Maha Geeta #18

First thing: what Frankl has called the “aha-experience” is indeed an “aha,” but it is not an experience. Experience means the “aha” has died. Experience means recognition has occurred. “Aha” means you cannot turn it into an experience; something has happened that cannot be grasped by your past knowledge. That’s precisely why the feeling of “aha” arises. Something has occurred that does not link to the chain of your past; the chain has snapped. The un-happenable has happened, the unfamiliar has happened, the impossible has happened—something you never thought, never imagined, never even dreamt—has happened.

When God stands before you, he will be neither Krishna playing the flute, nor Jesus hanging on the cross, nor Rama with bow and arrow. If he appears as Rama with bow and arrow, he will fit your prior experience. You will say, “All right—God has come to the door.” There will be no “aha”; it will become an “experience,” fall neatly into your concept. You may be a little startled, but not so shaken that your past and your future are split apart.

“Aha” means such a shock as if lightning flashed—and in a single instant the past is erased; you are no longer connected to it. Something has happened of which you had not the faintest inkling, even in a dream. The impossible has happened. The Unknowable stands at the door—something for which you had no concept, no thought, no doctrine; before which your understanding is totally helpless; upon which your mental structures cannot sit; which shatters all your structures—only in that state does the “aha” arise.

So remember first: “aha” is not an experience. Experience means pratyabhijna—recognition; you identify, “Ah, a rose!” But recognition of a rose is possible only if it resembles roses seen in the past. If something is unlike anything ever known, you cannot recognize it; you stand dumbfounded; your mind suddenly falls still. The ongoing stream of thought is abruptly broken. In that brokenness, in that thought-free instant, what happens is “aha.” It is not an experience of the mind; it is a beyond-experience. Call it an experience for the sake of speaking, but it is not an experience.

That beyond-experience state has three gradations.

First: the moment one senses the unknown and the unfamiliar—call it awakening, samadhi, God—when the waves of the unknown begin to touch you and you vibrate with them, the first feeling that arises is: “Aah! Me? It happened to me!” You cannot believe that it could happen to you. Buddha—yes; Krishna—yes; Christ—yes; but me? The first impossibility seems to be: to me—sinful, nothing, fallen—it has happened! Aah!

So the first impact is as if a knife has pierced your chest. You had never thought it could be yours.

Had you ever thought God could be yours? Always someone else received it. Nor have you remembered Him enough to assume He would come to you; nor have you earned such merit that you could suppose it would happen to you. What have you accumulated? Thousands of mistakes, thousands of sins, thousands of stupidities—not only done, but still ongoing.

So the first time the Divine descends, you cannot trust yourself. The first blow is: “Aah! Me? No, no—how can this be?” You cannot accept that this grace could shower upon you.

But I tell you, it can shower upon everyone. It is grace; you need not earn it. It is not something to be bought—with renunciation or austerity. What is obtained by renunciation will be something else, not God. What is obtained by asceticism will be something else, not God. For whatever comes by your doing must be smaller than you; it cannot be greater. What your act can capture, what fits in your fist—how much value can it have? It will not be the Vast. The fruit of the act cannot be greater than the actor. The doer is always greater than the deed.

You paint a picture—however beautiful, it cannot be greater than the painter. It is born of the painter; the painter is greater. You compose a song—however lovely, however enchanting, it cannot surpass the composer. You play the veena—however the rivers of rasa may flow, the music cannot be greater than the musician; it flows from him, so it must be smaller.

If God were to be attained by your doing, He would be smaller than you. That is why the “gods” people attain are not really God; they are smaller than them—mere plays of their minds, forms of their own desires and cravings. They are dream-like, not real.

The real God comes as grace. There, your doing is not; nor your merit; nor your meditation, nor your austerity. There nothing of yours remains—there, even you are not. When you disappear, the grace showers. When you vacate the throne, then the King arrives.

So the first shock arises: “Aah!” You could accept that someone else received it—he had done great austerities, amassed merits across births. But you received it! So the first experience is: “Aah!” When you steady a little—when, instead of worrying about to whom it is happening, you look at what is happening; when you drop the concern about the recipient, for it has already happened, why linger there; when your gaze falls upon the happening itself—then the feeling arises: “Aha! The unprecedented is happening, the inexpressible is happening!”

“Aha” is a very beloved word. It belongs to no language. In Hindi it is “aha,” in English “aha,” in Chinese “aha,” in German “aha.” It is beyond languages. Whoever it happens to—if it happens to Eckhart, “aha” bursts forth; if to Rinzai, “aha” bursts forth; if to Kabir, “aha” bursts forth. Wherever in the world anyone has tasted God, there the proclamation of “aha” has arisen.

But this is still the second step. First you are shocked that it has happened to you; then you are astonished that God has happened. Beyond both lies a third knowing, which we may call: “Aho!” That is what is happening to Janaka. The third sense: now neither the question “it happened to me,” nor “God happened.” The matter has gone beyond subject and object, beyond I and Thou. Happening itself—this is the wonder; that it is—this is the wonder.

Tertullian has said: God is impossible; He cannot be. And yet, He happens. Then the third exclamation arises: “Aho!”

Understand it this way. “Aah”—the heart is stunned; frozen, speechless; a full stop arrives. You had been rushing, not knowing where—your feet stop; the race ends; everything halts—even the breath pauses. “Aah...!” The breath that went out with “aah” does not return inside. For a little while, all is void. Then you regain balance—the breath returns within.

This returning breath is a wholly new experience. For in “aah” you had vanished; now the breath returns into an empty house, a shrine. And this breath returning—coming scented with the fragrance of the Divine standing outside, stirred by His aroma, bathed in His coolness, illumined by rays of His light, steeped in His love! As this breath goes within, “Aha!” Formerly you were stunned; the breath remained out. Now as it enters, by the pretext of the breath the Divine enters within. Every pore of you blossoms, every bud becomes a flower; a thousand thousand lotuses bloom on the lake of your consciousness. “Aha!”

And then both vanish—neither you are, nor God is; both are one, boundaries dissolved. The Great Union happens—then “Aho!” “Aah” is: to be struck dumb. “Aha” is: dumbstruck plus wonder. “Aho” is: wonder plus dumbstruck plus gratitude.

So “aah” can occur even to an atheist. “Aah” can happen to a scientist as well. When a scientist makes a new discovery, he is stunned; he cannot believe it; “aah” escapes him. “Aah” can happen to a mathematician too. When a problem has entangled him for years, and at last it is solved, the long tension collapses and a great peace is felt. This has nothing to do with religion yet. “Aah” can happen to the nonreligious. When Hillary reached Everest, “aah” burst forth. It has nothing to do with God. No one had ever reached there; an unprecedented event occurred. It does not make Hillary a theist.

When man first walked on the moon, “aah” must have arisen: “I am walking on the moon!” For centuries man has dreamt of it—every child is born lifting his hands to catch the moon. “For the first time I have reached the moon!” But even this has no necessary relation to God.

“Aha” arises for the poet, the painter, the sculptor. “Aah” can arise for the scientist, the mathematician, the logician. “Aha” happens—one step further, dumbstruck plus wonder—to the poet, the sage, the musician. When a musician lifts a melody never before touched—when that melody begins to play, becomes real, grows dense, begins to rain on all sides; or when a poet hums a song for which he had ached all his life—words would not come, feeling would not crystallize; when the lines fall into place, when rhythm and meter complete themselves...

“Aha” is a bit mysterious. “Aah” is very practical. And “Aho” is religious. It occurs only to the mystic absorbed in samadhi. It happens in enlightenment.

These sayings of Janaka are utterances of “Aho.” The matter refuses to be contained. In every verse he exclaims: “Aho! Aho!!” There is a deep feeling of gratitude here, a profound thankfulness. For the first time, faith is born; for the first time, a ray of trust descends into the dark. Until now one believed, thought, reasoned that God is—now God has entered within; now He is direct, immediate!

Vivekananda asked Ramakrishna, “Will you show me God? Will you prove God to me? I am in search of God. I am ready to argue.” Ramakrishna listened and said, “Are you ready to see now—or will you wait a little? Do you want it now?” Vivekananda was startled. He had asked many others—he used to ask all the sages of Bengal, “Is there God?” Some would try to prove it—quoting the Vedas, the Upanishads. And here is an unlettered man asking, “Now—or after a while?” As if God were kept in the house; as if He were tucked into one’s pocket!

“Now!” Vivekananda had never imagined anyone would ask thus. And before he could say anything, Ramakrishna stood up. Before Vivekananda could answer, Ramakrishna placed his foot on Vivekananda’s chest—and a loud cry leapt from Vivekananda’s mouth: “Aah!” He fell and remained unconscious for about an hour.

When he came to, his eyes were full of tears; the “aah” had turned into “aha.” When he looked at Ramakrishna, the “aha” transformed into “aho.” He was overwhelmed. He clutched Ramakrishna’s feet and said, “Now never leave me! I am foolish! Even if I leave or run away, you never leave me! What has happened?”

Vivekananda asked, “To what realm did you take me? All boundaries were lost; I was lost; a glimpse of incomparable peace and bliss! So God is!”

When thought freezes—“aah.” When feeling freezes—“aha.” When your entire being freezes—“aho.”

Frankl has done important work by introducing the “aha experience” into psychology. But Frankl is not a mystic; he has no taste of enlightenment or meditation. Therefore he could go only up to “aha,” not speak of “aho.” And his “aha” is very close to “aah,” because he has no firsthand experience. By a chain of reasoning, by a process of thought, he has inferred that such an experience exists. He has thought about Eckhart, Tertullian, Kabir, Meera—and on thinking, framed this theory. Still, the theory has value; at least it has put something into skulls packed with logic: that there may be something beyond it. But Frankl’s point is elementary. It needs to be drawn up to “aho”; only then does the divine dimension enter.

Every child is born brimming with the capacity for wonder. Every child lives in curiosity and inquiry. And every child is so delighted by tiny things that we can hardly believe it. On the riverbank or the seashore he gathers shells and conches—and thinks he is collecting diamonds and jewels! He picks up red, yellow, green pebbles. The parents explain, “Throw them away—why carry this burden?” He hides them in his pockets. At night the mother takes stones out of his bed, because they spill from all his pockets. He smuggles them in, hiding them.

We see stones; he sees diamonds. His capacity for wonder is not yet dead. His life-breath is still thrilled. Fresh and new, he has just come from the house of the Divine. His eyes can still see colors; they have not yet become dull and clouded. His ears can still hear tones. His hands have not yet died to touch; there is living awareness, there is sensitivity. That is why the child squeals with joy over the smallest things.

Have you watched a little child? … For no reason! … Over such tiny matters that you yourself cannot believe someone could be so happy about something so small! But slowly that capacity begins to die; we kill it, so it begins to die. Elders take no delight in a child’s curiosity. For them it is an obstacle. A child’s inquisitiveness is a nuisance, an annoyance. He keeps on asking. They don’t have answers. So his repeated questioning makes them uneasy, because they have no answers. Or the answers they do have—they themselves know—are hollow. And it is hard to deceive children.

The child asks: Who made this earth? And you say: God did. Then he asks: Who made God? You scold and shout. By scolding you are only saying that your answer is hollow. The child has exposed your ignorance. He has said, “Father, whom are you deceiving? God made the world!” He asks, “Who made God?” You say, “Shut up, you fool. When you grow up you will know.”

Did you come to know when you grew up? You are only postponing. You are trying to escape. You are saying, “Don’t trouble me; I myself don’t know.” But you don’t have the courage to say simply, “I don’t know.” When the child asked, “Who made the earth, who made the world?”—if only you had been honest and said, “I am also searching. If I find out I will tell you. If you ever find out, tell me. But I don’t know”—then the capacity for wonder would not die.

The child goes to school and asks the teachers, “Who made the world?”—and if they were to say, “We don’t know. We search, but so far nothing is known; it is a great mystery. You also search”—then… No, but it is difficult: the father’s ego—how can a father not know! Once he is a father, he must be a knower of everything! A woman becomes a mother and suddenly knows everything! A man starts teaching in a primary school, gets a job for a hundred rupees—and he becomes a knower of all things!

So there is the teacher’s ego, the father’s ego, the mother’s ego, the elder brothers’, the family’s, the society’s ego—and you think a small child can be saved among so many egos? Innocent, his delicate wonder—under your egos it will be pressed, crushed, killed. You will grind it down everywhere. Wherever he goes he will be scolded. Wherever he shows curiosity he will feel as if he has done something wrong; because whomever he questions takes it as if some mistake is being made. Ask a question and they get angry; or they give such an answer in which there is no answer. If he asks again, they say, “Don’t be foolish.”

Leave aside ordinary people; those whom you call great wise men are in the same condition.

Once Janaka organized a great scriptural debate. Yajnavalkya, the great scholar of that time, also went to it. Janaka had a thousand cows standing at the palace gate as the prize—whoever won could take them. Yajnavalkya was a grand pundit. He told his disciples, “The cows are standing in the sun; you take them away, I will argue later.” He must have had that much confidence in his debating skill. A very egoistic personality he must have been. And indeed, he was a pundit; he defeated everyone in argument. But those were extraordinary times! A woman stood up to debate. Her name was Gargi. She asked Yajnavalkya questions and put him in difficulty.

A woman is closer to children than men are. That is why even when a woman grows old there remains on her face a certain innocence and childlikeness; that is her beauty. A woman is closer to children because she can still cry, she can still laugh. Men are completely dried up.

So all the others were pundits—those dried-up pundits Yajnavalkya defeated—but a vibrant woman stood up. She said, “Listen, debate with me too.” Those were good days; until then women had not been barred from debate. After Yajnavalkya women were barred from disputation and told they could not study the Vedas. This was a great misdeed. But there was a reason behind it: Gargi! Gargi made Yajnavalkya sweat. Any child would have done it; there was nothing special in Gargi except this: she was still filled with wonder. She began to ask questions. She asked a simple question. The pundits had asked very intricate questions, and Yajnavalkya had answered even those.

Answering intricate questions is always easy. Answering simple questions is always hard. Because the question is so simple that it leaves no room for an answer. When a question is very difficult it leaves a lot of room—this corner, that corner, a thousand paths. When a question is absolutely direct and simple—like someone asking, “What is yellow?” What will you do? The question is absolutely direct and simple. You will say, “Yellow is yellow.” He will say, “Is that any answer? What is yellow? Explain!”

Yellow is such a simple matter that there is no way to explain it; you cannot even define it. Any definition will be a tautology. If you say “Yellow is yellow,” that is mere repetition. Is that any definition? You have simply repeated the same thing; the matter remains where it was, the question remains stuck.

Gargi did not ask any very difficult questions; she must have been a plain, straightforward woman. And there the trouble arose. If she too had been a complicated woman, Yajnavalkya would have defeated her. She said, “I want to ask only little questions. On what is this earth supported?”

Yajnavalkya must have been frightened right then: this is a tricky matter; this is not a scriptural question. So he gave the mythological answer: that a turtle holds the earth, that the earth rests on a turtle. This answer is childish. This answer is utterly false. Gargi asked, “And on what is the turtle resting?” This is a child’s question. That is why I say Gargi created the tangle—because she was a simple, wonder-filled woman. “On what is the turtle standing?”

Yajnavalkya’s panic must have increased, because this is a difficult matter: she will just keep asking. Suppose you say, “On an elephant.” Then, “On what is the elephant standing?” How far will you go? In the end it will not be solved.

So he thought it better simply to silence her—just as all pundits, all teachers, all parents are more eager to silence than to answer. Somehow shut the mouth! So he said, “Everything stands on God; he supports all.”

Gargi said, “Just one more question: Who supports God?”

That is why I say this was a child’s question—direct and simple. Yajnavalkya flew into a rage. He said, “This is an excessive question, Gargi! If you ask further, your head will be cut from your body!”

Is that any answer? Yet this is exactly the answer all fathers have been giving: If you ask too much, you will be beaten! Your head will be separated from your body! “Your head will roll, Gargi, if you ask further! This is an excessive question.”

What does “excessive question” mean? Can any question be excessive? Either all questions are excessive—then don’t ask at all, don’t answer at all—or to call some question “excessive” only means one thing: I don’t know the answer; don’t ask this. You don’t know the answer, therefore the question becomes excessive! That is why you are angry!

And that was the last day in India’s history; thereafter women were forbidden to study the Vedas, forbidden to read the scriptures—because women were dangerous. They were like small children. They began to create trouble for the pundits. A dark night began in India for women. All avenues of thought and reflection were taken away from them.

This is exactly what we have done with children. How long can a child preserve his sense of wonder? Sooner or later he understands that no one is interested in his questions, no one is a companion to his wonder; and wherever he expresses wonder, wherever he shows curiosity, everyone behaves as if he is committing some sin. The child understands these hints. He begins to drink down his wonder, to restrain it, to suppress it. The day a child suppresses his wonder, that very day childhood dies. From that day on he begins to grow old. From that day on there is no growth in life—only death happens.

The paramount ambition is: to be accepted by people! A child wants the father to accept him, the mother to accept him—because he depends on them. He wants the mother to love him, the father to love him—so he thinks, let me not do anything that makes father angry or uneasy, otherwise the love will stop. Let me not ask anything that makes mother angry. Let me not ask anything that makes the teacher angry. Slowly, in order to get love, to get acceptance, so that others will cooperate in his life—on that basis, wonder dies. The child drops wonder and clutches at the ego. This is all the ego’s ambition: to be respected among people, not insulted; that everyone should accept me; that everyone should say, “What a good, quiet, gentle child!”

The one who asks questions looks like a nuisance. The one who asks beyond the limit begins to look like a rebel. If you keep interrogating everything, it creates a big obstruction.

When I was small, my family wouldn’t let me go to any public gathering; they’d say, “Because of you even our name gets maligned.” I simply couldn’t stop. If some swami was speaking, I would stand up in the middle—and everyone would glare in annoyance: “This child has come to create a mess!” I simply could not refrain from asking. And I never found an answer beyond which no further question remained. Naturally the swamis got angry. I was expelled from college because my teacher said, “We’ll resign if you remain in this class… Either you leave, or we will.”

I had gone to college to study philosophy, and the professor who taught philosophy said that if I asked questions, they would resign. That was the limit! Then what philosophy will you teach? You sit to teach philosophy and won’t allow questions!

I understand their difficulty too—now even better. Because study could not happen at all. There was no end to my questioning, and they didn’t have the courage to say, regarding any question, “I don’t know the answer”—that was the snag. They would give some sort of answer, and I would then find the flaw in it.

It so happened that for eight months we didn’t move beyond the first lesson. I understand their panic too, but it could have been solved by a small thing: if they had simply said, “I don’t know”—the matter would have ended. I kept telling them: just say, “I don’t know,” and I won’t trouble you further. Then it’s finished. But if you say, “I know,” then the dispute will go on—even if it ruins my life and yours.

After eight months they felt, “This is getting impossible now; exams are approaching—what about the others?” Gradually it reached the point where the other students stopped coming to class: “What’s the point? These two just argue; nothing moves forward!” Nor could it move forward. Because there is no answer about which further questions cannot be asked. Every answer gives birth to new questions.

Yes, had they shown even a little humility, the matter would have been resolved. I told them again and again: say just once that you don’t know the answer, and it’s over; then it would be discourteous of me to ask you. But if you say you know, then I am compelled—I will have to ask.

He even resigned; he took three days’ leave and sat at home. He said, “I will come only when this student is no longer there!”

You don’t let wonder survive. Now this was natural, because my examination papers were in his hands. It was certain I was going to fail—there was no doubt about it. He too thought that gradually I would understand that exams were near, so I should now keep quiet. I told him, I am not concerned about exams and the like. If this question is resolved, everything is resolved.

If we want respect, then naturally we have to conform—we have to be ready to accept whatever people say.

Wonder dies out of the ambition of the ego. If you want to be successful, wonder won’t do. People filled with wonder are bound to fail. They cannot be successful anywhere, because to be successful you need others’ cooperation. To be successful you must be respected. To be successful… where is the way to success without others?

If you are willing to fail, then no one can kill your wonder. But that is very difficult. Who is willing to fail! If you are willing to be a nobody, then no one can kill your wonder.

But the ego naturally longs for certificates, for awards; for teachers to honor you; for parents to honor you; for the village, the town, the society to honor you; for people to say, “Look what a worthy son he is!” But then wonder will die. The poetry within you will die. The curiosity within you will die. That rippling sensitivity, the capacity to feel the mysterious, will go numb! You will turn to stone. The stream of your life’s sap will dry up. You will become a desert. You will be successful—but in becoming successful you will have squandered life; you will die before you die.

I tell you: remain unsuccessful—no problem; but don’t let wonder die! Because wonder is the doorway to the Divine. Fill yourself with wonder! The vaster your wonder, the deeper your inquiry, the greater the possibility that the Vast will descend into you. If you ask, if you call, if you seek—you will find.

Jesus has said: Knock, and the doors shall be opened! Ask, and the answer shall be given. Seek, and you shall be filled!

But if there is no sensitivity within you—if you do not ask, you do not seek, you do not set out on a journey, you just sit there like a lump, like a cow-dung Ganesha idol… Though everyone will praise you greatly: “Look how sweet Lord Ganesha appears!”

It often happens that the more a child is like a cow-dung Ganesha, the more the parents praise him. If he just sits like a lump of clay, they say, “See how adorable our Ganesha is!” But that child has died—died before being born. If the child is troublesome… and by troublesome I mean he breaks his parents’ notions; by troublesome I mean he raises questions for which the parents have no answers; he learns a way of living which his parents neither have the courage nor the capacity to accept. If the parents are theists, the child asks questions that smell of atheism. If the parents are traditionalists, the child brings up things that break the beaten track, break tradition. The child is not a slave to the line.

So the whole society—so vast a society: the state, the police, the courts—are all sitting ready to murder wonder. Once your wonder dies, you become mechanical; then you are fit, useful, efficient. Then you will not ask, you will not raise questions; you will silently do whatever you are told.

Watch what they do in the military! They drill for hours. “Left turn! Right turn!” Someone might ask: why make them turn left-right for hours on end? There is a deep psychological reason behind it. They want to kill the person’s very personhood. They say: when we say “left turn,” you turn left. No question should arise within you: “Why?”

Say to an ordinary man standing on the road, “Left turn,” and he will ask, “Why?” Naturally: for what? If there is a reason, he will turn left. But in the military, if you ask, “Why turn left? What is the reason?”—you are asking the wrong thing. There is no question of reasons—there is obedience. Your brain must be molded so that you can do whatever you are told without thinking—that is skill; efficiency. Thinking takes time. If we say, “Left turn,” and you start thinking—Should I turn? Should I not? What’s the point? In a moment they will say “Right turn” and we will be back here; we might as well stand here—then you cannot become a soldier.

To become a soldier means that not even a ripple of thought remains in you; not a single wave of thinking remains; you become utterly mechanical; when told “left turn,” you turn like a machine, so much so that even if you want to stop yourself, you cannot.

William James recounts that during the First World War he was sitting in a hotel talking with friends. A retired soldier was passing outside with a basket of eggs on his head. Just to demonstrate how mechanical man can become, James shouted loudly from inside the hotel, “Attention!” The soldier outside, carrying the eggs, snapped to attention. He had been out of the service for ten years! All the eggs fell, scattered, and shattered on the road. He was furious. “Who is the fool who shouted ‘Attention’?” William James said, “What is it to you? We are entitled to shout ‘Attention’; you don’t have to come to attention!” He said, “Is that even possible? For thirty years ‘Attention’ means ‘Attention’—now it is in my blood. This is not a proper joke.”

This mechanicalness has to be produced in a soldier. Only then, when told “Shoot! Fire!” he does not ask, “What has this man done to me that I should shoot him?” He does not think, “He must have a wife at home, children—just like mine.” He does not think, “He must have an old mother, perhaps dependent on him; an old father, perhaps blind; he is the staff of their life.” He thinks nothing. “Shoot!”—so he shoots, because he is mechanical.

The man who dropped the atom bomb on Hiroshima—and within ten minutes a hundred thousand people were ashes—returned and slept. In the morning, when journalists asked, “Did you sleep last night?” he said, “Why not? I slept very soundly! The order was carried out; that’s all. What have I to do with how many died or did not die? Those who made the policy know—that’s their business. Mine? I was told: go, drop the bomb at such a place—I dropped it. Job done, I came back and slept in peace.”

A hundred thousand human beings die—reduced to ash by the bomb you drop—and you sleep soundly that night. Think a little—what does this mean? A hundred thousand! Turned to ash! You knew none of them; none had ever harmed you; you had no quarrel with anyone. Among them were infants at the breast, who could not have harmed anyone even if they wanted to; there were children still in the womb, unborn—how could they have harmed anyone! A little girl climbing the stairs to do her homework—right there she became ash, pasted to the wall! Her schoolbag, her books, all ash, stuck to the wall!

A hundred thousand turned to ash—and this man says, “I slept well.”

That is a soldier. A soldier means: he obeys. In this world the harm done by the obedient far exceeds the harm done by the disobedient. If we want a good world, we will have to break this blindness of obedience. We must give the individual so much discernment that he can think when to obey and when not to.

Consider: he could have said, “Fine—shoot me if you wish. But I will not go to kill a hundred thousand people. If my death can save a hundred thousand, then shoot me.” Think: if every soldier who was told, “Drop the atom bomb on Hiroshima,” had said, “Shoot me—I am ready; but I will not drop it,” a revolution would have happened in the world.

Has man lost so much strength, so much capacity to think? And that is why drilling is necessary—so that, slowly, slowly, the capacity to think is lost.

Soldier and sannyasin are two poles. A sannyasin means: he will do what feels right to him, whatever the consequence. And a soldier means: he will do what he is told, whatever the consequence. A sannyasin will be rebellious—fundamentally so. That is why I say: a religious person will be a rebel. If someone is religious and not rebellious, know well he is not religious. He has mistaken being a soldier for being a sannyasin. He also goes to the temple, he performs worship; but his worship is only another form of drill. He has been told to worship in such-and-such a way—he does it; ring the bell like this—he rings it; sprinkle water, pour Ganges water, apply tilak—he does it. But all this is drill. This man is not religious; for the religious man is one who lives by his inner discernment.

This world is greatly opposed to religion. There are three hundred religions on earth, yet this world is greatly opposed to religion. These three hundred religions are all murderers of religion. They have erased religion—and are still trying. Religion dies if you become obedient. I am not saying: be disobedient—be careful. Do not misunderstand me. I am saying: be discerning… Then whatever feels right in an order, do it; and what does not feel right—whatever the consequence—never do it. Then wonder will be reborn in your life. The ashes that have settled upon your life-breath will fall away; the ember will glow and shine. In that glow alone does anyone reach the Divine.

The path to the Divine is not to be a soldier—the path to the Divine is to be a sannyasin. And a sannyasin means: one who has decided to take every risk but not sell his discernment; to take every risk—even if life itself is to be lost, he is ready to lose it—but not to sell his inner freedom.

Freedom does not mean license. Freedom means discernment. Freedom means the supreme responsibility that “I will live with an understanding of my own responsibility, I will live by my own light; not secondhand, not traditional, not as a slave to the line.” Because the conditions of the world keep changing, and the lines don’t change. The world changes every day; the maps remain old. The world changes every day; the orders are old. If you take orders from the Vedas, how will you not go astray? If you take orders from the Koran, from the Gita, how will you not go astray? Read the Gita, understand the Gita—but take orders always from your own soul. Take advice from anywhere you like; take orders from nowhere. That is the difference between advice and order.

Advice means: wherever you hear something auspicious, listen, contemplate, understand. But never take an order from anywhere. For orders, the Divine sits within you—take them from there.

Your capacity for wonder has died because you desired the ego; it has died in the ambition of the ego. If you want wonder to awaken again, remove the rocks of the ego—then the spring of wonder will flow. And that wonder will refresh you, make you virginal, make you new. You will again see the world as it is meant to be seen. These green trees will be green in quite another way. These roses will be rosy in quite another way.

This world is very beautiful—but the wonder in your eyes is lost; stones have gathered over your eyes. This world is unparalleled, because the Divine is present here, it is suffused with the Divine! God is hidden in every stone here; therefore there are no mere stones here—everywhere, only Kohinoors. From every stone his light is shining, his radiance. But you need eyes of wonder.

That is why Jesus said: Blessed are they who are like little children, for they alone shall enter my Lord’s kingdom. He is pointing precisely to wonder.

Hide-and-seek is the entire relationship between Master and disciple. Not that he plays it “sometimes”—that is the relationship. And not only between Master and disciple; it is the very relationship between the Divine and creation. The Master and the disciple play, on a small scale, the vast game the Divine is playing with existence on a grand scale.

Here the Divine is hidden everywhere, calling from all directions: “Come, touch me, search for me!” The day you hear that call and begin to seek, you will discover such joy in the seeking that you may even say, “Don’t be in a hurry to reveal yourself.”

When you were small you played children’s games—hide-and-seek. In a single room the children hide: one presses under the bed, another slips behind a chair—and everyone knows more or less where everyone is, because all are half-peeking. Still the game goes on. Even the one who has seen where you are runs here and there; he does not come straight to where you hide—because then the game would end. You too know where he is coming from. You are watching, he is watching; yet the game continues.

In the ultimate sense, this is the meaning of lila, the divine play. The Divine is not hidden in a way that he cannot be found; he is hidden so close that if you extend your hand, you touch him. But when you realize he is this near, you say, “Let the play continue a little.”

As soon as your rosy arrow pricks, from every flowing particle burst upon burst a moist song of honeyed streams. Within my small life grant not even a grain of satiation; let the thirsty eyes remain, brimming with oceans of tears. Dwell within my mind, veiled in the shawl of sorrow, so that, in the guise of seeking you, I may grow intimate with every particle. Abide as the bright-and-shadowed mirroring of tear-filled eyes. Let me see all through you, yet not be able to see you.

The devotee says: Let me see everything through you; hide within my eyes; let me see all by you—and yet not see you. And let this game go on.

Dwell within my mind, veiled in sorrow, so that, under the pretext of seeking you— under the excuse of seeking you— I may become acquainted with every particle! Let me search, calling to you in each speck, peering at you in each wave—and by that very pretext, become intimate with the whole of existence!

Perhaps this is the secret of the Divine’s hiding: that under the pretext of seeking him you may become acquainted with the great mystery of existence. He will remain hidden until you are familiar with the total mystery of this world. You will find him here, and he will hide there—so that you may become familiar there too. Thus he leads you along, making you run after him.

When the devotee truly understands that it is a game, anxiety ends in that very instant. Seeking ceases to be a tension and becomes a joy. Impatience drops.

Within my small life grant not even a grain of satiation! Then the devotee says: Do not satiate me, for if I am satisfied, I will cease to seek you. What taste could there be in satiation compared to the taste of seeking you? Your waiting, your longing—what could be more delicious than this?

Within my small life grant not even a grain of satiation; let the thirsty eyes remain, filling with oceans of tears. Do not worry, do not be troubled that my tears are making oceans. Do not worry. There is bliss in this for me. I am steeped in rasa. I do not weep from sorrow!

A devotee weeps from joy, from awe. His tears carry flowers, not thorns; there is no complaint, no grievance; there is prayer, gratitude, thanksgiving!

What happens on the grand scale between the Divine and creation—the same game plays, on a small scale, between Master and disciple. And if you learn to play on the small scale, you can then play on the great; that is its whole utility.

As a man learning to swim begins near the shore; he does not plunge at once into the depths, else he would drown. He learns where the water is shallow, up to the throat; then he gradually goes into the deeper.

The Master is like the shore of the Divine; there you can learn a little of the play, practice a little of the sport. When you become skilled at swimming, when you learn the rules of the play and the meaning of lila—then go into the deep! Then enter the oceans.

So the Master is but the lesson in entering the Divine. Therefore, what happens in creation on a vast scale happens on a small scale between Master and disciple.

You have asked rightly: it is a game of hide-and-seek.

The Master tells you one thing; you begin to fulfill it, and instantly he tells you another. You come near to obeying one instruction, and he pulls it all down. You are in a hurry to have it settled somehow; the Master is not in such a hurry. He says: What is solved quickly is no solution at all. This is a mystery so profound that it cannot be resolved in haste. These are not seasonal plants; these are great trees that touch the sky, that live for thousands of years, that converse with the moon and stars; they require waiting...

I have heard: The wife of the sage Kashyapa longed for a son of great being—no ordinary son would do. Being Kashyapa’s wife, what need had she to wish for an ordinary child? At least like Kashyapa; indeed, greater than Kashyapa—that was her longing: a great soul, a bodhisattva, one like the Buddha! She prayed deeply. It is said God was pleased, and Vinata—her name—was given an egg from which a great-souled son would be born. But she was perplexed. As per the rule, a child should be born in nine months; there was no sign of a child. Not nine months—years passed. She grew troubled. She was in haste that the child should be born. As she grew old she broke the egg. A child emerged—but half-formed. That child, says the Purana, is Aruna—the one who later became the charioteer of the sun.

When Aruna was born, he said to his mother in anger: “Listen, you desire a great-souled son, but you have no skill or capacity for great waiting. You broke the egg halfway! I had only half developed.”

The mother said, “But I have waited years!” The son replied, “Then you should not have desired a great-souled son. An ordinary child comes in nine months. For a great soul, great waiting is needed.”

Disciples are always in haste. They want it now—if someone would just give it and end the bother. You have no taste for the search. The Master knows that the joy of seeking should grow so abundant that you can even say, “Even if it does not happen, it is fine; the search itself is so full of rasa—who cares!” That very day it happens. Keep this tied in your knot.

Let me repeat: The day you are able to say, “Now it is up to you; we are not concerned about meeting and merging; but the search is so blissful—we will go on seeking; you keep hiding,” on that very day the search becomes needless, on that very day hiding loses its meaning. When the search itself becomes the joy of union, when the path begins to feel like the destination, the destination can no longer remain hidden—on that very day, meeting happens. Great waiting is needed.

You are the immortal vow; I am the slow-footed traveler of separation. Let me fade as I come and go, never touch the path’s far limit. In gaining you, may I lose you; in losing, may I know it as gain. Let this perpetual unsatedness be life, let this eternal thirst be my dissolution.

Like lightning among the clouds, your image forms and is gone; upon the canvas of the eyes, which I cannot encompass. As a radiance you vanish, in the tangle of moonbeams, so that in every particle I search for you and yet cannot recognize you.

A vast waiting is needed, a great waiting.

So the Master will often say: “Now it is happening, now it is happening—almost there!” Only so that you remain engaged in the search; so that your courage is sustained. “Arriving, arriving,” the Master keeps saying: “See, the shore is drawing near; birds are beginning to be seen in flight; look, trees are visible on the far bank—now we will arrive!” So your heart stays strong.

Your courage is weak. And as soon as you begin to become steady in any station, begin to build a house beneath some shelter and mistake a camping place for the destination—the Master instantly uproots the tent. He says, “Come, that’s enough—there is still far to go. Do not build a house here.” Such hide-and-seek goes on. Little by little you begin to understand this secret—only through experience. Slowly you see that the real thing is not attaining, but seeking; not having arrived, but the endeavor to arrive. The real thing is the journey, not the destination. I understand your great hurry to somehow arrive—to find a backdoor, bribe a gatekeeper, get inside; or some shortcut! But there is no shortcut, no backdoor, no bribe. Neither your merits nor your austerities will do it.

The Divine is an endless journey. If you think of the Divine as a “destination,” you will fall into error—because destination means: you sit down afterward; nothing remains. The Divine is continuous life; therefore sitting cannot happen—journeying goes on. The Divine is a process, not a thing. If you think of him as a thing, there will be confusion, a mistake. The Divine is process—ongoing, living, flowing. As the river flows to the ocean, and the ocean rises and flows toward the river as clouds—so the seeker keeps seeking the Divine, and the Divine keeps seeking the seeker. It is a game of hide-and-seek.

The day you understand it is a play, tension ends; then the play is sheer delight. We are such mad people that even in play we create tension. You have seen two men playing cards—how heavy-headed they become, ready to fight and kill! Swords drawn over games of chess! People have murdered each other playing chess. How crazed we become! And there is nothing there—no elephants, no horses, no king—just wood, or at most ivory. All make-believe, yet such passion arises that life itself is staked.

The worldly man is the one who makes even play into seriousness. The sannyasin is the one who makes even seriousness into play.

You are the immortal vow; I am the slow-footed traveler of separation. Let me fade as I come and go, never touch the path’s far limit. The devotee says: Why find the path’s limit—who found it, and what would one do after finding it?

Let me fade as I come and go, never touch the path’s far limit. In gaining you, may I lose you; in losing, may I know it as gain! That is the meaning of hide-and-seek.

Let this perpetual unsatedness be life, let this eternal thirst be my dissolution! Let me be spent seeking you! Let the thirst remain ever alive! I do not want to become sated upon attaining you—says the devotee. Your unsatedness is so dear!

Like lightning among clouds, your image forms and is gone— so swift will the Divine image sometimes appear and vanish!

Upon the canvas of the eyes, which I cannot encompass. It will arise and fade so quickly that you cannot store it in the mind. You cannot make an image; your wonder remains wonder. You cannot say, “I have known.”

Hence the Upanishads say: He who says, “I have known,” has not known. And he who says, “I know nothing”—perhaps he knows.

Like lightning among clouds, your image forms and is gone. Upon the canvas of the eyes, which I cannot encompass. No image can be bound. A glimpse comes and goes—and with such swiftness, such intensity, that you cannot close your fist around it. Even if you close your fist, it remains empty. The Divine cannot be grasped in the fist—not by words, nor doctrines, nor scriptures. Nowhere will you be able to confine his image. He remains formless. Even when visions happen, he remains formless. Even when found, he always remains yet to be found.

As a radiance you vanish in the tangle of moonbeams, so that I search for you in every particle and still cannot recognize you. The devotee is not in a hurry. And for the one who is not in a hurry, the happening happens soon. But the one in great haste wanders for aeons and it does not happen.

If you want to find the Divine right now, consent to infinite waiting. Say: “Come when it is time—there is no hurry. We will go on seeking; in the seeking we are deeply fulfilled. Even in unsatedness, we are well fulfilled. These tears of separation are full of great joy.”

Before dawn the night becomes intensely dark. And it is from the womb of darkness that the morning is born. So when I go on speaking to you of light, don’t think that the moment you go within you will at once find light. First you will have to pass through the deep night. At the end of that night is the morning, the light.

Christian mystics have called this state the “Dark Night of the Soul”—only they have given it such a lovely name; no one else has. And they did well, because all the scriptures—the Quran, the Vedas, the Upanishads—speak of God as light; that is the ultimate statement. But when the seeker goes within, the light does not appear all at once. And if it does appear all at once, be a little suspicious—because that light will be of imagination, not real. You have heard again and again, read again and again in the scriptures, that God is light, light… And there is no end to the crazies!

A few days ago a man took sannyas. He said, “I was initiated by Bal Yogeshwar. He explained to me that by pressing the eyes with the thumbs one experiences light—a great experience. I press my eyes and I have a great experience. Should I continue it or stop it?”

Are you crazy or what? If you press the eyes with your thumbs, a shimmering, prickling sensation arises and light seems to appear; that happens to anyone. What has that to do with spirituality? Anyone who presses the eyes hard will produce a flicker, and from that flicker light seems to appear. That “light” is only because the eyes are being pressed. And you are taking this to be spiritual light?

And he has been doing this for two years. His eyes have been damaged as well—because if you keep pressing the eyes… And then, as he began to get a taste for it, he pressed even harder: the more you press, the more light appears. Amazing, isn’t it! This is what is called Bal Yogeshwar’s “knowledge”: the light that arises by pressing the eyes—this is knowledge.

Then there are people who say, “Visualize light within. Close your eyes and see, between the two eyes, that a lamp’s flame is burning, or a point of light—keep your attention on it.” If you make such an imagination, gradually the imagination will become very strong. You will begin to see light—but it is false light. Dharma Jyoti has asked this question. It is going well! Only by passing through the dark night will the morning come—the morning you cannot bring, which comes on its own. It comes by passing through the dark night. Pass through the dark night peacefully; go on. Just before the light draws near, the night will become very dark. But it is auspicious, because along with the darkness there is a cool and pleasant feeling. So it is entirely auspicious. Do not be afraid of the dark; be in love with the dark—then the morning is not far. If there is fear you will begin to run away. If you run, you will go far from the morning. If you run from the darkness, you will move away from the dawn.

And cool, soothing… it is entirely auspicious. The experience of darkness is cool and gentle. It is only because of fear that we fail to experience it. From childhood we acquire a wrong notion about darkness. A child is afraid of the dark because he is left alone. In the darkness he panics—someone might come, someone might strike, he might be hurt, something might fall. A little child! That fear takes root.

And in the history of the human race too—ten thousand, twenty thousand years ago—when man lived in forests, in caves, when fire had not yet been discovered, the night was terrifying. Because wild animals attacked at night; the day somehow passed, the attacks came at night. In the day there was the light of the sun; a man could save himself, could run away. At night lions roared and hunted. There were a thousand kinds of wild beasts; to survive among them was very difficult. All that became associated with the night.

Psychologists say that in every human being’s unconscious that caveman’s experience is still there; it has not gone. It has become embedded in the body’s memory. Hence we fear the dark. Now there is no reason—one sits at home, electricity is at hand; press a button and there is light; there is no such hassle. In the country a “festival of discipline” is going on—no disturbances, no cause for fear. You are sitting in your room, and still you are panicking at the dark. That experience from twenty thousand years ago is in your every vein. You too are born from that same man; the chain is linked to him. It has not been forgotten; it is lodged very deep. So darkness seems frightening. Man becomes afraid of the dark.

But the one who is afraid of the dark will never be able to go within. His inner journey will not happen. On the inner journey one has to pass through the dark. The inner journey is an entry into the inner cave.

It is auspicious. Go—joyfully, peacefully! The morning is near too. As the darkness deepens, kindle that much trust: now the morning is drawing near, now it is coming close.

Only keep one thing in mind: do not become attached to this darkness. One danger is fear—that a person may panic and run away. And there is a second danger: because it feels cool and pleasant, do not become attached to it; otherwise you will not allow the morning to be born. Your attachment will make you clutch at it. Slowly, because of that attachment, you will become gripped by the darkness.

There are many who have created just such bondages.

So many people come to me; I am astonished! I see someone holding on to his sadness, clinging to it. He says he does not want sadness, yet he does everything that ensures he will be sad. He talks about being pulled out of sadness, but as I am explaining, I can see he is not even listening. Perhaps even after hearing me he will become sadder. I have seen people who say, “We were already sad; listening to you we have become even more sad.”

“What did I say to you?”

“You spoke so much of light and delight that we felt—oh, how much we are missing! And sadness came. So our life has gone to waste!”

See: I speak of light, of the divine—rise, awake, seek. They say, “We became even lazier and fell down—what a blow! We had thought everything was going fine. And you brought up such matters! That made us even more sad.”

People form relationships with suffering. Such relationships grow old and habitual, and then even if you want to drop them, they don’t drop. You free yourself with one hand and with the other you are making them again. Be a little mindful of this.

Yesterday I was reading a song: A sad solitude Has come to suit my life! Even bearing your longing It came dyed the hue of despair. Why did love’s suspicion Not come to me? How many goblets lie empty, How many have overflowed! In the airs of love Stand palaces of illusion; In beauty’s glow Lurk the hazes of thought. How pale are the colors Of my desires! Ah, why has my nature Grown afraid of the light? Ah, why has my nature Grown afraid of the light? A lover of seclusions, Shy of public company— A sad solitude Has come to suit my life.

Do not let this sadness start to suit you. Do not make companionship with this sadness. Do not form an alliance with this sadness. Do not end up marrying this sadness. It is cool and pleasant.

Ah, why has my nature Grown afraid of the light?

And if you build too much relationship with it, you will begin to be afraid of light.

Some people are afraid of darkness; frightened of it, they run—and so they never reach the light. Then there are those who begin to fear the light—because they have fallen in love with the dark. The one who has asked—Dharma Jyoti—there is a danger for her; that’s why I am saying this. There is a danger that she may make too deep a bond with this darkness, this melancholy, this quiet. If that bond becomes too strong, then the dawn—the dawn that could have come—may not happen. Therefore, pass through the darkness—pass through joyfully, humming a song. Darkness is indeed cool and soothing, very restful! But remember: darkness is only the womb of light. Darkness is only negation; the affirmation is light. It is to light that one must arrive. Pass through the darkness; in the darkness be refined, bathe—but the journey is toward light.

If someone remains only in darkness, he may be peaceful, but love will not arise in his life.

Buddha has said: if meditation happens yet compassion does not arise, know that somewhere something has been missed; the matter stopped short. In darkness, a person may attain to meditation; but only when light dawns will he attain to love. And when both meditation and love bear fruit together, only then do fruit and flower both appear on the tree of a person; only then is one truly successful and well-fruited.

Dharma Jyoti is in danger, because she is greatly afraid of love. She has not known love in life. Early on she fell into the circles of some wrong gurus who made her believe that love is sin; who made her believe that the body is sin; who made her believe that relationship is the world—and one must go beyond it. They frightened her deeply. She has broken free of them, yet their notions still lie in the deep unconscious. Therefore there is the fear that an alliance may be struck with darkness.

So be alert: do not be afraid of light. If light comes near, do not close your eyes. If light comes near, do not shut the door. For on the path to God there may be darkness, but the attainment of God is light. Keep waiting for that—even in the dark night! Even in the dark night, keep trying to recognize Him.

When the rays, with their tears, wipe the stain of pain from the lotus-petal, startled by the trusting touch of the breeze, the stars stand amazed, as if unknowing. In the silvery shell of earth and sky, when the ocean trembles like a liquid pearl, from floating clusters of soft snowy cloud, in the silver, shoreless expanse of moonlight— the one who, becoming fragrance, gives me gentle pats, like the soft exhalation of sleep—who is he!

Even in the dark, the one who lulls you with gentle pats—remember: it is He!

The one who, becoming fragrance, gives me gentle pats, like the soft exhalation of sleep—who is he!

He who comes and surrounds you even in sleep—that too is the Divine. He who encircles you like darkness—that too is the Divine. The cool shade that seems like darkness is also His cool shade. That sweet, peace-giving, restful feeling that envelops you in darkness is also news of His nearness—He is somewhere close by!

Do not forget Him, and keep the search on. What sleeps today will awaken tomorrow. What today is pressed under darkness—will surface. Soon the crimson of Him will be visible on the horizon.

I feel that my God is sleeping in the chamber of heedless dreams; my restless heart has been crying for ages. Is this defeat—or a trial, a display of the Lord of the worlds’ grace and bounty? The gale of savagery has plundered life’s bridal ornament, has looted the enchantment, the intoxication of youth. I feel this: that the Maker of life is asleep. Man is washing his hands of love, of the beauty and color of existence. Sometime the sleeper will awaken; sometime the light of morning will dispel all this darkness. Sometime the sleeper will awaken; sometime the light of morning will dispel all this darkness.

It will happen—indeed it is about to happen! It is certain! When night has come, morning is not far. When the darkness thickens and the canopy of stars deepens, the sun is drawing near. Soon its red line will spread across the horizon.

Wait! Pray! Keep hope awake! Keep calling with open eyes! Darkness is His too; light is His too! Death is His, and life is His. Therefore, recognize Him everywhere.

Hari Om Tat Sat!