Maha Geeta #82

As long as the mind is, it will remain thirsty. The very being of mind is thirst. Incompleteness is the nature of mind. Never has the mind been fulfilled; it cannot be. That is why there is no fulfillment in the world—because the world is the spread, the expansion, of the mind. The world means mind. The world means seeking fulfillment through the mind: trying to do what cannot be done, striving for the impossible, looking for what does not exist in the arithmetic of existence. So search for lifetimes, weep and lament by the thousands—the difference will not come. The nature of mind is thirst. Just as fire is hot, the mind is thirsty.

Seeing the mind as thirsty, it seems perhaps it can be quenched. Language creates the mistake—we say, “the mind is thirsty,” and it sounds as if it can also be satisfied. More exact would be to say: mind is thirst. Not “the mind is thirsty,” but “the mind is thirst.” Thirst and mind are two names for the same fact. Then things are clearer.

Thirst can never be fulfilled; the very nature of thirst is thirst. When fulfillment comes, thirst is no more. You would not say, “thirst was satisfied”; you would say, “now there is no thirst.” The “satisfaction of thirst” means the disappearance of thirst. And the mind too is “satisfied” only where it disappears. Where the mind is gone, there is fulfillment. As long as the mind is, its fire will continue to burn—and we go on pouring ghee into this fire: new desires, new longings, new plans. We only make the fuel blaze higher.

“My eyes are like Sawan and Bhadon, yet my mind remains thirsty.”
The tears of the eyes have no relationship with the fulfillment of the mind. The mind is not satiated by the quantity of tears shed. Stop the weeping and wailing—you have wept enough. Weeping only accelerates the mind’s movement. For what are you saying as you weep? “I have not yet found it—when will it come? The goal has not yet come close—when will it arrive?” By weeping you try to convince existence: “See how much I weep; now at least be gracious.” But what you are asking cannot happen. Even existence has no way to grant it.

From the throat the soft song reached the lips,
only to remain like a sob.
Helpless before pain, we remained,
we remained profoundly without recourse.
Again the old sores of time surfaced,
and we were left with a powerless “alas.”
Here we had set up a marketplace of joys,
yet were left trading in tears.
The moment our feet reached love’s first stair,
all our dreams turned thin and wasted.

In this life we make plans—but which plan comes to completion? When does any Alexander truly conquer? When does anyone really arrive? We all gather dreams—

Here we had set up a marketplace of joys,
yet were left trading in tears.

You aimed for fulfillment; your eyes became tears. That is how it must be, because in the direction you are asking, there is no meeting. Turn within.

Mind means an outward journey, a search elsewhere. No-mind means you are no longer searching elsewhere; you are peering within. You are seated where existence is of itself; you are resting at your own center, unmoving. Until this happens, even the songs that rise from the throat will, on reaching the lips, turn into sobs—

From the throat the soft song reached the lips,
only to remain like a sob.
Helpless before pain, we remained,
we remained profoundly without recourse.
Again the old sores of time surfaced,
and we were left with a powerless “alas.”

I understand your question. But try to understand my answer too. Whenever you have wept, you have been given two kinds of responses. One is consolation. Those whom you usually call saints and holy men console you. They wipe your tears, pat your back, sing you a lullaby. They say, “All will be well, child. By the Lord’s grace all will be well. Don’t worry. Here—take this mantra, repeat it. Take this rosary, turn it. All will be well.” These consolers are the very ones who lead you astray; they won’t let you awaken.

Your sorrow is so deep it could have awakened you. But there are many lullaby-singers, many patting you to sleep, saying, “So far it hasn’t worked? No problem—tomorrow it will. Trust in fate, in God. Worship, recite, perform havan and yajña. Until now you tried by yourself; now rope in God and try to get it. Your effort so far wasn’t total—now try with your whole being. Bring a deeper method, a more intense yoga, gather every tactic, fight unitedly and victory will be yours.” Such people say, “Nothing is impossible.”

I had a teacher—he had no real clue. He taught me in matriculation. He quoted Alexander’s famous line: “Nothing is impossible.” And he delivered an impassioned oration to prove that nothing is impossible. I stood up and said, “However beautifully you speak, this is not true, because Alexander’s own life proclaims his defeat. What difference does his statement make? Write here on the board ‘two and two,’ and add them to make three. You say nothing is impossible; a small thing—there’s the board, the chalk is in your hand—make two and two equal three. If two and two can become three, I will accept that nothing is impossible.”

Even such a small thing cannot be. But people are eager to have their tears wiped. Many come to me and ask, “How can we strengthen our self-confidence? Please suggest a method.” They think they are undertaking a great spiritual quest. “How to strengthen self-confidence!” It is precisely this so-called self-confidence that has made you wander for lifetimes. You haven’t yet allowed it to break; it hasn’t yet broken. If your self-confidence breaks, you will surrender; you will offer yourself to the divine. But this stiffness persists. Someone asks, “How can I strengthen my willpower?” What will you do by strengthening will? With a stronger will you chase wealth, status, prestige—build empires of fame and glory. But when has anyone succeeded?

So there are the consoling saints—the false saints. They serve your mind. Of course you find them agreeable, because whoever wipes your tears seems lovable; whoever pats you to sleep saying “sleep, my little prince,” feels so sweet. What a lovely saint!

I am not one of them. I want to tell you what is, as it is—even if the medicine is bitter, even if you refuse to drink it, even if you run away or get angry. I am not eager to console you. If I can, I will wake you; I have no interest in lulling you to sleep.

As long as the mind is, there is sorrow; as long as the mind is, there is hell. Rise beyond mind. You have peered through the mind long enough; now let the mind sleep—and you be awake. Move away from the window of the mind. That is the meaning of meditation: moving away from the mind’s window. When there is no thought within you—no thought at all, no ripple of thought—does any thirst remain? Have you ever had a moment when there was no thought, you sat without thought, without waves? In that moment does any thirst arise? In that moment there is only fulfillment, a rain of contentment. In that moment there is no incompletion. It is a simple arithmetic: where there is thought, there is thirst; where thoughtlessness begins, fulfillment begins.

So do just one thing—only one thing is worth doing. Everything else is as good as not done, and all that is done will one day be undone. Only one thing is such that it will never be undone; death will take away whatever else you do, but not this—if you can do it. That work is meditation. Take out small pockets of time; sit. Let thoughts go on—let them. Watch quietly. Don’t go with them; don’t resist them. Neither condemn nor praise. Don’t say, “What a beautiful thought,” nor, “What an ugly thought has entered.” Make no judgment; don’t become a judge. Sit as a witness. Let the traffic of thoughts pass. Black, white, all kinds of thoughts will go by; good, bad, all types will pass. It is a road—do not even keep the relation that “this is my mind.” What have you to do with it? You are not the mind, not the body. Sit a little deeper within and watch. Watching, watching, one day a moment will come… At first it will be difficult: thought upon thought will come, as waves upon waves on the ocean; no end will be in sight; there will seem to be great darkness. Do not be afraid.

Let the eyes develop a little habit for the dark;
in darkness, darkness itself will serve the work of light.
Who knows where this heart’s pain will now find rest?
Where will this life lay its head—where will that sanctuary appear?
Let this ocean rise a little more upon the eyelids;
then the pearls will fetch an even higher price.

Do not panic if at first all seems dark—keep on seeing. Like someone coming home at noon—eyes full of sunlight—on entering the house it seems dark. Let the eyes form a little habit. Sit down, rest for a moment. As you relax, the eyes grow accustomed. What seemed dark becomes a cool light.

Let the eyes develop a little habit for the dark;
in darkness, darkness itself will serve the work of light.

Once the habit of seeing in darkness forms, merely by watching the dark, light begins to arise. At first there will appear great darkness—thoughts, thoughts, a sense of frenzy. Keep watching.

Let the eyes develop a little habit for the dark—

it is only a matter of a little habit. Watching these streams of thought, again and again the question will arise: Will this ever end? Is there any finish to it? The awakened ones say it ends—but you won’t be able to trust it at first. Many times the boat will rock; many times the mind will say, “Turn back; it was better before. Why get into this mess? Why waste time? Whenever you sit to meditate, the mind will say, ‘Why waste time? This won’t happen. If it happened to anyone, it certainly won’t happen to you. And if it can’t happen to you, how could it have happened to anyone else? All false talk—this meditation and samadhi—mere webs of imagination.’” The mind will so persuade you.

Who knows where this heart’s pain will now find rest?
Where will this life lay its head—where will that sanctuary appear?

In the storms and tempests of thoughts it will often feel as if there is no place to rest your head, no shrine where you might lay it down. This craziness seems eternal. It has always been, it will always be. Yet I tell you: if you keep a little patience, that sanctuary comes. And the longer it takes, the more precious it is.

Let this ocean rise a little more upon the eyelids;
then the pearls will fetch an even higher price.

If you keep a little courage and patience, and go on watching, slowly you will find small windows opening. Sometimes there is no thought; for a moment there is a level zero. And in that very void, nectar showers. In that very emptiness there is fulfillment. In that void there is no thirst; you are supremely satisfied—content. A deep contentment, bliss, an incomparable current of sweetness begins to flow.

At first it will come drop by drop—a trickle of nectar, the Divine descending point by point. Then one day it descends like the ocean. As you become more receptive, as the vessel is readied, the stream of sweetness flows more and more.

No one has ever been fulfilled through the mind. Those who are fulfilled, are so by going beyond the mind. Through meditation there is fulfillment; through mind, only incompletion. Say it this way: mind means incompletion, thirst, discontent. Meditation means fulfillment, saturation, contentment.

Supreme knowledge means supreme ignorance. Nothing is contained in supreme knowledge. Everything has been dropped. All that was known begins to look futile. Only the knower remains. Supreme knowledge means: only the knower remains. All the known has gone. The objects have gone. Only the witness remains. Supreme knowledge relates not to the known, but to the knower.

So in supreme knowledge there is no politics at all; sociology and jurisprudence are not there at all. In supreme knowledge even theology is not there. Even “spiritual science” is not there. Not even philosophy. In supreme knowledge there is nothing at all. Supreme knowledge is the name of the great void. Supreme knowledge means supreme ignorance. In that moment you know nothing. Only the knower remains, in his utter purity. For whatever you know contaminates the knower. Distortion happens. Admixture happens.

Understand the nature of consciousness.

The nature of consciousness is that whatever it knows, it takes on that very form. It assumes that shape. It becomes conformed to it. For example, when you see a rose, your consciousness becomes a rose; it takes on its form. Otherwise how would you see the rose? The rose is outside; it is not inside. From the eye an image of the rose travels inward. In fact, even an image does not travel—if you ask a scientist, a specialist of the eye, he will say even an image does not go in. An image is formed on the eye, yes, but behind the eye there is only a network of nerves; no image can pass through nerves. Through the nerves only certain chemical and electrical processes pass. Those processes give birth again to “something” in your consciousness. There you see the rose. So it is your consciousness that takes the shape of the rose. That is why, gazing at a rose, you become so absorbed, so filled with its fragrance. You have become the rose. Krishnamurti keeps saying again and again, “The observer is the observed.”

When you look at a rose, the rose is outside; you cannot see it as such—you never went outside. You are inside; the rose is outside. But within you a rose takes shape.

Therefore, when you look at the beautiful, you become beautiful; when you look at the ugly, you become ugly. Look at the bad and you become bad; look at the good and you become good. That is why if you sit near a saint, saintliness begins to take shape within you. Sit near a wicked person and wickedness takes shape. Sit near a murderer and murderous thoughts will begin to arise within you. Often you notice this, but you never inquire into it precisely. You go near someone and very bad thoughts arise. You go near someone else and very auspicious, wholesome thoughts are born. With some people you experience profound peace; with others, great restlessness. Some you feel like avoiding; some you feel like embracing.

Why? Within you, a corresponding form is created to whatever you see outside. Whatever you look at, you are molded into that very form. That is the only way seeing can happen—there is no other way. Then it follows that the only possible meaning of supreme knowledge is that now you no longer take the shape of anything. Neither the heap of dung nor the rose. You are free of both. Free of good and bad, beautiful and ugly. Now you are in your own form, self-shaped. Supreme knowledge means: now you are in your own nature, your own form—unfettered, available to your own song. You are no longer taking on the shape of anything. The shape of the rose was on loan. The shape of the rock was on loan. Whatever was seen till now was all borrowed. Something was being imposed upon you. Now nothing is being imposed on you by anything. Now you are formless—no shape at all.

Remember, when I say “no shape,” don’t construct an image of Buddha or of Krishna; those too are shapes. That is why the Zen masters say: if on the path of meditation you meet the Buddha, raise your sword and cut him in two. If on the path of meditation you meet the Buddha, raise your sword and cut him in two! Do not hesitate even for a moment. Because if the shape of Buddha arises on the path of meditation, you are distorted again. Even the shape of Buddha will distort you.

If on the path of meditation Krishna appears playing his flute, give him a shove and throw him out: “Go, not here, not in between!” What are you doing here with your flute! For even that is a hindrance in meditation. Whether Christ appears, or Krishna, or Buddha, or Mahavira—bow to them, yes!—but slip past them. Free yourself from them. They are thoughts of your own mind. The mind is raising the final thoughts. The mind says, “Now that you are slipping out of the world, come, I will give you moksha.” You say, “I have no interest in wealth.” “Then I will give you Buddha,” says the mind. The mind is offering the last temptation. “Whichever toy you like, I am willing to give.” It will stand Krishna there. The mind is imagining. And all imaginations will distort you.

Therefore the state of supreme knowledge—this is why I say it is the state of supreme ignorance—is the state of supreme innocence. Primal innocence. That original innocence, that virginalness. A state where knowledge has not yet distorted the knower. The moment knowledge arises, distortion arises. The moment knowledge arises, the mind arises. The moment you have known, narrowing starts. Mere knowing narrows you. Hence the Upanishads say: those who say they know, know not; those who say they do not know—know. That is why Buddha fell silent. When someone asked, “Do you know God?” he fell silent. To answer would be a mistake. Answering itself would be wrong. Whatever answer is given will be wrong; the very act of answering is wrong. Say, “I know,” and you have erred. Say, “I do not know,” and you have erred, because I do know. To say “I do not know” would be untrue; to say “I know” would be a distortion. Therefore there is no way but to remain silent.

So the ultimate answer is silence—wordless, void. Nothing is contained in supreme knowledge. Supreme knowledge is the ultimate state of being free of all things: a transcendence of everything.

But you say it seems to you that I am everything. Your feeling is a symptom of your attachment, your love. You are attached to me, so it seems to you I am everything. I have absolutely no attachment to myself; therefore I tell you, I am nothing at all.

I understand your attachment. Because of it you may feel that I know everything. But let me tell you this—tie it in a knot and keep it—that I know nothing whatsoever. As long as knowing remains, the turmoil continues. Where one is free from knowing, there is release. There is supreme knowledge. Where one is free from knowing, there is supreme knowledge. Which means: where one is free from knowledge, there is supreme knowledge.

So the phrase “supreme knowledge” is not quite right. Better to say: supreme ignorance.

I cannot explain. In this matter there is no way to oblige you either. It simply cannot be said. There is no fixed mark of the enlightened. And whatever marks you make up will only make you err. Because whenever Buddhahood manifests, it is so unique, so one-of-a-kind, so incomparable that it has never happened in that very way before, nor will it ever happen again. There is no repetition. So whatever checklist you devise will become an obstacle.

If you fix your recognition by seeing Gautam the Buddha, you will not be able to recognize Mahavira. If by seeing Mahavira you set your criteria, you will not recognize Krishna. If by seeing Krishna you set your criteria, you will not recognize Muhammad. Whomever you use to make your recognition, you will be bound by that—and the rest of the infinite Buddhas will remain invisible to you.

So by recognition you will miss; you will not arrive. For every recognition will be narrow. A recognition could fit one Buddha—but Buddhahood has no such recognition. Buddhahood is a vast happening. Of all the Buddhas that have been, that are now, and that will be in the future—among all Buddhas there is something that is the same, and something that is not the same at all. That which is the same is inner. It is not visible; it cannot be recognized from the outside. And that which is visible, that which the mind can grasp, is absolutely different in each.

Mahavira stands naked. Krishna wears yellow silk, beautiful fine garments, a peacock-plume crown, a flute in his hand. Jesus hangs upon the cross. You will find Jesus in the Jews’ temple with a whip, driving people out—very active. Here is Buddha, sitting like a statue beneath the bodhi tree—as if he will never move. Here is Lao Tzu, living like the most ordinary of ordinary men—if you met him on the road you could not recognize him in the crowd; he is the most ordinary. And here are Moses, Zarathustra—very distinctive! In a crowd of hundreds of thousands you would pick Zarathustra out—he stands apart. And yet within all of these, one and the same event of Buddhahood has happened. They have all awakened.

Imagine you make a thousand kinds of lamps, lanterns—fit red glass in one, yellow in another, green in another; in one very thick glass, in another very thin; in some clear, transparent white—each lantern of a different mold, style, form and color—and you light them all. The light within is one. But outside, each will appear different. From the blue glass a blue light seems to stream, though the light itself is not blue. The glass layer colors it. Red will seem red, yellow will seem yellow. Some lantern could be seven-colored—an entire rainbow seems to pour from it.

Krishna is such a lantern—rainbowed: seven colors, peacock-plume. Lao Tzu is such a lantern that is so transparent you would not even know there is a lantern, that there is glass at all—so transparent that unless you go and touch it you would not know. Very clear glass cannot be seen from afar; only when you bump into it do you realize, “Ah—something is there!” Different. Buddha, Mahavira. Mahavira is without glass—only the flame, standing naked. No color, no form.

But the light is one. Now what can be said about this light? And this light is not outer; it is inner—the light of consciousness, of awareness: Buddhahood means awakened consciousness.

Even if I say to you that the one mark of Buddhahood is supreme awareness—what help will that be? Will it assist you? You will ask, “What does supreme awareness mean?” The question will remain. You are asleep. You know only the taste of sleep; you know nothing of awakening. You know the word ‘awakening,’ not the experience. Until you awake, you will not know. It is experience that works, not definition.

But a few pointers can be given. Do not take them as definitions—only pointers. Understand the difference. A definition claims to have said the whole thing. A pointer merely indicates. If you understand, it is much; if you don’t, it is nothing. A definition says, “Here—everything knowable has been put in this.” A pointer says, “It only indicates—do not grasp it too tightly, or you will miss.” Like someone pointing a finger toward the moon and you grab the finger, saying, “All right, this is the moon.” The finger is not the moon, nor is it a definition of the moon. What has the finger to do with the moon! Whether the finger is fair or dark, ugly or beautiful, maimed or perfect—what difference does it make? Whether old, young, a woman’s, a man’s, a child’s—what difference! Even if the finger is artificial, wooden, it makes no difference. The finger has nothing to do with the moon. When someone points, don’t grab the finger. A pointer means: leave the finger, look at the moon. Look in the direction indicated. These are pointers, not definitions.

Stone-set, their letters worn away—
who will give a sense of unknown distances?
On every lip is set the helplessness of song—
then who will give the secret that makes the feet dance?

If with someone you get a sense of unknown distances—one hint—where with him you are not exhausted by the known; where going to him you get a glimpse of the unknown, where within you the unknown begins to stir a little; where within you an indomitable longing to know what you have not known arises—a new thirst is born in you, one you were never familiar with—there was thirst for wealth, for position—now a new thirst, for truth, rises—

Stone-set, their letters worn away—
who will give a sense of unknown distances?

In this world it is as if the milestone stands and its letters have been erased. Such is people’s condition. They have become stony, and the letters on their souls have been rubbed out. Each person’s soul bears an arrow toward the infinite, toward the unknown—but it has faded, become dim. Time, sand, the dust of time, has covered it all. You are no longer milestones. There is no indication in you that points beyond yourself. You end in yourself. Imagine someone mistook a milestone for Hanuman and began worshiping it; smeared it with vermilion, and the letters had already worn off—someone placed flowers and Hanuman-worship began. Now nothing points beyond; everything ends right there.

Stone-set, their letters worn away—
who will give a sense of unknown distances?

In this world, whenever you meet someone by whose presence the unknown begins to rustle within you; a new quest is born—unfamiliar, never known, never recognized; with whom a new doorway to pilgrimage opens, a new dimension—know there is something there. Some ray has burst, some sun has risen there.

On every lip is set the helplessness of song—
then who will give the secret that makes the feet dance?

Here, lips are sewn shut. Forget song—barely abuses manage to come out. Songs do not arise. Lips are set, stitched. People have forgotten: the song of their life never blossomed. The song they brought remained unsung. The seed they came with lies like a seed—un-sprouted, unflowered.

Then who will give the secret that makes the feet dance?

Here people have forgotten dance, forgotten celebration. Whosoever makes your feet begin to throb; with whom new gestures of dance start to arise in you; within you a dance begins—know something has happened there. These are pointers, not definitions.

It is night,
the world has fallen asleep, weary to the bone,
brim-full of sleep.
For a few moments the unevenness,
the bitterness of life has gone far away.
All eyes are alike,
the night alike for all;
wakeful are only those
who have no rest.

I do not wish the world
to go on sleeping,
that it be forever night;
I wish rather
that in the busy day there be the peace of sleep.

Listen again—

I do not wish the world
to go on sleeping,
that it be forever night;
I wish rather
that in the busy day there be the peace of sleep.

In whose action you sense the peace of sleep; who walks and yet seems unmoving; who speaks and yet seems unspeaking; who rises and sits, and yet within whom nothing rises or sits; who even sleeps and you see him sleeping—and yet you know something within is awake; who, asleep, is awake; who, awake, is so still as if asleep—

I wish rather
that in the busy day there be the peace of sleep—

then know a ray of Buddhahood has dawned there. Where there is the reign of unparalleled stillness; in whose presence you too begin to grow quiet; your restless mind starts returning home; sitting near whom you feel a pull inward, that you are being drawn within yourself; who, by sheer presence, starts bringing you to yourself—that is the meaning of satsang—then know Buddhahood has happened there.

But let me repeat—these are pointers. Do not mistake them for definitions.

Draw close in your arms—today the sky itself has come.
A fragment of moonlight has stepped down, come near.
Where caravans of tears used to halt at the door,
suddenly, upon those thresholds, a smile has come.
Till now, only autumn had introduced your years—
come, through the windows, the Malaya breeze has come again.

With one in whose presence you feel the sky open; whose presence becomes not a wall but a door; with whom whispers begin between the Vast and you—whispers I say, because they are hints; where some glimmers, rustles, footfalls are heard—dim, for they cannot be clear, since you are asleep. An asleep man—even if someone were dancing there—will not know for sure; in sleep, sometimes the anklets tinkle, sometimes the beat of feet is vaguely felt; sometimes a note of the drum penetrates within; sometimes, turning in bed, your sleep is not too deep, a little lighter—and some melody slips in—just so. You are asleep. So you cannot see Buddhahood straight on, with eyes wide open; therefore whispers, footfalls—heard even in sleep, and from afar.

Have you noticed, early in the morning, when you are close to waking? Sleep is breaking, yet not broken; you are awake and not awake; halfway between. The milkman knocks at the door, the road stirs, children ready for school, in the kitchen your wife begins her work—such broken sounds are heard. You are not awake, nor fully asleep. Not so asleep that nothing is heard, not so awake that everything is clear. Such is your state. In such a state, the signs and the definition of Buddhahood cannot come fully into your hands. That is why I say: pointers.

Draw close in your arms—today the sky itself has come.
A fragment of moonlight has stepped down, come near.

And you—let go of the worry for a complete definition of Buddhahood. If even a small fragment of moonlight descends to you, consider it much. If you come to know a few signs, it is much. Do not indulge the madness that only when you get a complete, certified recognition that “this man is a Buddha,” only then will you bow. You will never bow.

Keep one thing in mind: Buddhas have never been government saints. Not yet. A Buddha is no Vinoba Bhave, no government saint. Buddhahood is, in its essence, revolution, rebellion—root and branch, total. Who will issue the certificate? Will the assembly of Kashi pundits certify a Buddha? Whomever they certify—take it that he is not a Buddha. Because Kashi pundits and Buddhas—impossible! Their certificates are proof at least that this man is not a Buddha—good, that nuisance is ended. You will not find Buddhas on the Pope’s seat, nor on the thrones of Shankaracharyas. For those are traditions. And the man who succeeds by tradition must be dead to succeed. To get office by tradition is the destiny of the dead, not of the living. That is the fortune of the living—and the misfortune of the dead!

So how will you recognize? And do not even think of complete recognition. Because if you recognize completely—you will have become a Buddha. If you were a Buddha, recognition would not be needed. What use then! You are not; that is why you seek recognition. So forget the idea of the complete.

Draw close in your arms—today the sky itself has come.
A fragment of moonlight has stepped down, come near.

If even a small piece of moonlight floats to you—great blessedness! What good fortune! Trust that much. Holding that fragment of moonlight, if you keep moving, keep walking—someday you will be master of the full moon too. Someday the whole sky will be yours. It is yours—but you do not yet know how to reach, how to walk. Right now you are like a small child crawling on his knees. You have to learn to walk.

Where caravans of tears used to halt at the door,
suddenly, upon those thresholds, a smile has come.

If, with someone, you get even a taste of life’s great laughter...

Then a saint will not be gloomy. An enlightened one will not be morose. Those you see in temples and mosques with grave guru-faces, long faces—the enlightened are not like that. An enlightened one is a celebration. In him the lotuses of existence have blossomed. Where is sadness? Where long faces? An enlightened one is not solemn. Near him you will find a gentle laughter, a soft smile, a smirk, a festival, a mood of joy.

Where caravans of tears used to halt at the door,
suddenly, upon those thresholds, a smile has come.

So if, near your tear-laden eyes and your prisoned heart, even a single smile, a gentle laugh, a glimpse of celebration arises—do not leave those feet. Clinging to those feet you will reach the sky of ultimate freedom and liberation.

Till now, only autumn had introduced your years—
come, through the windows, the Malaya breeze has come again.

Till now you only knew fall. Fall—and fall—and fall—that is what you knew. The tune of your life was filled with tears and lament. You had not known a moment of the ah! of life. Only hell upon hell. In any moment, with someone, if you feel—come, through the windows, the Malaya breeze has come again—and you feel a gust of wind has arrived—the Malaya breeze—pure, clean, fresh, of the morning, descending from the Malaya highlands, fresh from the mountains, down from the heights into your lowlands, your valleys, your darkness—if such a gust is experienced by being with someone, know that Buddhahood is near. Something has happened.

Let me repeat: these are pointers. Do not clutch them so tightly that their life chokes away. They are not definitions. A definition is not possible—only indications.

Let these indications sink with great sympathy and love into your heart. Then, however different enlightened ones may be—Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Rama, Zarathustra, Muhammad—it will make no difference. A few things—the taste of the infinite with them, a sense of peace with them, a fresh breeze with them, a piece of moonlight with them. I have given these pointers in poetry, because poetry reaches the heart more easily. Where prose cannot enter, verse slips in. With prose you begin to argue; with verse you do not argue, you drink it; it goes down your throat more readily.

In verse I have told you these fragments. There is no need to memorize them. Let their taste touch you. Then you will not err. Buddhahood is such a great event that it cannot go unrecognized—if your mind is a little open, and you go near a Buddha, you will recognize—without definition. The danger is: people do not go. They fear that if they go, they may get caught; so they don’t go at all. They stay far away; they avoid such entanglements.

If you go near an enlightened one, you will recognize. How could it be otherwise! It may be that a blind man cannot see the sun, but when the morning sun spreads its rays, he feels its touch. He experiences its warmth, its heat. He comes to know that night has gone. Birds have begun to sing, the morning hymn has begun. He knows that a moment ago all was silent, asleep, dead; now life has revived, a hum is there. The sun may not be seen, but its warmth is felt. Even the blind senses the sun. He knows when night has passed and day has come.

Granted you do not yet have the inner eye—but if you go near an enlightened one, that gust from the Malaya will touch you. You will bathe in it. You will be freshened. That piece of moonlight will shower upon you. You will be enthralled in an incomparable nectar. The poetry of the Buddha’s being will start playing some tune within you. The Buddha’s veena will whisper inside you. Give up the worry for definitions; gather the courage to go near. Leave definitions to pundits. For seekers, definitions do not work. The seeker needs experience. And experience comes through nearness—through satsang.

On every leaf a fresh droplet,
each droplet holding a fresh reflection—
the reflection of your inner being
has sunk into the heart of the sprout.
The honey-pot of love has filled—
and the clouds of that pot have scattered.

When you come near an enlightened one, when you bow, you will find all has become new. Till now everything was old, decrepit, like ruins—rotten, stinking, a heap of refuse.

On every leaf a fresh droplet—
the touch of Buddhahood will make all things new.

On every leaf a fresh droplet,
each droplet holding a fresh reflection—
the reflection of your inner being
has sunk into the heart of the sprout.
The honey-pot of love has filled—
and the clouds of that pot have scattered.

And you will experience an unparalleled happening: you who were always empty of love find your pitcher of affection filled—not only filled, it overflows, bursts, begins to pour. Not only are you filled with love, but streams of love begin to flow from you toward others. In whose touch such love awakens in you—know that Buddhahood has happened there. In whose touch so much love arises that you cannot even contain it—you start giving it away—know that the great revolution of Buddhahood has taken place. The sun of Buddhahood has risen.

Then I will say it in seed form.

The first and last formula of freedom is very small. It is simply this: you are free—there is nothing to do. You are free—there is nothing to become. No effort, no striving, no spiritual practice—nothing. Freedom is your nature. Freedom already is.

Just start living. Start living as if you are free. And every day you will find that freedom goes on growing. And one day you will discover, “How mad we were—we were needlessly pretending to be slaves.” We were free. Only your habit is of slavery; freedom is your nature. Declare it. Freedom is not to be attained; freedom already is. It only needs to be revealed. As the tree is hidden in the seed, so freedom is hidden within you.

So this is the whole formula of the first and last freedom: you do not have to become free—you are free. Let this be heart-understood; let it sink into you until it abides in the innermost core of your heart.

The entire note of Ashtavakra’s Mahageeta is just this: you are already accomplished; you need not be a seeker.

Life is a mystery. The more you know, the more mysterious it becomes. Do not remain under the illusion that, once you know life, its mystery will end—do not assume that. Ordinarily people think that once a thing is known, its mystery disappears. That is science’s assumption too: once something is known, nothing mysterious remains. Science is a slayer of mystery—and that is dangerous. Because of science the sense of wonder has faded from the world. People are amazed by nothing.

The German poet Goethe wrote that here every single thing is astonishing, yet somehow we have become so inert that nothing seems wondrous to us.

A sprout breaks out of a seed—can you find a greater wonder than that? A new bud appears on a tree, a fresh leaf unfolds—can you discover anything more marvelous? In a woman’s womb a new child begins to take form—will you ever find a greater wonder?

Just think: every night the sky fills with stars. If that were to happen only once in a thousand years, people would dance that night; no one would sleep. If, once in a millennium, the night blossomed with stars, the whole earth would stay awake—people would dance, celebrate, make great festivity, sing songs, and be thunderstruck by the sheer wonder! But because the stars appear every night, no one dances. Because it is everyday, because it has become familiar, you do not feel the wonder. If you look closely, life is wonder upon wonder, mystery upon mystery, everywhere. But science is deeply inimical to mystery; it is its enemy. And science has filled people’s lives with great sorrow. Wherever mystery is finished, the poetry of life dies. Where life’s poetry dies, life’s religion dies. Where religion dies out of life, nothing meaningful remains—just a futile tale told by a fool: much ado, and no meaning.

Mystery is the footfall of the divine. What I am saying here is not to destroy mystery; it is to awaken you to it—more and more. Keep awakening, and let the mystery keep growing. This is the difference between religion and science.

Religious knowing is a way of knowing in which the mystery does not end; it becomes even more mysterious, more full of juice. Your sense of awe deepens. Science destroys mystery; religion dusts the mystery and makes it fresh again and again.

So what I am saying here is to enlarge the mystery—to make you lovers of mystery, to make you beings immersed in the realm of the mysterious, whose every hair is charged with wonder, thrilled and tingling.

The tale is only this much
a simple scarf was dyed a tender green
The breeze carries fragrance unasked
ever since the body became night-blooming jasmine
Age all at once turned into Heer
a pauper’s gaze turned rich
You made one decree
you made love renowned
You carved a form out of glass
you made a Kohinoor
The desert into an ocean
you filled the dry river to the brim
You poured wine into the life-breath
you left me drenched in ecstasy
The tale is only this much
a simple scarf was dyed a tender green

Here the work is that of the dyer. Here the scarf is to be dyed—and dyed green. Here the work is to serve the honeyed wine; this is a tavern. Do not be misled by the word “ashram.” That word is only to keep people from taking fright. This is a tavern.

You poured wine into the life-breath
you left me drenched in ecstasy
The tale is only this much
a simple scarf was dyed a tender green

Your scarf is to be dyed in the endless colors of mystery. Your very life is to be colored in ever-new dimensions of rasa. Let new moods and gestures of feeling arise within you. Let new temple-spires rise in you. Let new songs be born. Dance new dances. Play new veenas—ever new. Seek—and the more you seek, the more you will find there is to seek. Let seeking grow and grow; never come to an end. I teach the journey; goals are only pretexts. I speak of the destination so that you may run, so that you may move. The joy is in the journey; the journey itself is the destination.

The tale is only this much
a simple scarf was dyed a tender green
The breeze carries fragrance unasked
ever since the body became night-blooming jasmine

May flowers bloom in your life; may your inner lotus open. This lotus will not make you “knowledgeable”; it will make you supremely unknowing—you will become like an innocent child. Like a little child on the seashore, collecting conches and shells and colored stones, treasuring each one as if it were the Kohinoor diamond. The elders explain, “Throw them away—why carry stones? Why haul this rubbish?” The small child cannot understand what you are calling rubbish—these colored stones! These rare stones! These shells and conches!

When the lotus within you blooms, you will become a child again—and this time a child who never grows old. This will be an inner birth.

The breeze carries fragrance unasked
ever since the body became night-blooming jasmine
Age all at once turned into Heer
a pauper’s gaze turned rich
You made one decree
you made love renowned
You carved a form out of glass
you made a Kohinoor
The desert into an ocean
you filled the dry river to the brim
You poured wine into the life-breath
you left me drenched in ecstasy

The longing here is simply that you may be able to dance. And let this dance not be artificial. Let it be heartfelt, spontaneous. Not like the practiced dance of a performer—let it be as Meera’s was, as Chaitanya’s was. Let it not be a rehearsal; let it be your natural wave. Become wave-like, become rhythmic, become intoxicated—let a state of divine drunkenness descend upon you. That is the effort here.

Therefore the mystery will not diminish. We are not to reduce it; we are to make it a great mystery, then the supreme, utterly ultimate mystery—one that is never solved. Whatever gets solved is not the concern of religion. Whatever ends is not truth. Whatever is exhausted is not existence. Existence never runs out.

Here you climb one peak, and you thought, “Now the destination has arrived,” but when you reach the summit you find a higher peak standing before you. You think, “All right, a little more journeying,” but when you reach the new peak, an even greater summit stands as a new challenge. Peak after peak, gate after gate, mystery upon mystery—there is no end. In this sense, God is infinite.

Green has spread over the earth,
boughs are adorned with bud and blossom,
peacocks—grove after grove—dance,
peacocks dance, the enraptured heart dances.
A breeze sweetens the fragrance,
cloud-masses pour honeyed drops,
peacocks dance, the inebriate heart dances,
peacocks dance, the blissful heart dances.

May you dance like the peacock. And the Lord’s monsoon clouds are always gathering; the month of Ashadha is ever present. May you be able to skip and quiver with delight—this is the effort here. I am not eager to make you “religious”; I am eager to make you alive. For me, aliveness is religion. I am not impatient to convert you to beliefs and scriptures. I have no interest in making you Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain. Your misfortune is precisely that you have become something or other. I am eager to strip you of your notions, because it is due to your notions that you have become so burdened you cannot dance. Stones are tied to the peacock’s feet, scriptures are tied around its neck, pundits and priests sit perched upon the peacock—how will the peacock dance! All your beliefs, your doctrines, your faiths are to be removed, so that the only reverence remaining in you is reverence for life; and the only temple, the temple of life.

Let the mystery grow. If it grows, know that you are with me. When the mystery begins to stall or get stuck, know that you have left my side—you have made doctrines, you have stopped, you have stepped off the road and pitched your tent on the wayside and settled down. With me there will be many halts, never a final destination. And every “destination” is no more than a halt, because further on the journey continues. Buddha said: chareveti, chareveti—go on, go on. There is no end anywhere. Truth has no boundary.

Keep welcoming the new. Each day a new sun will rise. Day after day I will give you new flavors of feeling. Keep welcoming them.

At whose welcome the sky
has emptied all its pitchers,
and the banyan has spread a carpet of shade—
that is you, O Dawn;
my eyes offer you their greeting.

Islands of leaf-darkness sinking,
a tide of henna-sweetness,
the green-and-white that has arisen—
that is you, O Dawn;
my eyes offer you their greeting.

In the Vedas there are great hymns to Usha, the dawn—songs to the morning. They are songs sung in welcome of the new. The praise addressed to Usha is praise for that which is ever-fresh. Usha is a symbol—the morning is a symbol of the new: the new sprout, the new spring, the new mystery.

Day after day, may you watch the sun rise, a new sun, and greet it anew. And day after day may you make fresh discoveries of the mystery—where you missed yesterday, do not miss today; where you miss today, do not miss tomorrow. The mystery is so vast—unveil and unveil and unveil, yet you will never unveil it completely. That is what it means to know God: you have entered, you have plunged. One shore is left behind; the other shore is never reached. The boat remains forever midstream. That is why there is movement, dynamic flow; there is no final goal.

I understand your difficulty too. You are eager for a goal; I am eager for movement. There is little harmony between your longing and mine. You are impatient to arrive—“How much longer will it take?” I am eager that you learn to relish the walking and drop the taste for arriving. You want the destination to come so you can fall down and sleep. I want no destination ever to come, so that you can never fall asleep again—ever awake, ever moving—chareveti, chareveti—and ever welcoming the dawn.

The Lord comes every day, in many forms: sometimes in the call of a bird; sometimes in a gust of wind passing through the trees; sometimes floating in a scrap of cloud; sometimes in a ray of sunlight; sometimes in the wave of the sea; sometimes in a woman’s eyes; sometimes in a child’s smile; sometimes in the form of a man; sometimes in someone’s peace—and even in someone’s anger; even in someone’s sadness. In infinite forms he sings his song. Once you become wonderstruck, once your eyes are colored with wonder, you will begin to see him everywhere. You will unveil him everywhere. However he comes, you will recognize him.

Ghanshyam has come—
the earth, a Vraja maiden
in a loosened green bodice,
the ocean rippling,
waist-bells loosened and ringing,
fragrant winds,
breaths laden with kadamba and jasmine,
groves upon groves become Vrindavan.

Ghanshyam has come—
astonished lightning,
yellow silk,
a gentle murmur,
the flute raining liquid notes,
soft, soft droplets,
like a smiling full-moon night,
a brim-full orb—
You,
free of fever,
a rainbow to the heart,
loveliness spread over every water-surface—
Ghanshyam has come.

By “free of fever” I mean the God who is cool, the God who is calm; a rainbow of consciousness, festival-filled with joy; loveliness spread across every surface, present in every form, extended everywhere—Ghanshyam has come. The Lord comes, comes every day; but until your eyes are filled with wonder, your meeting cannot happen.

I have succeeded if I have awakened wonder in you—if I have made you astonished again, if childhood has returned, if you have begun to look around with a start, if you have become sensitive again. If I have succeeded even this much—that you are amazed, you are startled, you are wonderstruck, that a sprout of wonder has broken open in you—then the thing has happened. Then you have become childlike.

Ashtavakra, in the Mahageeta, speaks much of the wise one being like a child. If there is one most important thing in a child, it is his sense of wonder—his curiosity toward the mysterious. He sees mystery in the tiniest things. Where nothing seems mysterious to you, he sees it. You even get annoyed and tell him, “Stop this nonsense; there’s nothing there.” You do not know that you are destroying a unique capacity. Every child is born with the capacity for mystery, but society, family, school, education kill it. By the time he becomes young, the life-breath of mystery has gone out of him. And then people think they will become religious! Without a sense of mystery, how can anyone be religious? Religion has nothing to do with solemnity, with information, with the vanity of “I know.”

There is a deep opposition between mystery and knowledge. Knowledge says, “I know.” Mystery says, “I know nothing—and there is so much, so incomparable, to know.” The man pressed down by knowledge becomes dead—he has entered the grave. The one filled with mystery is astonished, startled, wonder-struck: everywhere mystery upon mystery, poetry upon poetry, beauty upon beauty. He lifts veil after veil, raises bridal veils one after another—and beyond every veil there are more veils, even more beautiful ones.

The question is important, worth understanding.

First thing: you have understood that the enlightened give sermons; if you have understood it that way, you have misunderstood. From the enlightened, a sermon happens. If you think they give it, you have thought wrongly—then the mistake has begun. If they were to give it, then they would be outside tathata; a-tathata would begin. To give a sermon would mean they have an insistence that something should be so. To give a sermon would mean that if you did not agree they would be unhappy, and if you did agree they would be happy. No—the teaching happens from them.

The enlightened have never given sermons. It has happened. About Mahavira, the Jains have said a very apt thing: words showered from him. That is right. They were not spoken; they showered—like flowers shower from a tree, or fragrance showers from a flower, or light showers from a lamp, or water showers from a cloud. In that way it showered. What has become dense within will express itself. If you say they give teachings, you have missed; the teaching happened.

Preachers give sermons; from the enlightened, a sermon happens. The enlightened do not give teachings. If an enlightened one were to hold back the teaching, they would be outside suchness. If by effort they were to not give it, that would be the miss. Therefore, whatever happens, happens. If teaching happens, it happens. If it does not, it does not. Sometimes it has also happened that an enlightened one remained silent—Meher Baba remained silent his whole life. If silence came, silence. If speaking happened, speaking. Whatever happens is to be allowed to happen. That’s the first point.

Second point: as you are, so are you accepted by the enlightened, by the buddhas. As you are, you are accepted. There isn’t even any attempt to change you. What has happened within them is manifesting. In that manifestation, if you change—your choice; if you do not, your choice. If you change, fine; if you do not, fine. The enlightened one has nothing to do with insisting that you must change. There is no such insistence.

There is no intention to change anything. So note one distinction: if a monk or a saint is very eager to change you, understand that Buddhahood has not yet been born. Where there is a saint in whose presence transformation happens, and yet there is no eagerness to change you, know that Buddhahood is present—transformation happens simply by his presence.

Understand. The sun rises; does the sun go to each flower and say, “Open up, I have come, morning has arrived”? Does he take each petal in his hand and pry it open? And if some flower does not bloom, does the sun sit down saddened and draw back his rays? The sun simply radiates; in his presence the flowers blossom. The sun does not make them bloom. And if a flower does not open, the sun keeps no account—he does not complain that so many flowers did not bloom today. If they bloom, fine; if they don’t, also fine. Truly, the sun has no ledger in this matter. Yet it is true that in the sun’s presence flowers bloom; they bloom without him “making” them bloom. Without the sun’s presence they do not bloom—also true. In the sun’s presence alone they bloom—also true. Still, the sun does not “cause” the blooming. He is catalytic; by his presence, blossoming happens.

If in the presence of an enlightened one you are transformed—then you are. If not—then not. But the enlightened have no purpose in this. And when they speak, even though it seems to you that they are speaking to change you—because you are eager to change—they are not speaking to change you. They are simply expressing what is happening within them. What has occurred inside them is overflowing.

It is a little difficult. You never say anything without a purpose; you speak only when you want to change someone. When you advise someone, you want them to obey. If they don’t, you get angry; if they do, your ego is gratified—and if they don’t, your ego is hurt: “He did not accept my advice—now I’ll see about him! He never accepts my advice!” This becomes very hard on your ego. The enlightened have no such purpose. Whatever happens, happens. If you change—there is joy; if you don’t—there is joy. There is nowhere any insistence, no effortful demand, no obstinacy.

“Why do they want to turn our rejection of tathata into acceptance?” Do not impose on the enlightened what is appearing from your side. What appears from your side is your own vision.

Among Zen mystics there is a saying: Buddha never spoke. Buddha spoke continuously for forty years, and yet the Zen saying is that Buddha never spoke. Someone asked Rinzai, “This is strange. In this very temple the scriptures of Buddha’s words are kept—you read them here, you bow to them—and every morning you also say that Buddha never spoke.” Rinzai said, “Both statements are true. As far as we are concerned, he spoke; as far as he is concerned, he did not speak. We heard—therefore we collected scriptures. That is precisely why the enlightened wrote nothing themselves. Flowers do not write about fragrance; when fragrance wafts, it wafts.” The enlightened spoke; in your presence something flowed from them. Your thirst drew something out of them. Your urgency made words happen. It was spontaneous. From their side, they did not speak.

I speak to you every day, and let me tell you: do not, even by mistake, think that I have ever spoken. That you have heard—this is true. That I have not spoken—this is true. Therefore I have no impatience that you should change. People come to me—because in this country sadhus and saints are very eager; “mahatma” practically means one who is after everyone to change: eat like this, drink like this; don’t drink that, don’t eat that; sleep at this hour, wake at that hour. A mahatma is one who chases people with a stick and will make them change. A mahatma is one who will not let you live in peace: if you drink tea, he won’t let you; if you drink coffee, he won’t let you; he won’t let you do anything—he will bind you so that life becomes burdensome. And if you wish to live, you feel sinful; and if you follow him, life begins to be lost. If you want virtue, then die; and if you want to live, it becomes sin—setting up such a condition is what is called “mahatma.”

So such people come to me by mistake too. They say, “What is your matter? You don’t tell people anything! What to eat, what to drink, how to conduct themselves?” I tell them: let people look to their own conduct, their own concerns. What has happened to me is overflowing from me. If someone learns from it, good; if someone understands, good. If not, also good. I am content in both conditions. In my mind there is neither condemnation nor praise. This is very difficult for them. They want me also to go after people, to harass them, to prove them guilty. There is great relish in giving people pain. Your so-called mahatmas are great sufferers—and sadists: torment people! If they are taking even a small pleasure, if they are laughing a little, put a stop to it. Let no one laugh, let no one be happy; snatch away the joy of life.

No—here there is no purpose of any kind. I have known an incomparable bliss; from that bliss whatever is showering, fill your bowl if you wish—that is your joy. If you do not, that too is your joy. Change, if you wish—your joy; do not change—also your joy. These are all your decisions; I have nothing to do with them.

Your hurry itself is creating the obstacle. The more you hurry, the longer it will take. You do want freedom from the bondage of becoming, but you have not yet understood that bondage; otherwise, freedom would already have happened. No one is binding you; you are bound.

It’s a strange thing. A man is standing clutching a post and he says, “O Lord, when will I be free of this post? And how long must I wait?” To whom are you saying this? No one has tied you; you are holding the post. The post has not bound you; the post has no interest in you. Fools like you have clung to this same post before—this very post. And after you go, others will cling to this same post.

You are clutching a safe; before you, it was someone else’s safe. You have grabbed money; before you, someone else grabbed it. The note in your hand has come through thousands of hands, traveling from hand to hand. That’s why in English the right word is “currency”—that which keeps moving; current. From here to there, from here to there. It never stops. From one hand to another, from the second to a third; it keeps going. The imprint of a thousand hands is on it. You can hardly find anything in the world dirtier than a currency note. Yet you clutch it. And you clutch it tightly. And those who had it before also clutched it tightly. And everyone thinks that money is clutching them. “O Lord, how will there be freedom from worldly bondage? When will there be freedom?” The day you understand the bondage, in that very moment freedom happens. The moment you see, “I am holding the post; if I want to hold it, I can; if I don’t want to, I can let go”—the matter is finished.

In this ocean of the world’s infatuation,
for whom should I rise and surface now?
My treasury of patience lies scattered,
happy dreams have been auctioned away.
The glass was sold, yet the plans for jewels
came to nothing.
Amid this upper glitter and glare,
for whom should I blaze and brighten now?
The market’s crowd has thinned and gone;
I found no buyer for me.
Unwanted, I stood there alone—
all the toil went to waste, for nothing.
The hour of adornment has passed;
for whom should I primp and preen now?
Morning has gone away with the noon;
ahead, an empty evening appears.
Timid ghosts of tears stand about,
as if the lamp has turned barren.
In this hour of departure and going,
for whom should I linger, tarry now?

If it begins to be visible to you that what you have been doing till now was futile—that you were squeezing oil from sand, trying to make the false true, taking dreams for reality—the day you see it, your grip will loosen. No one else is holding you. The world has not held you. You have held the world.

So “hurry” only means this: you have not yet seen, vision has not yet arisen. A man sits with a cup of poison and says, “O Lord, how am I to not drink this?” Who is telling you to drink it? If you want to drink, drink; if you don’t, don’t. But don’t talk such nonsense as, “O Lord, how am I to not drink it?” If it is seen as poison, how will you drink it, I ask? And if it is not seen as poison, how will you refrain? If nectar is what appears, let a thousand people say it is poison—nothing will change. You must see.

My treasury of patience lies scattered,
happy dreams have been auctioned away.
The glass was sold, yet the plans for jewels
came to nothing.
Amid this upper glitter and glare,
for whom should I blaze and brighten now?
In this ocean of the world’s infatuation,
for whom should I rise and surface now?
The market’s crowd has thinned and gone;
I found no buyer for me.
Unwanted, I stood there alone—
all the toil went to waste, for nothing.
The hour of adornment has passed;
for whom should I primp and preen now?

Look—open your eyes and see. What you call life is utterly futile. In what you call life there is not even a trace of truth. Look with full eyes; don’t talk of piecemeal letting go; don’t talk madness. Come to your senses; look closely. Whoever looks closely is freed from the futile. And whoever does not look and goes on beating his chest—“O Lord, when will I be free? How long must I wait?”—he only goes on beating his chest.

This you have been doing for lives upon lives. And how long will you go on doing it? You ask me, “How long must we wait?” I ask you, “How long must we wait?”

Enough for today.