Mare He Jogi Maro #10

Mukesh Bharti! Jesus was crucified—because of the disciple Judas. A boulder was rolled down upon Buddha—because of the disciple Devadatta. Mahavira had to endure much insult, slander, persecution—because of the disciple Goshalak. This is natural. What has happened before will happen again. It’s the same Ram Lila; the actors change. The stage is the same, the play is the same; only the players are different. And since what has happened before will happen today and will continue tomorrow, it’s worth understanding its science.

There are four categories of those who come. The first is the student. He comes out of curiosity. He has no vision of practice, no burning longing, no thirst for the Divine—just, “Let’s see. So many are going—perhaps there’s something!” If you see a crowd on the road you stop, you ask what’s happening, you want to push in, to see what’s going on—not that you have any inner purpose; you were going about your own work. Many arrive accidentally: someone is coming by, you see him and he says, “Why sit here? Come with me; we’ll sit in satsang.” You were free, with nothing to do, so you came along. The wife came, the husband tagged along; the husband came, the wife came too. The father came, the son came along.

Many come this accidental way. Their position is that of the student. They will gather bits of information; by listening they will collect data. Their knowledge will seem to increase, their memory to thicken. Of such arrivals, only ten out of a hundred will remain; ninety will drift away. That even ten remain is a miracle, because they did not come from any awake, conscious urge—they were swept in half-asleep by someone’s push, like a log floating on the water that happens to touch shore without ever seeking it. How long will that wood stay moored? A gust will come and it will float off again; to stay or not stay makes no difference. Yet even among these, ten percent remain. Those ten enter the second step.

The second step is that of the seeker. On the first step there is only intellectual curiosity—a kind of itch. Like scabies—it feels good to scratch though it does no good, it harms. Intellectual scratching also does no good; it harms, though it feels sweet. “Ask this, ask that, know this, know that”—the ego is gratified: “I am no ignoramus.” A delusion of knowing without knowledge arises. From these, ten percent will stay. Those become seekers.

A seeker is one who no longer wants only to listen and understand, but to experiment. Experiment is the foundation of the seeker. Now he wants to do. Curiosity takes a new form: it becomes action. He no longer merely talks about meditation; he begins to meditate. Because what will talk do? Talk breeds more talk. Talk is just talk—soap bubbles, hot air. Do something! Let life be transformed, let something be tasted.

On this second step, fifty percent will remain and fifty percent will be lost. Doing is not easy; listening is very easy. You have nothing to do: I speak, you hear, the matter ends. In doing, you must do; success is not guaranteed—unless there is urgency, intensity, the courage to stake yourself—success is not easy. Lukewarm efforts won’t do; you must boil at a hundred degrees. Few can muster that courage. Those who can’t begin to conclude, “There’s nothing in this doing.” This is self-consolation. They never really did; they never plunged deeply; at most they paddled at the edges, never where the dive is taken. The meal was never cooked; they kept lighting the stove so lazily it never caught fire—there was smoke, but no flame. How long can one bear smoke? Soon the eyes fill with tears; the mind says, “Let’s go—what’s here? Only smoke.”

Where there is smoke, there could have been fire—for where there is smoke there will be fire. But a more intense effort was needed. A little more tapasya! A little more labor, a little more resolve. Those who can’t will depart—fifty percent. The fifty who remain enter the third step.

The third step is that of the disciple. Disciple means: the taste of experience has come; now the Satguru is recognized. Recognition comes from experience, not from listening. From listening you can only wonder, “Who knows? The words sound right, but does this person have his own experience, or is he just repeating the scriptures? Who knows whether he is truly a Satguru or only a scholar?” Only taste clarifies. Your own taste will tell you. If he is a Satguru, the third hour has struck—the third step—then you become a disciple.

A disciple means: surrendered. Doubts are gone. The old vacillation is gone. No more wandering. A stability has come into life. Now you have boarded the boat.

Of those who become disciples, ninety percent remain; ten percent still fall away. Because as practice deepens, difficulties also deepen. The disciple must pass through fire-tests—the student and seeker are not asked for these. The fire-test is only for the disciple. The one who has come so far—that is the one toward whom the Master becomes rigorous. He must. The blow must go deep. If a stone is to become a statue the chisel must strike. It will hurt, because the layers covering you are centuries old. The coatings of ignorance are not like clothes you can take off and stand naked; they are like skin. They must be flayed—this is surgery.

So ten percent flee even from the third step. The ninety percent who remain, who pass through the fire, enter the fourth and final step—the devotee. Between disciple and Master a small difference still remains. Surrender is there, but it is still from the disciple’s side; even there a wisp of ego lingers: “I have surrendered, my surrender!” On the fourth step the “I” evaporates. Now bhakti arises, love flowers. Now Master and disciple are not two. From this step no one turns back. Whoever reaches here does not return.

Therefore many will come and many will go. As many as come, many will leave. Today I have some seventy-five thousand sannyasins around the world. If a few dozens slip off, what is there to be surprised about? Nothing to worry about. If these seventy-five thousand become seven and a half million, then even more will fall away. The bigger the work, the more the shedding. The proportion remains. From the students, ninety percent will go. From the seekers, fifty percent will go. From the disciples, ten percent will go. Only from the devotees, no one goes.

But the road to devotion is long—like climbing the Himalayas. The ascent is steep; there will be much sweat, great fatigue, breathlessness. And whoever leaves—understand his compulsion too. I do. As you asked: Vijayanand and Mahesh now speak against me—they have to. Because the one who runs away will not say, “I left from my weakness; I was unworthy; my capacity fell short; the mountain was too high. I thought it was a small hill I could climb, but it turned out to be Gauri Shankar. I couldn’t climb.” No one who has fled will say that. He must protect his ego. He will not say, “I was defeated, that’s why I left.” To safeguard the ego, he will have to speak against me. And there will be pain, because the falsity will be visible inside.

So Vijayanand has people send me messages: “Please convey my pranam to Bhagwan”—and yet he keeps speaking against me. A split has arisen. Deep inside he knows his own weakness—he couldn’t keep pace. So he keeps sending me pranams, and he also issues statements against me. He will have to—because people ask, “Why did you leave?” There are only two possibilities: either the Master was wrong or the disciple was. Naturally, if he had the courage to say, “I am wrong,” there would have been no need to leave; the question of fleeing wouldn’t arise. That courage wasn’t there, so now he must protect himself.

Remember this. When you take sannyas, you begin to speak in my favor. It is not necessary that you are really speaking for me. It is quite likely you have to speak for me now. Otherwise people will say, “Are you mad? Then why did you take sannyas?” For self-protection you must speak for me.

So when you speak for me, it is not necessary that you truly are; more likely you are protecting your ego—“Yes! My Satguru is a perfect Satguru, he has attained God.” You don’t know. How could you know yet? Until you attain, how can you know? But you will have to praise me. In that praise you can protect your ego. You will have to push your doubts down into the unconscious. They do not vanish so easily. If only it were that easy—that you came, took sannyas, and doubts disappeared! Doubts will dog you for years; they will return again and again. But you won’t be able to say so to anyone; if you do, you’ll be embarrassed. If you say, “I doubt whether my Master is really a Master,” people will ask, “Then why did you accept him? Why the ochre robe, the mala, why this performance?” Now you are in a fix.

If you confess your doubts, they’ll call you stupid. To avoid this, you suppress them and speak loudly of faith. You try to proclaim, “Never has there been a Master like mine in the world”—because has there ever been a disciple like you! Your ego is satisfied by the height of your Master: the higher you can make him, the bigger you are as a disciple. And the one you have chosen must be great; a person like you wouldn’t choose someone small!

This happens when you take initiation. When you drop it, the reverse happens. You will have to speak against me. All the doubts you had suppressed will surge up. All the faith you had imposed will evaporate. Your doubts will now be expressed with exaggeration. They must be—because the one you have left must be wrong, just as when you held on he had to be right.

So Vijayanand spoke for me for five years; now he will have to speak against me for fifty. All the doubts he had repressed in those five years will surface. And he must defend himself, because those who used to say, “Have you gone mad, taking sannyas?” will now say, “We told you before—you are mad!” He must answer them. A big difficulty arises. And to escape it there is only one way: “We fell into delusion.” Or, “Some things were right—that’s why we took sannyas. Then slowly we found some things were wrong. And as our experience grew, we saw everything inside is wrong; only superficial things seem right.”

It’s self-protection. Perfectly natural. Don’t worry—just understand it.

Mahesh never went beyond the status of a student. He came out of curiosity. He came with Vijayanand, and left with him. His coming was mere coincidence. In my account, he neither came nor left. I kept no account of Mahesh. Such people need no keeping—they are floating logs. If a shore thinks, “They came seeking me,” that is a mistake. Soon a gust will blow and the wood will float off. He came with Vijayanand. When I gave Mahesh sannyas, Vijayanand was present. Before initiating Mahesh I said, “Vijayanand, come sit close, so there is some support.” I seated Vijayanand right by Mahesh, and Vijayanand put his hand on Mahesh’s back, and then I gave him sannyas. Because I did not know if Mahesh had any value of his own, whether he had any real inquiry. Something had happened to Vijayanand—Mahesh was his disciple, not mine.

So naturally, when Vijayanand left, Mahesh left. No value of his own. He never moved beyond the student’s level. Vijayanand did endeavor. He reached the seeker’s stage. With a little more courage the event of becoming a disciple might have happened. But obstacles arose—human obstacles. Understand, they can come to you too; that’s why I am answering. They can come to anyone. Vijayanand is well-known, a big film director, known across the country—his fame became a hindrance. He wished me to treat him accordingly—a VIP. That I had to break, otherwise a seeker never becomes a disciple. I began to break it. Blows began to fall daily. Earlier he would come whenever he wished, at any hour. Now he too had to take time—“Two days later, three days later, seven days later.” It hurt: “I am being treated like the other sannyasins—no special treatment.”

In the beginning I take great care of you—that is flour on the hook. But if only flour is fed to the fish, when will it be caught? Soon the hidden hook within the flour is revealed. When the hook appears there is trouble. When I began to treat Vijayanand exactly as I treat all—which was necessary—if he had passed this step, if he had accepted that once initiated specialness is to be dropped, there is no reason to consider oneself different. Whether a name is famous or not makes no difference; it does not change the inner state. The number of people who know you does not give you more soul, nor more meditation, nor more samadhi. It may be that no one knows you and the Ultimate rains within. Being known or unknown has nothing to do with it.

And as I said, the higher the step you take, the sterner I become; you must be put into fire—only then will you be refined, become pure gold. The potter makes a pot: he thumps the clay and also supports it from within. But the egoist sees only the blow; he does not feel the inner hand that supports. The egoless feels the supporting hand; he does not worry about the blow. He says, “One hand strikes, the other supports. This is how a pot is made.” And when the pot is shaped, the potter keeps the raw pot carefully—but soon he will put it into the fire. If the raw pot were like Vijayanand it would shout, “You cared for me so much, so carefully—and now you put me into fire?” Pots can’t run, that’s the potter’s good fortune. I work on living pots—so sometimes they run. When the day to go into the fire approached, he panicked. He fled at the seeker’s stage.

Some even flee from the disciple’s stage, because the final blow is the total dissolution of your ego—your personality melting completely into the Master, like a drop into the ocean. Whoever can stake that much can; otherwise it becomes difficult.

And whoever leaves will speak against me, will even slander. This is natural—don’t worry. Where there are to be lakhs of disciples, there will be thousands like this.

You ask: “Another sannyasin, Swami Chinmay, has written in Current, ‘When my Master speaks against politics he falls below religion.’”

I do not even know this gentleman. He is not my disciple. He has declared himself a disciple. He has not even come to me. He thinks of himself as an Ekalavya-like disciple. But Ekalavya at least came to Dronacharya; Dronacharya did not accept him. These people have not even come; they have even given themselves names. Had he come and I refused—even that would be something. Let him at least meet my eyes! He has not come at all; he has declared himself my disciple, and begun to write against me!

Such things will happen. This country—and the whole world—has deranged people too. Discipleship is not a one-sided affair; it is two-sided. Your taking does not make you a disciple; it happens only when I give. If it were enough that you declare yourself, chaos would ensue—and then such mishaps happen.

He does not understand me. He does not know what I am saying or what is happening here. He has just assumed. These things will happen. As my sannyasins increase and a wave arises, many will dye their clothes, string malas, announce themselves. People flock to a rising sun; they try to profit from it.

Such a gentleman has no value. His statements have none—he does not know my vision of life.

Religion is not a subject with boundaries. Religion has no limit. Religion is the name of the whole of life. Whatever life includes, religion has the right to speak about. The politician cannot speak about religion, for politics has limits; but the religious man can speak about politics, for religion has no limits. Religion is boundless. It envelops the whole of life, like the sky. Nothing is to be left outside religion. The religious person’s vision applies to everything.

I will speak on poetry too, because religion has a poetic eye. That’s why in this country we gave two names to poets—kavi and rishi. We call that poet a rishi in whom religion speaks, in whose poetry the experience of God speaks; who dyes poetry in religion. Rabindranath should be called a rishi, not a kavi. His Gitanjali has the same value as an Upanishad. He is a rishi. What he says is not merely meter, rhythm, grammar and language—it carries a current of experience, a flowing rasa. A rasa not his own—flowing through him. He is only a medium. Like a flute at someone’s lips. If the flute gets the illusion, “These notes are mine,” that is the poet. If the flute remembers, “The notes are someone else’s—the one on whose lips I rest,” that is the rishi. Rabindranath knew continually: the lips are mine, the song is someone else’s. I am only an instrument, a mere conduit.

So I will speak on poetry. I will speak on art—because art has a religious dimension: Ajanta, Ellora, Khajuraho; Konark, Bhubaneswar, Puri.

You will be surprised to know the Taj Mahal too is built on Sufi principles. Histories don’t say this, because historians neither understand nor probe so deep. They think it is merely an emperor’s memorial to his beloved—full stop. They never explored that the emperor consulted great Sufis. The Taj is so designed that if on a full-moon night you sit for an hour just looking at it, you will slip into meditation. It is a marvelous specimen of sacred art. Seen in a particular mood, from a particular angle, the Taj is a temple, not a tomb. It depends on seeing.

The statues of Buddha and Mahavira that we created are not mere proofs of sculpture. Sculpture is secondary; we tried to embody Buddhahood in them. If you sit before a Buddha statue and gaze without blinking, soon you will find something in you stilled, stopped. Your thought-process halts; a quiet of no-thought enters slowly. In the form, the posture, the lines of that statue, there is an arrangement to evoke meditation within you. That statue is a device to inspire meditation.

So I will speak on sculpture too. I will speak on every limb of life. Because I am religious, no limb of life is untouchable for me, nor will remain so. I do not consider any area untouchable. I am not a politician, but I will speak on politics—precisely because I am religious. Politics is not just politics; much of your life is determined by it. That determination will affect your religion too.

For instance, India adopted a secular politics. Its effect on religion is inevitable. This is wrong. No nation should be “secular” in that sense. Yes, no particular sect should dominate—that is right. But how can a state be irreligious? Not Hindu, not Muslim—good; it should not be Hindu or Muslim. But there is another extreme: a state becomes irreligious—“we have nothing to do with religion.” Such a vital part of human life—and you say you have nothing to do with it? The results will be disastrous. The state must create an atmosphere for religion. The state need not be “religious” in the Hindu–Muslim sense; but it must be religious in the sense that meditation grows in the country, love grows, peace grows; yoga enters people’s lives; an inner discipline is born; the soul awakens within.

So I oppose the secular state. The state should nurture religion the way a gardener waters trees so that flowers bloom; otherwise the flowers of consciousness will not open. Then you can try all you like to make people moral—they won’t. Because the flowers won’t bloom; you have not watered the roots.

Religion is the root of all life’s ethics. If the state is secular, politics will not be ethics; it will be non-ethics. That is what has happened.

So I will criticize politics—as all the Buddhas have. Jesus would not have been crucified if he had not opposed the politics of his time. Politics runs on ambition. Politics is a disease. The world must slowly be freed from politics. The energy squandered there—if it is poured into religion, people’s lives will blossom into great joy and celebration.

Whoever says that because I speak against politics I fall below religion—he knows neither religion nor politics. And he certainly does not know me. No one falls from religion after arriving there! And one who falls—never arrived. The one who has arrived has arrived—there is no way to fall. Even if I go to hell, I will remain what I am; there is no falling.

A pundit once came to Ramana and began to chew his ear—scriptural talk. Ramana kept saying, “Brother, meditate. None of this will help—this is idle talk. Don’t waste time; your life is slipping away.” But he was a scholar; he said, “What are you saying—idle? This is Vedic word.” And he began to cite proofs. Ramana said, “Good, good, but meditate.” He insisted, “First we must discuss; then I will meditate.” He stuck to it. Ramana kept saying, “Meditate.” There is nothing else to say. When he wouldn’t, Ramana picked up his staff. The man was startled. He had never imagined Ramana would pick up a stick. And Ramana chased him. Imagine Maharshi Ramana, stick in hand, chasing a pundit! Many devotees of Ramana developed doubts: “Ramana got angry, took a stick—this is a fall! Can this happen?”

We have fixed ideas: a Buddha will never pick up a stick! We know nothing. The realized one can pick up a stick—though his stick is very different from yours. Ramana drove him away and came back inside, and laughed heartily. Someone asked, “What did you do?” He said, “What else could I do? The goddess who is pacified by kicks does not heed words. He wouldn’t stop chewing my head. He would only understand the language of the stick.”

Ramana was not angry. Ramana—angry? Impossible. Even if you saw him angry—he would not be.

You know the story of Jesus: he picked up a whip, entered the temple, and overturned the tables of the moneylenders. He whipped them and drove them out. Now imagine Jesus taking a whip! It doesn’t fit our idea of a realized man. Then, we say, “He became angry—he fell from religion.”

I tell you: whoever fears falling from religion has never known religion. From there no one falls. It is the ultimate awakening, the final state. Whoever reaches there is no more. To say “Ramana picked up a stick” is wrong—God picked up the stick; Ramana is no more. To say “Jesus whipped them” is wrong—Jesus is no more; God picked up the whip and used Jesus’ hands.

So if I ever utter a harsh statement, those who do not understand will say, “Oh, such harsh words! Should a wise man say this?” These are their notions. And in this country, the notions are many. If a person tried to live according to your notions, he could be anything—but not a sage. You would shackle him so much he couldn’t live.

Think: if Ramana had been a deceiver, he would have schemed, “Should I pick up the stick? What will people say?” If he had thought so and not picked it up, I would say he was not a sage. But like an innocent child he picked it up. Whatever was needed in that moment, whatever arose in his consciousness, he lived it—without concern for your judgments.

I do not worry what you will think or say. I live what is spontaneous to me. I say what is natural to say. What comes, comes. Your notions are your affair. For me nothing is now right or wrong.

The gentleman who has named himself Swami Chinmay is not my disciple, nor does he have any experience of what I am saying. Such things will happen. Fake disciples will arise, false claimants too. Malas of sannyasins are stolen from here. Who steals malas! Strange—what will they do with them? But they steal them, and then they are “my sannyasins”—I have not given them sannyas. They will make ochre robes; the mala was the problem—they stole it. Then they go village to village. We get news: “Your sannyasin came and collected donations. He said the ashram needs money.” This too will happen. If he has a mala people assume, “He must be from the ashram.” We have had news of about ten such “sannyasins” raising money. One collected some forty thousand rupees—then he was caught; he was not my sannyasin.

Be alert. Such incidents are natural. Where such a great movement rises, these small things arise too—like thorns with flowers. They must be accepted with awareness. Be alert: there will be traitors, deceivers will come, false propaganda will be spread—so false that it will be astonishing.

Right now the German press has been in a storm about me for a month. Almost all the newspapers have joined in. Hardly any paper has not printed statements for or against me. A fierce stir! The man who started it—his first report even delighted me when I read it. He wrote, “At five-thirty in the morning I arrived at the ashram gate. I knocked. A beautiful naked young woman opened the door—at five-thirty in the morning! And not only that—she plucked a fruit from a nearby tree, which looked like an apple, and gave it to me, saying, ‘Please accept this as Bhagwan’s prasad.’ I asked, ‘What will it do?’ She said, ‘It produces great sexual energy in a man.’”

You’ll be amazed—letters started arriving. From Australia an old man wrote: “I am seventy; my wife is young. If your ashram has such a fruit, shall I come? Have compassion.” This too will happen. I had them write back: “Do come! We’ll think about the fruit later.” If he comes, I’ll coax him into meditation.

Friends from Germany have written: “Be careful. With such false publicity, the result will be that all kinds of sick, mentally distorted people will start arriving.”

One gentleman has already come—sixty years old. He sent word on arrival: he suffers from homosexuality; is there any remedy? This world is strange; its paths are strange. All kinds of insanities exist on this earth.

To live consciously among the insane, free of insanity, is difficult. To live awake among madmen is very hard. That difficulty has always been for the Buddhas, because the mad project their madness onto them. It is not even their fault—what else can they do? They project according to their own minds.

If we told this gentleman, “You are mad; what newspapers have you been reading?” he would not accept it; he would feel ignored. We had them tell him: “You have come reading nonsense. Look here—this is not our interest. This is not a clinic for such people.”

He sent word: “If taking sannyas is necessary, I can even take sannyas—but I will not leave now. Something must be done before I go.”

This will all happen. Those who are with me must be alert and unperturbed by all this. Lies will be told and spread; there will be believers for them. The crowd will believe—because what I say is contrary to the crowd’s beliefs. So whatever is said against me, the crowd will agree. And those who speak against me will increase—because they gain by it. People will listen to them, regard them as wise. But this drama has always been so. When there is a Jesus, there is a Judas; when there is a Buddha, there is a Devadatta; when there is a Mahavira, there is a Goshalak. Someone will have to be Judas with me too.

If you love a person, you will see in them something that no one else can see. You will see in them a certain sweetness that no one else perceives. That sweetness is delicate; it appears only to the touch of love. You will hear an echo of a song in that person that no one else can hear. For that, one must come very close—closer than anyone else is; only you are that close.

Therefore beauty begins to reveal itself in the one we love. People think we fall in love with the one who is beautiful; they are wrong. The one you fall in love with appears beautiful. In them, life’s entire significance, its dignity, starts to unfold. And it isn’t that you are imagining it; when the eye of love opens, the invisible begins to be seen, the imperceptible becomes perceptible. The presence of what is hidden starts being felt. Without any door opening, someone enters within you.

The heart never opens; it remains closed always.
Who knows how it is that you come into it, from where!

The one with faith discovers a great wonder: from where, through what unknown door, does the Divine enter within?

“I awoke just as I was, with the doors tight-barred from inside.
How does he come and flee—who knows by which path?”
This sweet couplet is by Bihari! All around, the beloved has bolted the doors and fallen asleep. In her dream her lover arrives; in that very moment she wakes. Awake, she sees the doors are just as they were, the bar still in place. Who knows from where he comes and by which way he slips away!

I awoke just as I was, with the doors tight-barred from inside.
How does he come and flee—who knows by which path!

From where do you arrive, from where do you depart! Through which little lattice do you peep in! The name of that lattice is faith.

One who lives only in argument will never know anything deeper than matter. Such a life will be wasted. He may accumulate wealth, but all that wealth will just lie there. He will be deprived of meditation—and only meditation accompanies you even into death. The supreme wealth will not be his. That wealth belongs to the one who has the eye of faith within.

I have told you there are four kinds of seekers. The student moves by argument. The practitioner moves by action. The disciple moves by love. And the devotee moves by faith.

Faith is the culmination of love. Faith means: what has not yet happened will also happen—I trust that. For trust arises from what has already happened. There is so much beauty in this world, so much light, so much music—the throats of birds are filled with song! Every leaf carries beauty, every star carries light. This world is so magnificent that there must be a Painter behind it.

Faith means: behind so many colors, there must be a Painter.
Faith means: where such a rain of beauty is showering, there must be a source of that beauty.

This is not logic; it is not a theory of cause and effect—it is a sensing. As when you begin to approach a garden, you feel a touch of coolness in the air. The garden is not yet in sight, but the air has begun to cool. Then one thing is certain: you are coming closer to a garden. Whether you know it or not, your feet are falling on the right path; the distance is shrinking; nearness is increasing. Slowly the fragrance the winds carry begins to reach you—this scent of jasmine, this night-blooming jasmine, this fragrance of roses... Now you know you are nearer, and nearer still. The garden is still not seen, yet now you are sure the garden exists—otherwise from where this fragrance? There must be a source; flowers must be blooming somewhere! Come closer yet, and you hear birdsong. Now you know there must be deep shade and great trees; otherwise how could there be so many birds singing? If the cuckoo has begun to call, surely there is a mango grove.

Faith means: from the subtlest hints, to accept the Source. Sit near the Master and the mind becomes absorbed; a gentle drizzle begins; some lotus opens in the heart—then you know that by sitting near this one, if this is happening, much more will happen; trust grows.

You will meet me someday upon the path of awareness;
let me make your remembrance my very own!

You will meet me someday... this feeling-state is called faith.

You will meet me someday upon the path of awareness,
let me make your remembrance my very own!
Someday you will erase the suffocation of my mind;
let me make your light my very own!
A smile like morning, heart-wealth like sandalwood,
eyes pure as dew distilled;
giving scent to the blossom, a hum to the bee,
deceiving herself, she drank the wine...
Someday you will gather my scattered dreams;
let me make your sleep my very own!
You will meet me someday upon the path of awareness,
let me make your remembrance my very own!
I stand poor and small upon the shore,
while the surging ocean calls me out;
to join me the wave runs restless forward,
and the shore’s own patience roars;
You will meet me someday in the tender wave;
let me make my frantic midstream my own!
Someday you will erase the suffocation of my mind;
let me make your light my very own!
The night is long, but it is star-filled;
eyelids have kindled lamps in every direction;
the breath is short, but hope is great;
life has set a watch at death’s own door;
You will meet me someday in the last watch;
let me adorn my sobbing parting with dew!
You will meet me someday upon the path of awareness!
Let me make your remembrance my very own!
Someday you will erase the suffocation of my mind;
let me make your light my very own!

Hints are everywhere, signals are everywhere. Faith is the name of understanding those signals.

Logic is blind, because logic demands the gross, the tangible. A rose blooms and if you tell the logician, “Look, how beautiful, how incomparable!” the logician will say, “Where is beauty? Show it to me. I want to hold beauty in my hand, I want to touch it. I want to weigh it. I want to weigh it on the scales of science. I want to test it on the touchstone of mathematics. I want to bring it into the account-books of logic. Only then will I accept it.” What will you do then?

It is not that the flower is not beautiful—the flower is beautiful. But beauty is not a gross object you can hand to the logician to weigh and test.

I have heard a sweet Baul song. A philosopher asked a Baul fakir, “You sing so many songs of God and roam about in a kind of divine madness—yet I see nothing. For whom do you wander with your ektara and drum, for whom do you sing, for whom do you dance? I find everything blank. I see no God anywhere. And tears flow from your eyes! You fall into ecstasy! Are you mad?”
That is why they are called Bauls—Baul means mad, crazed by love. The fakir began to pluck his ektara and sang a song. The song is wonderful. Its meaning is this: Once a goldsmith came into a garden and said to the gardener, “I have heard much praise of your flowers, that you grow such beauties. Today I have brought my touchstone for testing gold. I will test and see which flowers are real and which are fake.”
The Baul said: Imagine the plight of that gardener! If you rub flowers on the stone used to test gold... The touchstone that tests gold cannot test the beauty of flowers. Gold is gross, and gold impresses only the minds of gross people. Those who are very inert value gold most. But there are others whose sensitivity is deep. For them, even if you gave all the gold in the world, it would not equal the worth of one flower, because a flower is living beauty.
So the fakir said: What happened to that gardener, you have done to me. You say, “Where is God? Prove Him by logic.” Flowers cannot be tested on the touchstone used for gold—nor can God be tested on the touchstone of logic.

Life is not gross; logic can grasp only the gross. That which can grasp the subtle is called faith. Faith is a unique dimension.

You will meet me someday upon the path of awareness!
On this path of awakening, someday or other you will be met—this trust! Because you are! Because the flowers brought news that you are. Because the light filtering through the trees brought news that you are. Because at night the stars began to dance and the message came that you are. Because such color and festival swirl through existence—this is Holi, this is Diwali—by all this the news came that you are. Where such celebration is going on, the Master of the house must be hiding somewhere; otherwise this revelry would long ago have ceased. Where such a dance is whirling, there must be someone at its center.

You will meet me someday upon the path of awareness;
let me make your remembrance my very own!

Faith is the most precious jewel of human life. If there is faith in one’s life, everything is there—because the shadow of the Divine will fall upon it. The invisible will stir it. Poetry will rise in the heart. The flute will play in one’s life-breath. Meditation will bear fruit, samadhi will be attained. Life will be fulfilled. And without faith, life is futile.

If you travel by logic alone, if not today then tomorrow, nothing remains but suicide. That is why Western thinkers, walking by the light of logic for three hundred years, have arrived at suicide. The great Western thinker Albert Camus wrote, “To me, suicide seems the only serious philosophical problem. Why should a man not erase himself? What is the point of being?” If each day is only this—rise, have breakfast, go to the shop or office, toil all day, come home in the evening worn out, eat, sleep, rise again—if this is all, we have seen enough. There is a limit—why keep repeating the same? What is the essence in it? If this is all, there is no essence at all. And logic says: this is all.

The final outcome of logic is self-destruction; the final outcome of faith is immortal life. Choose—choose what calls you. You are your own master. When you abandon faith and choose logic, do not think you are opposing God—you are committing suicide.

The day Friedrich Nietzsche declared “God is dead,” God did not die—but that very day Nietzsche went mad. Can God die because someone makes a declaration? But one event necessarily occurs: if God is dead, what meaning remains in life?

Just think: remove God, and along with Him all beauty is removed, all love is removed, all prayer is removed. Temple bells will ring no more, plates of worship will not be adorned, adoration will not be possible—everything goes. Whatever was valuable in life—remove that single word “God,” and it is all removed. What remains then? Trash and rubbish! Then you are seated on a heap of scrap. Where is the essence then? Your life becomes a mere accident. Then whether you die now or tomorrow—what difference does it make? Then to go on living is cowardice. There is no meaning. Why continue, why suffer? Why not end it with your own hand?

Nietzsche went mad, and this whole century is going mad—because this century trusted Nietzsche. For the first time in human history, it has happened that people have begun to ask, “What is faith?” The experience of faith is gone; therefore they must ask its meaning. People have begun to ask, “What is love?”—because the experience of love is gone.

The day people start asking, “What is light?” know that they have gone blind. The day people ask, “What is music?” know they have gone deaf. What else can it mean? Our faith has dried up. We are living completely without faith.

And I tell you: you may go to temple, to mosque, to gurudwara—and you go without faith; therefore your going has no meaning. You go—as just another arrangement in the routine of life. Everyone goes, so you go too. If you don’t go, difficulties come; if you keep going, conveniences remain; in society you retain the prestige of being “very religious.” The appearance of religiosity brings many conveniences; if the appearance breaks, people get offended, they begin to create obstacles. So the drama goes on. But there is no faith. Because when you go toward the temple, I do not see dance in your feet. When you come back from the temple, I do not see tears of shining joy in your eyes. When you fold your hands in the temple, I do not see your heart joined.

Faith is lost. And with faith lost, the eye to see God is lost. But what is lost is still present within you. It is closed; it can be opened. The shock by which faith opens is called satsang—communion with truth. The one in whose presence the bud of faith opens and becomes a flower—that one is the true Master.

Only love can be tested so. Only gold is put into the fire, because the dross will burn and the gold will remain—refined, made pure. Love is tried by fire because love itself does not burn; whatever burns was never love. What survives the flames is love—and then it survives purified; whatever debris was mixed in it is gone. And there is a lot of debris in your love. Usually it’s like this: love only in name, the rubbish more. Your love is mixed with hate; that’s why your love can turn into hate in a moment. Just now it was love; just now it becomes hate. The same wife for whom you were ready to give your life—you can take her life in a single instant.

Imagine: a moment ago you were ready to die, telling your wife, “Without you I cannot live. If you die, I will die. You are my very life!” Then you get up and rummage through some old papers and find an old letter—someone had written to your wife, and in it there’s a hint of some love affair. All vows of love forgotten—you pick up a gun and kill your wife. The one for whom you were ready to die—you kill her. How long did it take for love to turn into hate? A small letter, a few words, a few lines traced on paper—that much was enough and your love was gone!

Your love turns into jealousy so quickly! Your wife smiles and talks with someone—fire flares up. Your so-called love is only love in name. In the name of love you keep trying to establish ownership over the other. The husband wants the wife completely in his possession. For centuries he has been trying—preaching that the husband is God. Husbands themselves have been drilling it into wives that the husband is God. Do you see the stupidity?

One day Mulla Nasruddin went to the marketplace and said, “There is no woman in the world more beautiful than my wife.” People were a bit startled. They asked, “Who told you that?” He said, “My wife herself told me.”
What is the worth of that? The husbands themselves are explaining!

And since a woman is physically more delicate, husbands have imposed it on her—imposed it by the force of the stick.

Women write in letters—“Your slave!” Only in letters; but they keep you tasting the other side of it twenty-four hours a day! And in reality the matter is quite different. Because women cannot wrestle men physically, they have discovered subtler ways to fight. Very subtle ways—because they had to.

Look: men have discovered many ways. They invented the sword, the gun, the bomb, the spear—why? Scientists say: because man does not have the physical strength animals have. If a lion were to grapple with you directly, all your bravado would evaporate. Forget the lion—let an Alsatian dog just chase you and you’ll forget your swagger. It will shake you to your core.

Man is helpless compared to animals: neither such claws as can rip and tear, nor such teeth as can chew raw flesh and crush bone. Out of that helplessness man invented weapons—they are substitutes. Animals have claws; we discovered long spears. We made big knives and swords. Still we remained afraid, because even with a sword if you stand before a lion, your knees will knock. In that trembling the sword will drop...

Mulla Nasruddin once went hunting. He had tied a platform up in a tree and was sitting there. When the lion appeared, he lost his senses. He was in the tree, but he lost consciousness. His friends barely managed to get him down, sprinkled water on him, poured in some liquor; at last he came to. They asked, “Nasruddin, why did you get so frightened? You had a gun!” He said, “What would the gun do? The panic came first. The gun fell out of my hand. When the gun fell—then I fainted.”

So man invented the arrow—to strike from a distance. Then the gun—to shoot from far away, so there is no need to come close. And this, people call “hunting”—they go to do sport. They tie a platform in a tree and from there shoot an innocent, unarmed animal. They feel no shame, and call this the sport of the hunt! And if ever the lion catches them, they don’t call that “the lion’s hunt.”

Man was weaker, so he invented weapons. Exactly the same thing happened between woman and man. The man is stronger. He is a little taller; he has more muscle; his bones are thicker; he can bully women. So women had to discover subtle means—means by which the man could not fight back. For example, you come home and she lets down her hair and begins to cry—now what will you do? If you hit a sobbing woman, that’s not right either. Her weeping is a device, a subtle device: “Let’s see what you do now; now you’ll have to bend!” Off you go to buy ice cream. Some fellows even bring the ice cream, the bouquet, the flowers in advance—come prepared.

An emperor once announced—because he had asked in court if there was anyone among the courtiers who could answer this honestly. “I want those who are afraid of their wives to stand on one side, and those who are not afraid to stand on the other.” All the courtiers stood on one side—except one man. The emperor had never imagined it would be him; he was a dried-up, worn-out fellow, the last of the lot. He alone stood apart. The emperor said, “I’m very surprised, but still, at least in my court there is one man who is not afraid of his wife.” The man said, “Forgive me, you misunderstand. Actually, when I was leaving home my wife said, ‘Listen, don’t stand in the crowd.’ Everyone is standing on that side. If I stood there and my wife came to know, there’d be trouble. So I’m standing here.”

The emperor then said to one of his officials, “We must find out the state of the whole kingdom. If this is the condition in court, what must it be in the capital?” So he sent a man: “Go and ask in every house in the city who is afraid of his wife; tell them if they lie the punishment will be severe, if they tell the truth, fine. And when you are absolutely sure there is a man who is not afraid of his wife, take him a beautiful horse, a white Kabuli—very precious, the finest in the royal stables—and present it to him as my gift.”

The man went. Whomever he asked said, “Brother, we don’t want to get entangled in lies and truth. The truth is—we’re afraid. But don’t tell anyone! Since the king has asked, we’ll tell the truth—we’re afraid.”

The minister was exhausted, searching and searching—would he not find even a single man who could take the horse? And then it occurred to him: “I myself can’t take this horse—so how will anyone else? Even the emperor can’t take it; everyone knows he himself is afraid. The real ruler is the queen; the king is just her puppet. Please the queen and the king is pleased. Is there not even one man—has mankind fallen so low? Not one real man?”

At last he came to a hut and saw a man who looked just like Muhammad Ali—huge muscles, big fists, seven feet tall. And his wife, very thin and frail. He thought, “Here is a man!” He asked, “Brother, tell me truly—are you afraid of your wife?” The fellow flexed his muscles. “See these?” He opened and closed his fist: “If this tightens around a neck—finished!” The minister said, “All right then. The king says: if such a man is found, present him a horse. The king has two horses, one black and one white. Both are excellent, equal in price. Do you want the white or the black?” The man called out, “Lallu’s mother, the white or the black?” Lallu’s mother said, “The black.” The minister said, “Then he doesn’t qualify.”
Lallu’s mother decided! All those muscles, that mighty fist—left useless.

Women have discovered subtle ways to fight with men. If a man gets angry, he hits the woman; if a woman gets angry, she hits herself—bangs her head on the wall. Her method is very Gandhian—nonviolent! She beats the child; poor Lallu gets thrashed. Then Lallu’s father thinks, “What’s the point? The child is being beaten for nothing; better if I had kept quiet to begin with.”

Your love is a constant quarrel: the woman trying to dominate the man, the man trying to dominate the woman. That is why the garden of love never comes into bloom. Love has to pass through fire. And when love is purified, it becomes reverence—shraddha.

Therefore when you go to a true master, he will test your love in many ways. And as I said, in these tests many people will run away. They are not prepared to undergo so much testing. Only a few have the courage to pass through such fire. Those who cannot pass through the fire cannot be burnished, cannot be purified; they cannot become vessels of the divine.

You are not cruel, you are not merciless!
Why fate is weighing, I do not know, today,
your laughter against my weeping.
There the stars are shimmering in the sky,
here, drops of dew are falling on the earth;
there the clouds are frolicking in play,
here the thirsty chatak waits for a single drop;
yearning for your touch,
the breeze trembles and sways in the bower!
Why fate is weighing, I do not know, today,
your laughter against my weeping.

Pierce the shroud of darkness a little,
show, captivating one, a glimpse of yourself;
the flowers’ rain-wet petals—
wipe them with your hands, arrange them;
these pearls are for you,
which the world’s eyes are forever shedding!
Why fate is weighing, I do not know, today,
your laughter against my weeping.

Who knows when my stifled sigh
will reach the portals of your ears;
who knows on what day, to your town,
my path, my life, will carry me;
You are not cruel, you are not merciless—
a ray speaks from the horizon!
Why fate is weighing, I do not know, today,
your laughter against my weeping.

If you keep trust, if you keep advancing in faith, then a ray from the sky will keep whispering, “Don’t be afraid—keep going.” This is the necessary process of being cleansed, of becoming utterly pure.

You are not cruel, you are not merciless!
The divine is neither cruel nor merciless. But the trial by fire of love must happen—for only through the trial does love become reverence.

Love is like a flower, and reverence is like the flower’s fragrance. The little earth that still clung to the flower—gone; now the fragrance is pure. And fragrance rises upward—toward the sky. Just as incense smoke rises toward the sky; the flower’s fragrance rises upward. The flower, if it falls, falls to the ground; the fragrance goes upward. Incense, if it falls, will fall to the ground; but its perfumed smoke rises toward the sky.

Love falls to the ground; reverence rises to the sky. That is why we say, “He fell in love.” In all the world’s languages—falling in love. In love we fall—downward. Love’s current is descending, toward the lower. Love is like water—it runs toward the depressions, lower and lower. Reverence is like water vapor—it has evaporated and begun to rise; clouds begin to gather in the sky. As soon as vapor becomes water, it descends to the earth; as soon as water becomes vapor, it ascends to the sky.

When love passes through fire, it turns to vapor. As water passes through fire and becomes steam, just so is the trial by fire of love.

From the beginning of love to the end of love!
Whatever we have gone through—you too must have heard.
Much is traversed.
From the beginning of love to the end of love!
From love’s first stirrings to its completion, much is traversed.
From the beginning of love to the end of love!
Whatever we have gone through—you too must have heard.

Read the stories of the devotees, read their songs—then you will understand: what pain there is, how many tears, how much weeping, what longing, what fire! Yet only by walking across those embers does one reach the temple of God. That condition has to be fulfilled.

And remember: the divine is neither cruel nor merciless. The truth is, it is his compassion that tests you. And the sterner your test, the more you should rejoice, give thanks—because great trust is being placed in you. The true master will test most the disciple in whom he trusts that something can happen. The one in whom he has no trust—no tests are asked of him. Blessed are those whose love is tested.

You are not cruel, you are not merciless!
A ray speaks from the horizon!
Why fate is weighing, I do not know, today,
your laughter against my weeping.

Destiny has to weigh. The tears of love will be weighed, and the laughter of love will be weighed. Love will be weighed.

And on love’s path there are thousands upon thousands of difficulties, thousands upon thousands of rocks; but climbing them, one day you will reach the Himalayan summit—the peak of life—where the summit talks with the moon and stars, where the peak converses with the clouds! On those summits the Upanishads are born. On those summits these words of Gorakh arose, the voice of Buddha, the Vedas took birth, the Quran was sung—on those very summits! They are the summits of love—the purest form of love. Their name is reverence.

Do not panic, do not be afraid—keep moving on.

I shall live by the boon of your love!

Scorn me if you will—have I ever cast you from my heart?
I clutched the edge of jealousy, always fearing thirst,
and, sorrowing, plucked at the lute, filling it with a plaintive raga—
I shall remain the pride of your melody!
I shall live by the boon of your love!

What could not reach my lips slipped away, taking my eyes along—
a wave fell into midstream, breaking the shore as it went;
what can a moth burn—it is the flame that, writhing, burned itself—
I shall remain the gift of that very curse!
I shall live by the boon of your love!

Surging like a flower, the vine kissed the thorn;
a pricking memory—there the thorn too smiled;
in the thorn-garden of sorrows, where does a blissful flower bloom?
I shall remain the estimate of that hard-won knowing!
I shall live by the boon of your love!

In the agonies of separation, union burns in silence;
made eloquent by tear-drops, it ripens in a sigh of bliss;
the ache of a bygone age cannot be erased by erasing—
I shall remain the remembrance of those intoxicating moments!
I shall live by the boon of your love!

Let the trials by fire come—let them come. Let challenges come—let them come. Embrace them. Let storms rise—accept them. And let one refrain keep resounding, unmoved, within:

I shall remain the remembrance of those intoxicating moments!
I shall live by the boon of your love!

Classical music cannot be understood by everyone; to expect that is also wrong. For classical music one needs a different kind of sensitivity, a different kind of receptivity—a very delicate heart, finely tuned to melody and metre. Classical music is not film music that you can understand while remaining just as you are.

Classical music is a sadhana. As you are, it won’t be understood; you will have to transform yourself. Classical music is a challenge; only through years of labor and practice will you be able to understand it, to truly listen to it. The people of the neighborhood are not at fault, nor the family, nor the wife. You have chosen a troublesome matter.

I have heard that Mulla Nasruddin invited a musician friend to dinner and said, “Bring the tabla player along and your instruments too, because after dinner we’ll have a mehfil.” The musician was a bit surprised, because never even in his dreams had he had an inkling that Mulla understood classical music. Mulla had never shown any interest. Suddenly today this love for classical music! Still, he came, fully prepared—brought his instruments and his accompanists. They ate, the wine flowed, they chatted for a long time. The musician kept wondering: when will the music begin? Midnight approached and Mulla kept talking of this and that. He suggested a couple of times, “Brother, the music…” Mulla said, “Wait, it will happen at the right time; everything has its time.” When it was past midnight and everything was silent, the whole neighborhood asleep, no one on the road, Mulla said, “Now the hour has come—let’s have classical music, with all our heart!”

The musician said, “But now the neighbors are asleep, your wife and children are asleep, the family is asleep; classical music will create trouble.” Mulla said, “Don’t worry at all. What trouble? Their dogs keep barking; I never say a word. I don’t have a dog—so I invited you! Let there be music, with a full heart. Don’t be shy. Whatever you’ve learned in life… Tonight let each one know that even if there’s no dog, there’s at least a friendship with a classical musician!”

There are people like this too! Mulla once went to a music recital, and when the vocalist began to go aaa… aaa… aaa… Mulla started to cry, tears dripping down. The man seated next to him said, “Nasruddin, we never imagined you had such a bond with classical music! Tears at once…” Mulla said, “It’s not about classical music. Once my goat died just like this. This man will die; the goat went aaa… aaa… We too thought he was doing classical music. In the morning he was found dead.”

You have chosen a troublesome matter.

The fire brigade asked:
What caused
the fire in the house?
The householder,
twirling his moustache, said—
This is a blazing example
of my singing
of Raga Dipak.
They asked—
Why is this sitar
lying there broken, the wretch?
Answer—
Raga Todi’s tode
tore it to pieces.
Why are so many kittens
making such a racket here?
You call this a racket?
Sir,
they are singing Raga Bilawal.
Why are they walking
so very slowly—
are the poor fellows very old?
No, their gait
is set in vilambit khayal.
A curiosity arose:
why are the villagers
leaving their homes?
It turned out—
for a music conference
musicians are coming
to the village.

Now there’s only one remedy: start Active Meditation or Kundalini Meditation. Then your neighbors themselves will say, “Brother, classical music is better.” Do that; what a tangle you’ve brought upon yourself!

Since you ask me, I tell you. And this recipe has worked before, so I give it to you. Start at once with hoo-hoo, ha-ha—start full-on Active Meditation; then your neighbors will fold their hands and say to you, “Brother, classical music is better…” No other remedy occurs to me. You have picked a troublesome matter.

Is this an age for classical music? Either leave the neighborhood, go somewhere into solitude. Sit in solitude and learn there. And if something has to be left, leave the neighborhood, because music is important; if something must be staked for it, stake it. If the family has to be left, then leave it—but do not leave music. Because if truly you have rasa for it, music will become your meditation, your samadhi.

Music is the most effortless means to meditation. Those who can drown in music need not search for anything else to drown in. Music is a wondrous intoxication. Music is the supreme elixir. Drowning in it, your thoughts will disappear, your ego will disappear. Consider music as meditation.

But do not harass others. It is not right that others be sacrificed for your meditation. Step aside. And if your wife and children love you, then slowly a love for your music will be born in them; teach them music little by little. Not all at once—gently awaken the interest in music. For it is very hard to find a person in whom, somewhere, there is no taste for music. The relish of music is essential. That is why we have called the Divine the Word, the Sound, Omkar; because every person is made of sound. In the life of our life, sound is resounding—the unstruck sound is resounding, the resonance of Om. Therefore it is difficult—truly difficult—to find a person in whom there is not somewhere a possibility for music. But awaken it gently, persuade slowly. Only, do not give up music.

If there is rasa for music, everything else can be given up; music cannot be given up. If music itself becomes your sannyas, let it be so. One should have at least that much courage. Only then does something bear fruit in life. Only then is something attained. Everything else is secondary. If this is the voice of your soul, then move with this voice.

That is why I have to speak on everything—on music too—though I am no musician. I know neither Raga Dipak nor Raga Todi nor Raga Bilawal, nor vilambit—none of it. But I have heard a music that is the supreme music, where all ragas are lost. I have heard a music that Nanak called: Ek Onkar Satnam. Therefore I will speak on music too. If a lover of music comes, I must take him toward the Divine through his very love.

I do not want to deviate you from your nature. I do not want to impose anything upon you. I want only that what is natural and spontaneous within you should blossom and bloom.

As long as you think in the language of getting, you will not find contentment. It is the very language of getting that creates discontent. As long as you keep asking, “What should I get?” you will remain dissatisfied. Contentment is in celebrating what is. Discontent is in the desire to obtain what is not, in craving. And there is so much that you do not have. If you set out to get what is not, you will keep on going and going; you will never get it all. You will never be content. Discontent will remain the tale and the torment of your life.

No; what is, is not little. You have been given life—have you offered thanks to the Divine for this life? And if you had to go purchase this life, how high a price would you not be ready to pay? These eyes were given, these burning lamps were given! With these eyes you have seen so much beauty of the world—morning’s sun, the stars of night. Have you ever thanked the Divine: what wondrous eyes you have given, what a miracle—eyes! But you did not thank. How much music these ears have heard—have you ever bowed in gratitude? This sensitive heart has been given—have you ever let two tears fall at his feet, in prayer, in worship?

Contentment means: what is already exceeds my merit and my worthiness. I have neither merit nor worthiness, and yet the Divine goes on showering—recognizing this is called contentment. And to the one who has contentment, more will be given.

There is a very lovely saying of Jesus that comes to me again and again—unique, unparalleled, and quite beyond logic! Jesus says: “To him who has, more will be given; and from him who has not, even what he has will be taken away.” It sounds upside down, a reversal. What kind of statement is this? What kind of justice is it that he who has will be given more, and from him who has not, even what he has will be taken? It seems great injustice. But no, it is not injustice; it is the supreme law of life. Because the one who has—his capacity to receive grows. He opens more doors; he becomes more eager, more expectant. And the one who has not shrinks further. He shrinks so much that even what he has becomes eager to leave him.

If you have contentment, you will receive more and more blessings—day after day. And if you have no contentment—only discontent and complaint and lamenting and a perpetual tale of sorrow—you will shrink, you will contract. Even what is within you will be lost.

You ask: I am dissatisfied with everything.
It is natural. Everyone is. Such is man. Such is the human mind—dissatisfied with everything!

Now understand this. It means you have been dissatisfied all these days—has it brought any benefit? Discontent has only grown. You will remain discontent in the future as well. One day death will come, and you will have lived in discontent and you will die in discontent. Now learn a different art; the name of that art is contentment—or sannyas. The two are synonyms.

Sannyas means: contentment. What is, even that is so much. There should be wonder—why even this much? Why have I been given so much when I did not earn it; I have no merit, no worthiness. You have given—it is your gift! I am blessed! I am grateful!

Dance! Tie the anklets to your feet; let the beat fall upon the mridang! Dance! Dance in sheer wonder! And then you will find more and more gifts arriving day after day. The deeper your thanksgiving, the more the compassion of the Divine will shower upon you. If until now there has been only a drizzle, there will come a torrential downpour of bliss.

The earth for a bed, the blue sky for a cover—
what more is needed, O renunciate heart!
The sun above like a golden parasol,
the moon worn as a necklace of silver,
dawn holding a pitcher of light in welcome,
dusk adorning herself with stars—
the sun and moon as jewels, the stars as bangles—
what more is needed, O most fortunate heart!

Spring hums its song through the cuckoo’s voice,
summer noons come for a secret tryst,
in the rains the pied cuckoo calls “beloved, beloved,”
autumn’s moonlight showers sweet love.
The seasons swinging, time rocking the cradle—
what more is needed, O devoted heart!

Buds wave their silken handkerchiefs,
buds fill life with delight,
colors drip from flowers, liquid fragrance flies,
the saffron-scented breeze ripples the mind.
The honeyed grove in bloom, horizons all perfumed—
what more is needed, O sweetly loving heart!

Birds with rainbow wings
whisper secret things into your ears,
into the bowl of the pond a flower-sipper alights,
the leaves of water hyacinth tremble and tremble.
The bird in flight, the water hyacinth quivering—
what more is needed, O rebellious heart!

The earth for a bed, the blue sky for a cover—
what more is needed, O renunciate heart!
You are richly blessed! What more is needed?
The sun and moon as jewels, the stars as bangles—
what more is needed, O most fortunate heart!

So much has been given, but because of the ego it is not seen. Let the ego go now.

You ask: What should I do?
Let the ego die.

Die, O yogi, die; die, for such dying is sweet.
Die the death by which Gorakh was beheld.

That’s all for today.