Mare He Jogi Maro #6

Anand Maitreya, on this point the perspectives of West and East are different. The West thinks in the language of history; the East thinks in the language of the puranas. History deals with facts; purana with truths. A fact happens at a particular place and time—it is bounded by time. Truth is eternal. Even though its expression occurs in time, it is not confined by time.

That is why, in the East, we have not worried about such things. We don’t know the exact history of Rama or of Krishna. What we have are stories. Seen through Western eyes, they are merely stories, figments of imagination—because until there is solid proof, the West will not accept anything as history. The twenty-four Tirthankaras of the Jains seem like inventions; there is no proof. Even in the case of Buddha it is difficult to fix the exact date of his birth.

We never bothered about such matters. And what difference would it make anyway? Whether Buddha was born in village “A” or village “B,” what difference does it make? And whether he was born in this year or that—what difference would it make? We have endeavored to understand Buddhahood. What have we to do with the personality of Buddha? His body is momentary—here today and gone tomorrow. His message is eternal. And that message is not of one Buddha alone; it is the message of all Buddhas.

Remember also: when we made the image of the Buddha, we did not worry about whether it looked like Gautama. We did not sculpt the Buddha’s image by looking at Gautama Buddha; we fashioned it as the distilled essence of all Buddhas. How does a Buddha sit, how does a Buddha stand—the collective essence of all Buddhas is what we poured into the Buddha-image. The Buddha-image is a symbol of all Buddhas.

So you will be surprised: go sometime to a Jain temple. Seeing the images of the twenty-four Tirthankaras, you will be amazed—they all look exactly alike. Now these twenty-four individuals could not have been identical. In the world no two persons are alike, so how could twenty-four persons be alike? Even twins are not exactly the same; how then could these twenty-four, separated by centuries, be the same?

They were not the same on the outside. But within them there was something the same: the same meditation, the same samadhi, the same stream of nectar. Because of that inner sameness, we paid no attention to outer features. We kept the inner realization in remembrance. The outer image is only a signpost pointing to that inner experience. These images of the Jain Tirthankaras are not factual; they are truthful.

A fact is external. You see a rose—that is a fact. You see two roses—that is a fact. But when you distill perfume from a thousand roses—that is truth. It is not tied to any one flower; it is the essence.

This land’s concern is very different. We did not bother about where Gorakh was born. There are different claimants: some say Punjab, some say Bengal, and the strongest claim is Nepal’s—because Nepalis say the village where Gorakh was born is named Gorakhali; hence the Nepali community called Gorkhas—after Gorakh. Yet Gorakh’s language suggests, as if he might have been born in Bengal: “hansiba, kheliba, kariba dhyanam”—laughing, playing, doing meditation. His personality appears many-faceted. As I see it, he must have been a wandering monk from Bengal to Kashmir, from Nepal to Kanyakumari. He would have stayed in many places, met many people, and lovers of his would have arisen in many places. Many people would have felt, “He is ours.” Who would not feel such a lovable man to be their own? Those who felt him as their own must have woven their stories.

Stories are endearing. They do not say anything about ultimate truths; but they do speak of the flavor that arose between Gorakh and people. If Gorakh went to Bengal, he would have become a Bengali—so deeply would he have immersed himself in Bengal’s life-stream that people would feel he was a Bengali.

Even here, people come to me. If I speak on Jesus, Christians come and ask, “Are you a Christian?” If I speak on Buddha, Buddhists have asked me, “Are you a follower of Buddha?” When I spoke on Nanak, Sikhs came and said, “What we had never imagined, you have revealed; you are the true Sikh!” Whomever I speak on, I become absorbed in; I allow that one to speak through me. So to Sikhs it can seem I am a Sikh; to Buddhists, that I am a Buddhist; to Christians, that I am a Christian.

So it must have seemed so with him too. Wherever he went, wherever he stayed, wherever his feet fell, people there would have felt—he is ours. It would have seemed so out of their love for him. And precisely because of that it became still more difficult to decide where he was born and when. Besides, such a person neither talks about his birth nor about his house and doorway. What house, what doorway can such a person have? The whole sky is his home! The entire earth is his.

Just yesterday I was looking at a letter published in Current, written by some Hindu sannyasin against me. He has petitioned the government that I am anti-national and that I should be prosecuted. In a way he is right. The government should heed him. I can be called anti-national—because I place no faith in nations. I have no country, nor any foreign land; this entire earth feels mine.

That sannyasin—Hindu bigotry—must be troubled that I do not declare myself a Hindu. I am not! I am not confined by any boundary. The mosque is mine and the temple is mine and the church and the gurdwara—they are all mine. And I have no faith in nations. I hold that it is precisely because of nations that humanity suffers. Nations should disappear. Enough national anthems have been sung, enough flags have fluttered, enough stupidities have happened on earth—now accept the unity of human beings. One earth, one humanity. These national governments should go. Until they go, man’s problems cannot be solved, because human problems are now bigger than nations.

Today India is poor. India cannot get out of this poverty by her own effort; there is no way. India can emerge from poverty if all humanity cooperates—because humanity now has the technology and science to remove this country’s poverty. But if you stay stiff-necked, insisting, “We will remove our poverty by ourselves,” then you are the very ones who created it—how will you remove it? Your mind is its foundation; how will you undo it? You must open your doors. You must broaden your mind. You must take humanity’s cooperation.

And it is not that you have nothing to give. You do. You can give the world meditation. If America wants to find meditation, it will not be able to find it by its own strength; it will have to look toward India. But they are intelligent people; they come East to learn meditation. They have no obstacle in doing so.

The mark of intelligence is to take what is available from wherever it is. This whole earth is ours. By dividing it into fragments we have created mischief. Today humanity possesses the means that if nations disappear, all problems disappear. If all humanity comes together to seek solutions, not a single problem has any reason to remain on earth.

But old habits persist. “Our nation”—“Sare jahan se achchha Hindustan hamara”! And similar stupidities exist in other countries too. They harbor the same notion. Because of these egos there is conflict. And because of conflict and borders, man’s energy gets spent in wars.

It will surprise you to know that by now we have amassed so much weaponry across the world—especially in Russia and America—that each person can be killed a thousand times over! We have the capacity to destroy a thousand earths—though there is only one. Mountains of weapons pile up! And any day, by the whim of one mad politician, this whole earth could be left a heap of dust and ash.

And madness can be expected from politicians—whom else would you expect it from? If just one politician goes mad, such a catastrophe can be unleashed that you won’t even get a chance to think. In five to seven minutes the whole world would be ashes. The news won’t even arrive before death does. Where such a terrible machinery of violence exists, old concepts of nationhood cannot work. Now there is danger. It is because of these nations that armaments keep piling up—“we have to defend ourselves”… “we must stay ahead of the other.”

Eighty percent of humanity’s capacity goes into war. If that same eighty percent went into fields, into gardens, into factories, this earth would become a paradise! The heaven your seers dreamt of in the sky can now be created on earth—there is no hindrance. But old habits… “our country,” “their country.” We have to arm; they have to arm. Even the poorest countries are trying to build the atom bomb. People are dying of hunger, but the bomb must be made! Even in a country like India the deep feeling is the same: let us die hungry, but let us keep our pride!

I do not believe in nations. If I am heard, I would say India should be the first country to renounce nationality. It would be fitting that the land of Krishna, Buddha, Patanjali, and Gorakh renounce nationalism and declare itself international territory. India should become United Nations territory. Let us say: we are the first nation we hand over to the United Nations—take care of it! Someone has to begin. And once that begins, there will be no need for wars. Wars will continue as long as borders remain. These borders must go.

So you can rightly call me anti-national—in the sense that I am not anti-human. Your so-called patriots are anti-human. Patriotism means enmity toward humanity. Patriotism means: divide into fragments. You have seen it: a man who loves his province becomes the enemy of the nation; the one who loves his district becomes the enemy even of the province. I am not an enemy of any country, because my vision is international. This whole earth is one. For the sake of the greater I want to dissolve the lesser.

These small enclosures, these fences, have harassed man enough. In three thousand years, five thousand wars have been fought. Earlier it was still tolerable—wars were with bows and arrows; they could go on, it did not matter much. Few died; it caused no great obstruction. Now war is total war. Now it is the collective suicide of humanity. Now any place can become Hiroshima—any day, any moment. Understand the terror of such war, and think of the energy that is going into it. That same energy could fill the whole earth with greenery and abundance. For the first time man could dance in bliss, sing the songs of the divine, search for meditation.

But it won’t happen—because of your so-called patriots and nationalists.

Nationalism is a great sin. It is because of nationalism that all the mischiefs in the world have continued. I am not a nationalist. I want to break all borders. Those who have even a small glimpse of the divine have no boundaries. They belong to no country, caste, class, sect, or varna. They belong to all, and all belong to them.

Such people, people like Gorakh, do not bother to say when they were born, in which house, in which village. These are futile matters—because Gorakh knows: we were never born, and we shall never die. Such talk is for body-identified people, those who cling to and identify with the body. A person like Gorakh has known that which is never born and never dies; which can neither die nor be born. After knowing the unborn, the beginningless, the endless—who would talk of birth? Whose birth?

Therefore people like him do not talk in that way. Naturally, many tales get left behind, but definite facts do not. And such people are so vast-hearted that they do not accept any adjectives. Adjectives are a sign of ignorance. One who says, “I am a Hindu, a Muslim, a Christian”—that is the mark of ignorance. Where light is lit, adjectives disappear; adjectives live only in darkness. There, the indescribable beyond adjectives manifests. For this reason too, nothing certain is known about where or when they were born.

Yet some people remain busy with such research. Some spend their lives on it. Such people do research in universities and become great scholars; they receive degrees—Ph.D., D.Litt., D.Phil.—and are greatly honored. What is their work? To decide when Gorakhnath was born. Someone says at the end of the tenth century; someone says at the beginning of the eleventh. There is much debate. The big heads of great universities lock horns over scriptures and proofs. Their whole lives go in this. What can be greater ignorance?

What will you do by knowing when Gorakh was born? Even if you come to know it, what will you gain? Even if it is proved that Gorakh was not born—what benefit? Whether he was or was not is meaningless. Taste what Gorakh lived.

Hence your universities are engaged in such trivial work that one wonders whether to call them universities at all. The research that goes on in your universities—almost all of it is rubbish.

I was speaking somewhere. A great researcher, a great pandit, stood up and asked me, “Please answer just one question: between Buddha and Mahavira, who was older? They were contemporaries. Because I have been researching this for thirty years.”

I looked at him with great compassion and said, “Your thirty years are gone. Now whether Buddha was older or younger—what substance is there in that?” He said, “But history should know.” I said, “Even if you establish it, what will you get? And what will those who read history get? And you have squandered thirty years of your life! And people think you are engaged in something important.”

In the name of so-called knowledge, such stupidities sometimes pass that unless you are alert, you won’t even notice. Enter the innermost of Buddha and Mahavira, and you will find there are not two persons—only one. There is one cloudless sky, one music of emptiness, one festival of bliss.

Zen masters say rightly: Buddha never happened. The devotees of Buddha say, “Buddha never happened, never existed—such talk is futile”—and yet they worship him daily. What could their purpose be? Precisely this: the moment you say “he happened,” some people will run to find out exactly when, on what date—and they will waste their time there. So they say, “He never happened—drop the fuss.” But what happened within Buddha certainly happened. Whose within it happened is not important. Whether his name was Gautama or something else; whether his father was this or that—none of that matters.

Something happened within Buddha. One morning he sat beneath a tree. He did not rise as the same man who had sat at dusk—someone new rose. That is the real birth—call that birth. And it has no relation to calendar or year. A moment came when thoughts ceased, became zero. Consciousness became a pure mirror. Put your time into the process by which your own consciousness becomes like that. The best is that you become a Buddha yourself. The best is that within you the sound of Gorakh resounds. Instead of going into Gorakh’s chronicle, go into Gorakh’s interior.

So this country has done well not to bring in futile matters. We have spoken only of the essence—because man is such a mischief-maker, so ignorant, that if you hand him a bit of the nonessential, he will hold onto that and forget the essential. Therefore we have not talked of the nonessential; we have spoken only of essence, so that whatever you catch hold of is essence. We have wiped away the inessential so you cannot even find it.

The lovely stories we have woven around those unparalleled beings need not have historically happened. They need not happen at all; they are symbols. And symbols are poetic. They are connected not with history but with the inner being. As we say: when Buddha became enlightened, flowers blossomed out of season. That is not history—flowers do not bloom out of season. We have written that when Buddha walked out of the forest, if he sat under a dry tree it would become green with leaves—that does not happen. That a tree would leaf out on seeing Buddha’s meditation and samadhi is not history. But wherever Buddha’s feet fall, greenery spreads—that is what it points to. Life turns green there. A new joy arises; a new grace showers. Buddha is a rain of nectar—this is a poetic way of saying that, nothing more.

Jesus was crucified, and after crucifixion he was resurrected. This resurrection is not a historical event; it is a deep symbol, poetry. It says only this: a person like Jesus cannot die. Death belongs to the ignorant. Those who believe themselves to be the body die. Those who have known themselves as the bodiless within the body—how can they die? For them, even the cross is the beginning of new life. Even their cross is a throne. They do not die. They live in the immortal; they die in the immortal. Their immortality continues; the stream of immortality keeps flowing—whether in the body or beyond.

But people try to prove these as historical facts—and then difficulties arise. I said to you a few days ago: when Mahavira was bitten by a snake, milk flowed from his body. Now there are Jains who try to prove this as historical fact—that milk indeed flowed. They act foolishly and invite others to be foolish. The symbol is obvious: milk is the symbol of love. When a child comes into the mother’s womb, her breasts fill with milk for the child’s nourishment—she begins to flow in a stream of milk for the child. Love is life-giving. This is all the story means: even when the snake bit Mahavira, there was only compassion and love in Mahavira’s heart. How to say this in poetry? So it is said: when he was bitten, blood did not flow; milk flowed. Blood should have flowed—but milk flowed. This is poetry—sweet poetry—if understood as poetry. But if you insist it is a scientific statement, you have committed stupidity.

Around all such extraordinary beings we have woven stories. They are very endearing. Take them as pointers. True and false are not the point; they indicate something. If you catch the indication, the stories will fall away and you will be set on a journey.

Drop the worry about where and when Gorakh was born. Leave that work to the pandits. They too need some occupation! Leave it to the researchers—otherwise who will grant them Ph.D.s? Gorakh, out of great compassion, did not leave written records. Had he done so, who knows how many people’s doctorates would have been lost! It is his grace too that he gave no news of where he was born. So many people are engaged—engaged in just this! The foolish need something to be engaged in. The intelligent should not get entangled in such things.

Recognize Gorakh’s message. Let Gorakh’s sutras sink into your heart. If Gorakh happened, fine; if he did not, that too will do. The sutras are what is important. Their significance does not depend on Gorakh’s historical existence.

Do you think that if Krishna happened, the Gita becomes more valuable, and if Krishna did not, the Gita loses its worth? What nonsense! If Einstein happened, does the theory of relativity become more valuable? Does Einstein’s existence lend strength to relativity? None at all. Whether Einstein existed or not, the theory of relativity is strong in itself. Its foundation lies within itself. Who gave birth to it is secondary.

Do you know who first discovered fire? Scientists say fire is humanity’s greatest discovery. Who first lit it—we have no idea. It must be at least fifty thousand years ago, maybe more, that some man lit a fire. No one knows his name. But because his name is unknown, do you fail to bake bread on fire? When cold, do you not sit by the fire to warm yourself? What has it to do with whether he was A, B, or C; black or white; whether it happened in India or in Africa? Where fire was first lit and by whom—what difference does it make? We know fire is valuable in itself.

So it is with the processes of sadhana—like fire, a burning fire. If you have the courage, jump.

Maro ve jogi maro, maro maran hai meetha.
Tis marani maro, jis marani mari Gorakh deetha.

Die, O yogi, die—die, for that dying is sweet.
Die the death by which, in dying, Gorakh was seen.

Jump into the same fire of no-thought into which Gorakh leapt. Be reduced to ashes in that fire of thoughtlessness. And from your ashes will rise a new form, a new light, a new life—which is eternal.

In worldly terms, it is only the one who seems happy in every way who first discovers that there is no real substance in that happiness. The unhappy never finds this out. The unhappy lives on the hope that if worldly pleasures are obtained, everything will be fine. In the hope of the unhappy there is a great liveliness. In the eyes of the unhappy there is a flame of hope. Only from the eyes of the happy does that flame disappear. Hence I keep saying: only the so-called happy person, happy in worldly terms, can set out on the religious journey.

When you have all the so‑called comforts and still there is no happiness, one thing becomes clear: in this world happiness cannot be. From the outside, whatever could be gathered, you gathered. You have come to a point where all illusions have broken, where all the dreams of the mirage have been uprooted. You lifted the veil and looked—inside there is nothing, no one; within there is emptiness. Of course, a perplexity arises.

When someone is happy in all worldly ways, a difficulty appears: then what is the matter? There is nothing I still need; I have everything—wealth, position, prestige, family. By all accounts I should be happy. This is what I had asked for. For the lack of these I was unhappy—so why am I unhappy now? Now I ought not to be unhappy.

Your delusion has shattered. The causes you believed made you unhappy were not the real causes. You thought that if such-and-such things came to you, you would be happy; now you see those things are present and happiness has not arrived. So your whole analysis of happiness was wrong; something else is needed from which happiness springs. Something must awaken within; from that, happiness arises.

Happiness does not come from the fulfillment of any outer condition. Happiness is the shadow of self‑awakening. Happiness comes only by meeting the Divine. And the Divine is sitting hidden within you, yet you keep running outside. You have turned your back to him. Even when you go searching for God you go outward—Kashi, Kaaba, Kailash. You seek God in temples, mosques, gurdwaras... When will you close your eyes? When will you look within? When will you search in the seeker? This consciousness within—form a relationship with it, send your roots into it a little. Make a little acquaintance with it. From just this acquaintance, happiness is born.

In the world there is no happiness, nor can there be; it never has been, and never will be. Happiness happens only when we meet the Master hidden in the innermost.

If you yourself remain unknown to me,
what shall I do with the world’s recognition?
If from you I do not receive even two grains of love,
not even two moments to unburden my pain;
if it is you who ceaselessly neglect me,
what shall I do with the world’s honor?
If you yourself remain unknown to me,
what shall I do with the world’s recognition?

There was one hope, a single longing—
my heart took pride in you alone;
but if you yourself cannot make me your own,
what shall I do with this vain pride?
If you yourself remain unknown to me,
what shall I do with the world’s recognition?

How shall I show you my burning?
How shall I show you my devotion?
Those songs which, even when voiced, cannot speak—
what shall I do with such songs?
If you yourself remain unknown to me,
what shall I do with the world’s recognition?

This was the moth’s question to the lamp,
the fish spoke the same with its life:
a life that, parted from you, still does not end—
what shall I do with such a life?
If you yourself remain unknown to me,
what shall I do with the world’s recognition?

How long shall I worship what is lifeless?
How long shall I beg for boons?
That God who remains a riddle through the ages, mute—
what shall I do with such a God?
If you yourself remain unknown to me,
what shall I do with the world’s recognition?

Let there be recognition of the Divine; let a slight bond form, a thread of love. Even a raw, fragile thread of his love—and there is an endless shower of bliss. What cannot be obtained by possessing the whole world is obtained in a single moment of samadhi.

The treasure is within. You have brought this treasure with you. Happiness is your nature. Happiness is not to be acquired. And no condition has to be fulfilled for happiness; happiness is unconditional, because happiness is your nature. To be unhappy is a distortion; to be happy is a spontaneous happening.

Just as fire is hot—such is its nature—so for a human being to be blissful is his nature. Seeing a blissful person, do not think some specialness has occurred. The blissful person is the ordinary, simple person. Seeing a miserable person, understand that something has gone wrong, some abnormality is there. The unhappy person is the extraordinary one, because he has managed what should not be done. The happy person is simply doing what should be. As the cuckoo coos, sings—you do not call that special. Yes, if one day the cuckoo begins to caw like a crow, there will be a problem.

Human happiness is utterly natural. As trees are green, flowers carry fragrance, and birds spread their wings and fly in the sky, so happiness is man’s nature. We have called this nature sat‑chit‑anand. It has three marks—sat, chit, anand. Sat means that which is and will never perish, the eternal. Chit means consciousness, awakening, meditation, samadhi. And anand is the culmination. In one who is, and is awake, the fragrance of bliss arises.

Become sat, so that you can become chit. And the day you become chit, the fragrance of anand will arise. On the tree of truth bloom the flowers of consciousness, and the fragrance of bliss spreads.

What you have or do not have has nothing to do with happiness. That you are—this has to do with happiness. Accumulate as many things as you like; they may increase your anxieties and troubles, but not happiness. From them sorrow may increase, certainly, but happiness does not. And I am not saying you should abandon things, run away from home, or renounce the marketplace. No—do not misunderstand me. What is, is fine; neither by leaving and running away will anything happen, nor by grasping will anything happen. Stay where you are, but begin the search within. Enough of the outer search—now go within. Now recognize That—by recognizing which everything is attained, all longings are fulfilled in an instant.

Anand Bharti! Life can only be dear, because life is the Divine. Life is the expression of the supremely beloved. He alone has appeared in infinite, infinite forms. You built temples and denied him, yet his temple is everywhere. Wherever you bow, that is his temple. Wherever you open your eyes, there is his image. Wherever you are ready to listen, there is his sound. Whatever you see, whatever you hear, whatever you taste—he alone is that.

That is why the Upanishads could say: Annam Brahma. No scripture in the world contains such a statement. When the Upanishads were first translated and it was put in English as “Food is God,” people were astonished—food and God! What can one do in translation? They were jolted: what sort of statement is this? They did not understand. They gave a literal translation—food is God, Annam Brahma. They missed. Such great utterances cannot be translated straight; they can only be rendered by explication. Such sayings can be explained; they cannot be carried over directly. This is a statement of immense import.

The Upanishads are saying: if you taste, it is his taste—there is no other. The one who tastes is he; the one sitting within who delights in the taste is he; and that which is tasted is he. You plucked a pear from a tree; he is in the pear, he is in you; you two are not different. In that fruit he found one way to appear; in you he found another way to appear. The Divine has expressed himself in endless forms. All these songs are his; the singer is one. Then of course the world and life will be dear.

But I understand what your hitch is, Anand Bharti. For centuries we have been taught that life is sin. We have been told life is the result of our former sins—how could it be dear? Whoever called life sin has called God sin. They did not understand the Upanishads. Whoever declared life to be the fruit of sin has spurned the prasad of the Divine.

So those who come to me, those who slowly descend the steps of meditation with me—today or tomorrow this very hitch will arise for them, as it has for Anand Bharti. A day will come when, waking some morning, you will suddenly find the whole world astonishingly lovable, all life filled with his resonance. His vina is sounding. He is the one who sings in the birds. He is the one who flows in the streams. He is the one who raises high waves in the ocean. He peeps from the moon and the stars. From the firefly to the suns, it is his light. He sits in sinners as much as in the virtuous—not a whit less.

Do you think there is less of Ram in Ravan? There is as much Ram in Ravan as in Ram—no difference can be. And yet, for the Ramleela, division into two parts is necessary. Could Ramleela be staged without Ravan? How? The very scaffolding would fall. Could Ram be without Ravan? Impossible. Try to write a story of Ram: leave Ravan out; write only Ram, Ram, Ram. You will find it becomes utterly insipid—no flavor, no meaning. There he stands with bow and arrow; he will tire, and you too will tire. Mother Sita is seated, and Lord Ramchandra is seated; no one steals her away, no event occurs.

Try once to stage a village Ramleela without Ravan. The first day people will come; from the second day they will stop: what’s the point? The court is set, Ramchandra sits on the throne. People will stand up and ask, “When will the Ramleela begin? What is this that’s happening?”

Life expresses itself through duality. Life is dialectical. Therefore there is light and there is darkness, birth and death, good and evil, white and black, beautiful and ugly, Ram and Ravan. Those who know will say: in both, it is his play. And one who thus knows, all hindrance falls away; then life appears utterly dear. Then everywhere you will experience beauty, for you will find his imprint. From place to place his footfall will be heard.

The heart is in Paradise’s springs,
among Tuba’s branching grace;
Ah, the drunken spell of night—
I am on earth, my soul among the stars.

Once you understand a little, you will not remain only on earth; you will be on earth and your soul will be among the stars. You will begin to expand. Your being will become vast. Lotuses will begin to bloom within you.

Ah, the cadence of your songs—mercy!
This rapture, this delight, this sway—
how could the world not melt and flow?
Just think for a moment in your heart.
You, intoxicated in the raga,
lost in the ecstasy of notes—
stop a moment, for the song upon its arms
is bearing me away to the skies!

Open a little. Wake a little and see. Set aside for a moment the teachings given by your so-called sadhus and renunciates. Open your eyes anew. Recognize nature afresh. You will be astonished.

You, intoxicated in the raga,
lost in the ecstasy of notes—
stop a moment, for the song upon its arms
is bearing me away to the skies!

From all sides his song will surround you, and you will begin to fly into the skies—and you may tremble, you may be frightened: What is happening? So much beauty! And it showers so suddenly, as if the ocean entered a drop!

Anand Bharti asks rightly. She is becoming intoxicated, blissful. So intoxicated that she used to sit in front, and now she has to be seated at the back. Sitting in front she would begin to be carried away, and it would disturb others—she would laugh for no reason! If you laugh for a reason, fine—if I tell a story or a joke, then laugh. But Anand Bharti wouldn’t wait that long for me to tell a joke—she would laugh beforehand. She assumed, “He will say it—he must be saying it; why wait?” So the poor thing has to sit at the back. A drunkenness is coming, a sense of bliss. She is flying into the sky.

Then it seems, why is life so dear? What answer can I give? Life is dear—that’s all. Nothing else can be done. Life has always been dear. Only veils were on your eyes; the veils have begun to slip. Your eyes were webbed with doctrines; the web has begun to tear, the mesh to break.

And what am I doing here? Wiping a little dust from your eyes; polishing your eyes a little, so that they become mirrors and reflect things as they are.

Like your name, like an overflowing cup,
intoxicating as love—the autumn moonlight.
It charms the heart like love’s music,
it graces the eyes like a dream-beloved.
Like your form, like spring sunshine,
like honeyed remembrance—the autumn moonlight.
Moonlight blooms like your smile,
it fills with the thrill of longing for union.
Like love’s arm, like the shade of a curl,
shy as you are—the autumn moonlight.
What has happened, who knows? Some wondrous thing—
the body brims with gooseflesh, like a first sweet night.
O full moon, laugh open—my restraint is gone;
more stubborn than words—the autumn moonlight.
Like your name, like an overflowing cup,
intoxicating as love—the autumn moonlight.

Existence is brimming with lovable beauty. Here it is moonlight upon moonlight. Here it is moon upon moon. Everything is cool—only do not remain fevered. Let your heat subside a little.

What is meditation? The process of lowering your fever, of bringing down the temperature of the psyche. People are overheated, febrile, deranged. A thousand desires have inflamed them. Their mind is in a rush; no moment of peace comes, no hour of rest. “If the feet pause, the village is found”—but the feet do not stop, and the village is not found. Stop, and the goal is already here. But you run and run, imagining that the faster you go the sooner you will arrive. The faster you run, the farther you go—because the goal is where you are; it is nowhere else.

God is here—this is my proclamation. God is now—this is my message. Here and now. Do not postpone to tomorrow. And then suddenly the curtain will lift from your eyes. The veil of “tomorrow” hangs over your vision. You keep saying, “It will happen tomorrow, it will happen tomorrow.” When the tomorrows of this life are spent, you say, “In the next life”—again tomorrow! And when even the next lives are spent, you say, “In the other world”—and again tomorrow. You keep deferring God to tomorrow and make God false.

God is here, now, in this very moment; just let the veil slip a little from your eyes. Remove the burqa, lift the veil. And what are these veils? Vain thoughts, thrust upon you for centuries. Your skull is crammed with scriptures; therefore the truth cannot appear.

Gorakh, as you know, keeps saying: O pandit, you have read enough—now live and see! We keep company with those who are living.

Live God. Enough of prayers. Eat God, drink God, wrap yourself in God, wear God, wake in God, sleep in God—live God! Enough of prayers, worships, rituals, sacrifices; nothing came of them. Live. Annam Brahma! Taste. Even when you eat, remember—it is he! When you speak to someone, remember—it is he! Slowly recognition will grow dense. Slowly your life-breath will be overwhelmed by his beauty. He will appear dear.

She braided star-flowers in my hair,
the night adorned me;
the full moon, like a hair ornament,
bestowed a world of enchanting radiance;
from the red of his lotus feet,
dawn graced the parting of my hair.
I am utterly offered to him!
Unasked, he gave love and fondness,
honor and welcome bestowed;
with hands folded, liberation stood,
but I accepted bondage.
By losing again and again, he won;
by winning and winning, I lost.
I am utterly offered to him!
I was reared always in his shade,
I always walked behind him;
in the temple of his life,
I burned like a waxen lamp.
Having found him, I forgot the world,
I forgot myself.
I am utterly offered to him!
I never asked for fond caresses,
for a soft garland of flowers;
worship alone was my aim—
only the right to worship.
Laughing at his holy feet,
I laid body and mind, all I had.
I am utterly offered to him!

Where are you going to search? If you are to be offered, be offered this very moment, because he is present.

Laughing at his holy feet,
I laid body and mind, all I had.
I am utterly offered to him!
Having found him, I forgot the world,
I forgot myself.
I am utterly offered to him!
By losing again and again, he won;
by winning and winning, I lost.
I am utterly offered to him!
From the red of his lotus feet,
dawn graced the parting of my hair.
I am utterly offered to him!

God is not a person with whom you will one day meet. God is another name for this very existence. The meeting is already happening, but your deluded belief—that God is some person who will be met as Rama, or as Krishna, or as Christ, or as Buddha, or as Mahavira—keeps you astray. Your belief is the obstacle.

God stands before you, but you insist: unless you take bow and arrow in hand, I will not bow. Our head will not bend; take the bow in your hands first. Your conditions. Such small conditions may suit small men; this is Tulsidas’ line.

Some friends took Tulsidas to a Krishna temple. All bowed, Tulsidas did not. He said, “My head will not bow! I know only one—the one who holds the bow.” There stands Krishna, playing the flute, peacock feather in his crown. Krishna does not appeal to Tulsidas.

How narrow the mind of even our so-called great men! Will you not allow Ramchandra to play the flute? Must he hold the bow and arrow all twenty-four hours? Even men get a holiday; overtime ends sometime. But he says, “Until you take bow and arrow in hand, I will not bow. I bow to only one—the archer.”

Consider this: this man does not know how to bow. He says, “I will bow when my condition is met.” Even in bowing there is a bargain, an ego. “If you want me to bow, if it pleases you that I bow, then fulfill my condition. I will bow only to my conception. How you are—I have nothing to do with that. You stand there with a flute and peacock plume—stand if you like; that is not my creed. I bow to my creed. Take the bow and arrow, then I will bow.”

This is the obstacle. How can trees take bow and arrow in hand? How can the sun? How can the moon and stars? It is difficult. And the Divine stands at your door like the sun, but you will not bow. If Baba Tulsidas did not bow, how will you? “Take the bow, then I will bow.”

Existence cannot take a bow and arrow in hand, nor a flute. Existence is not a person. But we have clung to the belief that God is a person. So keep wandering—you will never meet God. And if one day he appears with bow and arrow, know that it is your mind’s delusion, a net of imagination, your dream. You have dreamed it so long that now you see it even with open eyes. It is a daydream, a hallucination.

It is not God who stands before your inner eye with bow and arrow, or who plays the flute, or a Jesus hanging on the cross—this is your conditioning. You have repeated this belief from childhood so much, so much, so much, that by repetition you have auto-hypnotized yourself. Now you see it. You can see anything if you fixate strongly enough. Try a few experiments.

A young man once came to Nagarjuna. He said, “I have begun to experience God. His form appears before me. When I close my eyes, God stands smiling. Great bliss arises.” Nagarjuna said, “Do one thing.” He was a remarkable fakir, a Gorakh-like man. “Sit in that small cave, and for three days keep thinking: I am not a man; I am a buffalo.”

The fellow said, “Why? What is this?” Nagarjuna replied, “If you want any relationship with me and to understand anything, do this: a small experiment; later I will open the secret.” For three days the man sat—he was obstinate. One who could conjure God’s form—what is a buffalo in comparison? He applied himself; for three days he neither slept nor ate nor drank. Hungry, thirsty, exhausted, he kept repeating, “I am a buffalo.” One day, two days, on the second day, from inside the cave, the sound of a buffalo began to be heard. People peeped in: what’s going on? He was a man, but now he bellowed. On the third day, when the bellowing grew loud and disturbed Nagarjuna, he rose and went to the cave and said, “Friend, come out now.” The man tried to come out but could not.

“What is the matter?” Nagarjuna asked. He said, “How can I come out? My horns—the door is small.” Nagarjuna shook him: “Open your eyes, foolish one! I asked you to do this because I saw that what you call God is your self-hypnosis. Now see—you have made yourself a buffalo. In three days you became a buffalo. Nothing has happened; you are as you were. The door is as it was when you went in. Come out!” The man blinked; a little startle—and with a push he came out. But even then his horns were getting stuck!

If you have ever seen a stage hypnotist, a magician, he implants a suggestion and people begin to act and behave accordingly.

What you have known by the name of religion is little more than autosuggestion. Real religion is freedom from all hypnosis. Then God is not a person; God is the totality. God is the sum of all that is. Then a wondrous current flows: wherever you go, you meet him. Then the world, then life, is very dear. And when life seems so dear, know that religion has dawned in your life; the first drop has fallen.

Anand Bharti! Auspicious things are happening. Do not make it a worry, do not doubt, do not raise questions—dive into it, dive deeper. God is beauty, supreme beauty. Wherever beauty is seen, know that you hear his footsteps. God is music, supreme music. Wherever you sense resonance, know he has hummed. God is light—whether of a lamp or of the moon and stars. Wherever light appears, recognize him. God is consciousness—whether within you, or in your child, or in your neighbor. God is life—whether yours, or a bird’s, or an animal’s, or a plant’s.

Recognize God in his infinite moods and gestures. What a vast temple he has given, with the sky as its canopy! What a vast temple he has given, where every night is Diwali! How many lamps he lights! Scientists have not yet counted them. With the naked eye you can count no more than three thousand stars. Scientists have counted four billion. But that is only a beginning. There are more, and more. The farther they count, the farther there seems to be—no end is known. Every night there is Diwali, and how blind we are; no one sees it! Every morning is his Holi: how much color flies, how many flowers open, how much fragrance releases, what perfumes are scattered; but people are blind. Every morning his shehnai sounds from countless throats; yet people are deaf.

Jesus again and again said: If you have eyes, see; if you have ears, hear. Do you think Jesus was speaking in an asylum of the blind and the deaf? He was speaking to people like you, who had eyes and ears—and yet do not see and do not hear. The eyes have become very narrow; they see only the petty. The ears have become very narrow; they hear only the petty.

I teach you sensitivity. Let each of your senses become profoundly sensitive. Let each sense be sensitive in its totality. Let each sense flare like a torch burning from both ends at once. Then all experiences are his experiences.

Life is certainly dear!

The same One gives joy, the same One gives sorrow; the Giver, the Master, is one. Everything comes from Him. Accept it with equanimity and you will see this truth—that all comes from Him. There is none other than Him.

Then know this too: suffering has its own majesty. It is not useless. Suffering polishes; suffering refines; suffering awakens; suffering gives depth. Suffering alone makes you capable of joy. So do not treat suffering as an enemy. Whoever takes suffering as an enemy will be deprived of happiness as well. Take suffering as the steps to His temple—the steps to His shrine! Yes, climbing is hard, granted; you grow tired, your breath heaves, you sweat—granted. But these are the steps to His temple; His temple is very high. There are many steps to His temple. His temple is the summit of Gaurishankar! The climb is difficult, certainly—but the harder the ascent, the greater the joy of arriving. And there is no helicopter to reach His temple. And it is good there is no helicopter; otherwise you would fly up to His temple and feel no joy at all in arriving.

Have you noticed this? The more hardship it takes to attain something, the greater the joy you feel on attaining it—joy in proportion to the hardship! What you get for free—you don’t even feel like saying thank you for it.

That is exactly what has happened. You got life for free. Just think: did you thank anyone? Did you thank God for giving you life? It came free—why give thanks, and to whom?

A sage once said to Alexander: “You’ve built such a vast empire—there’s nothing to it; I consider it worth two pennies.” Alexander was furious. He said to that fakir, “You will have to answer this exactly, otherwise I will have your head cut off. You have insulted me. My life’s labor—and you say it is nothing, worth two pennies!”

The fakir said, “Then consider this: in a desert you lose your way. You are parched with thirst, dying. I am there with a pitcher, filled with clean water. But I say I will give you a single glass of water—at a price. If I ask you for half your empire, can you give it?”

Alexander said, “If I am dying of thirst in the desert, not half—I would give the whole of it.” The fakir said, “Then the matter is settled: a single glass—the price of your empire is a single glass of water. And you say two pennies! Not even two pennies, because water is given free.”

To save his life, Alexander is ready to give away his entire empire; but you received life—did you give thanks? That for which you would give the whole earth came to you gratis—and you did not even offer gratitude!

Consider how much you have been given! In your heart there is the possibility of love—have you given thanks? Songs can arise from your throat—have you given thanks? Your eyes open and you can see the incomparable beauty of the world—have you given thanks? Ask a blind person: “If you were given eyes, what would you be willing to give?” He would say, “I am ready to give everything—only let me have eyes. What is there to keep back? I will give it all.”

And yet, have you felt any pride in receiving eyes?

What man gets for free he does not value. God has given you so much that is priceless, but you take it as if it were valueless. There is one thing, though, that comes only by paying the price—you must climb the mountain of God. You must climb. In climbing there will be pains, but if you are going toward the temple, then the pains no longer feel like pains.

I have heard: a sannyasin went on pilgrimage to the Himalayas—exhausted, drenched with sweat, breathless. The ascent was steep. Right ahead of him a hill girl—nine or ten years old perhaps—was climbing with her little brother on her shoulders. She was dripping with sweat, weary. When the sannyasin reached her, he said, with sympathy and affection, “Daughter, I am very tired, you must be very tired too. What a load you are carrying!”

The girl looked angrily at the sannyasin and said, “Swamiji, you are carrying a load; this is my little brother, not a load.”

Where there is love, there is no burden. Though if you put the little brother on the scales, weight will show—but on love’s scale the weight is gone. See the magic of love: it abolishes the law of gravity! The swami too is climbing with his bundle. That bundle also has weight. Put it on the scales and perhaps the little brother weighs even more—but on the scale of love the little brother has no weight. The girl was offended: offended that you called her brother a burden! “You carry a burden; this is my little brother!”

If, while climbing the steps to God’s temple, you feel there is difficulty—will you call it difficulty? When you are going toward the Beloved’s temple, there is no hardship.

If life is a search for truth, then both pleasure and pain are accepted equally; then no hindrance remains.

Your love is sun and shade:
now making me laugh, now making me weep—never in my grasp!

Sometimes my pouch
fills with celestial blossoms;
sometimes the wretched dust of the road
plays its cruel pranks.
That is why, sobbing, I say:
Is it an enemy or a friend of mine—
does it embrace me or reject me—yet it never relents!
Your love is sun and shade:
now making me laugh, now making me weep—never in my grasp!

At times even emptiness
becomes eloquent in itself,
and at times, in a world so full,
one’s own heart is nowhere near.
That is why, sobbing, I say:
Shall I call it a wave, or a shore—
now it drowns me, now it ferries me across, now it kindles hope!
Your love is sun and shade:
now making me laugh, now making me weep—never in my grasp!

Sometimes, in threads of imagination,
unknown moments are bound;
sometimes, in the Yamuna-waters of the eyes,
the well-known homes are carried away.
That is why, writhing, I say:
What a priceless support—
it snuffs out lamps, adorns dreams, and lets no sleep come!
Your love is sun and shade:
now making me laugh, now making me weep—never in my grasp!

All is His: the sun is His, the shade is His. Sorrow is His, joy is His. Life is His gift, death is His gift. When all is His, equanimity happens by itself. Understand this distinction.

Perhaps the questioner thought I would give a technique for cultivating equanimity. If you try to cultivate equanimity through a technique, it will remain on the surface. What is cultivated never enters within; it will dye your clothes, you will remain undyed. The cultivated is a coating—on the outer layer; it cannot touch the innermost core. The inner is touched only when you understand. It is not a matter of practice; it is a matter of understanding. Simply understand that all is His.

What is “practice”? In your sense it means: when suffering comes you stiffen yourself, saying, “I will not be affected! I will pass through unmoved, unagitated.” This only brings rigidity; this is not practice. It only strengthens the ego. You will not melt; you will harden and turn to stone. That is why your so-called sadhus and sannyasins become stony. A trace of tenderness does not remain in their lives. A trace of beauty does not remain. The very possibility of music in their lives is destroyed—and they set out to find the Supreme Music! They set out to find the Infinite Beauty! Yet you will find no poetry in their lives; their lives become arid and dry. Why? Because of forced practice. They do violence to themselves. “Austerity” becomes self-torture. So what do they do? They make a bed of thorns and lie upon it—because they must practice suffering. They must keep equanimity: on a bed of thorns they will sleep as they would on the loveliest bed.

But the man who sleeps on a bed of thorns loses the sensitivity of the body; the body grows numb, corpse-like. Life leaves the body; it withdraws within. Or they fast: “We will master hunger; when hunger comes, we will remain equanimous.” You can manage it, but that is not true practice. True practice is the fruit of understanding—it comes trailing behind understanding like a shadow.

So I say to you: understand only this much:

Your love is sun and shade:
now making me laugh, now making me weep—never in my grasp!
Is it an enemy or a friend of mine—
does it embrace me or reject me—yet it never relents!
Shall I call it a wave, or a shore—
now it drowns me, now it ferries me across, now it kindles hope!
What a priceless support—
it snuffs out lamps, adorns dreams, and lets no sleep come!
Your love is sun and shade:
now making me laugh, now making me weep—never in my grasp!

Come, let us enter this realm of mystery. Let us seek that which cannot be held in the hand. Let us search for that which no grasp can seize. “But how to seek what cannot be grasped?” God will not come into your grasp—but you can come into His. In seeking Him, you fall into His hold, into His embrace. And there is the union.

This is beautiful—what you say is beautiful. Whatever blessing you yourself specify will go wrong; your demand will creep in. Some craving will slip in through the back door. Your asking will be your desire. The blessing you ask for will go astray. If you are to ask for a blessing, ask like this: I don’t know what I want; I just want a blessing. Then that which you cannot even think of can be given. That which you could not imagine can happen. And what truly should come to you—the receiving of which will fulfill you—is not yet in your imagination. How could it be? You have no experience of that ray. That drop has not yet descended into your throat.

So your question is lovely; your question is meaningful. You did well not to attach a condition to the blessing. People do. People won’t even ask for a blessing without a condition.

Someone is contesting an election and comes to me for a blessing. I tell him: you’ll trap me too. You are bound for hell—will you take me along? I can give only one blessing: may God grant that you do not win the election! Because if you win, you are finished. If you lose, some possibility remains that something may happen in your life. If you win, you are done for. The one who wins is filled with such ego that nothing more is possible for him. The poison of victory, once drunk, asks for more and more. That intoxication is like alcohol—more deadly than alcohol. The drunkenness from liquor, you drink at dusk and it wears off by morning; the intoxication of lust for position, once drunk, never goes down—it only rises. If one post is gained, there is a higher post; that must be gained. Then a higher post again; that must be gained. And if nothing higher remains, then at least what has been gained must not be taken away. That madness never ends.

People come to me: “My wife is ill—give a blessing.” “My son can’t get a job—give a blessing.” You want to put blessings to such petty uses! If a job is not coming, there are ways to seek a job. If the wife is ill, there are medical means. What need is there to drag blessings into this? And if blessings could get jobs and cure wives, this country could never have fallen ill, could never have become poor. There are so many blessing-givers here—saints and monks, sannyasins and mahatmas! There is no shortage of blessers. Blessings upon blessings are being handed out. Yet no one’s belly is filled by blessings, nor are jobs obtained; but one danger does arise: the person who asks for blessings drops other means. He thinks: the blessing has been received; all is well. Now why go to a doctor? And if one blessing bears no fruit, he doesn’t think, “I made a mistake.” He thinks, “I asked the wrong man for a blessing; now I’ll ask the right one.” In this way life passes. In this way the life of this country has passed. This country has grown poorer, more abject, enslaved—and among the greatest causes, one cause is this habit of asking for blessings.

Blessings have nothing to do with the affairs of this world; blessings belong to another realm altogether. Only when asked unconditionally can something happen. Blessings do bring something about—wealth is not produced; meditation is. The body’s illness cannot be cured by blessings; otherwise medicine would have no place. Yes, the illness of the soul can be cured. But you have no inkling of the soul’s illness—you don’t even know the soul! Through a blessing, meditation can shower; but within you the demand is for money, not for meditation. You even meditate in the hope that perhaps money will come of it.

People come to me and say: “Maharishi Mahesh Yogi says that whoever meditates will receive much in that world, and also in this world—worldly benefits too. What do you say?”

If meditation yielded worldly gain, this country would be at the pinnacle of prosperity. Has any other land meditated as much as this one? Buddha meditated, attained samadhi. The story says flowers showered; I have not heard that currency notes showered. Rewrite the story so that it fits with Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. Mahavira attained samadhi; kevala-jnana arose—then flowers rained from the sky, gods played sweet music. The gods must have been mad—what good are flowers? They should have showered diamonds and jewels! If you must give, give something useful; poor Mahavira was standing naked as it is. He should have been given something—at least some clothes. He fasted and starved—give him some grain and wealth. Showering flowers on a hungry man—mocking him! Playing shehnai over a naked man! He was a decent man; otherwise he would have smashed the shehnais and thrashed the deities: “Are you making fun of me?” They had no idea about Maharishi Yogi—what things were going to be like later!

But I understand Maharishi Mahesh Yogi’s logic. If you have to promote something in America, America’s curiosity is about money, not meditation. Maharishi is a skillful salesman—ready to give you whatever you want. The customer must be given what he asks for. The shopkeeper doesn’t worry about what the customer needs; even if he asks wrongly, he gives the wrong thing; however the customer says, the shopkeeper agrees. Skillful shopkeepers hold that the customer is always right. Whatever he says is right; however he says is right.

There, you have to sell meditation—and the sales are brisk—sell meditation. America says: we want health—health will be given; we want money—money will be given; we want business efficiency—business efficiency will be given.

I cannot support such foolish talk. If meditation did that, then gold and silver would have rained in this country long ago. Even those tales you hear—that this land was once a “golden bird”—are tales. It was a golden bird if you think only of the kings and princes; for them, it still is. Think of the common man, and this land has always been abject and beggarly. It did not become beggarly only today. Think of the kings—now also they are rich. The forms have changed: now it is the industrialist; kings and princes are gone. Look at them, and it is still a golden bird.

This land was never a golden bird. Yes, some people had gold—and they had it precisely because everyone else’s gold had been taken.

Meditation does not bring money; meditation brings something else—the supreme treasure. It brings something not of this world but of the beyond. Meditation lets the beyond descend into the here.

You did right: you asked for a blessing, and left unspecified what it should be. There is only one thing worth asking for—

Though every particle of this world may change,
let not the path to the Beloved Temple change;
let not the fervor of worship change.
Here is inscribed the language
of the feelings of my inner heart;
taking it like Swati’s star,
the thirsty chataka counts thirst itself as contentment.
Though every particle of life may change,
let not the sacred stream of the eyes change;
let not the path to the Beloved Temple change.

These are the flowers of offering, delicate—
the akshata, the pure salutations and greetings,
the vermilion of my breaths, the cupped handfuls of tears,
the invitation of my very life-breath.
Though every particle of the temple may change,
let not my longing for my Lord change;
let not the path to the Beloved Temple change.

More dear to me than arriving there
is the daily readiness to walk;
and the sweet hope will come:
one day my turn too will come.
Every particle of sweet union may change,
but let not the sigh of separation change;
let not the path to the Beloved Temple change.

Ask only one blessing: that the flame for the Divine be lit—and remain lit. Ask only one blessing: that we may know That which is the base of all, the source of all.

Though every particle of this world may change,
let not the path to the Beloved Temple change;
let not the fervor of worship change.

That’s all for today.