Mare He Jogi Maro #2

Chandralekha! The new always brings fear. Even if the familiar is painful, it is familiar—so there is no fear. Even if the known is not giving joy, it feels safe; it is known. To step into the unknown, into the unfamiliar... fear is completely natural. So don’t make a problem out of fear.

Whenever anyone takes a step onto a new path, they hesitate. But only by stepping into the new is there growth in life. The one who keeps circling in the old groove becomes like an ox at the oil press. What must always be considered is: in the way I am living, is joy being attained? If it is not, then one should take the risk. New paths, a new way of living, a new search will have to be undertaken. One thing is certain: you have nothing to lose. You did not receive joy from the old life; had you, there would have been no need for the new. The old has proved futile; that much is certain. The new may turn out meaningful, it may also turn out futile. But in the new there is at least a possibility of meaning. The old has been squeezed dry; you have seen it, understood it, lived it, and found nothing—as if someone were trying to squeeze oil from sand... How long will you keep banging your head against sand?

I am not saying that the new will certainly give joy, because joy depends less on the path and more on the traveler; less on the way, more on the wayfarer. So the real change is not of the path; the real change is of the traveler. But the change of path is where the beginning happens. You are on the outside, therefore transformation has to begin from the outside. If you gather the courage to change the outer, the courage to change the inner will also grow strong. And if a few drops of joy begin to fall, then with zest and enthusiasm the exploration of the new will begin.

But one thing is certain: you have nothing to lose. Therefore don’t worry needlessly. What have you gained by clinging to the old? So nothing will be lost, either. And when there is nothing to lose, what is there to fear? Either you will get something; at the most, it may happen that even from the new you will not get anything. Then we will search for yet another new.

Always keep attention on this: from the way we have lived, from what we have thought and reflected till now—has anything been gained or not? Think of that. Do not think about the future—what will be gained or not—because the future is unknown. Sannyas is unfamiliar. Only by entering the experiment will it be known. Only if you taste will you know. How will you decide before tasting whether the thing is tasty or not? You will have to trust someone—someone who has tasted.

Here you come, Chandralekha. I have tasted. I tell you: come, move forward. And there are many here who are getting intoxicated, who are diving deep. Seeing their ecstasy and their plunge, the feeling for sannyas arises in your heart too; otherwise why would it arise? Your heart is stirred; only your mind is obstructing.

The mind is always conservative. The heart is always eager to go with the new, and the mind is always ready to remain tied to the old... The mind has nothing except the past. Whatever the mind has is the wealth of memory. That is all past. The mind has no future at all. A thing becomes part of the mind only when it has become past. When it has become your experience, then it becomes part of the mind. The mind lives in the past, in the dead; therefore the mind is afraid to go into the future. The heart is always ready to take the leap.

Your heart is full of elation. Your heart wants to take the step. The mind is playing its clevernesses. The mind says: wait, think, decide first; it may happen that you go on a new path and get nothing! It may happen that you have to return halfway! It may happen that you change your way of life, take so much trouble, and the reward is not commensurate with the effort!... So think a little, do the arithmetic, calculate.

But if you listen to the mind, a step will never be taken.

Think a little: a small child is still in the mother’s womb. Birth is near. If he had a mind, if intelligence had already arisen, then the intelligence would say: where are you going? This process, this way of life, this being in the womb is so pleasant! No hassles, no worries, no responsibilities—sleep for twenty-four hours. Where are you going? Who knows what will be outside—what troubles will come, what challenges will arise!

If the child had a little arithmetic, a little logic, no child would ever be born from the mother’s womb. But there is no arithmetic; arithmetic comes later—fortunately. Logic comes later. The child has only a heart—eager, curious for the new.

If we go by the mind, the earth would be filled with decrepitude. In this country it has happened so; people have forged alliances with over-intellectualization. Therefore this country has become decrepit. Youthfulness has left this land. It is living among ruins. It still keeps singing the glories of the past. It has no excitement for the new. It praises the fallen yellow leaves; it turns its back on the budding new shoots. It worships stones, the inert, the lines of the past. It has become a stickler for the line. And so too has the mind of the people become.

Courage will have to be gathered!

And I tell you this much: even losing with the new is a victory; even winning with the old is no victory. With the old, even if comfort is obtained, at most it means convenience. With the new, even if sorrow comes, growth happens. The sorrow found with the new is ascetic fire; that is what I call tapascharya. Smearing dust on the body and sitting, or lying on a bed of thorns, or fasting—I do not call any of this tapascharya; I call all this the stupidity of a sick mind.

There is only one tapascharya—to have the courage to go with the new, the guts to descend into the unknown! Just as a small child leaves the mother’s womb!

Just two days ago, on a nearby tree, a bird was raising her chicks. Day by day the chicks kept growing. Two days ago, for the first time they came out of the nest. When they first came out of the nest, I was standing near them. Both sat on a branch—full of wonder and astonishment, but weighing up, thinking, whether to take the next step or not! Until now they had not come out of the nest, and their mother is sitting on a distant tree calling, pleading. That is how children are called... She is calling, giving voice. Hearing her call they flutter. But the attachment to the nest, the security... And they had never spread their wings before... so whether to open the wings or not, will we be able to fly or not?

Seeing their dilemma reminded me of the dilemma of those who have just taken sannyas. In just this way they weigh their wings, think, panic, glance back. But how long? The mother kept calling and calling, again and again... It took about half an hour. Slowly they fluttered their wings, moved a little away from the nest... Sat on other branches of the same tree. A little trust grew, they beat their wings into the air a little, then came back. A little more trust grew, then they flew away... Since then, who knows. For two days I have been watching every day—they haven’t returned. Now why return? The nest is lying there, and in it two eggs, broken remnants. Even birds gather the courage to fly in the sky, who have never flown; and being human, we cannot gather courage!

I am calling to you from a distant tree, giving the cry. This call is resounding every day.

You say: Every time I come here I leave without taking sannyas. The feeling for sannyas arises many times in my heart, but I am not able to gather the courage to take it.

Chandralekha, flutter your wings a little, let yourself be filled with the thrill of the new a little, gather a little courage. You have wings. I am calling you from the sky. I am giving you an invitation from afar. It is not that you do not have wings; you have just as many wings as I do—only trust is missing. And how will trust come? Fly, and it will come. I can say this much: even the sorrow that comes with the new is very endearing. And in the new, a little sorrow will certainly come. Do you think those bird-children did not feel pain when they flew? The gusts of wind... It rained at night... They must have been sitting on some tree without a nest now. Their wings would have gotten wet. They would be shivering with cold... The thought would also come to mind—our nest was good, what mess have we gotten into? Yet the joy of flying in the sky is such that all these prices can be paid. They have to be paid! And the one who pays the price—only he attains.

The wind is heavy with fragrance,
and then the feet are restless.
What season has descended?
Even pain feels like a kinsman.

Songs of untried waves of melody cast their spell.
Under autumn clouds, the fields fling up flowers.
Today the mind is no longer in my control.
The sky is drenched with song.
Who has bewitched the life-breath?
Even pain feels like a kinsman.

O ray of sadness! Lost—what are you saying?
Why flow so uselessly beyond the haze?
There is some vow of love.
To keep the pledge of love is the daily vow.
A dream has awakened in the eyes.
Even pain feels like a kinsman.

Evening, laden with the full weight of youth, sways across the fields.
Like the notes of a flute, my single voice calls alone.
It seems some solitude is calling.
And there is a prick in body and mind.
What season has descended?
Even pain feels like a kinsman.

With the new, pain too feels very intimate; with the old, even comfort is only a slow, slow suicide—nothing else.

What is there to leave, what will be lost? If nothing has been gained, what will be lost if it is left?

Therefore search. And keep searching until it is found. Until then, let the steps not stop, let the wings not fold. However much fear arises, you will have to weigh your wings and fly into the sky. And the challenge has arisen; how long will you deny it, how long will you keep going back? Let this returning not become a habit. Let this returning not become a line etched in you. Before it becomes a habit, do something, awaken a little, gather some courage.

If you want to cross this roaring ocean,
today you must take your life in your hands and step into the waves.
These waves come from afar to you,
bringing with them new messages of that new world.
How long will you sit on the shore and keep pondering?
On the far bank sweet veenas speak, calling you.
If you desire a new life, a new youth, a new mind,
today you must gather the surging ocean into your arms.

Take a new trust and step forward today.
Lift your eyes today with a new history.
Let this old sky fall far behind.
Take a new sky and adorn your world today.
If in your life-breath the notes of new creation are sounding,
today you must adorn every particle anew.
This anguish of dissolution will be the honey-song of the new creation.
This darkness will be the night’s gift of the sun.
Let this ancient, dilapidated idol of the age now break.
Whatever stone you place your hand upon will become God.
You are kin to the Himalayas—what is the depth of the ocean to you?
Today you must fill your wings with infinite sky.

If you want to cross this roaring ocean,
today you must take your life in your hands and step into the waves.

Descend! Even if you feel fear of drowning, descend. All who learn to swim in the new feel the fear of drowning. The one who, out of fear of drowning, stops at the shore—he will never know the joy of swimming and floating. And the other shore is far, and that is the destination. Only by going across will God be found.

Sannyas is only a small boat—to take you across! Granted, the far shore is hidden in the mist, not visible. Therefore one must connect oneself to someone with eyes. Therefore one must sit and rise in the company of those who have eyes, so that the dormant strings within you may slowly become strong. So that the blow may fall upon your veena too!

Chandralekha, that is why you have been coming. Your coming will lose its meaning if you do not become drenched in this nectar. Otherwise it will be like this: you came to the lake and kept returning thirsty. Coming to the lake does not quench thirst; you will have to make a cup of your hands, you will have to bend down, you will have to fill water and pour it down your throat—only then does life become satisfied.

Sannyas is the process of bowing—the joining of hands into a cup.

Here no one is new; all are old. Who knows on how many paths you have walked. Who knows with how many masters you have lived. Your coming to me is not accidental. You have been walking, seeking; that very search has brought you here. Those who have never walked, who have never sought, it is difficult for me even to connect with them. Even if they come, they slip away. Their coming is accidental; there is no foundation behind it. Those who come to me and remain, who settle… and Taru has come, so she has settled… it means some deep thirst of their life-energies is being quenched. What was searched for through many doors and not found, its glimpse has begun to appear; the destination is getting near.

There must have been some connection with Gorakh, Taru, some bond. As when an old sleeping song bursts forth, so have questions flowed from her—and each question is meaningful. Not one is merely intellectual; they were not asked for the sake of asking; they arose. They were not asked after thinking, “One ought to ask.” She could not stop herself from asking. Then she must have gotten scared herself that she has written fourteen questions, so she also asked forgiveness: “Don’t be angry with me.” So many questions… as if she were compelled. They had to be asked; not to ask would not do.

One of those fourteen is:
Why do people fear names like Tantra, the Left-hand Path (Vamamarga), Aghor, Nath?

First, all these are names of Tantra. Vamamarga is a name of Tantra. Vamamarga means: the path of the left hand. You have two hands: a right hand and a left hand. They are not just two hands; behind them great secrets lie. Your right hand is connected to the left hemisphere of your brain—cross-connected. Your left hand is connected to the right hemisphere. The brain is divided into two hemispheres. Science has now researched this deeply, and great mysteries have been revealed. Your right hemisphere, which is linked to the left hand, is the source of poetry—of feeling, emotion, art, wisdom, joy, playfulness, dance, music, celebration, imagination. Whatever is sweet, whatever is feminine, whatever is beautiful arises in the right hemisphere. The left hand is the symbol of that right hemisphere.

Your right hand is connected to the left hemisphere. In the left hemisphere are born logic, mathematics, industriousness, efficiency, cleverness, politics, diplomacy, the world, prose, science, accounting, utility, the marketplace. All this relates to the left hemisphere. The world has always emphasized the right hand, because the right hand is utility, accounting, mathematics, logic, market, shop, transaction. The left hand has always seemed dangerous. What trust is there in a poet! A mathematician can be relied upon. What trust is there in a dancer! A scientist can be relied upon. Science has use; what use is dance? Dance is svantah sukhaya—“for one’s own inner delight.” This left hand within you is the symbol of svantah sukhaya. It has no goal. No direction. It is going nowhere. It is the art of living in this very moment, delighted, intoxicated, enthralled.

What is the value of poetry? It can neither fill the belly nor cover the body nor build a roof. So we have given the poet a little respect in a certain proportion—like decoration—but nonessential. If one or two people in society become poets, we tolerate it; but we will not tolerate a whole tribe of poets, because the poet seems good-for-nothing. What is his utility?

Someone asked Picasso, “What is the use of your paintings?” He slapped his forehead: “You do not ask flowers what use they have; when the cuckoo sings you do not ask her what use there is; when the sky fills with stars you do not ask what use that is! Why ask me?”

Poets, painters, sculptors, musicians have always said: we have no utility. But life does not end with utility. Remember Jesus’ saying: Man cannot live by bread alone. A man cannot live on bread alone; something more is needed. Bread is necessary, but not enough. It is true that without bread there can be no poetry; but if there is bread without poetry, life is as good as unlived. If no poetry stirs in life, no song arises, no veena is played, no melody blossoms on the flute—what is the point?

Svantah sukhaya, Raghunath-gatha: what fills one with inner delight also fills one with the feeling for the Beloved.

Hence the left hand has always been a danger signal. Therefore, those we fear we call left-hand practitioners—vamamargis. Those who frighten us, we call left-hand. You will find thousands who call me left-hand. And rightly so. I am left-hand, because I am teaching you the art of svantah sukhaya. Accounting is not everything; beyond accounting there is another world—and that world is fulfilling, contenting, luminous.

Needs must be met—fine. Then what will you do? When needs are met, then what? In the West this very impasse has arisen; outer needs were fulfilled. In meeting needs, they used the left hemisphere linked to the right hand; therefore the West denied religion, denied poetry, denied music—denied the entire discipline of mystery. Only the exact—mathematics, science, matter, the solid and provable—this is what the West has lived by. Three hundred years of continuous emphasis on the right hand made the West prosperous: money, wealth, houses, good roads, delicious food, abundance. An age of affluence arrived. But for three hundred years they denied the source of svantah sukhaya.

So the West became affluent—but now what? They no longer have the art of enjoying joy. The West is bewildered. Where to go now, what to do? The world of work that could be, has been. A great restlessness is within. Even on Sunday the Western man cannot really take a holiday; he has forgotten how. Work, and more work, and more work… Work has been so emphasized that it has been made God! The art of play has been forgotten. To sit and laugh and talk, to play the veena, to grow grass in the garden, to lie down blissfully under the stars, to go boating… No—meaningless. For three hundred years, from school to university, they taught only one thing: the value of work.

So today, if someone lies on his boat drifting under the starry sky on a lake, he feels he is committing a sin—work is virtue; he is sinning. An undercurrent of guilt arises in a moment of joy. Whenever you are happy, you feel you are doing something wrong, making some mistake. “What are you doing—humming a tune?” You want to strangle the song in your throat. “What will come of it? What is the benefit? Why are you playing the flute? Do something useful!”

People come to me and say, “You teach people meditation! What will meditation do? Teach something to do.”

Work has utility. I do not say abandon work. I say: the utility of work is this—that you may rejoice in the moments of non-doing. The use of work is that you may be able to be without purpose. Six days you labor in the marketplace so that on the seventh you can stretch your legs, lie in the sun, sit in the shade of a tree, talk to flowers, converse with moon and stars, sing songs of ecstasy, tie bells to your ankles and dance. That was the point of six days’ work. And when life can run on five days’ work, work five days and dance two. When it can run on four days, then three… keep reducing work. Work must be reduced; rest must be increased. Rest is the goal.

Where there is no rest, no meditation, derangement begins; as soon as work is done, they don’t know what to do. If in the West many people are going mad, the reason is this: the days of work are over; work is complete. They took work to be life; now they cannot conceive what else life could be. Many are committing suicide for the same reason. What is the point of living now? You gathered and gathered wealth; how much more to gather? They forgot why they were gathering wealth: so that someday they could sit in rest, free of worry. That was forgotten, because in gathering wealth they used only one part of the brain; that part became overactive, while the other, unused, gathered dust.

Vamamarga means: the goal of life is not work, but rest. Not wealth, but meditation. Not mathematics, but poetry. The highest peak of life will not be attained through science, but through religion.

“Left-hand path” has always been a term of abuse. And in the past there were reasons, naturally. The farther back you go, the poorer the world was, the fewer the means. In those days of poverty, if people gave great value to work, it seems understandable. And if society opposed those who valued rest instead of work, it is no surprise. But the old habit remains as a conditioning. The fear is still within.

Then, the mind of calculation, of accounting, has always been against those things which give you inner joy. It is against taste, so it prescribes tastelessness as a vow; against beauty, so it sanctifies ugliness; even against health, because health too has bodily joy.

Count Keyserling, a renowned German thinker, wrote in his diary after traveling in India: “In India I felt there is a kind of spirituality in illness, and a kind of atheism in health.” Because health belongs to the body; so the spiritual person should not relish health—he is the enemy of the body. Thus the world became the enemy of love, because love is great joy. It became the enemy of everything.

Vamamarga gives the opposite message: Love is prayer, and love is God. Vamamarga says: do not drop anything, for whatever God has given has its use; use it and make of it a step. Transform it into a stairway to the temple of the Divine. Do not see stones in the path as obstacles; make steps and climb. Even make of sex a step; do not oppose it.

The wondrous message of Vamamarga is this: if you are intelligent you will use poison so that it becomes medicine; if you are foolish you will make even medicine into poison. This is the basic sutra of Vamamarga: the intelligent one turns even poison into medicine. That is intelligence. Escapees are cowards, not wise. Vamamarga is not escapist.

In this world, escapees have enjoyed great prestige. Why? Because seeing them you feel they are special. You are mad after wealth, and a man has kicked wealth aside and gone to the forest—you are immediately impressed. You are impressed because you know your attachment to wealth and desire; “This man must have some grandeur—he kicked it aside!” Therefore you are more impressed by Mahavira than by Janaka. Janaka’s name is rarely heard. You are more impressed by Buddha, because he leaves the palace. If you praise Krishna, you do so in a subdued, anxious voice.

Even when people praise Krishna, they praise the Krishna of the Gita; very few have the courage to accept the whole Krishna. For Krishna seems like you—perhaps ahead of you. You console yourself: “He was God; he must have done it, danced with the gopis; but for a man it is not proper.” You call Krishna “God” to save yourself; it’s an excuse. Your mind becomes disturbed, you grow uneasy.

I was a guest in a Hindu household—a respectable family, aristocratic—about ten or twelve years ago. My book “From Sex to Superconsciousness” had been published. They were very uneasy. They said, “At least you could have chosen a different title. One only knows what is inside after reading it, but this title is dangerous; you could have used another. And the first edition’s cover had sculptures of Khajuraho. What struck you? Even if the title had to be that, if you had shown Buddha in meditation on the cover, it would have been all right… but Khajuraho figures! People will be very disturbed just seeing this.”

I was sitting in their drawing room. I said, “Look at the wall.” There hung a large picture of Krishna having stolen the clothes of naked women bathing in the river, sitting on a tree. I said, “You have hung this in the drawing room?” He looked up, paused; perhaps he had never thought about it that way. He said, “You are right. It has hung since my father’s time. Sometimes I do feel embarrassed, but no one pays attention; after all, they are God; so it’s all right.”

We had accepted it. But when I went again later, the picture was gone. I asked, “What happened?” He said, “No, from the day you pointed it out, I became alert. I began to feel very uneasy. I decided it is better to remove it.” So the picture was removed.

Your acceptance of Krishna is half-hearted. You want to prune and edit many things out of Krishna. You are always ready to revise him. People accept only as much of Krishna as suits them; the rest they drop. What is the obstacle? The obstacle is this: Mahavira stands clearly opposite to you; you can respect him, for you know your greed, lust, anger, craving, and he renounces those—he is special; no proof needed. But Krishna? He stands in the same world where you stand.

To recognize Krishna, very deep eyes are needed! Recognizing Mahavira is within the capacity even of the blind—no difficulty. But to recognize Krishna, unless the inner eye has opened, it is hard, because outwardly there is no difference; the difference is within. Until you can see within, you cannot understand Krishna.

Krishna is left-hand. That is why the Jains consigned Krishna to hell in their Puranas. Left-hand indeed—and what could be more left-hand than a joyous, enthusiastic, welcoming acceptance of life! The capacity and courage to live life in its totality. There is nothing bad in life. If there are thorns, they are there to protect the flower. Whatever is, is beautiful. And if we cannot see the beauty of something, some mistake is ours. How can God make anything un-beautiful? God is manifest in all forms. In sex too, Ram is hidden. Very few can muster such courage, and such vision is rare.

So, Taru! People began to fear names like Tantra, Vamamarga, Aghor, Nath for this very reason. They shatter your well-ordered conventions. These lovely words became abuses. Call someone “left-hand”—the case is closed. “So-and-so is left-hand”—you have refuted him; no need to go into why he says what he says. Paste the left-hand label and the person is finished. Aghor! Such a lovely word turned into an insult. Call someone “Aghori,” and he gets ready to fight. People use “Aghori” only when they want to abuse.

Do you know the meaning of Aghor? Aghor means simple. To call someone “ghori” could be an abuse. “Ghor” means dense, tangled, terrible. You say “ghor ghamasan” for a fierce, tangled battle. Aghor means simple, innocent like a child. But people say “Aghori” as abuse. They say Morarji Desai—Aghori—because he drinks “life-water” (urine). They mean it as an insult. But Aghor should be used only for a few Buddhas: Gautam Buddha—Aghori. Krishna—Aghori. Christ—Aghori. Lao Tzu—Aghori. Gorakh—Aghori. Simple, innocent, straightforward—so simple that calculation disappears from life. The very impulse to keep accounts is gone.

Even those you call religious keep accounts: “If I fast so many days I’ll get heaven; if I keep so many vows I’ll get heaven; if I donate so much I’ll get heaven.” This is accounting. In such charity there is also a marketplace, a deal, a bargain. In this merit, sin is hidden. Aghori means: simple, straightforward—whose life is free of accounting. One who lives like a child. This is the supreme state, the state of the paramhansa—Aghor. But, unfortunately, these have become curses.

Nathpanth… because of Gorakhnath and his master, Machhindranath, this branch of Tantra came to be called Nath. The feeling is very lovely! Nath means Lord, Master—what the Sufis call “Ya Malik!” All is His, the Master’s. We, too, are His; the world is His; everything is His. As He wills, so we shall live. We will not impose our personal will. We will not live by striving. We will flow as a dry leaf in the wind—westward or eastward, south or north—no concern; wherever the wind takes us. Not fighting, no resistance, no struggle: “I must go west; I don’t want to go east. Why are you taking me east?” What will is there in a leaf? When one becomes like that, know him as a Nath. Gorakh lived like that: in such natural willingness, such simplicity. But people live by ego. For most, the language of life is the language of ego. Naturally, such simple people will not be tolerated; they will seem a great danger. “If people begin to live so simply, then what will happen to morality? Immorality will spread everywhere.” As if there is morality now!

These are amusing things. People speak as if morality exists right now and might be ruined. Where is morality? What morality? In the name of morality there is hypocrisy. Hollow masks everywhere—false faces. Where is morality?

People think that if all become simple, natural, spontaneous, saying, “As God wills,” morality will collapse. The truth is the opposite. By living by will and determination, people have become immoral. Who is more immoral on this earth than man? Who is more violent, more destructive? Animals at least do not kill their own kind. A lion does not kill a lion. A hawk does not attack a hawk. Man alone slaughters his own species—by the thousands, by the millions! And with such relish! And then he dresses it in moral clothing: “This is jihad—a holy war!” If it is holy war, then kill—no harm; the more you kill the more merit! The more you kill, the more certain your heaven.

People have been doing jihads, dharmayudhas for centuries—hacking each other in the name of God. They want to kill; the names vary—sometimes in the name of politics, sometimes religion, sometimes ideology, sometimes scripture. These are excuses; the aim is to kill. Without killing, their mind finds no peace. What kind of human being have we produced? How sickly a mind!

People burn with sexuality. Inside, nothing but sex is packed in. They sit upon it, repressed. Therefore when someone says, “Accept sex naturally; it too is a gift of the Divine,” they tremble. They know that if they accept naturally, everything will go haywire. They have repressed so much that a volcano burns beneath them. How can they accept naturally?

Consider a man who has fasted all his life, starved—and you say, “Brother, accept hunger naturally; when hungry, eat.” He will panic. “If I accept naturally, I will never leave the kitchen, because I know myself—I think of food twenty-four hours.” The fasting mind thinks only of food. So he says, “Then I will sit in the kitchen forever.”

You might be surprised: “What are you saying? Those who eat do not sit in the kitchen twenty-four hours!” But understand that poor man; he, too, speaks his truth. He does think only of food.

Therefore, when someone like me speaks of simplifying life, great restlessness spreads, great fear. Sometimes repressed types come here; they become very nervous. They know: if what I say is true, their lifetime’s repressed diseases will erupt at once. They will be deranged; they will not be able to bear it. To escape that panic they turn against me.

There is a reason for their opposition. The truth of what I am saying seems dangerous to them—not because truth is dangerous, but because they have lived in untruth for so long that giving it up seems impossible. And if it slips, the lifelong dam will break…

There is no real self-restraint in their life, only a hollow insistence on it. One who is truly restrained, truly awake, who has rightly gone beyond sexual desire, will not be affected at all; he will see no contradiction in my words. Those who see contradiction only announce the sickness of their mind; but they think they are arguing against me.

Freud was fiercely opposed the world over. But Freud spoke of simple truths of life. Freud is a left-hand messenger. He said: release the repressed drives. All religions opposed him. They opposed because the ground under their feet slipped. If Freud is right, you all are wrong. So of course you keep proving yourselves right; your crowd is with you. Truth is always alone. Untruth is very ancient; the crowd stands happily with it. The crowd’s vested interests are tied to it. You panic; you fear; from your fear you oppose. But truth does not lose this way; it returns again and again.

Vamamarga will keep returning. Tantra will be proclaimed again and again, until man becomes natural. The day man is natural, Tantra will not be needed. Tantra is only medicine. The left-hand path is only a device to bring back to the way those who have started walking upside down. One who is back on the way belongs neither to right nor left; both are his, and he belongs to neither. His state is transcendence; he has gone beyond both.

You asked: Why do people fear names like Tantra, the left-hand path, Aghor, Nath?

There is reason to fear. You are sitting with so much gunpowder inside that a spark of truth and there will be an explosion. If you do not fear the spark, what else will you do? When you are ready to pour out your gunpowder, then the spark will not frighten you. You fear precisely that which stirs restlessness within you. And truth greatly disturbs if you have wedded yourself to untruth with insistence. If you have married untruth, truth will trouble you.

Mulla Nasruddin got married. As the Muslim custom goes… the bridal night… the wife lifted her veil, the burqa. Mulla saw her for the first time; he was utterly disheartened. He had never seen a more ill-favored woman. By custom, the wife asked, “In front of whom may I unveil?” Mulla said, “Unveil before anyone, just not before me. Show yourself to the whole world if you want, but do not unveil before me. Better that this burqa stays on.”

Ugliness creates fear. You keep yourself veiled; you do not unveil. Whoever lifts your veil and shows your filth, you get angry with him. Whoever shows the garbage inside, you get angry with him. Yet a true master must show you the garbage within you; if you do not see it, how will you be free of it? The useless junk you are hoarding and riding on—if you do not be rid of it, you will drown in it. You have tied stones to your chest; those stones must be removed. Although you think they are philosopher’s stones, it is they who are drowning you.

Whenever truth is freshly proclaimed, waves of restlessness run through the elaborate nets of untruth. “Cut the throat of truth, poison truth, silence truth”—all efforts begin. There is no need to be angry about it. It is natural. It calls for compassion and pity.

Buddha told his disciples: those whom you go to enlighten will be the very ones to kill you. You will go with compassion to offer truth; they will throw stones at you. Do not be angry. They are helpless; what can they do? For centuries they have taken untruth to be truth; you have come to break it. You are shaking the house they thought was their security. You are pulling down their walls. Lifting their veil, you are showing their ugliness. They will be angry.

A disciple, Purna, was going out to spread the message. Buddha asked, “Where will you go?” There was a part of Bihar called “Sukha.” He said, “No monk has gone to Sukha yet; I will go.” Buddha said, “Better you do not go; the people there are dangerous. That is why no monk has gone. If they abuse you, what will happen to you?” Purna said, “If they abuse me, I shall feel blessed that they only abuse and do not beat.” Buddha said, “And if they beat you?” Purna said, “I shall feel blessed that they only beat and do not kill.” Buddha said, “And if they kill you?” Purna said, “What else will happen? I will die filled with gratitude—how kind they are to free me from this body in which, if I lived, mistakes could happen; now they cannot. They free me from the body whose feet might have strayed, whose mind might have erred. They free me. I will die filled with compassion and gratitude for them.”

Buddha said, “Then go—go anywhere. Wherever you go, you will find friends, for now you cannot see enemies.”

Not seeing enemies does not mean there are none. But one to whom enemies cease to appear—only he can proclaim truth. Enemies will arise—immediately. Truth’s enemies arise continually. Do we have such understanding that we can digest truth? Do we have such a large chest that we can host truth, let it become a guest within? Are we capable of being the host and truth the guest? Where is that worthiness? Thus this has always been. Censure continues, neglect continues, and yet truth keeps proclaiming itself again and again.

And I tell you: truth comes from the right hemisphere of the brain, linked to the left hand. Accounting comes from the left hemisphere, linked to the right hand. The accounting mind never consents to poetry. One who values wealth cannot value meditation. One to whom the shop is everything cannot belong to the temple—and if he goes to the temple, he corrupts it along with himself.

You will know only when it happens. It cannot be said; at most a few hints can be given. It is as if, in the dark, a lamp is suddenly lit. Or as if a dying patient, right at the edge of death, suddenly finds a medicine that works; life’s wave, life’s thrill spreads again—so it is. As if a corpse becomes alive—such is the first experience of samadhi.

It is the taste of nectar. The experience of the ultimate music. But it will be only when it happens; and only then will you understand. You will not understand by my saying it. It is as with love. How can anyone explain it? To someone who has never loved, never known love, no matter how many explanations you offer—he will hear it all and still ask, “I haven’t understood; please explain a little more.”

It is like explaining light to the blind, or sound to the deaf—it cannot be understood. If someone’s sense of smell is ruined, how will you convey fragrance to him? Experiences can never be bound in words, yet a few signs can be indicated.

Songs awoke in the life-breath, yet they were swept away into feeling!
There was a pang in the mind,
forged in practices, nursed in fantasies;
the path was unknown to me—I had not yet walked
the narrow lane of love;
my steps moved on, and suddenly
the heart too surged ahead;
all the delusions of worldly lines and limits
collapsed in a single instant!
Songs awoke in the life-breath, yet they were swept away into feeling!

That sweet hour was the tender echo of waiting,
I stood amazed, grateful; I cannot say whether it was the heart’s victory or defeat,
the pain was delicate; the tongue stayed silent, yet the mind’s secret opened;
what I wished not to say, these eyes said it all!
Songs awoke in the life-breath, yet they were swept away into feeling!

What I had cherished in imagination was found right before me,
that moment too arrived; an image unique spread over the heart,
the mind was charmed; I blushed while looking;
when could I even make my plea?
I lost myself; and now my very life feels somewhat sweetly cheated!
Songs awoke in the life-breath, yet they were swept away into feeling!

As if, all at once, a song arises in your heart—suddenly, effortlessly, without cause—a spring of rasa bursts forth within you!

“The path was unknown to me—I had not yet walked the narrow lane of love.” And suddenly love awakens—such is the first taste of samadhi. As if it were autumn, and suddenly spring arrived! Where bare, dry trees stood, they turn green, heavy with leaves; flowers bloom—such is the first experience of samadhi.

“My steps moved on, and suddenly the heart too surged ahead.” One in whom love has awakened, or in whom light has dawned, or who hears the inner sound—his feet suddenly go forward. Fear no longer holds him. The one in whom love awakens drops all fear. That is why the people of arithmetic and bookkeeping say love is blind—that where those with eyes are afraid to go, the lover goes. Where the seeing say, “Careful, careful, beware—you’ll get into trouble,” there the lover enters dancing, humming a song.

So the sensible call the lover blind. The truth is the reverse: apart from the sensible, none are so blind. Only the lover has eyes. If love is not the eye, then where else would the eye be?

“The path was unknown to me—I had not yet walked the narrow lane of love; my steps moved on, and suddenly the heart too surged ahead; all the delusions of worldly lines collapsed in a moment!” Such is the first experience of samadhi. All your former notions, all your prejudices, doctrines, scriptures are swept away, as when the river receives the first flood of the rains and all the rubbish along the banks is carried off—everything gone.

“That sweet hour was the tender echo of waiting, I stood amazed, grateful.” Yes, you will stand there astonished; you will not be able to think what is happening. Thought stops. There is no chance to think. Something is taking place beyond thinking.

“I cannot say whether it was the heart’s victory or defeat.” It is hard to say—who won, who lost? For there are no two there; so call it victory and it is right, call it defeat and it is right. In one sense it is defeat, for you vanish; in another sense it is victory, for you become the Divine. In one sense it is the drop’s loss—for the drop is no more; in another sense it is victory—for the drop becomes the ocean.

“I cannot say whether it was the heart’s victory or defeat; the pain was delicate.” But this much is certain: the pain there is very dear, very sweet. Did not Gorakh say, “Death is sweet! Die the death that Gorakh died seeing”? A very sweet love, a very sweet, loveable death!

“What I had cherished in imagination was found right before me.” In truth, all the imaginations you have hoarded fall short before reality. You receive far more than you asked for when it comes; it pours down through the very roof.

“That moment too arrived”—a moment you never quite believed would come—comes.

“An image unique spread over my heart, the mind was charmed; I blushed while looking; when could I even make my plea? I lost myself; and now my very life feels somewhat sweetly cheated!” One cannot quite believe that one could be such a vessel—that the Beloved would be found, that there would be a meeting with the Beloved.

I could not even offer formal welcome—no words of greeting could be spoken...
I was lost in myself; and now my life feels somehow delightfully robbed!

The first experience of samadhi is as if you were utterly tricked, utterly looted. Did I lose or win? I don’t know. Only this is for sure: boundaries broke, narrowness shattered—the whole sky descended. Kabir has said: “Bund mein samund samana...” The ocean entered the drop. The limitless came into the limited, the invisible into the visible... Within the sensible, the insensible stood revealed.

The first experience of samadhi is the most precious experience in this world. And then, experience upon experience—lotus upon lotus—keep blooming. Then there is no end; they open in rows. It never happens that the experiences of samadhi run out—they go on increasing. Hence we have called the Divine the Infinite, for the tasting of it is never exhausted.

In the life of Jesus it is mentioned that when John the Baptist—he was a wondrous man—gave initiation to Jesus. John was the guru of Jesus. He took Jesus into the River Jordan and initiated him with water. A great crowd had gathered, because John had been saying, “The one for whom I have been waiting to give initiation—he has come, now he has come, he is about to come.” So many people gathered to see that man.

And when Jesus arrived, John said, “This is the man; I had been waiting to initiate him—my work is now complete. He will carry it on. I have grown old.”

When Jesus was initiated in the Jordan, the story tells a very lovely thing—these are symbols—that a white dove suddenly descended from the sky and entered Jesus. This is a symbol. The white dove is the symbol of peace. No actual dove flew down and entered Jesus, but surely a whiteness descending from the sky must have been felt by many—like a flash of lightning! Those who had even a little eye for it... and only the seeing would have gathered there. Who else would bother? John is initiating Jesus in the Jordan—who cares? The thirsty would have come. Those upon whom a few drops had already fallen gathered there. Those who had been splashed with a little of John’s color gathered there. They must have seen a pillar of light descend as if from the sky and enter Jesus. And John at once said, “My work is finished. The one I was waiting for has arrived. Now I can depart.”

That was Jesus’ first experience of samadhi. When the first experience of samadhi happens to someone, it happens to him, and a whisper of it reaches those around him too. They say that when Buddha had his first taste of samadhi, flowers bloomed out of season. That too is a symbol, like the dove; the dove is a Jewish symbol—of peace. The blooming of flowers is an Indian symbol—out of season, suddenly...

Whenever samadhi fruits for someone—it is an out-of-season blossom; for on this earth where is there a season fit for samadhi to bloom? That samadhi does not bloom here is the normal thing; that it blooms is the extraordinary. This earth is a desert; where is greenery here, where the streams of sap? Whenever it descends, it is an out-of-season flower. It should not have happened—and it happened; a miracle! Samadhi is a miracle!

You will know only when it is your experience. Or sit near those to whom it has happened—move with them. Perhaps some day you will glimpse a white dove descending, or suddenly see flowers bloom.

My courtyard’s white dove!
It flew in from the high parapet—my courtyard’s white dove!
Like the light summer dusk
peeking into my courtyard,
a few drops of keora fell
as upon a young bride’s body-mind;
a seven-colored scarf rippled, as on a slender maiden’s soft form!
It flew in from the high parapet—my courtyard’s white dove!

My hands were henna-dyed,
springtime burst into blossom in my heart-garden,
a flute rang in my ears—
the longed-for guest came to my door;
a single thrill in the life-breath, a single glance in the eyes—sweet, sweeter still!
It flew in from the high parapet—my courtyard’s white dove!

Some beautiful golden dream
came as the moon into my veil,
some strayed, drowsy song
brushed against my breath;
as if jasmine scattered, fragrancing the mind and life!
It flew in from the high parapet—my courtyard’s white dove!

My playful song trilled
through home and courtyard, threshold and doors.
Evening descended lighting lamps,
and in my life the shehnai began to play;
in the mango grove were strewn, like flowers, mellifluous notes!
It flew in from the high parapet—my courtyard’s white dove!

A white dove descends in the first experience of samadhi. Flowers bloom all around. The flute’s melody rises. Within, someone begins to play the shehnai. All the inner sounds awaken.

“My ears rang with the flute’s tune—
the longed-for guest came home.”

The Guest—whom one has awaited—arrives. You know, in this land we called the guest atithi because he came without giving a date. Now only the Divine is truly such a guest; all others announce their date before arriving. They send word in advance: “We are coming.” They say, “A sudden knock is not good; we are coming—get ready, prepare yourselves.” Because nowadays no one is really pleased to see a guest. If the message comes beforehand, people prepare—get their scolding and abuse out of the way. The wife says what she has to say, the husband says what he has to say. By the time they arrive, etiquette has returned. If you come all of a sudden, who knows what truths might slip out? One has to say, “What good fortune! My heart is so delighted to see you!” That is not the heart’s truth; the heart has something else. The Western custom is right: inform beforehand, so people can make ready, brace their hearts.

Now only the Divine remains the true atithi—He does not give a date. There can be no prophecy of when He will arrive. No one can say when the first taste of samadhi will happen—uncaused, out of season. In truth, it happens when you are not waiting at all. Because as long as you are waiting, you remain tense. In your consciousness there is strain. While you keep watch for the coming, you cannot be totally relaxed. Watching the way is also a thought—and thought is a barrier. As long as you think, “Let it happen now; it has not happened yet,” you are surrounded by anxieties; clouds have gathered—how will the sun appear? It comes suddenly, unawares—when you are simply sitting... doing nothing at all—not even meditating—that is when the first experience of samadhi happens. Because even when you are meditating, somewhere in the mind a desire keeps sliding: “Perhaps it will happen now; maybe it is happening; it has not happened yet—how long it is taking!” Complaints keep arising.

Practising meditation again and again, one day such a moment arrives that you are just sitting—not even meditating—quiet, simply at ease, silent—and it comes!

“My ears rang with the flute’s tune—
the longed-for guest came home.
As if jasmine scattered, fragrancing the mind and life!

My playful song trilled
through home and courtyard, threshold and doors.
Evening descended lighting lamps,
and in my life the shehnai began to play;
in the mango grove were strewn, like flowers, mellifluous notes!”

The happening happens. Do not ask for definitions; ask for the way. Ask how it happens; do not ask what happens—for that cannot be said. This is not a matter to be told; it is a matter to be known. But a method can be indicated; a hint can be given—walk thus, be thus. Let the mind be without thought, at peace, free of expectation, released from lust and craving. In that very moment—whenever such a springtime hour arranges itself within you—the inner shehnai begins to play; flowers bloom out of season; a ray descends from the sky and makes you forever other, different. Then you can never be the same again. The first experience of samadhi—and you are bathed!

For centuries you have been dirty. Much dust has gathered; long journeys have been made. The first experience of samadhi washes all the dust away. All ideas, all webs of ideas—end; you become spotless.

Did not Gorakh say that as a little child is born within—in the inner void a child begins to speak, the advent of a new life! In samadhi there is your death.

“Die, O yogi, die...” The ego dies. You disappear, and God happens.

Kannumal! So long as there are questions, answers will remain silent. It is precisely because of the questions that the answers are silent. Answers are not found through questions; when questions fall away and the mind becomes questionless, then the answer is found. It is in the crowd of questions that the answer has been lost.

You say it rightly: heaps of questions are piled up, answers are silent.
They will remain silent. The questions are making such a racket—how can the answer speak? And remember, questions are many; the answer is one. The answer is singular; questions are plural. Questions come in crowds. Just as there are many kinds of illness, but health is one. There are not many kinds of health. If you tell someone, “I am healthy,” he doesn’t ask, “Which kind of health?” But if you say, “I am ill,” he immediately asks, “Which illness?” Illnesses are many; health is one. Questions are many; the answer is one. And because of the many questions, that one answer does not come into your grasp. You are right—there is a mob of questions all around. One question gives birth to another; they stand up, fade away, and new ones keep forming. You are so surrounded by questions—this is true. And it is for this very reason that the answer is silent.

You say: heaps of questions are piled up, answers are silent.
The answer is not silent; the answer too is speaking. But the answer is one, and questions are many. Like the tiny pipe in a drummer’s shop, its sound gets lost. In the marketplace, in the hubbub, if someone sings softly, the song is drowned. So too, everything is being drowned.

The answer can be found. The answer is not far. The answer is very near. The answer is you. The answer lives at your center. Let the questions pass. Don’t give questions too much value, don’t attribute too much meaning to them. Grow gradually indifferent to questions. Don’t support them, don’t honor them. Neglect them. Be neutral towards them. For the one who gets caught in questions wanders in the jungle of philosophy. Let the questions come and go. Watch that crowd of questions just as you watch people walking on the street—nothing to take, nothing to give—unattached, standing a little apart. The more the distance grows between you and your questions, the more beneficial it is; because in that very gap the answer will arise.

Whenever anyone went to Buddha to ask a question, Buddha would say: Wait—stay here two years. Sit silently with me for two years; then ask.

It happened once, a great philosopher came to Buddha. His name was Malunkyaputta. Obviously he was a philosopher. He piled up mountains of questions. Buddha heard them and said, “Malunkyaputta, do you truly want the answer? If you really do, can you pay the price?”

Malunkyaputta said, “My life is nearing its end. All my life I have been asking these questions. I have received many answers, but none of them proved to be the answer. From every answer, new questions were born. In no answer has there been resolution. What price do you ask? I am ready to pay any price. I want these questions resolved. I want to leave this earth with the solution.”

Buddha said, “Good. People ask for answers, but they are not willing to pay the price; that’s why I asked you. Then sit silently for two years—that is the price. Sit with me for two years in silence; don’t speak at all. When two years are over, I myself will ask you, ‘Malunkyaputta, now ask.’ Then ask whatever you want. And I assure you, I will answer everything, I will resolve everything. But for two full years—utter silence. For two years, don’t raise a single question.”

Malunkyaputta was wondering whether to say yes or no, because two years is a long time—and who can trust this man? Will he really give the answers after two years? He asked, “Do you give firm assurance that after two years you will answer?” Buddha said, “Absolutely—I assure you. If you ask, I will answer. If you don’t ask, whom shall I answer?” Just then, a monk who was meditating under a nearby tree burst into laughter. Malunkyaputta asked, “Why is this monk laughing?” Buddha said, “Ask him yourself.” The monk said, “If you want to ask, ask now. The same trick happened to me. We too were such fools! But what he says is true: if you ask after two years, he will answer—but after two years, who asks? I have been sitting silently for two years. Now he goads me, ‘Ask, brother!’ But after two years of silence, nothing remains to be asked; the answer arrives of itself. If you must ask, ask now; otherwise, after two years, there will be nothing left to ask.”

And so it happened. Malunkyaputta stayed. Two years passed. Buddha did not forget; he remembered the date exactly. When the two years were complete, Malunkyaputta himself had forgotten, because when thoughts gradually become quiet, the very sense of time is lost. What to keep account of—what day, what year? There was no need. He sat daily by Buddha—what did it matter if it was Friday or Sunday, summer or winter? Within, there was only one flavor—peace, silence. Two years were complete. Buddha said, “Malunkyaputta, stand up.” He stood. Buddha said, “Now ask, because I do not go back on my word. Do you have anything to ask?”

Malunkyaputta laughed and said, “That monk was right. I have nothing left to ask. The answer has arrived. By your grace, the answer has arrived.”

The answer was not given; it arrived. The answer never comes from outside; it arises from within. Understand it like this: when you dig a well, first stones and pebbles come out, then rubbish, then dry earth, then damp earth, then mud—then the water-source. The springs are there, suppressed. Layers upon layers of your questions have accumulated; beneath them the spring is buried. Dig—remove these questions. And there is only one way to remove them: keep awake, in witnessing, and watch the flow of questions. Just watch this flow; do nothing. Sit daily for an hour or two; let the flow continue. Don’t be in a hurry that it should stop today itself.

That is why Buddha said, two years. After about three months the first rustle of silence begins. In about two years, the experience matures. One needs only that much patience—to sit two hours daily, doing nothing. In that non-doing the whole art is hidden.

People ask: How did Buddha’s first samadhi happen? He was sitting under a tree, doing nothing—then it happened. For six years he did a great deal—great disciplines, exercises, pranayama, who knows what all. He got tired of doing. That night he decided, “No more doing; enough. Doing accomplishes nothing.” That night he dropped doing. He fell asleep in a state of utter non-doing—emptiness. In the morning his eyes opened and samadhi was standing at the door. The awaited guest had arrived. The last star of the morning was setting outside, and within Buddha the last thought sank. As the sky emptied of the last star, within the last thought also disappeared. Samadhi came; the answer came. That is why it is called samadhi—because in it is samadhan, resolution.

Evening came; earth and sky fell quiet.
Clouds of dusk rose in my eyes.
Under their weight my lids drooped, grew moist.
Evening asked, “Why this sadness?”
But I had no answer.

Night came; darkness thickened.
In the dense gloom the doors of the mind opened.
Sparks of burning began to laugh.
Night asked, “Why this burning?”
But I had no answer.

Sleep came; consciousness fell utterly silent.
The body, tired, lay down to rest—but the life-breath
found the magic lanes of dream.
Sleep asked, “Why these illusions?”
But I had no answer.

Questions lie scattered here on every side—
but I have no answers.

Do not seize upon the questions; otherwise the answers will not come to you. No one has ever reached the answer by walking on the crutches of questions. Let the questions arise—this is the itch of the mind. Itching is the right word. Sometimes an itch arises; you scratch—just so are the questions of the mind. Scratching doesn’t solve anything, but if you don’t scratch there is restlessness. If you do scratch, there is a brief relief. So too are your answers: you grab an answer—there is a little relief for a while. Soon, from that answer new questions sprout; the relief is lost, and the hunt for another answer begins.

Kannumal, you say it well:
Heaps of questions are piled up,
answers are silent.
Who will gather these thorns?
The garden is silent, the gardener is silent.
The question itself remains silent.
The sun is silent, the nights are silent.
Dark, heavy clouds have risen—
pitch darkness has set in.
Heaps of questions are piled up;
answers are silent.

Answers will remain silent. Answers do not speak. When you stop speaking, you will instantly recognize them. Your speech will fall away, and you will find—the void within has spoken, silence within has spoken. In that silence there is suddenly resolution, the answer to all questions; because in that silence there is peace, there is joy, there is supreme bliss.

Notice one thing: questions arise out of suffering. Suffering is the parent of questions. When your head aches, you ask, “Why does my head ache?” But when it does not ache, you never ask, “Why is there no headache?” When you fall ill, you go to the doctor and ask, “Why am I ill? What is the cause?” But when you are healthy, you do not go and ask, “Why am I healthy? What is the cause?” In health no question arises; in illness, questions arise. From suffering, questions are born; in happiness, questions wither.

As soon as you become quiet within, and you get even a small glimpse of happiness, you will be amazed—questions have vanished. Who would ask, and why ask? When there is no pain, how can the questions born of pain survive? They end by themselves.

Prayer is thanksgiving.
The Divine has given so much; at the very least, let us give thanks.
Prayer is the preparation to welcome “That.” The Guest will come; the Guest is bound to come. Hang festoons on the doorway. String garlands of flowers. Lay out the lamp-ceremony. Prayer is the preparation for welcome. One does not know when the Guest may arrive; let us at least be ready!

Since I heard you would come to my door,
I tie new festoons every day!
For your welcome—at the door, the threshold,
the courtyard—see, the whole house is swept;
your dear feet are tender, and so
the entire path is strewn with petals;
Since I heard you would come as far as the veranda,
I adorn the threshold with sacred designs and fill the auspicious urn.
Since I heard you would come to my door,
I tie new festoons every day!

I had taken life to be a wasteland;
I thought I had no song of my own—
no song of mine that might suddenly arrive
upon a stranger’s lips;
Since I heard you would sing my songs,
I bring new meters, freshly made, each day!
Since I heard you would come to my door,
I tie new festoons every day!

In these eyes there is a fair of new dreams;
seven-hued longing smiles in the heart;
how can I clip the beautiful wings of imagination?
See—my mind’s golden bird grows restless;
Since I heard you would spread over my very life-breath,
I set out new, intoxicating dreams each day!
Since I heard you would come to my door,
I tie new festoons every day!

I stand at the crossroads with just this thought:
who knows by which path you will come?
I have become mad for you, the world says—
O Dark Beloved, fondle this madness;
Since I heard you would take an unknown path,
I light lamps on every track, every day!
Since I heard you would come to my door,
I tie new festoons every day!

When the Guest may come, by which road, through which door—making ready for this is called prayer! Prayer is a heart-mood of welcome.
Do not fall into formal prayer; let prayer be spontaneous, simple, arising from your heart—only then is it meaningful. Not classical, but heartfelt. Even if it is like lisping...

You have seen: when a small child begins to lisp for the first time, how sweet that lisping sounds! Later, when he speaks properly, in a fully formed way, perhaps no one will even notice. But the lisping is so sweet the mother is delighted; she calls the neighbors: “Look!” There is really nothing to show yet—and later, when he speaks well, no one will pay it any mind.
Prayer, in the beginning, is like lisping. And know this: the prayer that lisps is the one that reaches the Divine. Let it be heartfelt, spontaneous, your very own.

Whose company shall I take today?
In the sky the cloud takes a swing,
imagination dances like a peacock,
feeling pulls me to itself—
tell me, with whom shall I flow?

Today, thirst floats upon my lips,
the heart sits silent, sad,
sighs surge within my breath—
shall I remain dying of this pain?

The eyes’ language is unknown,
my songs fly off like birds,
my life-breath is in great dilemma—
shall I bear the remorse of helplessness?

The evening hour is so impatient,
a gentle breeze flits and shimmers,
the ache swells up with a choking weight—
to whom shall I tell this throbbing pain?
Whose company shall I take today?
Tell me, with whom shall I flow?

Prayer is such a supplication. It is speaking of love to the sky... No answer comes from the other side. Therefore, one who waits for an answer will soon stop praying. Do not wait for an answer; keep offering your petition. Do not be concerned whether He answers or not, whether it reaches Him or not—let none of this trouble you. Do not try to make your prayer change the Divine; care only that your prayer keeps going deeper and deeper. Let my prayer be soaked in my tears, soaked in my joy. Let my smile leave its imprint upon it; let my very life sign it—care only for this.

And one day, suddenly, the prayer arrives. Your lisping has been heard. In that very instant, in the temple of your emptiness, the child is born. That innocent consciousness enters. The white dove descends; the first glimpse of samadhi comes... It will come—surely it will come.
Jesus has said: What happened to me can happen to you. I say the same to you: what happened to me can happen to you. What has happened to one human being is the birthright of all.
That is all for today.