Man Hi Pooja Man Hi Dhoop #8

Ashok Satyarthi, that’s a fine one! You are sitting in satsang and asking what satsang is!

Kabir has spoken of many wonders; among them he says one wonder is that the fish is in the ocean and is thirsty. Surely, a fish in the ocean cannot be thirsty for water—fish are not so foolish. But there will be another thirst, another curiosity to know: What is this ocean? The fish must be asking herself, asking others—What is the ocean? Where is the ocean? How does one enter the ocean? And yet she was born in the ocean, has lived in the ocean, is in the ocean. But there is no distance between the ocean and the fish. Such intimacy, such nearness—that is why the ocean is not recognized.

Such is your condition, Ashok. Here you are immersed in the ocean. If you want to know what satsang is, there is only one way—turn your back on me for a few days, run as far as you can. As when a fish is taken out and thrown onto the shore, in the blazing noonday sun, on the burning sand—and instantly the fish will know what the ocean is—so unfathomable is life. What is given goes unnoticed; what is lost is noticed. Man is indeed obtuse. And Kabir did not speak of those wonders idly. People thought they were paradoxes, topsy-turvy sayings.

Kabir says it makes me laugh—the fish is thirsty in the ocean! But that is exactly what is happening.

You ask: “What is satsang?”

Truth itself is your life. In truth you are born; from truth you are born. The seers of the Vedas say: amritasya putrah—O children of the immortal!

Uddalaka said to his son Shvetaketu: tat tvam asi. Shvetaketu had asked, Who is that one—the one whom all seek, whom all inquire about? What is that One, by knowing which all is known?

It was Uddalaka who said to Shvetaketu: Seek that One, by knowing which all is known. Naturally Shvetaketu asked: What is that One? Where is it? And the rishi said to his son: tat tvam asi—Thou art That.

Why do we remain strangers to ourselves in this world? We become acquainted with others and remain unacquainted with our own being. The reason? Simply that there is no distance from ourselves. Who will be the knower there and what will be the known? Who will be the subject, who the object? Who the seer, who the seen? There both are one. There the seer is the seen. And that is why it is difficult.

You ask: “What is satsang?”

What is happening this very moment is satsang. Here my emptiness is speaking to you; there your emptiness is listening to me. The speaking is just a pretext. On that pretext my emptiness is meeting your emptiness. On that pretext your emptiness is dancing with mine, becoming wave-like. Speaking is only a peg; on it I have hung my emptiness, and you have hung yours—where two emptinesses meet and become one, there is satsang. And when two zeros come close they cannot help but become one. Two zeros together do not make two zeros; they make one zero. Even a thousand zeros together are still one zero, not a thousand.

Here so many people are sitting. Those who have dived with me—their count is gone, their statistics are no more; their name and address, their whereabouts have disappeared. The statue of salt has stepped into the ocean and become one with it. And without becoming one there is no way of knowing.

But the question has arisen in your mind precisely because, though you are in the ocean, you are still trying to save yourself. Stop saving yourself! This is the art of dissolving. This is a place for those who are ready to disappear. That is why I say: this is not a temple, it is a tavern, a wine-house. Drink and drown! Become so intoxicated that sobriety never returns—and that alone is the supreme sobriety! Disappear in such a way that you can never be made again—that disappearing is the great nirvana, samadhi. But you keep saving yourself. One way or another you keep hiding yourself.

You have no real concern with questions, nor with answers. What you are anxious about is: the answer to my question! The issue is the “my.” You want to hear your name on my lips; that is where your relish lies. Otherwise, I don’t answer an individual’s question—I answer many through one. I choose questions not by persons but by the question itself. I take up those that, though asked by someone, are rising in the hearts of many. Who asked is secondary; the question’s significance is primary.

But that is not your concern. You keep sending questions every day. Your one hope is that someday I will answer yours. You don’t even care what I might say; if your question is answered, your ego will be gratified. That very ego is keeping you away from satsang. There you are stuck. Even that much I-ness is enough to keep the distance, to maintain the gap.

If you want to drown in satsang, then what I, what you! If you want to drown in satsang, then what question and what answer! If you want to drown in satsang, you must learn another art—the art of falling into rhythm with me. Let your heart beat with mine, your breath move with my breath. The lamp that is lit within me will kindle your lamp as well. The melody that has arisen in me will begin to echo within you.

You must have heard the old tales of musicians and Raga Dipak—that a musician might sing in such a way, play such a strain, awaken such a raga, that extinguished lamps burst into flame. I don’t know whether this is true of musicians or not. I am no musician. It could be true. A particular impact of sound can generate heat; from the strike of sound, fire can be born. If fire can arise from the friction of two stones, why not from the friction of two sounds? It is possible.

But I am no musician, so I cannot speak with authority about that. In my understanding, this story belongs to other kinds of musicians. It is not about Tansen and Baiju Bawra; it is about Buddha, Krishna, Kabir, Raidas, Farid, Nanak, Mohammed, Jesus. For the supreme musicians, it is exactly true—utterly true! About that I can bear witness. I am direct proof of it. It is something my eyes have seen. And what I have not seen with my own eyes, I do not tell you. I speak only of what I have seen.

There is such a raga—beyond time, beyond mind. There is such a melody that if you learn the art of sitting near one in whom that raga has awakened—if you sit by him with an open mind, without any guard, laying aside all armor of protection, without any doubt, without any question—if there is simply the joy of sitting, just sitting, and slowly the boundaries of two persons begin to dissolve into each other—then the raga within him will awaken the raga within you. And this raga is of light. In one whose light is kindled, if you draw near, and nearer, and nearer, a moment will come when a flame will leap from his light, and your extinguished lamp too will catch fire.

This is what is called satsang. Satsang is where, near the lit lamps, the unlit lamps edge closer and, one day, flare into flame. Where from one lamp thousands are lit. The lamp from which thousands are kindled loses nothing; but those that are lit receive the greatest treasure in this world. Satsang has only one meaning: the art of sitting near the Satguru. And the art of sitting means: drop the ego, drop your name-address-identity, drop the mind’s doubts and suspicions. You have debated enough—what did you gain? You have pondered and analyzed enough—what did you earn? You have run and hustled enough—where did you arrive? Now sit a little at ease near me—not in search of an answer!

When someone sits by a rose, is he looking for an answer? When someone gazes at the night sky, is he looking for an answer? When someone beholds the rising sun, is he looking for an answer? Just so it happens, sometimes, in a Satguru—the stars of the whole sky descend into him! One who drops his boundaries, who breaks down his little courtyard, who becomes free of his walls—the whole sky is his. You let go of a small courtyard, and the whole sky becomes your own. The whole sky becomes your courtyard.

And in one within whom the sun of the self has risen, where the dawn has happened, where the birds of morning have begun to sing and their wings to flutter—just sit by him, abide. There is nothing to ask, nothing to say. There is to drown, and to be effaced—yes! And then you will know what satsang is.

Mukesh Bharti, this is an important question.

It is not that my religion is simple—religion itself is simple. And religion is not mine and yours. What does “my religion” mean? What does “my light” mean? “My fragrance”—what could that be? It is that same eternal fragrance—the sanatan. Esa dhammo sanantano! Whoever has known, from age to age, has said this. The language differs, but not the feeling. The words differ, but not their essence. The same song is sung—someone on the vina, someone on the flute, someone beats the mridang, someone plays the ektara. The instruments differ; the raga is not different—the scale is the same.

So first, there is no such thing as “my religion.” Will you drag mine-and-thine even into religion? At least spare religion! “My shop” is fine, “my house,” “my money,” “my wife,” “my husband”—up to there “mine” has some meaning. But let there be some boundary where “mine” and “I” both take leave. Say goodbye to them. Let there be a place where you drop them and move on—like a snake slipping out of its old skin.

Religion is the place to be free of I and mine. That is the pilgrimage: where you are free of I and mine. That is religion. Religion is your nature; therefore it can belong to no one—it can’t be anyone’s inheritance: not a Hindu’s, not a Muslim’s, not a Christian’s, not a Jain’s, not a Sikh’s, not a Parsi’s.

But we are such fools, so ignorant, that even where “mine” should disappear we stand waving the staffs and flags of “mine.” Not only that—swords are drawn, blood is spilled, temples and mosques are burned. More sin has been committed in the name of religion than in any other name. It did not happen because of religion, but because of mine-and-thine.

I was in Amritsar. The managers of the Golden Temple invited me, so I went. As the ten or fifteen prominent people were taking me in, they said on the steps, “There is one thing we must tell you: this is the only temple where we make no distinction between Hindu and Muslim.” I said, “Who asked you? Why did you need to say it? You do discriminate; that’s why there’s pride in saying you don’t!”

I said, “Look at me—am I a Hindu or a Muslim? I am neither Hindu nor Muslim nor Christian nor Jain nor Buddhist. I am not even a theist or an atheist; I am simply religious. What a thing to say—and with such pride! This too has become ego. Even behind this the I is standing.”

The I is very cunning—it can stand behind anything: behind Hinduism, behind Islam, behind “Hindu–Muslim unity,” behind “Allah–Ishwar are one!” Ego is so crafty you don’t even see when and from where it slips in; its ways are very subtle. Only very alert eyes can escape it.

They said, “We don’t believe in any rituals—neither Hindu nor Muslim. Nanak freed us from all rituals.” I said, “Very good.”

But as I went inside I saw them growing uncomfortable. They wanted to tell me something but couldn’t. Finally one took me aside and whispered, “Forgive us, you cannot go inside without a cap.”

I said, “This cap business has been trouble since school. I was made to stand outside for days because of it. My teachers got tired of keeping me out. At last they said, ‘To hell with the cap; we won’t mention it to you again.’ I kept asking them to tell me the scientific basis.

“What scientific basis can there be for a cap? My headmaster was an M.Sc., a first-class gold medallist—let him bang his head! He said, ‘I am an M.Sc., but the scientific basis of a cap—what a question!’ I said, ‘What is its chemistry? What is its mathematics? What benefit will a cap bring? Will intelligence increase or decrease? If there is any science behind it, I’ll certainly wear one—two, ten—cap upon cap!’”

I said, “Looks like I’ll have to stand outside the Golden Temple too. My teachers finally apologized and said, ‘We won’t even notice whether you wear a cap—only please don’t spoil others, because if you go in without one, others will follow.’”

Then I said to those friends, “You are all wearing big turbans—what happened to the intelligence of the Sardars? You’ve tied the skull so tight that the very capacity for intelligence has snapped. Even the brain needs some openness, air moving in and out, windows and doors!

“And recently scientists have found that when babies pass through a very narrow birth canal, their brain can be harmed. If the passage isn’t too narrow, the brain benefits, because a narrow passage compresses the tender brain.”

They said, “This is a big problem. At least have mercy on us—tie a handkerchief on your head! But let there be something on your head.”

I said, “The whole sky is on my head, and you’re worried about a handkerchief! And just now you said you had no rituals—yet the ritual begins.”

A man escapes on one side and gets caught on the other; because man’s basic stupidity remains the same. He repeats his root habits mechanically.

Chandulal was crazy about film tunes; he always sang them—day or night. One night he was bicycling to visit his childhood friend Dhabbu. It was dark and his bicycle had no light. A traffic policeman shouted, “Hey, you Chandulal, stop!”

Chandulal sang, “Do not call out to me in the loneliness of this night—do not call out!”

The cop shouted, “Why don’t you listen? And why isn’t there a light on your bicycle?”

Chandulal sang, “I couldn’t light a lamp—I even burned my heart!”

The cop got furious: “Are you mad? What nonsense are you babbling?”

Chandulal sang, “I am troubled—don’t trouble me more! Do not call out to me in the loneliness of this night—do not call out!”

Habits bind us. Ego is a habit—ancient, across births. So the I sits on everything—my religion, my temple, my scripture. Is the Quran anyone’s father’s property, or the Vedas, the Upanishads? At least spare these from heirship! At least don’t become the contractors of Mohammed or Mahavira! Have mercy on them—don’t drag them into your pettiness. But no—we pull everything down to our level, into our mud.

So first remember, Mukesh: don’t say “your religion.” What have I to do with it? Whoever has awakened has said this; whoever awakens will say the same—there will never be an exception.

Religion is religion. Religion means one’s nature. The day you awaken and recognize yourself, religion happens. Being born in a Hindu home doesn’t make you a Hindu, nor does being born Christian make you a Christian. These are deceptions. Birth has nothing to do with religion. If religion came with birth it would be very cheap—free, along with your delivery.

Religion has to be sought, discovered, explored—a deep dive into the inner being. When you experience the center of your life, when you grasp the root of life within, then you know what religion is. And then you will know that religion is simple; because it is nature, it can only be simple. What is imposed is difficult; how can what is intrinsic be difficult?

A rose blooms. Would you say to the bush, “It must be very hard to produce such a beautiful flower among thorns! How many difficulties you must go through”? There is no difficulty. Flowers arise on the rosebush naturally—just as fire burns. As flames move upward and water flows downward—naturally—so is religion.

But what is so simple, the pundits and priests have tried tirelessly to make very difficult. Their effort has a reason, and it should be understood—once you understand, you are outside their net. A priest can survive only if he declares religion difficult; otherwise there’s no basis for his living. If religion is simple, intrinsic, and each person can find it by going within, what is the purpose of priests? Why the need for middlemen between you and the divine? What will happen to their brokerage?

Brokers upon brokers—such a long queue! That whole chain survives because religion has been made very difficult. So difficult that without them you can’t understand what religion is. You need them: they will interpret for you, define for you, guide your path.

And the joke is, they are blind themselves. They have no idea what religion is, yet they guide you! The blind lead the blind—and if the whole world falls into pits, it is no surprise. The surprise would be if the blind, leading the blind, reached the goal—that would be the miracle! If you walk holding a blind man’s hand you will fall—into the chasm, or at least into a ditch, or a well. And there are pits everywhere.

All the pundits and priests send you outside. They say: go to Kashi, go to Kaaba. Read the Quran, read the Vedas—religion is hidden there. And the true master says: be free of scriptures, because religion is hidden within yourself. Drop words. However sweet the words, they are empty—spent cartridges. Don’t carry them; they are shells only. The pulp inside was lost long ago; the husks remain—and you carry husks.

The priest’s entire effort is to make religion as complex as possible. That’s why they won’t give up Sanskrit, because if Sanskrit goes, ninety percent of their trade collapses at once. If your priest read the mantras in plain language you understand, you would say, “What is he reading? There’s nothing in it!” Mantras must be incomprehensible—only then are you impressed. If your mullah read the Quran to you in your own tongue, not Arabic, you would be startled, “These things—and in the Quran!”

Many times I have been asked to speak on the Vedas, and many times I have thought to; but whenever I turn the Vedas, I push them aside again—too much trash. There are some diamonds, but you’d have to sift a lot. Better these simple folk like Raidas; they are richer in diamonds. If Raidas spoke rubbish, anyone would catch him at once—“What nonsense are you babbling? Are you delirious? Speak sense!” Because Raidas spoke the people’s language, he had to say only what was worth saying. But in Sanskrit you don’t know, in Arabic you don’t know, in Latin and Greek and Hebrew you don’t know—whatever the priest says, you listen with reverence, even if it’s utterly empty. Often he himself may not know what he is saying—perhaps he has only memorized it.

So priests want old, dead languages not to be lost—so that the key-string remains in their hands. In living languages only the true masters speak.

That’s why I say Mahavira and Buddha created the greatest revolution in this land: they were the first masters who did not speak Sanskrit. Buddha spoke Pali, Mahavira spoke Prakrit—the people’s tongues. Hence their words are mines of gems—each utterance a Kohinoor.

Jesus didn’t speak Hebrew, he spoke Aramaic—the language people understood. But the Christians soon translated Aramaic into Hebrew, which people didn’t understand; then from Hebrew to Greek; then from Greek to Latin. The message went so far that no one could understand it—and it must not be understood, or the mystery vanishes. If it is understood, trouble begins.

That’s why your pundits use big, ponderous words—not the words of everyday speech. Their sermons and citations are so inflated that you are overwhelmed.

Dr. Raghuvir attempted this in our country, and in doing so he killed Hindi’s life. I told him, “You may think you are the promoter of Hindi, but that’s an illusion.” And because I said it, he could never forgive me. I said, “You will be proved a murderer. You are twisting a simple people’s language.”

People know perfectly well what “railgadi” means—train. But Raghuvir didn’t like “railgadi.” What is wrong with it? He wanted “lohapath-gamini” (iron-path-goer)! “Railgadi” is understood from the Himalayas to Kanyakumari; it belongs to no one. Tamils, Telugus, Malayalis, Bengalis—everyone says “railgadi.” But “lohapath-gamini”? Perhaps only the pundits of Kashi would sit in it; everyone else would be afraid—“What is this thing? Should we get in or not?”

He spoiled the words. He labored hard—wasted his life and the lives of many others, because a whole battalion of pundits joined him in Sanskritizing every word. Language is for use—what has Sanskrit to do with it? What people actually say—that is meaningful. I always say: if you care about language, care about what people speak. Even if it is “rapat” instead of “report,” I’m fine with it—“He filed a rapat.” It’s clear and simple.

Had mischief not fallen into the hands of people like Raghuvir, all of India could have become one-languaged. With one language, a certain beauty and unity arise. And as language becomes simpler, one day the whole world could have a single language. The more complex language becomes, the more tightly it falls into the priest’s vise.

Religion is simple, but priests won’t let it be. Religion will remain simple—how could it be otherwise?

Therefore, Mukesh, what I am saying the pundits and priests will not accept as religion. They will call it irreligion. They must—it goes against their interests.

Recently one of my sannyasins went to Haridwar. No sannyas ashram gave him a place to stay, because they said, “He is a corrupt sannyasin!” My sannyasin—that means corrupt to them. And in their view they are right. If what I am doing succeeds, their walls and foundations will shake. My sannyasin will appear corrupt to them, for he lives in joy, while theirs sit in gloom; look at their faces—like they died long ago!

I heard an American story—not yet possible here. A seventy-year-old woman fell in love with an eighty-year-old man. Love went so far they married. Friends advised, doctors warned, “What’s the point now?” But love is blind—whether at twenty, at forty, or at eighty. At eighty it is even blinder—by nature. In youth eyes are sharp, no spectacles; at eighty you wear glasses—nothing is clear; when even other things aren’t clear, will love be? They went off to the mountains for their honeymoon.

When they returned someone asked the old woman, “How was the wedding night?” She said, “Everything was fine, but I had to slap the old man twice.” “Why?” “To find out whether he was alive or dead! If I slapped him and there was a little stir, I knew he was alive.”

Such corpses have been called sannyasins—slap them and perhaps a little stir! Otherwise they sit by their sacred fire, their bodies smeared with ash—living ghosts. Rotting alive, tormenting themselves. And the more a person torments himself, the greater a saint we have considered him.

My sannyasin is not a pain-worshipper. He tortures neither himself nor anyone else. He wants to live in bliss and wants others to live in bliss. But that is precisely the problem—his very joy makes him “corrupt” in their eyes. Those who, through gloom, indifference, frustration, despair, inertia, deadness, have turned life into a cremation ground—my sannyasin will appear the opposite; he is not a cremation ground, he is a garden. Flowers will bloom, birds will sing, the vina will play.

My sannyas, my religion—not mine; it is natural. Because it is natural, it is simple. Because it is simple, it troubles others. I am offering you a simple way of living. But it troubles others because their sainthood and holiness are becoming suspect. As my saffron fire spreads, as this color of celebration takes hold of people—this saffron is the color of spring, the color of flowers, the color of morning, the color of the east at sunrise. Likewise, within, when the sun of meditation and love is about to rise—this is its symbol.

And I have not cut sannyas off from the world. So they feel I have made it too simple. The truth is the opposite. Running away from the world is easy. All cowards run—and we clever folk give them beautiful names. You see temples everywhere named “Sri Ranchhoddasji.” Do you know what Ranchhoddas means? One who fled the battlefield—showed his back! But we decorated the abuse—Ranchhoddasji!

A Vaishnav sadhu used to visit me; his very name was Mahant Ranchhoddasji. I asked him, “Do you know what your name means? It means coward, deserter.” He said, “Now that you say it, it seems true. But I never thought of it. For fifty years my guru has called me this; now I’m seventy. It never occurred to me that Ranchhoddas would literally mean this. But now you’ve created trouble—whenever someone calls me ‘Ranchhoddasji,’ I’ll remember it’s not a name, it’s a kind of abuse.”

We even garland the abuse, sprinkle it with perfume—until it seems sweet!

I do not want you to leave the world. People say I have made sannyas very simple. The truth is exactly the reverse. To leave the world and run away is easy—who doesn’t want to run? What is there in the world? Troubles upon troubles, disturbances upon disturbances. Life is surrounded by dilemmas, crises—anxieties, sorrows, torment. Where is living? Necks are strangled; people seem eager to die.

A man was sentenced to hang. Monsoon storms, lashing rain. From the jail to the gallows was a five-mile walk. The guards, the hangman, the magistrate—all marching through the jungle, and the man was humming a tune. The magistrate finally said, “Listen, we’ll endure the rain, the lightning, the cold, we’re drenched—who knows if we’ll catch flu or dengue or influenza—but on top of it you sing!”

The man said, “Why shouldn’t I sing? I only have to go one way—you have to come back! Remember, my pan is heavier. I go—and I’m finished. You think about yourselves.”

What is there to cling to in this life? The prisoner said, “What happiness was I getting that I should weep for it? I was in chains, in a dark cell—at least now I am under the open sky! And what fear, when death is coming? No fear of dengue or flu—nothing. At least let me sing now!”

The one running from life seems to be doing something very difficult—that’s what you’ve been taught. He is doing nothing rare; he is merely weak, cowardly, timid.

I say: do not run from life’s challenges—live here, in the marketplace, in the shop, with wife and children, with husband. And live here in such a way as the lotus lives in water.

So in one sense what I say is very simple; and in another, very challenging. It’s easy to go off; no one will abuse you, and you won’t have to answer. Answer whom, when no one abuses? The real joy is when abuses rain and yet no abuse arises within you. When all around is the provocation of greed and anger, and within you remain untouched, virginal. When stench surrounds you and yet you remain fragrant—that’s the joy. Then the whole secret of living is revealed.

So in one sense religion is simple; in another, it is a challenge. I certainly take religion to be a celebration.

Swami Krishnananda Bharti has sent this song—let it clarify my point—

Climb to his feet and light your arati of devotion. Let songs of prayer stream from the heart, O Bharti. Offer all these flowers of love at his feet. Burn through the night— become your beloved’s arati.

I will pass upon my eyelids the night of my beloved’s love. Today in the grove a festival will be woven, Ram Krishna Bharti!

Strike the vina in my heart, and I will sway and sing, Beloved! Fill my breath with nectar, and I will drink in ecstasy, Beloved!

From the standpoint of poetry it may not be very significant—Krishnananda Bharti is not a poet—but he has poured feeling into it. The song has risen!

Strike the vina in my heart, and I will sway and sing, Beloved! Fill my breath with nectar, and I will drink in ecstasy, Beloved!

This is the path of love—that is religion. It is the pinnacle of love.

Today in your temple I myself shall become the image. Lighting the lamps of love, I shall perform your arati. You are the deity of my heart, the adornment of my breath. Laying my tears at your feet, I shall bow to you.

If you meet me, life will bathe to the brim, will sing. O Beloved, rubies of love— I shall lay my heart’s devotion at your feet.

I will house you in my heart, lighting the wick of love. And with the wings of imagination, Beloved—what shall I do now?

I have wept away my days in hope, my thirst keeps on growing. Life, O Lord—placing it at your feet, I will accept you.

In the empty temple, Beloved, I will become your image. With the vermilion of love, dear, I shall fill my parting.

This is marriage with the divine! This is the engagement! This is the moment to dance and be intoxicated. Life is a celebration because it is a gift of God. Life is a celebration because it is an opportunity to find God. Life is a celebration because of how much he has given—and how much he gives each day!

Let life become a dance, a song; let the strings of your heart ring and shimmer—then know that you are on the path of true religion. If everything turns gloomy and to ash, if flowers wither—know that you have taken a wrong road; you have turned your back on the Lord; you are running away; you are missing the opportunity. You will have to be born again and again. Until you live—and die—in celebration, you will have to return, because you haven’t learned the lesson. Until you learn the lesson of this school, your return here is inevitable. Whoever passes here, whoever learns life’s lesson here, does not return. And religion is the art of not returning.

Life is very lovely, but beyond life there is a great Life—lovelier still. Because in this life there is love, but it is not unmixed. There is song, but in fragments. Roses bloom here, but there are thorns too. There is day, but with night. There is life, but the shadow of death ever follows. There is a great Life where there is only life and no shadow of death; where only roses bloom and thorns are impossible; where there is life—but no birth, no death, no old age. That eternal life is moksha, or God—or whatever name you like: nirvana, samadhi. Or give it no name at all—just understand the hint.

We have to go beyond this life—but no one has ever gone beyond by running away from it. Only the one who makes this life a ladder goes across.

Gokul Sharma, remember the old saying—there is darkness beneath the lamp!

Krishnananda, the path is hidden within craving itself. Understand the very mystery of craving and you are beyond it. Understand craving, and craving disappears.

The relation between craving and understanding is the same as between light and darkness. Light a lamp and suddenly the darkness in your room vanishes—just so! There is no other way to escape craving; understand craving—what is it? Why is it?

You say: “Here everyone is a slave to gratification, yet one thing is peculiar here: by drinking, the thirst grows!”

If even this much becomes clear to you, you have the path in your hands—you have its first sutra: “Here, drinking increases thirst!” The more you try to fulfill craving, the more you will find: craving is insatiable. Its very nature is to be unfillable; it cannot be filled.

A young man once went to a Sufi fakir and said, “Will you explain to me the secret of life? I have been to many gurus; I’ve stumbled from door to door, eaten much of the road’s dust, but no one has been able to explain the secret of life. And whatever anyone told me, I did. Someone said, ‘Stand on your head,’ and I stood on my head. Someone said, ‘Don’t eat this,’ so I didn’t. Someone said, ‘Sleep in this way,’ so I slept that way. I’ve done who knows how many disciplines; I’m exhausted! Someone gave me your address, so I came. Will you tell me the secret of life?”

The fakir looked closely at the youth and said, “I will tell you, but on one condition. First I will draw water from the well. You stay with me, and until I have finished drawing water, you must not speak—this is the condition. When I am done, you may speak.” The youth was a bit puzzled—what kind of condition was this? But he said, “That’s no difficulty. Draw the water at your leisure!” Still, he suspected the man might be mad. “We’re asking the secret of life, such a great question, and what sort of condition is this? The well is right here—draw the water. Why would I speak? Even without a condition I wouldn’t interrupt. What is there to say while someone draws water?”

He agreed. Yet a doubt lingered: “Will I really get the secret of life here, or…? This fellow might even push me into the well. He seems a strange sort.” And when the fakir lifted the bucket and rope, the young man thought, “Now we’re finished! This journey too is wasted!” For the bucket had no bottom. “We’re done for! When will he ever fill water? Not in this lifetime, nor in many others… What have I agreed to!”

Still he thought, “Let me watch a little. The coming and going is wasted anyway; having come so far, let me see what he does.” He kept a little distance from the well—“If I stand close to watch, he might push me in! The secret of life aside, life itself might be lost!” “Is he a bhang- or ganja-intoxicated fellow, or what? He doesn’t even notice the bucket has no bottom, and he’s gone to draw water!”

The fakir set to work. He tied the rope, lowered the bucket into the well. The youth watched silently, with great restraint. Again and again his mind wanted to say, “Brother, never mind telling me the secret of life; at least let me tell you the secret of drawing water—which I do know! First learn to draw water; leave the rest.” But remembering the condition, he kept quiet.

He must have had to restrain himself a lot. Imagine the effort it takes to keep such silence. He stood there, holding himself in, clamping his tongue and lips shut so nothing would slip out. “Let me see what he does.” The bucket rattled in the well; peering down, it looked full, for it was submerged in water. Then he pulled it up—empty as ever. He lowered it again, and again. When he lowered it the third time, the youth exclaimed, “Jai Ramji! I’m off! He’ll never fill water in his whole life.”

The fakir said, “You spoke in the middle. And I had firmly decided to tell you the secret. Your wish—be on your way.”

The youth could not sleep that night. The way the fakir said, “Your wish—be on your way,” and how he added, “I had decided to tell you the secret of life. I did what I could, I had prepared the ground, but you spoke in between, you broke the condition; you could not keep even that much restraint—go now,” and the glow in his eyes—the youth could not forget it. He tossed and turned. “If only I had remained silent a little longer, what would I have lost? I’ve spoiled my life anyway—if he had made me waste two or four hours more, what harm? Perhaps it was a test, a test of worthiness, of patience, of waiting! I missed. And his eyes say he knows something. The lamps lit in his eyes say so. There is something on his face I have found nowhere else!”

At dawn he ran back, fell at the fakir’s feet. “Forgive me, take me again to the well. Draw as long as you wish; I will just sit.”

The fakir said, “The truth is, the secret that was in drawing water from the well, I already told you; nothing remains to be said. Had you not gotten so entangled in the bucket and its bottom, you would have understood. Craving is a bottomless bucket. Go on lowering it, rattling it in the well, pulling it up—not just one life, but many lives—still you will remain empty! Whenever the bucket comes up, it will come up empty. Change wells—go from this well to that, from that to another… That’s what people do. But what fault is it of the wells? The bucket is the same. You could see that the bucket had no bottom, hence no water collects; but have you seen whether craving has a bottom? Now go and contemplate this. Craving too is without a bottom.”

That is why—here, drinking increases thirst! There is no bottom; in fact, it is the opposite: like someone pouring ghee on a fire to put it out! The more you crave, the more craving is inflamed; the more you desire, the more the fire catches; new fuel keeps falling into thirst. Understand just this—and you have understood the secret of life.

Krishnananda, once the futility of craving is seen, craving slips from your hands. And where craving drops, where desire drops, where lust drops, what remains is the Self. You remain. A silence remains!

What is the noise within you? Only the clamor of passions. “Let me do this, let me do that; let me become this, let me become that; let me get this, let me get that”—this is the whole hubbub inside you; this is the marketplace! Because of this marketplace you cannot even see yourself. And not seeing yourself, you cannot truly see anyone. Thus you are blind. The dust on your eyes is the dust of your craving. How much you run—yet you gain nothing! Now stop! Stop drawing water from this well! Throw away this bucket!

The very throwing away of this bucket is called meditation. Meditation is consciousness without craving. For where there is no passion, there is no birth of thought. From the seed of passion the sprouts of thought emerge. Thought is the ally of passion; it comes to support it.

That is why, when some passion seizes you, many thoughts rise in your mind—like a gale! When passion lessens, thoughts lessen. And when passion is not at all, thoughts too are not at all. People ask me, “How to be free of thoughts?” They are asking the wrong question. Thoughts are like leaves. Ask, “How to be free of passion?”

It is hidden within craving itself. Look at craving, understand it, recognize it. There is no path outside of craving. And because outer paths have been prescribed, even greater confusion has arisen. You ask for a path to go beyond craving; someone says, “Chant Ram-Ram.” Now you’re trapped—trapped in a new craving. They’ve handed you a new bucket—again without a bottom. True, it’s a new model, straight from the factory, fresh and shiny—but it’s the same old thing!

Now you’re chanting Ram-Ram. If someone asks why, you’ll say, “So that I can be free of craving.” Hasn’t craving simply put on a new dress? It’s the same craving—arrived in a new outfit. Earlier you were chasing wealth, thinking, “If I get money, happiness will come.” Now you think, “If I chant Ram-Ram and get free of craving, happiness will come.” The race is the same—the same pursuit of happiness.

No; that is why the supremely awakened have not given separate paths.

One says, “Go bathe in the Ganges.” Another says, “Make offerings at the temple.” Another, “Feed the Brahmins.” Another, “Feed young maidens.” Who knows how many tricks people have devised—trick upon trick—and you get entangled in them. You don’t even pause to consider: will something like craving fall away by feeding seven maidens? Will something like craving vanish by taking a dip in the Ganges?

If that were so, those who live on the banks of the Ganges and bathe daily would be free of craving. Yet they are just as feverish with craving. Even if you were to live in the Ganges itself, you wouldn’t be free of craving. Someone says, “Go on the Hajj.” But those who live in Mecca and Medina—has their craving disappeared? If not, how will yours disappear just by becoming a Hajji?

Open your eyes a little! These cheap remedies will only become new garments for your craving. Now your craving itself is: “How can craving be dropped?” So anyone who offers a cheap method—you’ll jump into it. By the time you tire of that, you’ll find another person offering another method. People move from one guru to another, from one religion to another, from one ashram to another. The search goes on: “How to drop craving?” And everywhere there are people sitting, confidently declaring, “This is how it will drop.”

I want to tell you: there is no other method to drop craving. Just understand craving itself. See its futility. See it through and through—that craving can never be filled.

Buddha has said: “Craving is insatiable.” See this truth with your own eyes—that’s all. In that very seeing, craving falls away. In that seeing, the bucket slips from your hand. Do not pick up a new bucket; let the old one drop, let your hands remain empty. And you will be astonished: the moment craving falls and you don’t grasp a new one, meditation bears fruit, the fragrance of samadhi begins to waft. The rain of bliss begins at once; flowers start showering from the sky.

Narayan, it seems you are inexperienced. Surely you are not married. Had you been married, you wouldn’t ask such a question. And it looks as if somewhere there is still an aspiration to get married.

As you wish. The wise learn by watching others; the foolish fall into the same pit a thousand times and still don’t learn.

Chandulal and Dhabboo-ji died together, because they were riding the same bicycle. A bus hit them, the cycle toppled, and they fell into a ditch. Chandulal was sitting in front, riding; Dhabboo-ji was behind. So Chandulal reached the gates of heaven a minute or two earlier; Dhabboo-ji came running a minute or two later. Dhabboo-ji overheard what happened. The gate opened and the gatekeeper asked Chandulal, “Married or unmarried?” Chandulal said, “Married.” The gatekeeper said, “Come in—you have already suffered hell. Now you will get heaven.”

Dhabboo-ji heard it all and came running behind. When he knocked, the door opened and the gatekeeper again asked, “Married or unmarried?” Dhabboo-ji said, “Married—four times!” hoping to outdo Chandulal, hoping that if that fellow got first-class heaven, he himself would get at least four floors higher. But the gatekeeper shut the door and said, “There is room here for the sorrowful, not for the insane. Once you can be forgiven—alright, you didn’t know, it was a mistake. But four times!”

Narayan, marriage has become a joke. Over centuries it has been distorted... The most rotten institution we have is marriage. Yet we keep dragging it along, because we don’t have the courage to try anything new. We don’t have the courage to free ourselves from the old ruts and patterns or to give marriage a new form, a new color. We keep beating the same old tracks. We have lost the capacity for the new. The new requires courage.

And marriage has certainly become a joke because expectations are huge and the results are the very opposite. We tie great hopes to marriage for people, and the greater the hopes we tie, the deeper the gloom we receive. We have turned life into a long deception. We tell children: first study and get educated, then happiness will come. They study, then we tell them: now get married, then happiness will come. When they marry, we say: now do business, take a job, earn; then happiness will come. While they are doing business, working, earning, life slips by. Their children start asking them, “When will happiness come?” They say, “First study—then happiness will come. Then marry—then happiness will come. Then get a job or business, earn something in the world, gain some name and prestige—then happiness will come.”

This chain just continues. Here no one tells anyone that happiness has no necessary connection with study, because sometimes the uneducated have found it—Ravidas found it! Ravidas, a cobbler! They sing, “Ravidas, the cobbler—he found it!” Kabir found it, who says, “I never touched ink or paper”—never even touched a page, never knew ink! They found it. Education has no necessary link with happiness.

But we postpone. These are our excuses—put it off till tomorrow, for now postpone it; then we’ll see about tomorrow. And postponing and postponing, the moment comes when there is nothing left to postpone—death stands before you. Then we say, “We’ll get it in the next birth—or in the other world.” Happiness is not in this world; it is in the hereafter! Then why didn’t you say so in the first place? When you were pushing us to school, you could have told us that happiness is in the other world. But we keep postponing...

And then the moment comes when you have to answer your children. To say before your children, “We wasted our life; we remained empty; we came empty and we are going empty”—that goes against the ego. So in front of the children one has to strut: “Oh, I achieved so much! I showed such miracles to the world! What remains, son, you show! Such name and fame I earned! I leave behind a memory. I’ll depart from the world and the space will remain empty for centuries!” Although no one remembers even for two days—no sooner do you leave than the place is filled. People are ready and waiting, in fact—“Brother, get up; you’ve sat long enough; let others sit too!”

Marriage has become a very rotten institution. There is a reason: we have falsified marriage. We say, “Marriage first, then love.” That is a way of denying marriage. Love first, then marriage—that would be right. I am not saying you will get happiness even then; but it would at least be more right than what we do now.

Happiness does not come from anything outside. Happiness is an inner state. Still, outwardly we can arrange things. In a room you can arrange the furniture in such a way that whenever you move you trip; any guest who comes cannot avoid a hospital. And you can also arrange it so one can sit and rest. The furniture is the same, but there is a little skill in how it is placed.

Life can be arranged—so that the blows are as few as possible, so that unnecessary wounds are avoided, so that we don’t lie in hospitals for no reason.

Happiness cannot be obtained from marriage; but at least we can arrange things so that there is less misery. Keep my point in mind: happiness cannot be had from it. Happiness comes to those who go within, into meditation—what has marriage to do with that! A married person can find it, an unmarried person can find it—by going within. But marriage can be arranged in such a way—it is only a matter of furniture—where the wife sits, where the husband sits—so that it doesn’t happen that they collide twenty-four hours a day.

But the system we have created is less arrangement, more disarrangement. It is a twenty-four-hour confrontation. Husband and wife—as if sworn enemies! As if after each other! A wrestling match is on!

“Hey Mulla, why are you sitting so silent today?” Chandulal asked Mulla Nasruddin. “My beloved has asked me to marry her soon,” Nasruddin said in a sad tone. Chandulal said, “So what is there to be worried or sad about?” “That is exactly the worry,” said Mulla Nasruddin. “If I get married, then whom will I love?”

Marriage and love don’t seem connected at all. There it is quarrel, the attempt to possess each other—politics. Very subtle politics. That politics has made marriage rot.

Guljaan: “I promise I will be very happy sharing your sorrows.” Mulla Nasruddin: “But I don’t have any sorrows.” Guljaan: “Oh my dear, I’m not talking about now—I’m talking about after marriage.”

A young man came and told his mother, “I have fallen in love with a girl; I want to marry. But she is an atheist. She doesn’t even believe in hell!” His mother said, “Son, don’t worry. First get married. Between you and me we’ll teach her such a lesson that she will have to believe in hell. With you and me around, and your wife still not believing in hell—that cannot happen!”

Dhabboo-ji said to his beautiful wife, Gulabo, “I don’t know why God made you foolish, Gulabo! And making you foolish—alright; but then what was the need to give you so much beauty?” Gulabo said, “He made me beautiful so that you would marry me, and made me foolish so that I would marry you.”

Narayan, walk a little carefully. If you marry, do it consciously, knowing this is what will happen. Be prepared. Put on your armor and all. See how Lord Ram used to carry his bow and arrows! Whom do you think they were for? Mother Sita! No one else is visible there.

Marriage is an old institution, very old. And the older it is, the more rotten it has become. Marriage cannot survive in the future; its days are over. We will have to find some new alternatives. The search for alternatives has begun. But in the alternatives now being sought there is one fallacy: they think there was suffering in marriage, and in this alternative there will be no suffering. That is a fallacy. Yes, in the alternatives there may be more or less suffering—but suffering will be there until you become steady within yourself.

In fact, the very need for marriage arises because you think happiness can come from another—and there lies the root of all ignorance. Happiness cannot come from the other. The one who desires and thinks that happiness can come from another will get misery. He will fail everywhere, be defeated, broken, deranged.

Happiness does not come from the other; happiness is hidden within—seek it there. And if you have happiness, you can share it with others too. If I had my way, I would make meditation compulsory for anyone before they marry; let no other condition matter—whether the birth charts match or not. Because the person to whom you go to have your horoscopes matched—just secretly look at his condition and his wife’s! And at least in this country, everyone’s birth charts are “matched.” Birth charts can always be matched—any priest will do it for one or two rupees.

But what happens by matching horoscopes! That is not a necessary condition. Nor are other outer things necessary—whether the woman is educated, the man is educated, whether they come from respectable families—these are secondary. The fundamental point is one: have the two who are to be married gone into the depths of meditation or not? Before marriage, one or two years of deep meditative process is essential. Then afterward, marriage too will become a unique opportunity for growth.

From meditation, the possibility of love arises. When the lamp of meditation is lit, the light of love spreads. And if within both persons the lamp of meditation is lit, there is a joy in marriage. Remember well: that joy too comes from meditation, not from marriage. And until that happens, marriage is a joke—and a very harsh joke.

Shobhana, let me tell a little story. Dhabbuji’s wife, Dhanno, was saying sadly to her friend Gulabo, “Sister, I’m fed up with my husband. He keeps tormenting me by reciting this couplet from the Ramayana: ‘Drum, boor, Shudra, beast, and woman—these all deserve a beating.’ I’m tired of hearing it again and again.”

Gulabo said, “Arre, what’s there to be so upset about! Just a few days ago I composed a new couplet—sing this one: ‘Drum, boor, man, and horse—the more you beat them, the less it is.’ What’s there to worry about! Women should make their own couplets. Create your own scriptures. Who has a monopoly on scriptures? Who’s got the contract? Did the art of writing couplets end with Baba Tulsidas? Memorize this couplet: ‘Drum, boor, man, and horse—the more you beat them, the less it is.’

That’s all for today.”