Mare He Jogi Maro #20

Chitranjan! There is no river, no boat, no crossing, and no one to cross. The intellect erects all distinctions and then gets entangled in them. There is nowhere to go and no one who goes; everything is here, now. Where you need to arrive, you already are. This very shore is the other shore. There is no way to drown, because you are eternal. There is no way to go astray, because apart from the divine there is nothing else at all. Even if you wander, you remain within That. Go far, and you still cannot go an inch away. Where could you go? At most you can sleep or you can awaken; that is the only difference. Between the arrived and the unarrived there is no greater difference—one is awake, one is asleep; both are in the same temple. The awakened one is right there, sitting beside the one who sleeps.

This notion of “arriving” is the notion of the ego—“I must arrive!” And wherever the “I” stands up, fear arises: what if I get lost on the way? Then a thousand dilemmas arise. Then there is the fear: I’m riding two boats. Especially my sannyasin will feel afraid. The old sannyas was singular. The worldly man was worldly and the sannyasin was a sannyasin; the matter was clean and simple.

My sannyas is not so single-toned. In my sannyas all the colors of life are included, the full diversity of life is included. It contains the world and renunciation. Hence your question, Chitranjan, is understandable:
“With a foot in two boats, how will one cross the river!”

If there were a river, I too would not tell you to keep a foot in two boats. But there is no river. There is nowhere to go. You have to awaken right where you are, as you are. As you are, you are already in the divine; as you are, you are the divine.

But the mind’s arithmetic is different. The mind always lives in longing. Mind means longing: to gain wealth, position, prestige. And if it drops that, it says: to gain liberation, Vaikuntha, nirvana! But the mind lives in the idea of gaining something. Because if something is to be gained in the future, the mind has room to expand. Then search for methods, the right methods. Seek the right techniques. Dream. Make plans. When the hour of good fortune strikes tomorrow, we will rejoice. And today? Suffer. And today? Smolder. Somehow postpone today; tomorrow the sun will rise.

The mind does not allow you to meet the today; and the divine is present today—now, here, this very moment! Neither will the divine ever be less present than now, nor more present than now. Exactly this much, it has always been this much. And if you wish to awaken, awaken now. And if you postpone today, what guarantee is there you will not postpone tomorrow too?

Therefore I say to you: drop the worry, Chitranjan! There is neither river nor two boats; neither anyone to cross, nor anywhere to go. Only That is, One is. That itself is the river, that itself the boat; that itself the traveler, that itself the boatman. Other than That, there is no one at all.

Hence the wise have called this world “dream-like.” Dream-like means this: if you analyze your dream, you will understand. In the dream it is you who are the seer and you who are the seen; there is no one else. You yourself suffer pain, you yourself enjoy pleasure; you yourself give pain and you yourself give pleasure. The whole drama is yours. You are the actor, you are the director, you are the spectator, you are the stage, you are the scriptwriter, you are the lyricist, you are the musician—the whole play is yours. And the moment you awaken you find all is gone; one alone remains—pure consciousness remains. That very consciousness is present even in sleep, but divided into many fragments it plays a drama. Hence the world is maya, the world is a dream.

Which boat are you talking about, Chitranjan? All is a dream! Which river are you talking about? All is a dream! And the one you think sits within you and needs to be ferried across—that too is your dream. For the one that truly is, is the Beyond itself, ever and always beyond. Your ultimate state is forever accomplished. You are eternally a Buddha. Once this proclamation is understood, all snares are cut.

I am not telling you to do anything—only to understand. There is nothing to be done. And when it is understood, the matter becomes very simple. When nothing is to be done, how can it be difficult? Bhavana!

Simple one! You came unannounced.
As fancy within feeling,
as practice within pain,
as the thrill of sweet remembrance,
you hid and smiled within the heart.
Simple one! You came unannounced.

Bearing the boon of separation,
bearing the song of a yearning heart,
stealing your eyes away from mine,
you melted into the silent eyes.
Simple one! You came unannounced.

I could not recognize you,
yet I made you my life’s treasure;
taking you as my all-in-all,
I have sung your songs.
Simple one! You came unannounced.

You lit the flame of love,
kindled the lamp within life;
from the world of dreams I—
far away—by you was brought near.
Simple one! You came unannounced.

The divine is a very simple happening, and it happens quietly; even the sound of footsteps is not heard. No commotion at all; it happens in silent stillness. Just open your eyes. There is nothing to do. There never was any need to do anything. You are That—tat tvam asi!

Among the most nectarean utterances of this world, the one that can be placed at the very summit is this proclamation: tat tvam asi! You are That! You are not even a little otherwise. The same has been said in another way: aham brahmasmi! I am Brahman! There is not the slightest difference between me and Brahman.

And remember—not the slightest difference. There cannot be any difference. Although you see difference, it is only an appearance—like seeing a snake in a rope at dusk. Light a lamp, and the rope is seen as rope. Then you don’t ask, “Where did the snake go?” because you know the snake never was.

Those who have awakened have found that the world never was; only the divine was. Therefore I say to you: do not run anywhere, awaken here. And when I say awaken here, difficulties begin. Then it seems, “With a foot in two boats, how will one cross the river!”

This upsets your arithmetic. Because I say: become a sannyasin right in the shop, right in the marketplace; as you are, right there become a sannyasin. For in my understanding sannyas is not a style of life; sannyas is another name for awakening. The old sannyas was a style of life, a code of conduct—opposite to the world. If the worldly man does this, the sannyasin will not do that. The worldly man earns money; the sannyasin will not earn money. The worldly man builds a house; the sannyasin will not build a house—he will be non-possessive. The worldly man lives in one place; the sannyasin will be a wanderer. Whatever the worldly man does, the sannyasin will do the opposite.

Remember, that old sannyas was a reaction to the world. Its criterion was the world itself—being opposite to the world. If the worldly man stands upright, the sannyasin will stand on his head. But that sannyas was not very different from the world; it too was an imposition of the mind, an arrangement, a conduct.

The form of sannyas I am giving you is not of conduct, it is of awareness. Your lifestyle need not change. If you remain asleep and you turn from your left side to your right, what happens? The lifestyle changes—your face was to the left, now it is to the right; but you are still asleep. And certainly, lying on the left you saw one kind of dream; lying on the right you will see another kind of dream. For when you turn from left to right, the flows of blood in your brain change.

Within you there are two brains. The left brain is different, the right brain is different. You can check this with scientists now. When you lie on one side, one hemisphere works. When you lie on the other side, the other hemisphere works. Each dreams differently. When you breathe through one nostril, one hemisphere functions; when the breath shifts to the other nostril, the other hemisphere begins to function. Therefore within you great transformations of thoughts and moods keep happening. In a moment you appear cheerful, in a moment you become angry; your hemispheres are switching.

About every forty minutes, when your breath shifts from one nostril to the other, notice: your mood-state also changes. This goes on twenty-four hours. At night too, when you change sides, your mood-state changes.

So the old sannyas was like changing sides in sleep. The sleep continues; only the dream changes. Naturally, a man who sits in the market, keeps a shop, does business, will see one kind of dream; and one who goes to the Himalayas and sits in a cave near Gangotri will see another kind of dream. But both are asleep.

I am giving sannyas a new meaning—not turning over in sleep, but breaking the sleep. Open your eyes. The moment your eyes open, right where you are you are the divine. There is no river, no boat, and, Chitranjan, no fear of drowning. Put your feet not just in two but in a thousand boats—do not worry in the least. Because what is within you cannot drown. It is immortal. It has no death. And the more boats you ride, the more variety will come into your life; the denser and richer your life-music will become.

Think of it this way: one person plays only the flute—there is a single instrument. Another adds the tabla alongside the flute—a little variety. Another strikes the veena with it—more variety. Then a full orchestra, fifty musicians birthing one music together—the richness naturally grows, deepens.

The old sannyas had a single color. It did not have all the colors of the rainbow! That is why the old sannyasin appeared sad. He could not dance. He had neither the peacock plume nor the flute to dance with. No song arose from his life. There was a deep melancholy. Ennui!

I want your life to be rich. Let it contain all the notes. Let your life be a full scale; let all seven notes be included. And let there be a music in your life that is abundant. And let your life be such that the world is not dropped, it is assimilated.

Certainly, I am giving you a great challenge. And the mind is not ready to take in such vastness. Because in so vast an expanse the mind dies. If the ocean descends upon the drop, the drop will die, won’t it! And I am saying: let the whole ocean pour down. And the whole ocean is willing to descend into you. Let what must be erased be erased. Let what must drown drown, knowing: that is not you which drowned; that which was erased was not you. You are that which cannot drown, you are that which cannot be erased.

Hence Gorakh cries out again and again: Die, O yogi, die. Why? Why such insistence on death? Because Gorakh knows that what dies is not you. Die and die again—what does not die is you.

Die, O yogi, die; die, for death is sweet!
How can death be sweet? Precisely because that which dies, know it was never you—it was delusion. Only sleep will die, and the dreams seen in sleep will die. The witness of sleep will not die. In waking it remains exactly as it was in sleep.

Die that death, by dying which Gorakh has beheld.
Gorakh says: I died and I saw—saw by dying. What did I see by dying? By dying I saw the immortal. By dying I saw the eternal. In time I died; in the timeless I was born. When the identifications with form and color, name and address all died, then was discovered what I truly was; what always was; that which is never born and never dies!

Veena! Ecstasy can never harm children. The children are in a misunderstanding, and so are you. Non‑ecstasy is what harms. Through your ecstasy the children too will slowly learn to be ecstatic. If you are blissful, if you sing, hum, dance… how can that harm them?

Yes, I understand your question, and I understand your children’s feeling too. The amount of attention you used to give them, you won’t be able to give now. And that hurts the children’s ego. Children demand attention.

Know this: the demand for attention is the demand of the ego. It is a vital necessity for the ego. Without attention the ego cannot even live; attention is its food.

That is why, if many people pay attention to you, you feel good. If you come and no one pays attention; you come and go and not even a single person greets you; you pass along the road and no one even looks toward you; not just people—even dogs don’t bark—then you become very depressed. You feel dejected—“What happened? At least something should happen!”

Hence people say: “If there can’t be fame, infamy will do—but let there be something!” If there is notoriety, so be it, at least it is a name. People will talk. People want to be talked about, to be noticed. This is why politics has such a grip on the world.

What power, what attraction does politics have? What does a politician get? He gets the attention of thousands, of millions. The ego is gratified: “So many people are looking at me… I am the prime minister, I am the president, so many people are looking at me! I am someone special!”

This journey starts very early in children. You must have seen: guests are coming to the house and you tell the children, “Be quiet, guests are coming”—and the children who were quiet become restless. The guests barely arrive and the children start creating a ruckus. One will come and stand there and say, “I’m hungry.” Another will say, “I’m thirsty.” The children start fighting. They are attracting the guests’ attention. They are saying, “You are hogging all the attention—we are also here!” They are announcing their presence. They are saying, “Don’t think we are not.” They will stamp their feet and announce. They will break things, make noise, drop things, quarrel, brawl. Politics has begun! These are the same people who tomorrow will become Morarji Desai… and so on, and so on. This is where politics begins. The child has started making a demand: “Pay attention to me.”

And the child knows that when guests have come he will get attention quickly… because what will the guests think? So the mother gets flustered—“Take the toy, take this money, go outside, buy an ice‑cream, go for a walk”—whatever is demanded will be supplied because the guests are present. In front of guests, the mother cannot tolerate too much disturbance; she will somehow mollify the children. Once the guests leave, the children know very well that they will be spanked!

Take the children to the market and they will stand their ground on the street, insisting on things they never insisted on at home—“This has to be bought!” They know this is the marketplace, there is a crowd. Here they are wagering on the mother’s or father’s ego: “If you want to save your ego, you had better buy it—otherwise what will people say? So many eyes are on us!” Take a child to a shop and the shopkeeper gives the child more attention than he gives you—because if the child agrees to take it, your prestige is at stake. You are busy saving your ego; the child is busy saving his.

Even in small children the same disease starts which, when they grow up, takes a dreadful form.

So naturally, Veena, if you remain ecstatic, sing, dance, hum, it will seem to the children that they are not getting attention. But this does not harm them; it benefits them. Your children will not become politicians. Satisfying the ego is not in their interest. Satisfying the ego is like scratching an itch. In the beginning scratching feels satisfying. Otherwise why would anyone scratch? It feels sweet to scratch; some sweet juice seems to flow. But then comes the pain. Blood oozes. The skin is peeled. Now it hurts. Every time you have scratched the itch you have reaped pain. Still, when there is an itch, you again feel like scratching.

The ego is like an itch. Scratch it and at first it gives sweetness, then much suffering.

So to your children, in the beginning there will be some trouble from your ecstasy, because they will receive less attention—but ultimately there will be no harm. Don’t think for a moment that injustice is being done. Justice is being done. Slowly they too will see that you have found something. They will begin to understand. And children’s understanding is very clear, because it is innocent. There are as yet no veils over the eyes. There is no web of theories. No dust of scriptures. A child’s perspective is utterly pure; his eyes see directly; he doesn’t look crookedly. Soon they will see that something has happened to their mother. And they will also see that mother is more blissful than before, more joyful, more soaked in nectar. They too will be eager. They too will be filled with the search for the same.

If mother or father meditate, if they are ecstatic, how long can the children remain away from meditation? Not for long! For ultimately children follow their parents. If you are wrong, the children will go wrong—because from whom else should they learn? They learn from you. If you are joyful, the children will learn joy. Perhaps in the beginning there will be obstruction, because they have formed an old habit. Until now you were doing plenty of appeasing. If they so much as said “Me!” you were on them with attention. Now your attention is flowing elsewhere. Now there won’t be as much attention on the children. Due to the old habit they will feel obstructed—but that obstruction is only because of habit. Do not worry about it. Do not let it disturb your ecstasy.

From your ecstasy they will receive much more benefit than from your attention. Your ecstasy will become ambrosia for them!

If a child can carry within him the image of his mother’s and father’s ecstasy, then if not today, tomorrow he too will become ecstatic. That image will keep circling behind him, will pursue him. He will keep feeling that until such an ecstasy happens to him, something is missing, something has been missed in life: “My mother was ecstatic!” As it is, children do not even realize that something in their lives is missing, because their mother too was troubled like this, their father too was troubled like this. Their mother too was fighting, their father too was fighting; the home was full of quarrels. They too will fight. Every daughter repeats her mother, every son repeats his father. And when they fight, just pause and watch.

Sometime watch the quarrels of your grown children, the quarrels of husband and wife. You will be amazed—they are exactly your record—His Master’s Voice! They are repeating what you did. And repeating it with style—letter by letter… Even the expression of the face becomes the same when they quarrel. And your son will do with his wife exactly what your husband is doing with you, Veena! What you are doing with your son, what you are doing with your daughter, that will be repeated. Because what model do they have other than you? Every daughter keeps repeating her mother. That is why the world does not develop. How can it? It only reiterates. Gestures, expressions—everything is repeated.

And your children will never know that something is missing in their lives, because they have no other standard against which to weigh. They will see, “Our mother was worried like this, and we are worried like this. Our mother fought like this, and we fight like this. Our mother did like this, and we do like this.” They cannot know that something is lost in life! They have never known a joyful, delighted life. They have never seen a glimpse of flowers in bloom. They have only known thorns. Thorns keep pricking them. “This is fate”—and they live.

Veena, your children are fortunate. Every child should be so fortunate that in the lives of their parents there is something more than money, position, family—some glimpse of the divine. Even a drop will do! If that glimpse takes hold of them, they will not be satisfied with an ordinary life. Then no matter how much money or status they get, something will keep gnawing at them from within: “I have not yet received that drop that shone in my mother’s eyes. I have not yet received that ecstasy. I must attain it. I must—otherwise life will go to waste. Otherwise life has no meaning. That poetry is missing—so surely something is lacking. A search is needed, a quest is needed.”

And if, Veena, as a current of rasa is springing between you and your husband, your children can also see that, then they will repeat this current of sweetness in their own lives, in their own relationships. For this reason too I say: no sannyasin should leave home. Let children see sannyasins. Let children see sannyasins—as mother, as father. Let children see sannyasins—in all kinds of relationships—so they have some touchstone on which they can keep testing their lives. And if something is missing, they can keep attempting to fulfill it.

I understand your feeling, Veena. You must feel it is injustice, because the children must be shouting loudly that injustice is being done to them, that they are not getting as much attention as before. The kind of concern you had till yesterday—whether all their buttons are fastened or not; whether there is a crease in their beds at night; whether their clothes are neat and clean; whether their books are torn; whether they have done their homework—your attention will go on decreasing from all this. Then the children will feel that their ego is not being gratified. They will feel hurt. They will complain. They will open a front against you. They will organize, band together. They will all say, “Injustice is being done to us.”

But I tell you: if your ecstasy continues to shower, then no injustice is being done—justice is being done. Soon they will understand that so much attention was not needed. In truth, parents are paying far too much attention. It is harmful, not beneficial. The children of this century are more spoiled than any children have ever been. And why? Because the parents of this century are more worried about their children than parents ever were; earlier there was neither leisure nor time. Life’s struggle was so intense! The farmer would get up at five in the morning to go to the fields; he’d return by dusk. Where was the leisure, where was the time to sit with the children, to listen to the radio, to watch television, to take the children to a film? Where were the facilities, where was the time? There wasn’t even enough bread to eat. Children would mature quickly.

Notice: the smaller the village, the sooner its children mature. The little girl walks to the fields carrying her father’s meal. Such a small girl in the city is of no use for any work—you can’t rely on her. It seems difficult for her even to manage her own plate; how will she carry her father’s meal? In the village a small girl starts cooking the family’s food. Your city daughter doesn’t even know how to eat properly. The mother has to sit at the table in front of her to feed her.

See the difference: the smaller the village, the sooner the children mature. Off they go to graze the cows, to tend the bullocks, to milk the cow, to collect firewood… Life begins. Psychologists say the kind of children we now see are a product of only the last two hundred years. Before that such “childhood” hardly existed. Psychologists even say what we now call adolescence hardly existed before. At seven or eight a child would begin working. Now a child starts working at twenty‑five. And even then, if he starts, it’s good fortune! Because for twenty‑five years there has been no habit of work. For twenty‑five years there has been the habit of freeloading. For twenty‑five years he has been dependent on his parents. That is not a short time—if someone lives seventy‑five years, that is one‑third of life! One‑third of life becomes a habit of dependence. Then suddenly—work and responsibility!

Do you understand why so many children in America are becoming hippies? America is the most affluent, hence the most distorted children are being produced. Because of affluence, far too much attention is being given to children. They don’t just want a bicycle; they want a car. Little children are driving cars. Most accidents are caused by them. The maximum car accidents are caused by boys and girls between eighteen and twenty‑five. And most crimes are committed by them too. The most disturbances are caused by those between eighteen and twenty‑five. They are empty; power is in their hands but there is no work—so set the university on fire, break the furniture, smash the windowpanes—something has to be done!

You couldn’t even have imagined such a thing, because a man of twenty‑five in the old days was very mature. At seven or eight he would have begun to work. If he was poorer, he would have begun even earlier. When responsibilities land on your head, experience comes; with experience comes understanding. By twenty‑five he had so much experience of life—could he have done the stupidities that boys and girls do today? Impossible. A certain elder‑like gravity would come. He would have learned life’s lesson.

Today we think we are educating children, but we are depriving them of life’s lessons. And we worry about them so much that they cannot even tie the drawstring of their pajama; the mother is tying it. Now I can imagine Veena tying the drawstring—and if she is also singing a bhajan, the string must keep coming undone; it doesn’t stay tied! The child feels annoyed: “What is this? Earlier it was tied perfectly; now it comes undone on the way. Mother is not paying proper attention.” You used to pack their schoolbags, arrange their things; now they have to do it themselves. You used to sit at the table and feed them—“Eat…”

Children are crying today. Ask them why. In olden times children cried for food; today they cry because their mother is force‑feeding them—they don’t want to eat. Tears are dripping and mother sits in front: “Eat!” They don’t want to eat—or they don’t want to eat this; today they want something else. They want to go to the coffee house for idli‑dosa or something. They want attention… they want attention twenty‑four hours a day. And from this attention nothing good is going to happen to them.

That boy whom his mother has attended to and fussed over for twenty‑five years—tomorrow he will expect the same from his wife, and trouble will start, because she too has been fussed over. And she will expect the same from her husband that she expected from her father. Quarrels will start from the very first day. Their expectations are great. The girl will want the husband to fulfill all her expectations like her father did. The husband will want the wife to fulfill all his expectations like his mother did. How is this possible? Both have great expectations, great demands. And both will fail, because neither will be able to fulfill the other.

Never before has the world known so many divorces. And never before has married life been so miserable. The causes are there: such expectations were never made before. And there was no reason to expect.

On the surface it seems that if we give children less attention, harm will come. Not so. Let me tell you one more thing: we often give attention when children are sick, troubled, unwell. According to scientific understanding, when children are unwell, troubled, sick, we should not give them much attention—because a wrong association is formed. The child is sick and the mother sits by him, pressing his head. Now whenever he wants his head pressed in the future, he will become sick. The husband comes home and immediately lies down on the bed. He was perfectly fine at the office; as soon as he arrives home he gets a headache! He wants his wife to press his head, to massage his feet; he wants her to flatter him, to hover around him as if he has returned after doing great work! And the wife too seems perfectly fine until the husband comes home—listening to the radio and reading the newspaper. As soon as he arrives, she takes to the bed. She too wants her husband to place his hand on her head. Because husbands place a hand on the head only when the wife is sick.

Women have learned the art of being ill. They know for sure that they are given attention only then. If the wife falls ill, the husband starts asking, “Do you want a sari? Anything you need?” “Do whatever you want, but don’t fall ill!” The wife knows that only when she is ill does the husband pay attention; otherwise he’s behind his newspaper—where is the time to pay attention? He comes, spreads his legs, and hides behind the newspaper.

The newspaper is a screen; a way to escape. The husband opens it as soon as he enters. All the wives, etcetera, drop out of sight; the hassle is over. Now he can read the same newspaper several times over.

I was a guest in a house. I saw the gentleman reading the same paper in the morning, again at noon; and in the evening, when he started reading it again, I said, “Listen, you’ve read it from beginning to end several times.” He was startled and said, “You’re right. But this is my daily habit, because this is the only way to escape. I keep reading the paper; whatever my wife says, I pretend I haven’t heard. If I listen, there’s trouble. If I hear, there’s an assault on my pocket! One has to become deaf. The newspaper is a great convenience. It looks as if I’m absorbed; my wife thinks I’m reading.”

When children are unwell, serve them—but do not give them attention. There is a great difference between the two. Meet their needs, their requirements. If they need medicine, give it. If they need a blanket, cover them. But don’t flatter them excessively. Otherwise your flattery will invest their illness with a vested interest. They will start feeling that whenever attention is needed, one can get it by falling sick.

Psychologists say that seventy percent of illnesses in the world are mental. Seventy percent—a large proportion! And these are illnesses you in some way want to have. You have seen how children fall ill at exam time! During exams children’s illnesses rise sharply all over the world. Illness is an easy way to escape. No need to sit the exam—ill! Or even if you must sit the exam and you fail, no one can say it was your fault; you were ill. Or if you get a third division, it will do—because you were ill, what could you do? Illness becomes a great trick. And this person has associated illness with attention rather than with health.

My own directive is this: when the children are healthy, if you wish, give them a little extra attention; but when they are ill, do not give them much attention. Let attention be associated with health. When the children are ecstatic, joyful, hug them; but when they are ill, tuck them in with a blanket and let them sleep. This may sound harsh. On the surface it certainly looks harsh. It may seem as if I am teaching contrary things—anyway I teach contrary things! But when the child is ill, tuck him in and let him sleep; give medicine—just as a nurse would. Do not display motherhood at that time. If possible, hire a nurse—that’s even better. But when the child is happy and joyful, then hug him sometime. Take him by the hand and dance with him. Tie his taste to health, so that throughout life his flavor remains with health, not with illness. Seventy percent of the world’s illnesses could disappear if we associate children’s rewards with health.

So, Veena, do not worry—remain ecstatic. And I know this much: the ecstasy that comes from meditation is not one that will make you neglect your children. In the ecstasy of meditation love increases; it does not decrease. Therefore neglect is not going to happen. Yes, the unnecessary worry will be cut away. What is necessary will certainly be done. Perhaps ninety percent of the attention you used to give was useless, even harmful.

And have you ever pondered why parents pay so much attention to children? Psychologists say: out of guilt. You will be surprised! Parents keep feeling that they are not able to do what they should for their children. This creates guilt… “Look, the neighbor bought a car for his child, and our child still rides a shabby bicycle! We are not able to do what we should for our son.” Then what to do? At least we can fuss over him; at least we can pay extra attention; at least we can worry about him excessively. This much can be done.

It is compensation. But no benefit will come from such compensation. And because in truth we do not love our children, we feel guilty. To hide that guilt we bring toys and ice‑cream. We spoil the children. It is all arising from guilt. As love grows, guilt will diminish. As guilt diminishes, the actions born of guilt will stop. Then what is to be done, what is essential, will be done.

And I know this: the ecstasy that comes from meditation brings, in one sense, intoxication, and in another sense, awareness. That ecstasy is very paradoxical—unconsciousness and consciousness grow together. And in Veena’s case I can say without worry that both are growing together. So there is no cause for fear.

And you have also asked: “Even understanding this, I am not able to love them in totality.”

In this world, total love cannot be done with anyone—otherwise what will you do with God? In this world one can love from one percent up to ninety‑nine percent, but one hundred percent love cannot be done with anyone here. That is the right of the divine. That belongs to him. That we must give only to him. Even toward the master there can be ninety‑nine percent love, devotion, but not one hundred percent. That is the ultimate peak in this world which a disciple experiences toward the master—ninety‑nine percent. One percent remains; that one percent is dedicated to God alone. Only with God can we be wholly one.

So do not make impossible ideals such as “I don’t have total love for my children.” It cannot be. And it is good that it cannot be. Why? Because if a mother loves her son excessively—so much that the son’s heart is filled with the mother’s love—then that son will never be able to love any other woman. There will be no need left; no purpose left; the mother has filled him up! But that is a danger. If a child’s life is completed by the mother’s love alone, his own love will never be born.

That is why you see: no matter how much the mother loves the child, the child cannot love the mother that much. It is natural, because the child has to love another. Life’s journey has to go forward, not backward. Therefore no parent should expect that as much as we love our children, our children will love us. If your children love you as much as you love them, then what will they do for their children? You love your children—have you ever noticed whether you loved your parents so much? That much? But your parents loved you that much. The Ganges will flow forward… Parents will love their children; children will love their children. Their children will love theirs. In this way life will move on. If life begins to flow backward, it becomes dangerous.

Sometimes a pathological condition arises. The mother loves her son so much that the son begins to feel guilty—falling in love with another woman becomes betrayal of the mother. There are such mothers who think it is betrayal. Hence the perpetual quarrel between mother‑in‑law and daughter‑in‑law—everywhere in the world. There are big reasons behind it. It is not a trivial matter; not a matter of one woman—it is a matter of all mothers‑in‑law and all daughters‑in‑law.

Why? The mother loved her son. Loved him so much—and today the son has become a traitor. Today he doesn’t listen to her; he listens to a stranger. The son whom the mother took twenty‑five years to make intelligent—some woman makes him a fool in five minutes. How could the mother not feel hurt? And the gentleman goes… he listens to his wife now. If there is a conflict between mother and wife, he will listen to the wife. And he should listen to the wife. Because only thus will life move forward. Nothing untoward is happening in this.

But the mother’s expectation is wrong; the mother’s ambition is wrong. The mother wants to encircle the child completely. Some children get encircled. Those who become encircled by their mother’s love are not able to love any woman. Their lives become very sad. Other disturbances enter their lives. Even if somehow they enter into a woman’s love, their mother will always stand in between. And they will continuously weigh whether this woman matches their mother or not. Which woman will match their mother? There is no other woman like their mother in the whole world; nor can there be. Wherever she falls short of the mother, wherever she differs from the mother, there she will be wrong. The food must be cooked like mother’s. The clothes must be made like mother’s. The house must be arranged like mother’s. Which woman will do this, and how? These expectations are not fulfilled. These are inner expectations. Then quarrel and conflict…

No—give only as much love as is natural and spontaneous. Do not long for totality. Keep the feeling of the natural, not of the absolute. The love that is natural is right. Care for the children. Care for their health. Care for their future. Care that they stand on their own feet quickly, that they set out on their own journey.

And your concern should not be so much that they remain weak. Excessive concern will make them weak. As if a mother keeps holding her son’s hand, always leading him, never letting him walk on his own feet…

I have heard: a wealthy couple got out of their car. The luggage was carried into the hotel. Then the lady called out, “Send four servants, we have to unload the son.” The son was about fourteen. He too was carried in. The servants were very surprised and very sad, for the boy was very handsome! One of the servants said, “Such a beautiful, lovely boy—and he cannot walk!” The lady said, “What did you say—cannot walk? Of course he can walk; but there is no need for him to walk. My son is not disabled, but there is no necessity for him to walk; poor people’s sons walk.”

Now this becomes dangerous! If poor people’s sons walk—and if the mother is so rich that her son has no need to walk, that the servants can carry him on a stretcher—this is dangerous. This is an exaggeration. But many mothers do such exaggerations. In our unconsciousness we do many exaggerations.

No—be natural. Do not bring up the talk of the total. Total love will be for the divine. In that direction, Veena, the movement has begun. That is the ecstasy coming. That is the glimpse. But do not take my words to mean that I am saying to be harsh toward the children. I am not saying that you should neglect the children or become indifferent.

A great balance is needed in life—neither excessive love nor neglect—the middle. The one who finds the middle finds the key to life. Like the acrobat who walks the tightrope—exactly in the middle, balancing himself! Sometimes he leans a little to the left, sometimes a little to the right; but he leans to the right so that he may not fall to the left, and leans to the left so that he may not fall to the right. Just by leaning he restores his balance and keeps walking in the middle. In the same way every person should maintain the middle in life. Buddha said: Majjhima Nikaya. The one who learns to walk in the middle reaches the truth.

In every process of life, learn to walk in the middle. Being exactly in the middle is the golden thread. Do not fall into excessive sweetness; excessive sweetness will produce rot. Do not become overly indifferent; excessive bitterness will be harmful, violent. And this balance each person has to find in his own way. No fixed formulas can be given for it. I cannot say there is some fixed formula, because in every situation this balance will be different. Some day the child is ill; that day you will have to lean a little to the left. Some day the child is happy; that day you will lean a little to the right. Some day the child’s need is something else; some day there is no need. Day by day, moment by moment, needs change. And along with the changing needs one should keep changing appropriately. This is what I call right love.

Keep only this in mind: that the child’s welfare be possible, his good be possible. That the child stand on his own feet in life, be independent, have individuality, have selfhood, be serene, be ecstatic, be a seeker of the divine. If only these things remain in your awareness, taking these as your guiding sutras, while giving the children the right path, you yourself will find the right path.

Kishansingh! You wrote and asked, didn’t you? That, too, is a material act. Just as material as a mala. You wrote on paper... without writing it would have remained unsaid! If inner sannyas has happened, why ask in words at all? Now it should happen in silence alone! When you were writing, did you not think you were composing a question in material words with material ink on material paper? You might have hesitated a little, felt a bit shy!

But the mind is a great trickster; it finds convenient arguments. This did not feel like a snag to you. Sannyas frightened you. You don’t want to admit the fear directly. There isn’t even enough courage to say plainly, “I am afraid.” “If I put on ochre robes and a mala, I’ll become a madman! What will people say? People will think I’m crazy. People will say, ‘You, the intelligent one, Kishansingh! And you got into this foolishness! We never thought that you, who traveled so widely, knew and understood so much—were an agnostic; you too became a sannyasin! You too donned ochre, you too put on a mala! You became someone’s follower! A person like you—intelligent, experienced, knowledgeable, educated, a philosophical thinker!’”

So you are afraid, but you won’t admit it head on. You’ve devised a trick. It’s rationalization, merely a sophistry! You’ve found a device: “Inner sannyas has already happened.” I had no idea; and your inner sannyas has “happened”? Had you not written, I would not have known. It’s kind of you that you wrote.

How did “inner sannyas” happen? Do you even know what the soul is yet? If you knew the soul, you wouldn’t need to come here at all. There would be no meaning in sitting with me either, because at most what is there to know but the soul?

You say inner sannyas has happened. Do you even understand the meanings of the words? Clearly, precisely? What does “inner” mean? Do you have the experience of the soul?

No, not yet. Then how can inner sannyas have happened? Inner sannyas is the culmination of sannyas. You haven’t climbed the first step and you declare you’ve reached the last!

You will have to begin with the body, because for now you are in the body. And there is nothing wrong with the body; no fallacy, no mistake. You breathe, don’t you? That too is material. Try not breathing—live “spiritually.” Then you’ll know that in five to seven seconds you’ll be in trouble. Soon the breath will force its way in! You’ll say, “Enough, if living spiritually means this, I’ll die!” You eat food; that is physical. But what is outside gets digested through food and becomes a part of the inside; the breath that comes from outside gets assimilated into your flesh and marrow. If oxygen from outside does not keep coming in, your brain stops functioning. If the brain goes without oxygen for six seconds it is damaged forever—just six seconds! That is the great difficulty. People who die of a heart attack can be revived—but it must happen within six seconds.

In the last world war some were brought back who had died from heart shock—their death was not real; a bomb fell, they panicked, and the heart stopped. They had no injuries, but from fright the heartbeat ceased. Their hearts were restarted by pumping. They are still alive. But it had to be done within six seconds. Six seconds is a very short time. Why not after six seconds? Because after six seconds the brain is ruined. Even if the heart starts, the man can never again be fully brain-functioning. He will live like a vegetable, like a cauliflower. Within him no thought or consciousness can arise. The breathing will go on... the cauliflower will lie there! But your breath comes from outside.

These ideas you wrote—this agnosticism, this Naad-Brahma meditation you are doing, “Brahma-meditation with the drone of the bumblebee”—all that will stop if the vital air from outside doesn’t arrive for six seconds. You won’t be able to meditate either! So the outside and the inside are not separate; they are joined, interdependent. Body and soul too are interdependent. Understand and recognize this interdependence. Then you will not be able to say such things as “outer sannyas and inner sannyas, bodily sannyas and spiritual sannyas.” These are just flourishes. You will begin at the beginning. Sannyas begins with the body; it can only begin there.

You came here from Nairobi. You had to bring your body; you didn’t leave it behind in Nairobi. You had to carry it on the plane; needlessly lugged it along! You wear clothes, do you not?

This habit of fragmenting life is wrong. And behind it we hide our great fears. All your life, with great difficulty, some person’s words have managed to touch you. Your account, you say, is long... you wandered everywhere, visited all the worldly and otherworldly shrines. Not only in theistic lands, you went to atheistic lands too. Everywhere you found it insubstantial... It is because you found insubstantiality everywhere that a little substance appears in what I say.

My connection is made more readily with those who have searched deeply; who are tired of searching; who have doubted and inquired; who have thought; who have not believed blindly. I am for them. And sooner or later, searching, they will arrive at me, because their quest continues.

With false believers my connection does not happen. They are already sitting with a conclusion. They feel no need to know. For them there is no question of seeking. They have merely assumed—someone is Hindu, someone Muslim, someone Christian, someone Jain. Each has his book, his temple. They have assumed, and they fear uprooting that assumption: who wants to start such upheaval! Who knows whether the security they have will remain or not! Don’t stir it up; don’t open the matter; don’t awaken questions; sit quietly on the chest of the question, holding it down. Keep the fake faith intact.

In belief there is security, a sense of ease. A feeling persists that “we know.” In fact, nothing is known. Not a trace of knowledge—only the delusion of knowledge. You are fortunate that you did not have such a delusion of knowledge. Therefore my words have struck you. Therefore there is a taste of me in you.

Now you have come to the door; will you turn back from the very threshold—loitering outside...? You will regret it deeply, because such a door may or may not be found again. The other doors did not satisfy you—remember that. There are many doors, but they did not quench you—remember that. And a door like this you may not find again on this earth! If you miss, the responsibility is yours.

Inner sannyas happens one day, but it is the final flowering of outer sannyas. Do you think I don’t know that merely putting on ochre robes makes no one a sannyasin? Do you think I lack the understanding to see that wearing a mala makes no one a sannyasin? If you can see that much, surely I can too. Of course I know that changing outer clothes does not make a sannyasin!

But I also know this: the one who is not even willing to change the outer garments—what sannyas will he ever attain! If he is unwilling to change the outer, how will he change the inner? Inward change threatens our interests even more. Outer change is not so difficult. You wear clothes of some color anyway, and people sometimes wear ochre too. After all, it is one color among many. I know well that just by wearing ochre sannyas does not happen. But the one who shows the courage to wear ochre is, at the very least, indicating, “I am ready. I am even ready for this madness; take me further on the journey.”

It is only a touchstone, because even greater madnesses lie ahead. If you won’t step into this “madness,” what will you do when others arrive; further intoxications will come! You’ll hesitate at every turn. “We’ll keep it inner,” you’ll say. A wave to dance will arise, and you’ll say, “Why dance the body? We’ll dance only in the soul!” You will raise this obstacle at every step. This is the disciple’s signal; nothing more—simply the gesture, “I am willing. I am ready to do what you ask. Even if you ask something that does not appeal to my mind, still I am ready.” When such a feeling arises in someone, discipleship is born.

Gorakh said it just yesterday—“The moment the head bows...” This is a way of bowing the head. I have done this “mischief” knowingly. There was no need. Hundreds of thousands listened to me; they wore all colors and listened. Then I insisted: those who want to go deeper, let them accept ochre. From hundreds of thousands, only a few thousand were willing to walk with me. The rest thought: “Ochre-clothes! We accept only inner talk.” But I had worked on these “inner-talk” people for years; they only listened—listening was their entertainment. The moment a small doing was asked, they scattered, they fled! Now they even feel embarrassed to come here, because here they become second-grade people. Here the number-one person is the one in ochre. The ochre one is intimate. The one not in ochre is an outsider, a spectator. Fine—he comes and he goes. And until he becomes ochre, he cannot become a part of this pilgrimage. This is but a symbol.

Kishansingh, if you cannot fulfill this symbol, then know well it was never about inner and outer; it was only your fear.

Ibrahim was an emperor. He went to his master and asked for initiation. Do you know what the master said? “Take off your clothes—right now.” To an emperor he said, “Drop your clothes!” Other disciples were sitting there, a whole assembly of seekers. Never had he said to anyone, “Take off your clothes.” But to Ibrahim he said, “Drop them now!” And Ibrahim dropped them—stood there naked. The disciples were startled. And what the fakir said next was even more astonishing. He picked up his own shoe, handed it to Ibrahim, and said, “Take this shoe and go to the marketplace! It is your capital. Go naked and keep striking your head with the shoe, taking the Name of Allah. People will laugh, they will throw stones, they will gather around—pay no attention. Circle the whole town and come back.”

And Ibrahim set off. No sooner had he gone than the other disciples asked, “You never expected such a thing from us. What have you done? What need was there? How will sannyas happen by hitting oneself with a shoe? How will going naked in the town bring initiation?”

The fakir said, “I did not ask it of you because I did not think you had the guts. He is an emperor; he has stamina. He is a man of courage. I had to test his courage. The shoe and the nakedness themselves are nothing; but they are everything. The fact that he could go—that’s where it happened. He did not fuss. Not once did he ask, ‘What does this mean? What kind of sannyas is this, what sort of initiation! Do you initiate people like this? Whom else have you ever initiated thus?’ He raised no doubt, no questions; in that very moment the event happened. This man has become mine. You have been here for years and have not come so near to me as he has—quietly dropping his clothes, taking the shoe, and going to have himself disgraced in the town—having his ego ground into the dust! You could not come near in years; this man has come near.”

And when Ibrahim returned, there was a new radiance on his face; he was a different man—incandescent! The shoe is an outer thing and clothes are outer. Everything is outer in that sense. But a true master must devise devices. You are outer; to bring you inward, devices are needed. Ibrahim became a rare fakir. Words cannot capture his depth! Yet in this small act the happening happened!

Kishansingh, you have come to the door. If you want, you can obey the mind and turn back. But this mind has always been with you—where has it brought you? Will you again follow it? The mind is cunning; its arts are subtle.

And I too say that clothes do not make sannyas, nor a mala. And still I say to you: if you truly long for real sannyas, you must begin from the outside. The search is for inner sannyas, but we are living in the body; the journey must begin from the body. A journey can start only from where you are. From where you are not, how will you begin? Whoever lies in hell must begin from hell itself.

Much time has been wasted like this; waste no more!

One day has passed!
Dawn, like a sweet maiden,
had brought it brimming—
and at evening’s feet
its vermilion pitcher emptied.
One day has passed!

From which the bowers
of the grove had swayed at morn,
the bud’s smile is gone,
the bee’s song is gone!
One day has passed!

The goal seemed nearer each day,
yet remained far each day.
The traveler’s feet grew weary,
the ruthless road won!
One day has passed!

Who now will tell
the star of these eyes—
flowing by the eyes’ path,
the heart’s fresh butter is gone!
One day has passed!

Each moment, time keeps slipping by. No other temple pleased you, no mosque either. They did not, and you turned away—that is fine; your heart was not filled there. It could not be. One whose heart is “filled” by such things must have a false thirst!

A truly thirsty one is not satisfied by the so-called temples and mosques until a living temple is found—where the lamp of a Buddha still burns. A real thirsty one is not satisfied with extinguished lamps! The word “water” cannot quench him—how then will the Vedas and the Upanishads satisfy him? Those are words! He needs a lake of living water.

And your experience was right—that atheists seemed simpler than theists. It is true. A theist is simple only when he is truly theistic. A true theist is rare, because to be truly theistic means a life transformed, samadhi attained, God experienced. Then the theist’s simplicity is oceanic, astonishing! No atheism has such simplicity as that of a Ramakrishna or a Raman. But one has to meet such a person—and such a person is rare!

The theists you meet are false. Someone is a Hindu by birth, someone a Muslim by birth; neither the Muslim has searched nor the Hindu. A thing gotten at birth as a bequest. The father handed down a book: “We worshipped it; our fathers handed it down; you keep worshipping. It has always been worshipped; perhaps there is something to it, otherwise why for so long? We never opened it; you don’t open it either. People who open it get into trouble. Just worship and keep it safe.”

Thus you became a Hindu, thus a Muslim; it is not your quest. Therefore the atheist is simpler. At least the atheist musters this much courage, this much honesty: “Until I experience, I will not believe.” The atheist is honest. How ironic! The so-called religious “should” be honest; how can they be, when the foundation itself is dishonest!

We tell people: “Have faith, believe.” Believe in what you have not seen! That is to put the foundation on dishonesty! A temple may be tall and beautiful; it will not be true, because the foundation stones are false. Truth is not to be believed; truth is to be known—then trust arises. It is not done; it happens.

So you were right to find the atheist simple. But let me add: atheists in other countries are simpler than those in Russia. Because in Russia atheism is now by birth. As here the Hindu is by birth, there the atheist is by birth. In Russia, atheism is a religion. The Kremlin is their Mecca and Das Kapital their Quran. Communism is the name of their creed. Now the Russian child becomes an atheist just as children elsewhere become theists; there is no difference. Russian atheism has gone flabby. Now in Russia, if someone becomes a theist, he is simple. But now in Russia a theist must be hidden, must be cautious. If he wants to pray, he must do it in secret so that not a whisper reaches anyone’s ear, because prayer is not approved; the state does not esteem prayer. One who goes to church is thought to be committing a kind of treason against the nation, because the nation’s creed is atheism. In such atheism, the atheist’s own virtue is lost.

In theistic countries, the atheists point to a seeker’s spirit. In atheistic countries, the theists point to a seeker’s spirit. Seeking means: do not accept what is imposed on you; search for your own.

It was right that you turned away from those temples.

Let me speak the truth, O Brahmin—if you will not take offense:
the idols of your sanctuaries have grown old.
You learned from idols to keep enmity with your own;
even God taught the preacher war and strife.
Wearied at last, I left the temple and the mosque,
left the preacher’s sermon, left your fables.
In stone images you thought God resides;
to me every speck of my native dust is deity.
Come—let us lift once more the veil of “otherness,”
bring the estranged together, erase the map of duality.
The settlement of the heart has long lain desolate—
let us raise a new temple in this land,
a shrine of ours higher than all the world’s shrines,
its finial touching the hem of the sky.
Each morning let us sing those sweet mantras,
and pour the wine of friendship for every priest.
Power and peace are in the devotees’ song;
the earth’s peoples’ liberation is in love.

Love is the real religion. Whether you believe in God or not is secondary. Love is the real religion. Initiation into sannyas is initiation into love.

We are building here a new pilgrimage—a pilgrimage of love—where the theist is welcome and the atheist too. Hindu, Christian, Muslim, Buddhist—people of all the world’s faiths are present here. Perhaps there is no other place in the world where people of all religions and races sit together. A temple of a new kind is rising—a temple of love.

Sannyas is merely your prayer to enter that temple of love—nothing else. It is your application, your plea: “Color me too in the color of this temple.” And the coloring must begin from the outside; then the dye reaches within. If you save yourself from the outer, you will save yourself from the inner too.

You have come—be alert. You can run away. Running is always easy; awakening is hard.

When did I ever tell you to drop your attraction to nature? You project old notions onto me. You hear what I am not saying. I am saying exactly this: nature is the Divine; there is nothing to renounce. But you keep singing the old refrain you have memorized, drilled into you for centuries: that God is against nature; leave nature to find God; deny nature to attain God. These things have been said to you so often they’ve taken root within; without thinking, they go on echoing inside.

I say that nature itself is the Divine. Creation and the Creator are not two—this is my proclamation. They are one. The Creator has become the creation. In every flower, every leaf, that One is. In animals, in birds, in people—that One is. Do not run from nature; awaken in nature. Do not go against your intrinsic nature; be settled in it. And whoever awakens in nature will find nothing but the Divine. Understand it this way: the one who, while asleep, looks for God sees nature; the one who, awake, looks at nature sees God.

Nature and the Divine are not two; they are the experiences of the sleeping and the awakened. The sleeping person’s experience is nature; the awakened person’s experience is the Divine. But what is, is one.

“My attachment to form cannot be renounced!”
The sky said to the ocean, hiding the moon in cloud:
“The moon is my treasure—don’t stir yourself, ocean, in vain.”
Lifting up millions of hands, the intoxicated waves, the sea replied:
“My longing for the moon I cannot abandon!
My attachment to form I cannot renounce!”

Hiding the flower among thorns, the branch said to the bee:
“The flower is my treasure—don’t go stretching your little pouch in vain.”
Humming, with wings pierced upon the thorns, the bee replied:
“My devotion to fragrance and nectar I cannot abandon!
My attachment to form I cannot renounce!”

Seeing the cataract draw near, the riverbanks said:
“In vain you’ve come this far, mad one—loosen your embrace!”
Cutting through the rock of the bank, the waterfall said:
“By love’s own vow, I will not break it!
My attachment to form I cannot renounce!”

But I am not telling you to drop attachment. I am not telling you to drop anything at all. I am not talking about dropping or grasping—only this: awaken. The moment you awaken, what is not will fall away. For when awake, even if you want to hold on to what is unreal, how will you hold it? And what is real—how will you drop it, even if you wish to?

At night you slept and dreamt you were an emperor. Old traditions tell you: give up this emperorship; it is all maya. Suppose, within the dream, you agreed and renounced the palace—then your renunciation is also part of the dream. If the palace itself is a dream, how can its renunciation become true? Think a little! How can the renunciation of the false be true? The renunciation of the false will only be false. If the palace was false, how can leaving it become real? And if you go about telling people, “I have left the palace, I renounced the empire,” you are proclaiming you still take the palace as real—you have not yet seen it as false. Before, you clutched the palace; now you have dropped it—but the palace’s supposed reality remains intact.

I do not tell you to leave the palace. I want to shake you awake. I say: wake up! Open your eyes. The moment your eyes open, what is will remain; what is not has already fallen away. If it still needs to be dropped, then you have not yet known; if it has to be renounced, you still believe it is.

A true knower neither drops nor grasps. If he is in a palace, he is in a palace; if in a hut, he is in a hut. He has no insistence on palace or hut. The false knower insists either on the palace or on the hut—but he insists.

Remember, the insistence on a hut can be as strong as the insistence on a palace. Attachment does not care whether the object is big or small; even a loincloth can suffice. People leave the world and clutch at renunciation. When the world itself has been seen as false, then renunciation too is false. You were adding two and two and getting five; then a true master alerted you: two and two do not make five, they make four. You awoke and added correctly—two plus two is four. Will you now say, “I have renounced five—behold my renunciation!”? Will you beat drums and make proclamations, “See, I have given up five!”? If you do that, people will call you mad. Five never existed; it was your delusion, your arithmetic mistake. And even when you were adding to make five, your adding did not make five exist; it was only an illusion—four was still four.

Two and two are four, whether you add five, six, seven, or three—your whim as you please; yet two and two are four, and only four. Now that you know two and two are four, the matter is finished—what is there to drop, what is there to grasp?

Life is only a matter of understanding the right arithmetic.

As water grows deeper,
the waves become more grave.
The inner grows more patient
as the pain grows deep.

Ask nothing of love’s affair;
amid a hundred struggles,
bearing and bearing, this chain of flowers
becomes adamant-strong.

The footfall of each new comer
at first startles the heart;
but as the waiting lengthens,
the gaze grows steady.

As the days keep passing,
time’s mist thickens;
ever more luminous becomes
the portrait of the parted Beloved.

As water grows deeper,
the waves become more grave.

As your awakening deepens—as awareness grows dense—you will find yourself astonished: the toys have fallen from your hands; the false has been lost; the dreams have taken leave. What then remains is the Divine, the Beloved. I have never told you to leave the world, to leave nature, to leave the body. For me, everything is to be embraced—total acceptance. I am giving you a religion of total acceptance, a life-affirming religion. The talk of negation—leave this, break that—has led humanity badly astray, birthing a kind of religion that was deeply destructive.

I give you a creative religion in which nothing is to be abandoned; what is, is to be transformed. And the alchemy of transformation is one: right now you live in unconsciousness; understand the process of meditation and begin to live in awareness. Let the fire of meditation be lit within you—everything else will happen on its own. And it does.

Taru, you came to know only now? This holy war is already underway, and you are standing in the very front line. But it is a war of great love, so perhaps it doesn’t look like war at all. And it is a very cool war.

The war of dharma can only be cool. This is a cool fire: it will give light, but it will not burn. Those who run away at the sight of fire do not understand. They saw the fire and thought they would be burned, so they fled. But this is a cool fire! It does not burn. The closer you come, the more it will soothe you.

It is mentioned in the life of Moses that when, for the first time, he beheld God he was astonished. What was astonishing? God appeared as a flame. In a green bush a flame was burning—yet the bush remained green; it did not burn. Fire was burning in the bush, a fire as fire really is—smokeless, pure fire—yet the bush was green. Neither the flowers nor the leaves had withered.

It is a very lovely symbol. The fire of religion is a cool fire. Flowers do not wither in it; they come into full bloom. Leaves do not dry; they become greener. The fire of religion is the fire of life, not of death.

The war is on. Whenever there is a buddha, there is war. It begins with the very presence of the buddha; it does not have to be arranged. Do not think I am plotting some battle formation. Who is here to devise formations? With whom is there to fight? Who is the fighter? I am not arranging any strategy of war.

Yet whenever there is a buddha, war happens. In the buddha’s very being, the war begins. That light starts breaking your darkness—that is the war. That flame starts shattering your beliefs—that is the war. The sword of consciousness begins to cleave your idols—that is the war. Your temples begin to topple. Your mosques take offense. Your churches become enraged. And it is not that the buddha tries to engage in anyone’s battle; in his very being there is war. But the war is very cool.

Let more caravans come after me—
if only I could clear the thorns from the path, I would rest.

Buddhas come to remove the thorns from the road. Whenever someone awakens, for as long as he lives he does one thing: he removes thorns from the path. Although you do not recognize them as thorns; you think they are flowers. You do not even wish to let them go. You struggle. Your chains appear to you as ornaments.

And when someone begins to snatch away your “ornaments,” naturally you will be annoyed. The one who snatches can see your chains; you take them for adornments. And it may be that your chains are of gold—but what difference does it make? Being gold does not make chains ornaments.

O God, let the Day of Judgment be delayed a few more days!
The man you made—I am still making him human.

The buddha tries to make the man created by God into a true human being. But it is a heavy battle. Just as when a sculptor cuts stone to make a statue, he must lift chisel and hammer. The stone must be annoyed; where there is a blow there is also pain. But how should the poor stone know that this is not misfortune but good fortune? And this will be known only in the end—only when the stone, having been cut, has become a statue. When a beautiful form appears, then it will be known; then the stone will give thanks. But that is the final moment. The path, meanwhile, will be difficult.

“Asad, come—let us change the very face of life;
with us, the age itself will be judged.”

This is no small event. Your being with me, my being with you—this is no small event. How many were with Jesus? Ten or twelve. The closest disciples were twelve—and even among them, one betrayed. And the listeners, the hearers, were not more than a hundred or two. And when Jesus was crucified, do you know how many enemies gathered to watch? A hundred thousand—throwing stones, hurling abuses.

The same happened with Buddha, the same with Socrates. Few will stand with you, because the capacity to stand with truth is rare; such courage is rare. Until you remember how great a treasure is hidden within you, you will not be able to gather courage.

Become the connoisseur of your own grace; behold your own beauty.
What is lacking in you? There is no lack in you.

When this trust arises—
What is lacking in you? There is no lack in you—
become the knower of your own grace; behold your own beauty.

When you see your own glory, then you will be able to stand with a buddha. Only a few can see their own glory; otherwise people keep creeping like insects. They never remember that God was hidden within them. They never come to know that a flame lay buried within which, if it were to be revealed, would make life nothing but bliss.

A few will be with you; the multitude will be in opposition. And thus, unbidden, the war begins.

Not for a moment did the wheel of time pause;
by its habit, months and years kept changing.
Carrying a single flame, a single devotion, a single blaze in the heart,
we kept walking the hard path of love.
How many winding stages we traversed;
how many valleys we met, difficult to cross.
Hundreds of heavy stones stood in the way, yet
not for a moment did the speed of our passion break.
Today there are those dense darknesses spread out
in which, search as you may, no trace of the pathways is found.
Such darkness that the eye is afraid to step forward;
even if the lamp of the goal is before you, it cannot be seen.
To pass through these smoke-thick darknesses,
some torch will have to be lit with the blood of the heart.
O friend, to love’s strayed and bewildered passion
we must teach today the art of living.

The darkness is immense.

Today there are those dense darknesses spread out
in which, search as you may, no trace of the pathways is found.
Such darkness that the eye is afraid to step forward;
even if the lamp of the goal is before you, it cannot be seen.

And yet, something must be done.

To pass through these smoke-thick darknesses,
some torch will have to be lit with the blood of the heart.
Even if the torch must be lit by pouring in the very blood of the heart—
the torch must be lit.

To pass through these smoke-thick darknesses
a torch must be lit with the blood of the heart.
O friend, to love’s strayed and bewildered passion,
we must teach today the art of living.

A few mad ones are needed, a few with holy passion. I am occupied in gathering them. I call them sannyasins—those who are ready to be mad in love with me.

The war has begun, Taru. It is already on. The day I awakened, it began. And I must leave behind enough awakened ones that the war continues, that it can never end. And you are part of it. Many are part of it. They too may not know, because such is the intoxication of love. And the color and the manner of the war is the color and manner of love. And this fire is cool, cold.

To pass through these smoke-thick darknesses,
some torch will have to be lit with the blood of the heart.
O friend, to love’s strayed and bewildered passion,
we must teach today the art of living.

That is all for today.