Maha Geeta #78

Don’t even ask about Ashtavakra! Of course he will accept the life-nectar; he will drink it—and he will drink Kalasundari as well.
Ashtavakra’s acceptance is unconditional and total. Here, whatever is, is one. Therefore there is no device of duality or denial. Even poison is nectar. The supreme wisdom Ashtavakra speaks of sees the world itself as nirvana. Matter itself is the Divine. There is no way to divide. There is no possibility of negation, no possibility of opposition.
That’s why where Patanjali talks of renunciation, yoga, austerity and japa, Ashtavakra says: no renunciation, no japa, no tapas, no method, no rule. There is no need for vairagya at all. Vairagya is only an attempt to escape raga. Attachment and detachment are both dualities. Ashtavakra’s nonattachment is absolute.
So I tell you, if Ashtavakra were to arrive, he would drain the whole flagon of life-nectar; he would drink Kalasundari too.
And do you understand the meaning of Kalasundari? Kalasundari means Time. This little Chinese story is very significant. Kalasundari means the goddess of Time has appeared bearing the juice of life.
And the person who has not learned to drink Time will never be able to drink the juice of life. The juice of life is poured only in the goblet of Time. Whatever savor you see all around is contained in the cup of Time. This whole world is contained in the cup of Time.
And Ashtavakra will not hesitate to drink it; not the slightest hesitation. Because Ashtavakra has known That which is beyond time—timeless. Only the one who can drink Time knows the timeless; who becomes time-conquering. Only the one who masters Time knows the Eternal.
And there is no way to win by fighting. Whatever you fight, you can never truly win. Whatever you fight remains set against you; you will never be able to make it your own. And if there is only One in existence, then whoever you fight, you fight your own limb. You cut off your own limb—you will remain crippled.
Therefore I say, if Ashtavakra were to arrive, he would drink the honey-cup, the honey flagon—the goddess of Time herself along with it. The process of meditation is the process of drinking Time. Hence, in all definitions of meditation one thing will certainly appear: timelessness, going beyond Time—whether the Jains explain it, or the Buddhists, or the Hindus, or the Christians.
A disciple asked Jesus in his final moments—when he was about to depart, when his enemies were seizing him. He asked: You have often explained about the Kingdom of God; let me ask once more—give us one single key, a formula, so that we may not mistake it, so that when we arrive we can recognize that the Kingdom of the Lord has come. Jesus said: Keep one thing in mind—there shall be time no longer. There, there will be no time. The moment you come upon a state where you find there is no time, understand that the Kingdom of the Lord has arrived. Where you drink up time; where you become timeless.
The Sikhs have a mantra: “Sat Sri Akal.” Its meaning is: Truth is where time has died, where the timeless—the beyond-time—has arrived. That is a sutra of meditation, a sutra of samadhi. In that sutra the whole of meditation is contained. But the way the Sikhs utter it, it seems as if they are ready to kill or be killed. “Sat Sri Akal!”—then they draw their swords, as though it were a battle cry.
It is not a battle cry; it is a call to the inner journey. It is not a call to lay your hand on the sword. It is not a political slogan; it is the essential core of religion. And when Nanak chose it, what would he have had in mind? Precisely this: that it would keep reminding you that within time is the mind; beyond time is who we are.
Drink down time.

It is from the search for security and love that the whole world gets built. What is this “world” you speak of? A fierce longing to obtain security and love. And it never quite comes. The race goes on.

No matter how much wealth you have, security does not come into your hands. In truth, first you were afraid for yourself—how to secure yourself; now you must also secure the wealth. Insecurity has doubled. Earlier you protected yourself; now there is this money too—you must protect it as well.

Don’t the old stories say it! That even when a man dies he returns as a snake and sits hood-raised over his treasure chest. All through life he sits with his hood raised; dead, he sits with hood raised still. Those whom you call owners of wealth—call them watchmen of wealth. A true master appears only once in a while. A master is one who knows how to give. A master is one who is capable of giving.

Gurdjieff has said: What I saved, I found lost; and what I gave, in the end I found preserved.

Only what is given remains. The giver alone is the master. But how will one who seeks security in wealth give? He clutches every single coin, grips it tight—for security. And then he must secure the security. Thus the race for layer upon layer of safeguards grows and grows.

In your race to obtain love, how many relationships you create! Relationships get made, but where is love found? Have you noticed this strange thing? The woman who is far from you seems bathed in love; the moment she comes into your possession, love leaps away and rides another woman.

Love leaps. It moves away from what is obtained. The search begins for someone else. For when one is possessed, you come to know: where is love in this? You got bone, flesh, marrow. A woman was obtained, a man was obtained. Where is love? Then the longing starts to gnaw again. Then dreams spread again. The search resumes. It is not that once you meet, the search ends; each meeting sends you out on a new search. Every door opens on to newer doors. The journey does not stop.

This is the very meaning of a mirage. You have asked rightly: we seek love and we seek security—and both remain mirages. And you say, “Leave yourself in the hands of existence.” That feels even more insecure.

Of course it does. Because insecurity is the very way to come to real safety. He who saved, lost; he who lost, saved.

What is it you are securing? That which you seek to secure is not going to be saved. Will you save the body? It is bound to go. Will you save wealth? It is bound to go. Will you save the house? It was there before you; it will be there when you are gone. This house has nothing to do with you. What will you save? Neither body remains, nor wealth remains. All is lost. And one day death comes and levels everything to dust. The sandcastles you built—she pulls them all down. What will you save? Where there is death, how can there be security? Where there is death, security cannot be.

Then is there no way to security? The very search for security is the mistake. Become insecure. Accept being insecure. That is all I mean when I say: leave yourself in the hands of existence. Insecurity is the nature of life. It cannot be changed.

Once you were a child—childhood went; could you stop it? What could you do? How would you stop it? You were young—youth went; could you stop it? Old age too will pass. There was a body—the body too will go. Whatever is, is flowing. Nothing will stay here. Nothing ever stays here. All is a current of water. Try to dam this current and you will be miserable, that’s all. See that it is the very nature of the stream that nothing stands still—and in that instant, misery is gone. There remains no reason to be miserable. Misery came from insisting that it must stop.

It is recorded in the life of Buddha. Kisa Gotami, a beautiful young woman, lost her only son. She loved him dearly—he was her everything. She began wandering the village with his body in her arms, knocking on every door: Is there any medicine, any spell, anyone’s blessing?

People wept, they pitied her. The whole village loved her—she was dear to all. Her husband had died too. She lived supported by this son. And now he also passed away. She was utterly alone. Somehow she had swallowed the bitter draught of her husband’s death. But this was too much. Her last support was gone, her last future snatched away. Darkness everywhere.

Someone told her, “Foolish one, what will come of knocking at our doors? We are suffering ourselves. Do this instead—Buddha has come; go to him. He is staying outside the village. Perhaps by that great being’s blessing something can happen.” She took her son’s body and went. She laid it at the Buddha’s feet and said, “You have come—look, I am still young, my husband has gone, and now my son too. Do something. Look upon my sorrow.” She wept her heart out. Buddha said, “Wait. I will do something. Something must be done.” Her courage returned. Her tears dried. She asked, “How long will it take?” Buddha said, “Only a little while. Go to your village. From any house—bring me four grains of rice. But ask only from a house where no death has ever occurred.”

She ran. She quite forgot what an impossible condition this was. When a person is drowning in grief, who calculates? Perhaps there is some house where no one has died. And if Buddha says so, surely there must be one. She began asking door to door, “Give me four grains of rice.” People opened their sacks. They said, “Take the whole sack. We will pour the entire threshing floor into your courtyard—but forgive us, our grains won’t do. In our house many deaths have occurred. The living are few; the dead are many. Our fathers died, their fathers died, mothers died, their mothers died, our brothers died—someone’s wife, someone’s husband, someone’s son, someone’s daughter. The dead outnumber the living—only two or four are left; hundreds of thousands have died.”

Going from house to house, one thing became clear to her: death happens. It happens in every house. It happens to every person. There can be no exception for me. Begging through the whole village, Kisa Gotami attained to understanding. When she returned, she was utterly quiet.

The monks stood at the gate, watching this mysterious play: What has the Buddha done? What will happen now? Will she get the rice? Will the boy rise again? And when Kisa Gotami came back serene, utterly silent, filled with great grace, they thought, “She got the grains. A miracle is about to happen.”

They ran. “Buddha, Kisa Gotami is coming—completely calm. Her tears are gone. Not a trace of restlessness or sorrow. It seems the rice you asked for has been found.” Buddha said, “Fools, wait; let her come. She has found something greater than rice. She has found the meaning of life. She is returning with understanding. A ray has entered her. Her darkness is cut.”

And when Kisa Gotami fell at his feet, she said, “Initiate me.” She did not even lift her eyes toward her son’s body. She told the people, “Take it away. Take it to the cremation ground and burn it. For one thing is clear: here, death happens—happens to all; sooner or later, now or later—what difference does it make? Today or tomorrow, two days earlier or two days later—death is certain here. To fight what is certain is futile. I have accepted death. And the moment I accepted death, a ray descended within me that is of the immortal—something that will never die.”

Such is the golden rule, full of paradox, of life. Seek security, and you will become more insecure. Seek love, and you will be filled with melancholy. Then what to do? I say: insecurity is. It is the truth of life. Truth cannot be falsified. Truth does not run by your wishes; it remains as it is. You may demand a tree’s leaves to turn yellow, not green—to be white, to be black; who is going to listen? The leaves are green. Cut off all the leaves, and new ones will sprout—and again they will be green. For the leaves of the tree do not run by your desires. They move in obedience to a great law—from which they always emerge green.

Whoever is born will die. Whoever is young today will be old tomorrow. Whoever stands stiff and proud today will break tomorrow. Whoever touches the sky today will fall into the grave tomorrow. This is going to happen. There is no way to change it. Do not ask for the impossible.

And the moment you accept this, then I ask you: where is insecurity? Here is the strange thing: seek security and insecurity is created. The more you demand security, the more anxiety grows. The more it becomes clear that security will not happen—only insecurity is happening. Insecurity swells. In the very proportion of your demand for security, in that proportion insecurity begins to loom large. You start seeing your defeat. It feels you will not win—defeat is certain.

I tell you, know that insecurity is the very nature of life; drop the effort for security. When there is no craving for security, what insecurity can there be? How will you weigh insecurity then? The demand for security creates the obstruction. Can the man whose life has no lust for wealth be poor? How? Without the thirst for wealth, there is no way to be poor. He has become an emperor. Swami Rama has said: I left one house, and all houses became mine. I abandoned one courtyard, and the whole sky became my courtyard. As long as something was mine, I was impoverished. Now nothing is mine, and I am an emperor.

It is just so. Those who have “something” are poor. In “something” itself is poverty. One has little, one has more; one has two yards of land, one has a thousand yards, one has thousands of miles—but “something” is still “something.” Whether little or large, poverty is poverty. What difference does quantity make? Your emperors are also pitiful beggars, just as you are. The difference is not much. Their begging bowls are big; yours are small—that’s all. Does a big begging bowl make an emperor?

No. The emperor is the one who has thrown away the begging bowl. Who has said: as life is, we have no demand that it be otherwise. We do not ask for security. If there is insecurity, insecurity is accepted. If there is insecurity, we are at peace with it. Death will come—we are ready. Old age will come—we will await it with curiosity.

In the lives of those who no longer oppose truth, the factual, insecurity dissolves by itself. This will surprise you, so I repeat: when security is asked for, insecurity is born. Insecurity is not an entity in itself; it arises out of your demand for security. When the demand for security goes, insecurity goes too. And what then remains is the real security.

You ask, “You say, ‘Leave yourself in the hands of existence’; won’t that make things even more insecure?”

You are asking this without having left anything. Leave—and see. I have left, and I tell you: all insecurity disappears. I am no pundit. I am not here to expound a scripture’s doctrine. I speak from my experience. I know this: the day I let go of security, that very day insecurity also vanished. Insecurity is but the shadow of security. When the root goes, where will the leaves grow? When there is no root, from where will a sprout arise?

No—you are speaking from thinking. You are saying, “We are already troubled. We search for security and do not find it; and now you turn up, great usurer! You say: drop even the search. Searching we do not find—and you say: drop the search itself. Place yourself in the hands of existence—and we will become insecure. Then we are finished! Slain! There will be no means of defense. Dodging and weaving we cannot save ourselves, and you say: do not defend at all. Drop the shield; drop the sword. Simply drop it.”

I understand your point as well. If you argue it out, it will seem so; it will seem certain. But this is a matter of experience, not of logic.

Taste a little. Leave—and see. But do not leave with a condition, “Let me see what happens if I leave.” Then you have not left at all.

If this truly happens, you will suddenly find: there is no insecurity, and there is no need for security. You are the divine. You are seated on the supreme throne. That which perishes is not you. That which comes and goes is not you. You are that which always is. Tat tvam asi. That One which never came, never went. The eternal, the timeless; ever ancient, ever new; always has been, and always will be. Though forms are made and unmade, within the forms that which is being formed flows unbroken, uninterrupted.
And secondly, you have asked: love. The way to dissolve insecurity is to drop the lust for security. And the way to attain love is: don’t go to get love, go to give it. Whenever you go to get love, you miss. You keep saying, “Let me get it from here, let me get it from there.”
No one can give you love! Love is not some thing lying outside that you can seize and stuff into your vaults. Love is not an object. Love is a state of consciousness. Love is not a relationship—what happens between you and your wife, or between you and your son. Love is a state of consciousness. When you are supremely blissful, love flows from you. As fragrance pours from a blossomed flower; as light spills when the sun rises—so, when you attain utter peace, love showers from you.

And you are wandering outside. Where have you gone to search? From whom are you going to beg? That wealth which is within you will never be found from anyone else. If you go asking from others you will go on missing, and keep on missing. If not from one, then to a second; if not there, then to a third. For births upon births you have been circling like this. At how many doorways have you not begged! Yet look at the begging bowl—empty, still empty.

Now listen also to those who say there is no need to ask at all. The diamond you set out to find lies in your innermost core. Love is your treasure. Love came to Buddha, to Mahavira, to Jesus, to Mohammed—and none of them went searching for love in someone else or built relationships to get it. They looked within, peered into the inner, and fountains of love burst forth.

Love is the ultimate state of mind; a blossomed flower we call the sahasrara, the thousand-petaled lotus. When that lotus opens within you, the fragrance that begins to flow from it—that fragrance is love. Love is not a relationship; love is your nature. That is why you keep missing. If you look within, you will begin to dance like peacocks dance when the monsoon clouds of Ashadh gather.

Right now your state is as if you are holding a crow’s feather while believing it to be a peacock’s plume. You keep persuading yourself, “No, it is a peacock’s,” but you know it is a crow’s. Look closely again—the crow’s feather shows itself. A peacock’s plume cannot be made by smearing and painting a crow’s feather. The day you look within, your peacock will dance. The mind’s peacock dances. The peahen dances!

As clouds mass in the monsoon sky, as the first rains descend—dry leaves turn green, the withered trees are filled anew with life-breath, the hungry earth, the thirsty earth is satisfied, and all around a greenness, a contentment, a fulfillment spreads.

Draped in a green veil, the bride of rain has come again;
Somewhere in the forest, among flowers, she lay asleep in a dream.
From the tangled tresses of cloud, the Beloved overflowed.
Darkness cleared the path, the raw road washed by sun.
The wind’s raga dissolved into a pearl-strewn sky.
Wearing a green wave-patterned sari, the bride of rain has come again.

The peahen dances! And these clouds do not gather in the outer sky, nor is this the outer rain. This is an inner happening—of the innermost. Love is the deity of your inner home. Where are you searching for it?

Now think: those who have no love within go looking for it in others. And the one who falls in love with you does so in the hope that perhaps you have love to give. Do you see the joke?

You fall in love with a woman, and she with you. Neither you have love nor she has love—if you had, why would you be wandering and begging? Two beggars stand facing each other with begging bowls, hoping to get something. Each hopes the other has it. Neither does. Soon the bowls begin to rattle, and the quarrel begins—very soon! Lovers begin to fight quickly. How long can you be deceived? Soon it seems, “Ah, the other is cheating—nothing is coming!” And the other feels the same: “You are giving nothing.” So this has gone to waste. This union was futile. Let us search elsewhere, knock at some other door. And so it goes.

No, love will not be found that way. If you want to awaken love, if you want the flame of love to manifest, you must go within. Love is the signature of your innermost being. When you find the very source of your life, the spring itself, the stream that flows from there—that stream is love.

Then wherever you sit, there you will find love. Your love travels with you. Every person carries his heaven and his hell within. You carry hell within and go searching for heaven—there is your mistake. You carry the seeds of sorrow and go searching for happiness—there is your mistake. You will reap a harvest of sorrow, because only what is sown can sprout. However much you may ask for happiness, you will reap sorrow. In the name of love you will encounter hatred, anger. You will create newer and newer pains, fresh wounds. More and more sores will form.

No, this is no way. In the name of love only pus will form; nothing else will be born.

Therefore I say to you—you say:

“Everyone searches for a fistful of sky,
Everyone longs for a fistful of sky,
A world one could press to the heart—
Everyone searches for a fistful of sky.”

A fistful of sky? Within you is the whole sky, the whole space. Drop this talk of fists—these are the words of the poor-in-spirit. Can the sky be measured with fists? Can the sky be begged with fists? Clench the fist and the sky slips out; keep the hand open and the sky rests entirely in your palm; clench it, and it is gone.

And the sky that appears outside is not the whole sky! The real sky is within. Move within. Build a relationship with this inner emptiness. The person who has taken the marriage rounds with the inner void—love blooms in his life, blooms abundantly. Not only does he find it, but those who come and sit near him become blessed without effort. Showers of benediction fall upon them too.

I said: the journey from the imperishable (akshara) to the perishable (kshara) is yantra; from the perishable to the imperishable is mantra; from the imperishable to the Imperishable is tantra.

The body is a yantra. The connection between two bodies is mechanical. Sex is mechanical. Lust is mechanical. An event is occurring between two machines.

The mind is mantra. The very word mantra comes from manas, the mind. What belongs to the mind is mantra. That by which one descends into the mind is mantra. The fundamental formula of the mind is mantra. Mind and mantra share the same root.

So the body is yantra. The journey from body to body is mechanical—lust, sex.
The mind is mantra. The journey from mind to mind is mantric—what you ordinarily call love: two minds coming together, the throb of a music between two minds, a dance between two minds. It is above the body. The body is material; mantra is mental, psychological.
And the soul is tantra. The meeting of two skies. A journey from the Imperishable to the Imperishable. When two souls meet, that is tantra—neither body nor mind. Tantra is the highest happening. Tantra is the ultimate happening.

So understand it like this:
Body—yantra, sexual, physical.
Mind—mantra, psychological, mental.
Soul—tantra, cosmic, spiritual.

These are the three planes of your life: the plane of yantra, mantra, and tantra. Recognize all three well. And all your doings are divided among these three.

Someone eats in a mechanical way. He has no sense of taste; even while eating he is not really eating—he is stuffing somehow, calculating shop accounts, talking to customers, keeping ledgers inside, and meanwhile he keeps putting food in. This is a mechanical meal; eating has become a yantra.

Then someone eats with great feeling. Someone has cooked with great love—your mother has cooked with great love, or your wife has waited all day for you. Do not insult that by half-eating while bookkeeping within, while doing arithmetic, while not even being present here. One who eats with the heart makes eating mantric—everything else set aside, nowhere else, only here; with deep feeling, absorption, attentiveness, relish, respect.

And there are those who eat spiritually. The Upanishads say: annam brahma—food is Brahman. The seers must have eaten even food in a spiritual way—tantric. Because it is through food that He comes within; we taste Him in food; entering through food He renews life in us, fills us with a new sap, rejuvenates us; what is dead in our cells He expels, and He creates new living cells. God enters within through food—that is tantric.

Understand that every action has these three levels. A man goes out for a walk and is entangled in a thousand thoughts—mechanical. Another walks and is not entangled in thoughts; the morning breeze touches him—he is sensitive; the morning sun pours its rays; birds are humming; he is listening to all this, spellbound, walking in joy—mantric. And another can walk such that every gust of wind feels like God’s breath; every ray feels like His ray; every birdsong like the utterance of His Vedas, the descent of His Quran—that is tantric.

You can divide every action of your life into these three. Beware—do not die in the yantra. Most people live like machines and die like machines. Very few blessed ones become mantric—poets, musicians, dancers. Very few! And even they only for a few moments; not twenty-four hours. For most of the twenty-four hours they too are mechanical. Sometimes, in a certain instant, in a slight thrill, a door opens, a little window opens and the world on the other side peeps in; that dimension enters. For a moment a poem ripples through—then the door closes again.

Then there are the very rare ones—Krishna and Buddha and Ashtavakra—very rare, once in millions, who live tantrically, for whom each moment is the meeting of two skies—each moment! Sleeping, waking, getting up, sitting—whatever happens in their life—inside and outside meet, God and nature meet, the world and nirvana meet. The supreme union is happening. The supreme celebration is happening. Raso vai sah—someone in such a state said: God is of the nature of rasa, of nectar. A great festival is on.

So carry each of your actions from the mechanical to the tantric. Mantra is the doorway in between. That is why religions have used mantras so much. That is symbolic. If you understand the whole thing, mantra is a bridge. Mantra does not merely mean that you sit and repeat “Ram, Ram, Ram,” and it is mantra; that is a very small, partial meaning. What I am telling you is: mantric means you begin to live with mind, mindfully. Reflection, awareness enters your life; then you are mantric.

Just repeating “Ram, Ram” will not do. Understand the difference: a man can sit and repeat “Ram, Ram” and be purely mechanical, not mantric at all—parroting. You can teach a parrot to repeat “Ram, Ram, Ram, Ram” and he will go on repeating. Many such parrots are wrapped in the blanket of “Ram-nam.” If you go to the Kumbh you will find all the parrots of this land. They are sitting and repeating “Ram, Ram, Ram, Ram.” It means nothing, but they have been repeating so long that it has become a habit. This repetition changes nothing. Inside, all the other thoughts are running, and above, they are repeating “Ram, Ram, Ram, Ram,” while the full business goes on within, the full shop goes on, the whole market goes on—everything is going on.

In my childhood there was a sweet-seller’s shop opposite our house. He was as a sweet-seller should be—a large belly! He could hardly get up, so he did not do much work. He sat on his platform and weighed sweets from there. In idle moments, when there was nothing to do, he turned his rosary: “Ram, Ram, Ram, Ram.” I was amazed. From childhood I watched him—right there in front. He would be saying “Ram, Ram,” a customer would come and he would signal with his hand; with five fingers he would indicate; he would tell the worker at the stove, “Make it stronger, the fire is dying,” and the “Ram, Ram” went on. It made no difference at all. That “Ram, Ram” was purely mechanical. It had nothing to do with anything.

Then there is a mantric state, when with great feeling… “Ram” is not just a word you utter anywhere, anyhow, to anyone, in any manner! At some very special, sacred moment, properly prepared—lighting incense and lamps, after bathing—not only the body, but giving the mind too a brief cleansing—you sit. In that pure, holy moment you remember the Lord. Whether you say “Ram, Ram” or not is irrelevant. If you are filled with His remembrance, mindfully, that is mantra.

But even that is not the last thing. Since the mind is not the last, how can mantra be the last? Then comes tantra—the ultimate flight. There you are immersed; you are no longer separate. Who is left to remember? Whom to remember? In that very moment Mansur said, Ana’l-Haqq—I am the Truth, I am God. The Muslims could not understand; they were angered.

There is a very telling incident in Mansur’s life. First Mansur was with a Sufi fakir. As long as Mansur remained within mantra, the master agreed—because up to mantra all religions permit it. The trouble begins with tantra, because the proclamation of tantra is very unique. As long as Mansur practiced mantra, the master was pleased. But when Ana’l-Haqq—“I am God, I am Truth”—began to be proclaimed, the master said, “Listen, you will get into trouble and drag us into trouble too”—he must not have been a very deep master—“Either leave here or stop speaking such words.” Mansur said, “If it were I speaking, I could stop. But whatever speaks, speaks. Whenever the strings within me join, I no longer know what is happening. Do not ask this of me. I will try from my side, but my trying reaches only up to mantra. So long as I am repeating something, it is fine. But a moment comes when I am not there—then who is speaking within me? How can I be responsible?”

The master said, “Then leave here, or we will be trapped.” Because in Muslim lands it is utter heresy for a man to say, “I am God.” They cannot tolerate it. Islam, as a religion, could not go beyond mantra. People like Mansur would have carried it to tantra, but they were not allowed. Sufis began to hide their practices, because openly they were hanged.

So Mansur went to another master. He stayed a few days, then that master also said, “Brother, go, the chain is breaking. News has reached the Caliph. The priests are about to issue a fatwa against you. And along with you, we will be caught too.”

Mansur said, “Is there no place anywhere? Will I be driven away everywhere?” Someone said, “Go to a very great fakir—an accomplished wali, a pir.” He went there. But difficulties began there too. The master tried to persuade him lovingly: “Don’t speak. If you must keep it, keep it within; but do not speak, for enemies are all around. We will be embroiled.” He said, “I try, but a moment comes when I am not there—then who will try?” Many times the master explained, but one day Mansur would not hold back. Sitting before the master, he closed his eyes and cried out loudly, “Ana’l-Haqq!” The master said, “Enough. You will entangle me. Soon a fatwa will come against you.” And the master said, “See, I prophesy: soon a piece of wood will be stained with your blood; you will be hanged.” Mansur replied, “Then I too prophesy: the day my blood stains that wood, you will have to take off this Sufi guise and put on a mullah’s robe.”

People thought he was joking. No one trusted him much; he was a strange man. But both prophecies came true.

Six times the news was taken to the Caliph, again and again, that Mansur should be hanged because he speaks heresy; he is against Islam. The Caliph said, “If so, his master’s signature is needed. If the master also says it is against Islam, then fine.” Six times the document was brought to the master and six times he refused to sign. The seventh time the message came: if the master does not sign now, then the master is also responsible, he too is a party to it. The master felt ashamed: “How can I sign wearing the Sufi robe? It would disgrace even the Sufi garb.” He forgot Mansur’s prophecy and said, “If I must sign this, I can only sign wearing a maulvi’s clothes. Such foolish things befit a maulvi, not a Sufi.” He cast off his robe, put on a maulvi’s clothes, and signed.

When Mansur heard, he laughed. “Didn’t I tell you? Now my wood will be stained with blood. Until now it could not be stained. What a bad world has come, that even Sufis must wear the mullah’s clothes!”

The tantric note means: the proclamation of God within you. Up to the body, even your own voice is not there. In mantra, your voice is there. In tantra, it is God’s voice. The journey from the Imperishable to the Imperishable.

In the body, mechanically—you have not yet spoken. Far from God speaking, even you have not spoken; the voice has not yet broken forth. First practice speaking. First tune the strings of the sitar; knock and adjust; set everything in order—then God speaks. First you speak; then God speaks.

Right now you yourself have not spoken. You are living like a dead man, a heap of clay—how can God speak?

In mantra, you speak. Your voice rises. Your speech blossoms. Your flower opens. You are prepared. Mantra prepares you. Mantra is a deliberate, alert effort. I am not against mantra. I am against mechanical mantra. That is why sometimes you are surprised when I speak against mantras—because your mantras are like you. As you do your shop, as you eat, so you chant “Ram, Ram” or “Allah, Allah”; it changes nothing. If you can chant with awareness—if, while you are repeating “Ram, Ram” or “Allah, Allah,” awareness also remains within: here the words flow, and there you, with total alertness, are listening to this speech; you speak and you also hear; and no other process is going on—then it is mantric.

And when this settles, one day you will find: you remained awake; the speech gradually thinned… thinned… and fell asleep. You remained awake. When you remain awake and the speech falls asleep, then the inspiration that happens within you, the proclamation that resounds within you, is God’s proclamation—that is tantric.

These are the three planes.

It is contained in this way:
Body—in the mechanical there is only the physical.
Mind—in the mantric there is not only the mantric; the physical is included too, because to utter a mantra you need the support of the body. In the merely bodily there is only the bodily; in the mantric, both body and mind are present. Remember, the small cannot contain the vast; the vast contains the small. Mind is greater than body; the body is contained in it. Mantric means: body + mind. And the body now arrives made beautiful, because its mere instrumentality has fallen away. Grace descends upon the body; the body, too, becomes alive.

And in the tantric, in the soul—soul does not mean that you are only soul; otherwise you would be a ghost. Soul means that mind is included in it, and the body is included in it. The Triveni is complete. On the plane of mind, Ganga and Yamuna are there, but Saraswati is not yet visible. When you reach the soul, reach tantra, then Saraswati also becomes manifest. The invisible becomes visible; the imperceptible becomes perceptible. Soul means that body and mind are both included, and something yet higher is born.

Therefore I say that in tantra everything is included. Tantra is total acceptance—of the mind and of the body. Just as the mantric purifies the body, so the tantric purifies the mind as well, and there is a shower of purification. A supreme clarity, a supreme innocence arises. Everything becomes pure.

What kind of sadhana is it that purifies only the soul? True sadhana is that which purifies the whole; which makes even the small the vast; where even stone, even rock, becomes the Divine—that is sadhana.

God is not an object that someone can point to with a finger and say, “There he is.” God is the final state of your own supreme purity, hidden within you. When love manifests within you, that is the manifestation of the divine. Therefore, if you are searching outside, you will never find. Search in temples and mosques, in Kaaba and Kailash—you will not find. You are searching wrongly. God is not there. If you think God is sitting somewhere in the sky, you are thinking foolish thoughts. Your notion of God is very childish.
You ask, what is God?
It is not a question of “what.” Recognize the one within you who has asked this question, the one within who is listening to me, the one within who is seeing me—and you will recognize God. Make a little friendship with your own consciousness; befriend it.
What is this consciousness within you? Just find this. This single ray of awareness within you—of wakefulness—take hold of this one ray as your support, and you will reach the Divine.

I have heard: An emperor became angry with his vizier and had him imprisoned on a very high tower. There was no way to escape except to jump—and to jump was to die. The tower was very high; if he leapt, he would be killed. No handcuffs were put on him; there was no need. He was confined at the top; the stairs were heavily guarded, soldiers on every step, locks on many doors. But on the tower itself he was left free.

When everyone was weeping, loved ones bidding him farewell, his wife said, “We are all crying so much, and you are so calm. What is the matter?” He said, “Don’t worry. If you can get a single thin silk thread to me, that’s enough—I will get out.”

He was taken away and imprisoned. The wife was in even greater difficulty: a silk thread—first, how to deliver it? The tower rose hundreds of feet—how to get a silk thread up there? And even if somehow it did reach—has anyone ever escaped with a silk thread?

After much thought, with no solution in sight, she began searching the village for old wise folk. A fakir said, “There’s nothing special in this. There is an insect called a bhring. Catch one. Smear honey upon its moustache. Tie the thinnest silk thread to its tail.” She asked, “And then what will happen?” He said, “Release the bhring on the tower. Catching the scent of the honey on its own moustache, it will keep moving upward. The fragrance will keep coming, but the honey will not be found elsewhere—it is on its own moustache. So it will keep going... keep going. And the bhring goes straight. It does not stop until it finds where the fragrance comes from. Don’t worry. It will reach the top. And your husband knows: once the thin silk thread reaches him, then tie a slightly thicker thread to the thin one; then a thicker one to that; then he will begin to pull. Then tie a cord, then a thicker rope—then the way is open.”

The wife understood. The arithmetic was very simple. She caught the bhring, smeared honey on its moustache, tied the thinnest possible thread to its tail—because the bhring had to go so far, pulling such a long thread, it had to be the most delicate. And the bhring set off at once. Catching the scent of honey, it ran madly upward. It did not stop. It reached the top. When the husband saw the bhring had climbed up, honey-drops on its moustache, he rejoiced. He grasped the thread. In a short while the thin thread became a thicker cord, thicker and thicker, and then a rope... he escaped.

This is the very key to reaching the Divine. Within you there is, as yet, a tiny thing like a silk thread—very subtle, scarcely graspable—that awareness within you. Hold on to that awareness. Hold on to the consciousness within. Meditation is nothing but the name for taking hold of this thread of awareness. Then, holding it, set out. In the direction from which it comes, there lies liberation. In that very direction is the Divine.

And it is coming from within. So you will have to go inward. As you go in, you will suddenly find the current of light growing deeper, larger... larger. From the small, a bigger thread; from bigger, bigger still—and one day you will arrive at the source of light. That is God. “God” is only a word—another name for the supreme consciousness. It is within you. You ask, “Where is it?” It is hidden in the very one who is asking. Otherwise, if you search outside, you will never find it.

And now you ask: “If He is not, then whom are we running after?” God is. He Himself is the one running; He Himself is the one seeking—hidden in the seeker. Yes, what you are running after right now is not God; you are running after your notions. One goes to a temple, one worships Shankarji, one worships Ramchandraji, one goes to a gurdwara, one to a mosque, one to a church. You are chasing your beliefs. Go within—there is the real mosque, there the real temple. Go within. You have rung these temple bells enough; there is no essence in that. Keep ringing as much as you like—you will go deaf from ringing and find nothing. Go within.

Not in words, scriptures, doctrines—but in yourself.

For now, those you chase are pundits. The truly wise is the one who shows you the way to your own within. Pundits tell you, “Go to Kashi, go to Kaaba, to Girnar, to Jerusalem—there you will find it.”

Go to Kashi a hundred thousand times—you will not find it. Those living in Kashi have not found it; what will you find? Go within. The meaning of the true master is: the one who carries you to your within.

Then you will find that as you begin to go inward—you go in, and the Divine draws near. The more you go in, the nearer God comes. One day you stand at your center, and His rain descends.

Burning and burning, the earth’s heart split its crust,
When the monsoon came, it came of its own accord;
When the cloud poured, it poured of its own accord;
When the sky sang, it sang of its own accord.
At every waterside the Persian wheel of desire keeps turning,
Yet everyone’s thirst is not quenched on this bank.
Why call out to every water-pot?
The One who is to come comes uninvited.

God is hidden within and waits upon the way. For a moment, stop calling. You keep shouting to every pot; eager to slake your thirst from every kind of water. Become a chātak. Become a chakor. Wait for Swati’s rain. Not every water will do, and not every pot can quench. Wait for that great moment. For nothing will happen by your will.

You run shops, earn money, climb positions—and in the same way you think, “One day we’ll catch God too.” Nothing will happen by your will. It is precisely your will that has caused all this turmoil. Drop your will.

Burning and burning, the earth’s heart split its crust,
When the monsoon came, it came of its own accord.

So learn to wait. Drop the running around; sit, wait. The one who becomes skilled in waiting attains the Divine. In waiting He comes.

When the cloud poured, it poured of its own accord;
When the sky sang, it sang of its own accord.
At every waterside the Persian wheel of desire keeps turning—

And you keep turning the Persian wheel of your desire, spinning it like an old woman’s spinning wheel.

At every waterside the Persian wheel of desire keeps turning,
Yet everyone’s thirst is not quenched on this bank.
Why call out to every water-pot?
The One who is to come comes uninvited!
Do not slake your thirst from every vessel, O thirsty one!
If the cup is changed, honey itself turns to poison!

Do not shout to every pot; do not run after every desire. And do not turn God into an outer search either. God is not an outer search. When all outer searching fails and you return home—and you say, “Enough. Enough now; no more searching. Now I will not seek anything—not even liberation”—that is what Ashtavakra keeps saying. The wise one does not even seek liberation; he does not seek God. He does not seek at all. Where all seeking ends, there is union—for the One you seek is hidden in the seeker.

And the day this union happens, the seal of nectar is pressed upon your whole life. For now there are only the stains of death. How many times have you not been born, and how many times have you not died! For now you are a cremation ground; you are a heap of biers. Behind you is a line of biers; before you, another line. You are not yet truly alive. Kabir says, “These are villages of corpses.” These are not towns—they are cremation grounds.

Look at yourself. In your hands, it is death you end up holding. But one who has paused and tasted even a drop of the truth within—his life begins a new tale.

Far away, in a mango grove, the cuckoo called;
A new refrain began to rise upon the cricket’s shehnai.
In the broken branches of ancient plants,
Every joint, every twig began to glow;
Sprouts broke forth; clusters of buds swelled;
Upon the blue flax flowers the sky smiled;
The flute grew eloquent, fingers began to dance;
Bees fell upon the mango blossoms.
On the first evening of Ashadh, blue-black clouds poured;
In the sky a blue cloud burst—as if a pitcher of milk had shattered;
A shower of light rained down; from the vine fell jasmine-like rays;
Honeyed moonlight spread; oceans of radiance scattered.

Once you come home to yourself—only light, only nectar, only bliss!

On the first evening of Ashadh, blue-black clouds poured;
Then those blue clouds of the Lord rain again in your inner sky.
In the sky a blue cloud burst—as if a pitcher of milk had shattered;
A shower of light rained down; from the vine fell jasmine-like rays;
Honeyed moonlight spread; oceans of radiance scattered.

Do not try to grasp God in dead words or dead doctrines. It is the hidden potential within you. Do not ask such questions; this is not something to be asked in that way. In asking like this lies the error. Asking this way has fetched you wrong answers—someone who said, “He is there.”

Once upon a time God was said to dwell on the Himalayas—because it was hard to climb there. Then man climbed there; God had to be moved. Then they seated Him on the Moon. Man reached there too; again He had to be moved. Wherever man arrives, He has to be removed from there. This is foolish prattle. God is not outside.

One kind says, “He is there.” Then, not finding Him there, another kind says, “Where is He—tell me! We said from the start there is no God.” Thus the theists and atheists quarrel. When Yuri Gagarin returned after circling in space, the first thing he said on Russian television was: “I have gone and seen, circled the heavens; there is no God there.” They built a great museum in Moscow, collecting all the instruments of space travel, and on the first gate they hung Gagarin’s words: “I have seen the sky, gone as far as the Moon; there is no God there. Hence it is proven there is no God.”

Foolish theists say “there,” and foolish atheists say “not there.” They are alike. I say to you: He is neither outside, nor “not outside”—He is seated within you. If Yuri Gagarin wants to know, he need not circle the Moon and stars; he needs to descend into his inner sky.

Man does not search there; he searches everywhere else. Still, I will not blame him, for the millions who gather at the Kumbh are not different from Yuri Gagarin—they too search outside. The millions who go on the Hajj to Mecca and Medina—they too search outside. Those who go to Girnar, to Shikharji—their logic is no different. They too search outside.

You ask, “Where is God?” You have asked the wrong question. This question has two wrong answers: one, that He is nowhere; and one, that He was there. Both are wrong. I tell you: He is hidden in the seeker. Do not ask, “What is God?” Ask only, “Who am I?” The day you know who you are, that very day you have known the Divine. Before that, no one has ever known.

I would make only this small amendment, this slight difference: I would tell Kamal, “Slip out quietly; don’t wake the household.” Because, as it is, we are taking their wheat—and on top of that, shall we spoil their sleep too? They are sleeping peacefully; at least let them sleep!
Only that much; I wouldn’t make any further change.

Who has ever found the way in the scriptures? If you want a cut-and-dried, hand-me-down path, search the scriptures—you will get lost there. You do not even understand life itself; how will you understand scripture? Life is such an open book before you—so revealed, so clear, written by the hands of the divine—and if that does not make sense to you, then scriptures, words bound in books, will not be comprehensible to you.

This is what you miss. A rose blooms and you do not see God in it. A stream of consciousness flows within you and you do not see the divine there. What will you find in dead books, in ink stains on paper? There you will go astray. You will not find from there. Yes, the one who begins to see in life will also find it in the scriptures. And the one who cannot see it in life—what can such a blind person find in scripture?

You have heard the story, haven’t you? Five blind men went to see an elephant. The living elephant stood before them. They felt it with their hands, and still there was confusion. One who touched a leg said, “It is like a pillar.” Another who touched an ear said, “It is like a winnowing fan”—and so on.

Now imagine giving these blind men a scripture with a picture of an elephant in it. Those who missed with the real elephant—will they understand anything by running their hands over a picture of an elephant on paper? Very difficult. Almost impossible.

So the first thing: do not waste your time in the scriptures; invest it in yourself. Yes, once the scripture of your own being opens, all scriptures will be understood.

And the second thing: do not worry about the world yet. First take care of yourself. If you can manage just yourself, that is much. Right now your own condition is in great disorder. Your own boat is sinking—whose boat are you going to save? You yourself do not know how to swim; do not go to rescue anyone else, otherwise you will make him drown; even one who would not have drowned, you will drown.

You say you worry about people? Have you looked at your own inner state? Is it not possible that worrying about others is just a trick to avoid yourself, an escape? Often it is so.

Social workers come to me. They say, “We are engaged in serving society.” I ask them, “Have you completed the service of yourselves?” They say, “Where is the time? We have no time for meditation and the like. First let us serve society.”

If you have not meditated, your service will be false. There will be some other motive behind it. Such service cannot be genuine. This service is also a kind of intoxicant, in which you keep yourself forgetful, submerged.

First, know yourself. Come into a little acquaintance with yourself, and then whatever love arises in you, whatever compassion arises, will flow—certainly it will flow. I am not telling you to stop it, but let it be there first! Right now you are forcing a flow. At present this pretext has no substance.

Do not run to the horizons, O witless one—understand first.
Do not entangle yourself uselessly without knowing, without insight.
O stubborn, touchy one, do not raise a clamor;
Say a few sensible things—do not turn into a madman,
O my mind!

Sit together a little; do not inflame quarrels.
Do not add heat to the rising noonday sun.
Take care of yourself; leave the world alone.
Do not go mad from so much reading and study,
O my mind!

First, give yourself a little care. If you are sick, you are a creator of a sick humanity. If you are miserable, you are a cause of misery in this world. If you are not blissful, you are a sinner. If you ask me, for me there is only one sin: not to be blissful. If you are blissful, you are virtuous. Then everything about you is forgivable. Then whatever you do is right. Once you become blissful—bliss has never done anything wrong; it cannot. And suffering has never done anything right; it cannot. Whatever comes out of suffering will be wrong, however beautiful the names, whatever masks you wear. Nothing good has ever come out of misery.

So it will often happen that the one you go to serve, you will harm. Right now you are filled with poison. If you put your hands into another, you will spread only poison. First fill yourself with nectar. Then you may not even need to go anywhere. Perhaps even sitting silently, waves will arise from you that will lead people toward truth, toward sat-chit-ananda.

People are unhappy for only one reason: they are not meditative; there is no other reason. And right now you too are not meditative. There is only one way to make this world happy: let meditation somehow spread. If people become quiet, healthy, centered in themselves, sorrow disappears from life. We create suffering; no one else is creating it.

Certainly—everything is part of the lila. Now you will have to think a little.

It is said that a Sufi fakir had a wound in his heart and worms had bred in it. When he bent to offer prayer, the worms would fall out. He stopped praying. People asked him, “At your final hour, are you becoming an atheist? Are you leaving religion? All your life you prayed, came to the mosque—why do you not come now?” He said, “How can I come? When I bow down these worms fall off. The worms also have their life.”

Seen from one side it is an ulcer and the man is in pain. Seen from another side, that man is life for the worms in the ulcer—the worms are very happy.

You think that when you pluck fruit from the trees, the trees are delighted! To them, you are a disease. Seeing a human approach, trees must say, “Here comes the ailment.” Just as worms live off you and you are troubled, so you are living off the trees—parasites! Exploiters! You are destroying the whole of nature: digging up mountains and leveling them, filling lakes; now you have started going to the moon and stars—you will create a nuisance there as well. This disease called “man” keeps spreading. How many animals you have killed! You say, “For my life, for my food.” But what is your food is not food for the animal—he is not pleased, he is dying.

Now, it is most amusing: if you go into the forest and shoot a lion, people garland you—“What a brave man! He killed a lion!” “His Highness has killed a lion.” But if a lion kills His Highness, no one garlands the lion: “Amazing! The lion killed His Highness.” Though surely the lions would garland him: “Well done! One enemy removed, some cleaning accomplished.”

You look from only one side—the human side—and then you get stuck.

I have heard: In a man’s bloodstream, at a crossroads, two tuberculosis bacilli met as they were rushing along in the stream of blood. After greetings, one said, “But your face looks so sad and pale. What’s the matter—did penicillin get you?”

For the tubercle bacilli, penicillin is a disease. Don’t think it’s a medicine! For you it is. Life is vast! See this life from all its facets. Free yourself from looking only through the human angle, for that is only one angle, just a single viewpoint.

Lila means: see life from all perspectives. Then nothing here is wrong. Then everything is happening. It is an immense play. Some lose, some win. How will there be winning without losing? You ask, “Is losing also a part of the play?” Can you devise a game in which there is only victory, never defeat? Then how will it be a game?

You ask, “Is sorrow also part of victory? Can there be happiness without sorrow? Success without failure? Life without death? Youth without old age?” There is no way.

Play happens only through duality, by splitting into two. The play lives in opposites. If the situation were to become uniform, the play would stop. That very uniformity we call nirvana. The world is the play; nirvana is going beyond the play. One who has understood the secret, who has seen all the facets, says: “There is nothing to it—here, loss and gain are equal. Someone loses, someone wins, but in the final accounting all is equal. No one wins, no one loses. Someone wakes, someone sleeps; someone is born, someone dies. But ultimately the game balances.” In the end, no one dies and no one lives; no one wakes and no one sleeps.

In the final truth, only One remains, not two. Whoever sees like this moves out of the play—or perhaps the Divine moves him out of the play: “Step out now. You have grown up. You are no longer fit to play. Now you are a buddha. Step aside. Let the children play; don’t interfere.” He is taken away. Yet it is still a play.

Let there be not even a complaint—such is the hunter’s will:
Endure outrage upon outrage and do not utter a word.

The One who is playing wants you to drink sorrow as you drink joy; to drink poison as if it were nectar.

Let there be not even a complaint—such is the hunter’s will:
Endure outrage upon outrage and do not utter a word.

Let complaint disappear. To accept lila means: now we have no complaint. It is only a game! There is no need to take it seriously. Loss and victory are the same. If we lost, we lost; if we won, we lost. If we won, we won; if we lost, we won. There is no “other” here. The One is dividing Himself into two and playing with Himself. This whole tag-you’re-it is happening within the One. God is running and hiding; God is running and seeking. The seeker and the sought are not two.

He who gave the days of joy
Has given these days of sorrow as well.
From the same pitcher that poured the wine
These drops of poison, too, remain.
There is nothing astonishing in this—
It is the plain, simple game of nature.
Along with spring, the garden
Always sells you autumn too.
This sequence is certain; no one
Has changed it, no one will.
That is why I say: tears are in vain,
So is weeping in vain.
Smile away the days of joy—
Then smiling and playing
Pass through the days of sorrow as well.

Accept sorrow as you accepted joy. When acceptance becomes total, the play becomes still.

And there is no other way. There are only two paths: either fight—or don’t fight and become a witness. If you fight, you are split. If you fight, sometimes there is defeat, sometimes victory; sometimes pleasure, sometimes pain; sometimes loss, sometimes triumph; sometimes a garland is placed on your head, sometimes you fall flat in the dust. That is one way: fight—and then there is duality.

Or do not fight—be a witness. Then there is neither loss nor gain. Witness means: you are out of the game. Doer means: you are part of the game. Enjoyer means: you are part of the game. Witness means: you are out of the game. Sitting at a distance, you watch like a spectator. Even as you stand here, you remain merely a spectator. And here, everything changes—only one does not change: the witness.

Where the world stood yesterday, today it is not there.
In the courtyard where there was morning sun,
Now there is shade.
At every moment, a new birth here;
At every moment, a new death.
Rub your eyes and look—while you were rubbing,
The whole village changed.
O beauty, on the riverbank,
Why are you scrubbing your face again and again?
It is not possible to bathe a second time
In the flowing current.
String some pearls, O bride,
In your necklace—
But borrowed beauty
Will not be captured in your adornment.

Here, form never quite forms—just as it forms, it starts to dissolve.

String some pearls, O bride,
In your necklace—
But borrowed beauty
Will not be captured in your adornment.

Nothing stays here long enough for adornment to hold. Nothing stays here—so how can victory be final? Here victory turns into defeat, defeat into victory. Take anything to its extreme and it becomes its opposite. Keep winning and, in the end, death arrives.

Where the world stood yesterday, today it is not there—
Every moment it all is fleeing, changing.
In the courtyard where there was morning sun,
Now there is shade.
Where there was success, now there are tears of failure.
Where there was the lament of death, now there is celebration:
A wedding, canopies raised.

At every moment, a new birth here;
At every moment, a new death.
Here, moment by moment, death is happening,
Moment by moment, life is happening—
Great hustle and bustle, a grand play of sun and shade.

Rub your eyes and look—while you were rubbing,
The whole village changed.

This ceaseless changing, this transformation—we call it lila, the play. Take it seriously and you get entangled. Take it seriously and you are trapped—the noose tightens around the neck. Don’t take it seriously: take it playfully, laughingly—then the story changes. You are outside of it.

O beauty, on the riverbank,
Why are you scrubbing your face again and again?
It is not possible to bathe a second time
In the flowing current.

Didn’t Heraclitus say it? You cannot step into the same river twice. Nothing here repeats. What is gone is gone—never returns. What has arrived is already preparing to go. The flower has barely bloomed and it begins to wither. Do not keep accounts of pleasure and pain here—they are two faces of one coin.

String some pearls, O bride,
In your necklace—
But borrowed beauty
Will not be captured in your adornment.

Here, nothing can be bound, nothing can become fixed. This net of restless waves—that is what we call lila. Lila means just this: do not take it seriously. It is a play.

If you understand it as lila, you can become a seer. Take it seriously and you become a doer. As a doer, you fall into pleasure and pain, into enjoyment and suffering. As a doer, the search for ego encloses you—the net begins, you are caught. If you are not a doer, if you only see—just see, just keep watching—without adding any feelings of good or bad, auspicious or inauspicious, for or against, “let this be,” “let that not be”—without collecting any such moods in the mind—just keep watching, as if you have nothing at stake—impartial, neutral—then the thread appears.

From there you catch hold of the silken thread trailing behind the bhringa insect. And from there, one day, you arrive at the doorway of that supreme Light whose name is God.

Enough for today.