let us not come in between. There is no need for us to intervene. That is why I sit in my room. I say to him, you run it. Whomever you need to ride upon, mount their head and go.

I am not a doer. And that is why the work goes on without bringing any desire into it. This will grow even more vast, even more immense—because the hands of the Vast are behind it. Our hands are very small. With these hands only small things are made; great things cannot be made. But when the hand of the divine is there, the matter changes. Then things begin to become immense; they begin to grow, breaking through all boundaries.

I sit in my room, and people are coming from all over the world. How they hear the name, how the news reaches them—they know. Surely someone whispers in their ear; surely someone is sending them here.

There is a very lovely incident in the life of Mohammed. Enemies were pursuing him; thousands were after him. He left Mecca with his one and only companion, Abu Bakr. The enemies were behind them, and a moment came when they could arrive any time and finish them. So they hid in a cave. Thousands circled around the cave, trying to find where they were hidden. People were standing right in front of the cave as well.

Abu Bakr was trembling. Shaking Mohammed’s hand, he said, “What will happen now, Hazrat? We are two and the enemies are thousands. Death is certain today.” Mohammed laughed and said, “Do your counting properly. We are not two; we are three.” Abu Bakr looked around: “What are you saying? Has your mind gone astray in panic? We are not three, we are two. I am here and you are here.” Mohammed said, “Then you have made a mistake. Whether we two are or are not makes no difference. Look at the third: the divine is with us. We are three.”

And Mohammed was right. Those thousands of enemies kept circling around. They even stood before the mouth of the cave, yet they could not see Mohammed. After hours of effort they went away. That third is the one that is significant.

No, I am not running it; that is running it. As long as it wishes, let it run; in whatever way it wishes, let it run. Let it use me as it wants.

That is why I am at ease. Whatever happens is right; what does not happen is also right. I keep no account of it.

You yourself, become the breeze and fill the sails;
you yourself, flutter the wings;
let your soft chiming pass through, caressing every limb;
you yourself, carry us across the current.

I have told the Lord: now you yourself become the breeze and fill the sails; you yourself flutter the wings; and with a gentle chiming, caress every limb; and you yourself ferry us across the current. And forgive me. Do whatever you want to do. Make whatever use of me you wish.

A mere instrument! Let a man be no more than that. If man is no more than that, much happens—without doing. And wherever you become the doer, however much you do, nothing really happens. Everything remains petty. The signature of man can never be vast; it remains small. It has its limits.

From the day I came to know that you can put yourself aside and the Lord does everything, from that day a different flavor came into life.

The silky, silky shadows of flowers—
today the forests are dyed saffron.

From that very day it began to be seen that there is shade everywhere:
the silky, silky shadows of flowers.
No blaze, no pain, no labor.
Today the forests are dyed saffron.
From that day the whole world was dyed in saffron; from that day I began to color you in the saffron hue.
Today the forests are dyed saffron.

No, I am not doing anything. What is happening is happening. Just as you are watching, I too am watching. My principle is very small—

Sit in the bamboo grove and drink tea;
live, carefree, as the old sages of China lived.
The way of the godly is not violence; it is the way of nonviolence.
They do not fight with the senses; they coax them, calling them near.
With the godly there is the shade of the peepal tree;
in that shade they lull the senses to sleep with love.
But the ghost says, “Wage war with life!
Kill, kill—kill the senses and purify yourself.”
I say, sit in the bamboo grove and drink tea;
live, carefree, as the old sages of China lived.

No violence. No aggression. In the very planning to do something there is violence, there is aggression. Now drop aggression. Nonaggression. Drop even the idea of doing. For the ego there is nothing to do. Where the ego enters, violence enters. Do not fight the world, and do not fight yourself.

Sit in the bamboo grove and drink tea;
live, carefree, as the old sages of China lived.
That is all for today.