Mare He Jogi Maro #8

Everything in life is ineffable. The divine is the totality of life. When every single thing in life is ineffable, then the sum of all will be supremely ineffable.

Can you define love? Someone may ask, “What is love?” And it is not that you have not known love. Perhaps the monsoon hasn’t poured, but a drizzle has surely touched you. In some way, by some door, a little taste of love has been felt. You must have known a friend’s love, a husband’s, a wife’s, a son’s, a mother’s, a father’s. From somewhere or other a ray of love must have descended, for without a ray of love no one can live. There has been a recognition, a small window has opened. But if someone asks, “What is love?” you will be struck dumb. What will you say?

If someone asks, “What is beauty?”—and it is not that you have not seen beauty. Have you not seen a sky brimming with the full moon, a night studded with stars? You have seen flowers blooming, heard the cuckoo’s call, known the veena being played. Beauty manifests in myriad forms. Even the most insensitive see something of beauty: at times in a face, at times in someone’s gait, in the way someone sits or rises, in someone’s voice. Some experience of the beautiful must have happened; no human is so unfortunate that beauty has never visited him. But if someone asks, “What is beauty?” how will you define it? What explanation will you give? You will fall silent.

When the beautiful cannot be defined, when love cannot be defined, how will the divine be defined? Because the divine is the supreme beauty; and the divine is the supreme love.

Well, you may think beauty and love are big matters; let us come to small things. Have you tasted anything? If someone asks, “What is taste?” You know sweetness, but if someone asks you to define sweetness, you will be defeated. Even a tiny thing like sweetness cannot be defined. There too one grows silent, becomes mute. And if the one who asks has never known sweetness, the difficulty thickens. Sweetness cannot be defined.

One of the West’s great thinkers, G. E. Moore, wrote a remarkable book on the definition of “good.” After some two hundred and fifty pages of relentless effort, he concluded that “good” cannot be defined. And the example he gives is this: how will you define the color yellow? Something as small as yellow is scattered everywhere—marigolds in bloom, the oleander’s yellow flowers, the sun showering gold. Everyone has experienced yellow. If someone asks, “What is yellow?” all you can say is: yellow is yellow.

“What is sweetness?” Sweetness is sweetness. “And what is love?” Love is love. If even such small happenings are ineffable, then the vast will be ineffable indeed. Any picture you make of it will turn false, will be too small. Any doctrine you construct about it will be meager.

That is why it is said the divine is ineffable. Those who have known have said it is ineffable; those who have not known attempt to define the divine. Only those who don’t know make definitions, offer explanations. They make images of God, they fabricate doctrines and scriptures. Those who have known call the divine ineffable; they have fallen silent about the divine itself. Yes, they have spoken about how the divine can be realized.

Drink the water and you will know whether it is sweet, salty, cool or not cool—if you drink, you will know. Those who know point toward the lake; they do not utter a single word about the taste of water. They say, “There is the lake. There I drank. You too can come; I can take you there. Come, hold my hand.”

The knower speaks of the method—how the divine can be known. The non-knower tries to prove the divine, to supply proofs: “Such and such is the evidence. God is like this. He has a thousand hands, or four hands, or three heads.” All such talk is foolish. Even a thousand hands would not complete his hands; three heads are not enough. Because all heads are his, and all hands are his. Not only the hands that exist today—those that have ever been are his; those that are today are his; those that will be through endless time are his too. How will the matter be finished with a thousand hands? Nor are only human hands his—animals’ and birds’ hands are his. The branches of trees, the trees’ hands are his. All is his. How will such vastness be contained in a word? It will snag.

What dwells in you is not in your picture!
Have you loved someone? And has someone ever given you your beloved’s portrait—you saw the difference, didn’t you?

What dwells in you is not in your picture!
Your reflection poured into colors, but you could not pour in yourself;
The warmth of breath, the fragrance of the body did not pour in.
The suppleness you have is not in my script—
Not in your picture!

In lifeless beauty where is the grace of a living stride?
No pose of refusal, no pose of consent;
Not even a sway in those snaring tresses—
Not in your picture!

There is nothing in the world quite like you;
Come before me once again, somehow.
Is there not one more glimpse written in my fate?
Not in your picture!

What dwells in you is not in your picture!

Even in the ordinary happening of love you know this: your beloved cannot be captured in a picture. However much color someone may pour, her color will not arrive; however much one may polish, her sheen will not come. Something is left out. The living slips away. The real slips away. What is on the surface descends into the picture; the soul remains behind, the body is caught.

And the divine is pure soul; hence it is ineffable. The divine is the purest essence of this existence. You can paint a flower, but how will you paint its fragrance? The flower has a body and a soul; in fragrance only the soul remains—body is gone.

The divine is the fragrance of this existence. Yes, you can picture the veena; but when its strings are plucked and music rises, how will you make a picture of music? Has anyone ever painted music? It can be experienced, felt, tasted.

Therefore, do not get entangled in defining the divine. Wear the divine. Drape the divine. Drink the divine. Eat the divine, digest it. Let the divine become your flesh and marrow. Do not ask for its definition. Do not fall into the net of words.

Come, let us spread the moonlight, let us wrap it, let us wear it—come!
Do not talk about moonlight. In talk the matter may get lost somewhere. In talk upon talk you may get stuck.

Come, let us spread the moonlight, let us wrap it, let us wear it—come!
Let us bathe in moonlight, sink and rise within it—
Come, let us spread the moonlight!

Cool, cool moonlight—
A balm for wounds is this moonlight.
Unrestrained seeping
of wounds
stills;
the flowing eye-water
halts, congeals.
Come, let us grow the paddy of unsown dreams—
Come, let us spread the moonlight!

The flute of soft, soft rays,
a sandalwood-like flute in Nandan’s grove;
a sweet throat,
like yours—
this instrument of sound,
a playing like the heartbeat
of love-soaked
life.
Come, let us sway upon the deep waves, get lost—
Come, let us spread the moonlight!

Drop the definitions of the divine, the proofs for the divine, the wrangling of words about the divine. The divine cannot be an idea. Come, let us become thought-free. Let us live the divine, experience it.

I am not here to define the divine. If a longing has arisen in your heart, I can take your hand and lead you to that pilgrimage. Do not come to me as a student. A student’s curiosity is to increase his knowledge a little. Come to me as a seeker. A seeker’s longing is different, very different from a student’s. The seeker says, “How can experience happen?” The student says, “How can my knowledge increase a little?” The student wants to store his memory; the seeker wants to make his life luminous.

Come, let us spread the moonlight, let us wrap it, let us wear it—come!
A playing like the heartbeat
of love-soaked
life.
The flute of soft, soft rays,
a sandalwood-like flute in Nandan’s grove;
a sweet throat,
like yours—
this instrument of sound.
Come, let us sway upon the deep waves, get lost—
Come, let us spread the moonlight!

There will be experience—and in that very experience is the only definition. When there is a direct seeing, in that very seeing you will find the proof of all the scriptures. You will become a witness to the Vedas, the Upanishads, the Koran. Become the witness. Become the proof. Do not ask for proof of the divine. You can become the proof. Your very presence will be sufficient. Some truths cannot be carried anywhere; some truths only manifest.

Someone asked Ramakrishna, “Proof of God?” Ramakrishna said, “I—I am the proof of God!” This is not the language of a philosopher or a thinker; this is the language of one who has tasted. “I am the proof!”

When Vivekananda asked Ramakrishna, “Can you prove to me that God exists?” Ramakrishna said, “Stop this useless chatter. Ask this: Do you want to know God? Don’t talk about whether God exists or not. Do you want to know? I can make you know. Do you want it now?”

Vivekananda had not thought of this, though he had gone to many wise men, a true inquirer. Wherever he heard there was a knower, he went there—and returned empty-handed from everywhere. There were plenty of words, but who was ever satisfied with words? When you are hungry and someone talks about food, how will you be satisfied? Vivekananda was hungry. His eagerness was not the student’s curiosity; it was the seeker’s urgency. He returned empty from many places. In the same way he went to Ramakrishna—thinking in his mind that this illiterate villager, when the learned and famous could not answer, what can he possibly do? But the opposite happened. He had gone to startle Ramakrishna; instead he himself was startled. For Ramakrishna said, “Do you want to know, and do you want to know now? Shall I show you right now?” Vivekananda had not prepared himself for this: to know now. He had never thought anyone would ask thus. And before Vivekananda could say anything, Ramakrishna leapt up and placed his foot on Vivekananda’s chest. These are not the ways of scholars; these are the ways of the intoxicated. But only the intoxicated know; they know—hence their ecstasy.

Vivekananda fell unconscious. Three hours later when he came to, Ramakrishna asked, “Speak—are any questions left?” As if he had returned from another realm! A taste had been given. Thereafter he became mad for this unlettered priest, circling around him in devotion. He had no scriptures, no knowledge, no doctrines, no grand titles, no world-famous name. He earned eighteen rupees a month doing worship in the temple at Dakshineshwar. A poor man. A village man, barely educated to the second grade. He knew no Sanskrit. Yet no one could bewitch Vivekananda—Ramakrishna bewitched him.

Where there is experience of the divine, there is a living magic.

I cannot give you a definition of the divine; no one ever has. But if you are ready, I can give you the experience. Experience is easy; scriptures are arduous. Experience is easy because—even though you have forgotten—you are in the divine already. Like a fish not knowing it is in the ocean. It is born in the ocean, lives in the ocean; how is it to know it is in the ocean? In just this way you are living in the divine: you breathe in it, you walk in it, you sit in it. But because it has been so from the very beginning, you no longer notice where the divine is.

You ask, “Where is the divine?” The divine alone is! It surrounds you. In the ocean of its life you, too, live.

So it is not difficult. Just a little awareness—only a small flicker of awareness needs to arise in you—then you will know: only the divine is, nothing else. Do not get lost in definitions. When experience is available, only a madman worries about definitions.

The divine is ineffable—but it is experienceable.

This happens often. One gets free of the illness and then becomes enslaved to the medicine. That is what addiction means. A good physician is careful to stop the medicine as soon as the illness goes, otherwise a new slavery begins—the slavery of the cure.

A mantra is not meant for nonstop repetition. If you had used it for a while, in small doses, there would have been no harm. Medicine should be taken in the right dosage. Whoever gave you this mantra clearly knows little of the science of mantra. And you are not alone—many people come here with the same trouble.

Once a Sardarji was brought to me. He serves in the army in a good post—and his condition had deteriorated, because someone had told him, “Just keep chanting, keep chanting.” So he kept repeating the Japji within. Gradually people began to suspect something was wrong, because he seemed absent. When you keep repeating something inside, you become disconnected outside. He’d walk on the road—someone would honk to make way—and he wouldn’t even notice, absorbed in his chant. His wife would say something—he couldn’t hear. She’d send him to the market—he’d bring back something else. Then mistakes began in the office too, in the army. When your inner attention is totally entangled, you become stuporous outwardly. Your life falls into disorder.

A mantra is like a bath. You don’t bathe all day long. You use it, feel fresh, and let that freshness flow. And don’t become greedy for even that freshness—“let me do more, and more.” The mind is very greedy: “This is so pleasant—just once more, one more time.” This can happen with anything, not just a mantra.

A friend came: “My whole body aches—headache, backache—and it’s all because of your meditation.” I asked, “What’s the matter?” He said, “I do active meditation five times a day.” I said, “And you’re still alive? That’s a miracle! Who told you to do active meditation five times?” He added, “My work is also ruined.” Of course—if you meditate five times, who will run the shop, raise the children, take care of the house?

He said, “I enjoyed it once, so I thought twice. Twice felt even better, so I tried three times. Then I got hooked—so much pleasure.” Pleasure may be there, but your body is being damaged.

This body is a temple—learn to honor it. It is a gift from the divine; don’t ruin it. To ruin it is an insult to the divine. Greed is a disease of the mind, and it can latch on anywhere. To turn ten thousand into a hundred thousand—that is greed. To do a delightful meditation once and then insist on doing it ten times—that too is greed. No difference: the same grasping mind. Be alert to greed.

This kind of thing happens often. A man was brought to me who had to cross a cremation ground to get home. He was terrified of ghosts. Someone gave him a talisman, “Tie this on—no ghost can touch you.” It worked; with chest out he’d stride through the cremation ground even at midnight. But now he feared losing the talisman. He slept holding it in his hand: “Those ghosts we scared away are surely annoyed—what if they climb on my chest!” He got so anxious—what if it’s stolen, misplaced, lost? His fear of the talisman grew as great as his fear of ghosts.

I read a story yesterday. In Chandulal’s family a peculiar problem arose. His three-year-old grandson, Munna, said “Lam-lam” for “Ram-Ram.” The neighbor, friend Dhabbhuji, took this as a challenge in speech-psychology. To train Munna’s tongue to roll the “r,” he devised a linguistic technique. First he taught him to say “dhirr”—to practice the r-sound. “You can turn ‘Ram’ into ‘Lam,’ but you can’t turn ‘dhirr’ into ‘dhimm,’ can you?” So he trained him: “Dhirr… dhirr…” Munna learned it. One day, while saying “dhirr, dhirr,” suddenly he blurted out, beaming with joy, “Dhirr Ram-Ram!” Dhabbhuji was delighted—success at last. But now the problem is: if you say “Ram-Ram,” he says “Dhirr Ram-Ram.” How to free him from the “dhirr”? You taught it—and now, no matter how much you coax him, whenever he says “Ram-Ram,” first comes “dhirr.”

That is what has happened with your mantra—“Dhirr Ram-Ram.” You’re stuck on the “dhirr.”

In truth, any attempt to force thoughts away never succeeds. Your mind used to run with stray thoughts; now you’ve poured the energy of all those thoughts into “Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram.” This is no revolution; it is merely substitution. The same thing continues. Earlier you thought, “How can I win the lottery? How can I become president?”—other thoughts. They are words, and Ram is also a word. The energy you once invested in all those words you have now invested into “Ram-Ram.” That is the so-called mantra “science.” When you repeat “Ram-Ram” rapidly and intensely, no time, no energy, no room is left for anything else. The chain of “Ram-Ram” fills the mind, so “How do I win the lottery?” cannot squeeze in; if it does, your “Ram-Ram” breaks. You have found a counter-occupation. But this is not transformation.

Hence you began chanting “Ram-Ram” twenty-four hours a day—because whenever it stops, the lottery thought is waiting in the queue behind, saying, “Stop a while, and I’ll be back.” Those ghosts sit in the cremation ground waiting: “Let the talisman slip, and we’ll show you.” So, out of fear that the old thoughts might return, you chant nonstop. But now the “Ram-Ram” itself has become the disease. Diseases are not solved so easily; a little more intelligence is needed.

Forcing thought never solves anything. “Ram-Ram” is also a thought; it is not thoughtlessness. There is no real difference. You will not attain samadhi through this. You have merely replaced one thing with another, one entanglement with another. You are not free. You don’t need to push thoughts away—become a witness to them.

So I suggest: now become a witness to “Ram-Ram.” Withdraw your cooperation, or you will go insane. Many people go insane because of religion—anyone and everyone keeps offering “spiritual” advice. Advisors are found without searching; if you don’t seek them, they will seek you—because advising gives a certain pleasure. The ego is gratified: “I am the adviser, you are the advised; I am the knower, you are the ignorant.” So we advise even on matters we know nothing about. Remember: others’ condition is the same as yours. The holy man who told you this clearly did not understand.

If you want to be free of thought, become a witness to thought. Otherwise you’ll swap one thought for another, then another, then a fourth—no real change. A thorn in your foot—you pry it out with a second thorn, and then leave the second thorn in. What difference does that make? You’ll just keep changing thorns.

People do exactly this. Someone is addicted to betel nut; you make him quit, and he starts smoking. You stop the smoking; he starts chewing gum. He needs something—his mouth must keep moving. If you stop everything, he starts “Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram”—that too is chewing gum, nothing more. The mouth cannot be at peace.

Understand thought. Wake up to thought. Be a witness. The stream of thought flows in the mind—watch it. Don’t decide what is good or bad; let it flow, as a road flows. You stand by the roadside watching. Good people pass, bad people pass; the dishonest, the honest; saint and sinner—what is that to you? You are only watching from the side, the pure observer, the witness only. You’ll be amazed: if you stand by the road of thought…

Thought is only a road; you are other than it. You are not thought; you are the seer of thought. Just this much remembrance: “I am the witness.” Let thought move. Whether “Ram-Ram” passes or Coca-Cola passes—let any thought pass. Stand a little apart and watch—silently; neither for nor against. Don’t say, “Ah, what a lovely thought!”—the moment you say that, you’re caught; you’ll cling to what you call good, befriend it, invite it back. Or if a thought comes and you say, “What a terrible thought—I won’t even look,” and you turn away—this too will haunt you. You insulted it; it will knock again and again: “Look at me!”

Whatever you oppose will return. Try it: negate any thought and it will visit you for twenty-four hours. If you clutch, you’re caught; if you reject, you’re caught. Indulgence binds, and renunciation binds. Only the witness frees—neither indulgence nor renunciation. Don’t say “so beautiful,” don’t say “so ugly.” No need to say anything. Just see. Can you simply look, the way a mirror looks? A beautiful woman passes before a mirror—the mirror doesn’t say, “Wait a bit, stay longer—let’s talk.” An unattractive woman passes—the mirror doesn’t say, “Move along—go trouble some other mirror.” The mirror just reflects. When you become mirror-like in witnessing, thoughts begin to quiet on their own. A moment comes when the road of thought is deserted—no one comes. In that silence, for the first time, you catch the faint call of the divine. In that emptiness, the first note of samadhi descends. In that emptiness, for the first time, a ray of the Perfect enters.

Don’t think you have become religious by chanting “Ram-Ram.” Don’t imagine you have attained something great. If you believe you have attained, you won’t let it go—who wants to drop an attainment? Understand: no revolution has happened; you have borrowed a second illness in place of the first. It is just as much an illness. Now stop supporting it. Some difficulty will arise for a few days. If you have practiced long and the stream now runs by itself, it will keep running a while even without your cooperation—like a bicycle that rolls a distance on old momentum after you stop pedaling. For a while “Ram-Ram” will continue. But now stop helping it. You’ve helped enough. Don’t add your energy; withdraw it. Become a witness.

At most, for three months this stream may continue in some weak form, but it will grow thinner day by day. Now it is like a flood in the rains; soon it will be like a summer river—dry channels with a little water pooled here and there—until, over three months, it gradually dissolves. Then be ready: the thoughts you had suppressed with “Ram-Ram” will rise. Let them rise. Do not be afraid. A seeker must be fearless.

And what is there to fear in a thought? What substance does a thought have? It is a ripple in air, not even a bubble of water—a bubble of air! No substance, no root, no color. Thought is only a distortion. Keep quietly watching; soon, by watching, you will be beyond.

Witnessing is the process of transcendence. The one who transcends thought—not by suppressing, not by fighting, but naturally, easefully—reaches.

Remember Gorakh’s saying: Laughing, playing, do meditation. This is not a matter of grim seriousness; it happens laughing and playing—and it should. If your religion makes you solemn, know that somewhere a mistake has happened. If your religion steals your laughter, something has gone wrong. If it makes your life sad, heavy, pompous, stiff—know you have missed.

Laughing, playing, let meditation happen. And meditation means witnessing. Then life becomes a celebration.

Sudhir Bharti! What you have written is lovely, but full of a big mistake. You have given Gorakh’s words a new form—but Gorakh’s words cannot be refashioned. As they are, they are complete; no change is possible.

Understand Gorakh’s saying again:
Die, O yogi, die—this death is sweet.
Die the death by dying which Gorakh saw.

You have made a very big shift. You say: “Kill me, O Lord, kill me!”

No one else can kill you—impossible. Someone may kill your body, but no one can kill your ego. In that matter only you are capable. Even God cannot kill your ego—otherwise He would have done it already. You say God is omnipotent; even His power has a “limit” in this sense: He cannot kill your ego. If the ego were real, God could kill it. The ego is not; it is only a delusion. The delusion is yours; you yourself will have to drop it. How can I drop your delusion?

You may believe two and two make five; I may insist forever that two and two make four—what will happen until you see it? If you are determined to make two and two into five, you will keep on doing so.

I have heard of a man who went mad with the notion that he had died. He was perfectly alive, but he went around announcing, “I am dead! Haven’t you heard?” People said, “Brother, this is too much! Never has a corpse given such news. You’re fit and fine!” At first people took it as a joke. Then it grew serious. Customers came to his shop; he said, “I’m dead, what shop?” His wife asked, “Did you bring the vegetables?” He replied, “Do dead men bring vegetables? I’m dead—no one told you?”

Worry grew. Finally they took the “corpse” to a psychologist. The psychologist, puzzled, tried a trick. He asked, “Tell me, if we cut a dead man, does he bleed?” The madman said, “When did a dead man ever bleed? His blood turns to water. Blood flows only from the living.”

The psychologist was pleased. “Stand before the mirror,” he said, and made a small cut on the man’s hand. A fountain of blood spurted—he was alive. “Now say something,” the psychologist prompted. The man replied, “My first statement was wrong. This proves that even when you cut a dead man, blood flows.”

What can you do? If someone has decided that two and two are five, there is no way. The psychologist expected him to accept he was alive; instead he concluded that corpses bleed too.

No, Sudhir, I cannot break your ego. No one can. Your ego is your delusion; only your awakening will end it. From outside it cannot be broken. No outer light can light your inner lamp. Yes, I can show you the process of how to light the lamp within—but I cannot light it for you; you will have to do it.

That is why Buddha said: Buddhas show the path; walking you must do yourself. No Buddha can walk for you and reach your goal; even if he reaches, he will reach, and you will remain where you are. Truth cannot be borrowed.

So don’t change Gorakh’s words. You’ve said well, “Slay me, O Lord, slay me; I long for death.” But no—Gorakh is right:
Die, O yogi, die—this death is sweet.

He says: you must die. If it were in my hands to wipe out your ego, how easy it would be! You would come to me, I would wave a magic wand, your ego would vanish, you would attain the Divine and go home. But if it were that cheap, there is a danger: on the way someone else could wave another wand and put you back where you started!

A man came to Ramakrishna and said, “I am going on pilgrimage, to bathe in the Ganges. What do you say?” Ramakrishna said, “Go, brother, fine—but keep one thing in mind. Have you seen the big trees on the banks of the Ganges?” “Yes.” “Why are they standing there?” “How should I know? Trees stand—what kind of question is that?” Ramakrishna said, “I’ll tell you the secret. You go with the bundle of your sins on your back and take a dip in Mother Ganges. As you dip, by her grace, the sins fall away. But sins don’t leave you so easily; they perch on the trees. They say, ‘Son, how long will you stay under water? Come out, and we’ll ride you again.’ You come out, and they jump back on. So all becomes as before. Keep an eye on those trees—if you dip, don’t come out again!” The man said, “What are you saying—should I die there? Then what’s the use of going?” Ramakrishna said, “As you wish. Those trees stand there for this reason. You sin, and the Ganges sanctifies your sins! If it were so cheap, life would become two‑penny.”

Ramakrishna is right: can a bath in the Ganges wash away sins? Yes, the dirt on the body will be washed. But as soon as you come out, dust will fly again and settle again. How will the outer Ganges wash the inside? The outer Ganges can wash outer dust. The inner Ganges must be awakened from your own consciousness. That water you must find in your own source.

You have to die; I cannot kill you. If I kill you, anyone could wake you up again. When you die in awareness, then no power in this world can push you back into the web of ego.

Therefore don’t say: “Slay me, O Lord, slay me; I long for death!” No one dies from longing. The one who longs to die—that very one must die. Who has the longing?

You hear my words and your ego thinks, “If only we too could become a great yogi like Gorakh! But these Gorakh types say troublesome things: ‘Die—then you can be.’ All right, we’ll die—but we will become! We too must be accomplished.” It is the ego that wants to be accomplished—and it is the ego that must die. Hence the ego says, “Fine, we’ll die—if that is the method of accomplishment. But we shall be accomplished!” And that very eagerness to be accomplished keeps the ego alive. That is the breath of the ego.

Where does the ego’s breath come from? From the urge to become something. You are poor; you want to be rich—the ego keeps breathing. You are ignorant; you want to be wise—the ego keeps breathing. You are lowly; you want position and prestige—the ego keeps breathing.

Understand the process of the ego: How does it live? It lives in the tension between what you are and what you want to be. A wants to become B; in that tension the ego is constructed.

How does the ego die? When you are content with what you are, the ego dies. You say, “As I am is fine; wherever I am is fine. I will remain as God keeps me. His will is my will.” You drop the tension of the future—“I must become this, I must become that”—and the ego is gone.

The ego lives on the past and on the future. Understand this. Its claims about “I did this, I achieved that” belong to the past. Its boasts “I will do this, I will show that” belong to the future. In the present the ego does not exist. Come into the present, and the ego is dismissed. That is the death of the ego. Entering the present is the ego’s death.

What has gone, let it go; don’t cling to it. Let the past slip away. And do not crave what has not yet happened, for in the craving the ego survives. Be content with “what is,” and you will find this very moment that there is no ego. What is, as it is, is perfectly right. The art of this is called contentment. In contentment the ego dies; in discontent it lives. The more discontented a person is, the more egoistic he will be; the more egoistic, the more discontented—they go together.

If you have made this eagerness, Sudhir—“I must be accomplished; I must reach the place where I can say I have attained God”—then the ego will not die. All ambitions, desires, cravings pour ghee into the fire of the ego. Even the desire to attain God pours ghee into the ego’s fire.

That is why your renunciates are so egoistic; ordinary people are not so egoistic. In your so‑called great men you will find a pure ego—pure like undiluted poison—such as you will not find among ordinary folk. In the ordinary world everything is adulterated.

Mulla Nasruddin wanted to die; he bought poison, drank it, and lay down. Two or three times in the night he opened his eyes to see whether he had died yet. He pinched himself: still alive; no effect yet. He tossed and turned. Morning came; he opened his eyes. His wife was up and working; the children were getting ready for school—what kind of death is this? The milkman knocked; the neighbor’s voice could be heard—what kind of death! And he had drunk so much poison that a quarter of it would have been enough; he drank four times that! He got up, went to the mirror: what kind of death is this? No one even knows; no bier is being prepared; his wife isn’t weeping; the children are getting ready for school. Then it occurred to him: this is no death. He ran to the shopkeeper who sold him the poison: “What is this?” The shopkeeper said, “What can we do? Everything is adulterated. Where will you find pure poison these days? Those days are gone—this is not the golden age; in the dark age there is no such thing as pure poison.”

In the world everything is adulterated; in the ordinary person everything is mixed. Those who set out to attain God—their ego becomes pure. Their poison becomes of the golden age. Hence in your so‑called saints and teachers you will find such vanity and selfhood as you won’t find elsewhere.

That is why your pundits, priests, and “holy men” fight and make others fight. Your temples, mosques, churches, gurdwaras have become dens of egos. They do not produce love; they produce hate. They spread poison in the world, not nectar.

If humankind became free of all religions, perhaps peace would arrive. All religions say they want to bring peace—but they bring unrest. The root process is forgotten: desire alone gives man his ego; the bigger the desire, the bigger the ego. Surely, there is no desire bigger than the desire for God. So the man filled with the desire for God becomes the most egoistic.

What am I telling you? If you want to attain God, do not desire God. Understand the nature of desire and be free of it. The moment desire disappears, the Divine descends. God is found—but He cannot be desired. God comes—and He comes only to the one who fulfills this great condition.

Therefore the supremely wise Buddha did not even use the word “God”—lest in your ignorance you start desiring God. He did not raise the topic of God because he saw people simply change their desires: they no longer ask for wealth; now they ask for heaven. They no longer ask for position; now they ask for God. They no longer ask for prestige; now they ask for samadhi. But they still ask—and wherever asking is, there is ego.

So Buddha said: there is no God, no soul, no liberation. Do not think Buddha is making a metaphysical denial—that there truly is no God, no soul, no liberation. His own followers misunderstood; his critics misunderstood. Buddha is hard to understand because his approach is very subtle. He is saying: if I say “God is,” immediately God will become the object of your desire. And as long as desire is, God will not be found. Better to drop the very discussion, he said. If there is no bamboo, there will be no flute. When there is no God, how will you crave God? When there is no heaven, how will you hanker for it? When there is no soul, what samadhi?

It is an astonishing device. He removes every possible support for your desire. Now look at your smaller desires—money, office, prime ministership. See and you will find that every desire brings suffering, each takes you deeper into hell. Watching, recognizing, one day you will awaken to this: desire is suffering. In that very moment desire drops. And since Buddha leaves you no option to switch desire to the other world, worldly desire drops and there is no doorway to afterworldly desire either. The moment you are desireless, God is found.

Understand it this way: God is the name of your desireless state. Understand samadhi this way: when no desire remains within you, what remains is samadhi. This will not happen through longing.

And you say, “Die me that death...” Even in your dying you add a condition. You say, “Kill me—but let it be that death, the one by which you attained, the one by which you had the vision! Let it not be some other death!” You are even putting conditions on dying. You will keep peeking with one eye to see whether the right death is happening!

A Zen master gave a disciple a meditation: “Bring me the sound of one hand clapping.” Does one hand clap anywhere? The disciple thought deeply. He was intelligent. He brought many answers: “The sound of one hand is like thunder in the sky.” The master hit him with a stick. “Fool! Where is one hand in that? When clouds clash, that is two; wherever there is collision, there are two. Bring me a sound where there is no collision and yet sound arises.” He tried and failed. Months passed; he grew dejected. Every day he searched, and every day the same story; the master drove him away. He asked older disciples, “How did you solve it?”

One said, “It tormented me too. Not three months—three years I ate dust. Then one day, exhausted, fed up—‘one hand clapping’—where does it ever happen! He’s mad—and I’m mad to obey, to meditate on it. It’s certain it cannot be. Yet love grew for this man; I was caught by his affection. So I went on: someday something will happen. After three years I was utterly spent. I came, he asked again—and I collapsed. I was utterly hopeless—fell flat. That day the master was pleased. He placed his hand on my head—no stick that day—and said, ‘Son, get up. The one hand has sounded.’”

In that falling, the ego fell. Utter defeat—there is a limit. The defeat reached its end. It was certain: nothing is going to happen through me. No one hand will sound; no success, no samadhi. In that despair, the ego died. As long as small successes keep coming, the ego gets nourishment. Hence the koan, to starve the ego. The master put his hand on the head: “Now the one hand has sounded. Rise—no more worry.”

The disciple said, “Good man! Why didn’t you tell me earlier? We would have made it sound the first day; we would have fallen immediately.” Off he went, returned. The moment the master asked, “Has the one hand sounded?” he fell—yet he looked around to avoid a bruise. He set his head where a pillow lay, closed his eyes, corpse‑pose, waiting for the master’s hand on his head. The master struck him. He opened one eye: “What’s this? I thought something else would happen.” The master said, “Simpleton! Do corpses open their eyes to look? Do corpses fall after checking where the pillow is? You are imitating. I can see whom you are copying. But in his case the one hand had sounded. You are only aping. You want it cheap. This cannot be cheap. He suffered three years; he poured his whole blood and sweat. He forgot food and sleep. He staked everything. Then, in that moment of defeat, he fell—without seeing whether his head would hit stone or pillow. He had no imagination of ‘what will happen now.’ You have stretched yourself out, peeking to see if the master’s hand is coming. When he fell, he truly fell—and the ego fell. You are arranging a fall; it is the ego’s trick. You want me to declare you accomplished. It is not that cheap.”

You say: “Die me that death...” At least grant complete leave! At least say, “However you kill me, kill me!”—but you don’t even allow that. You add your condition. Your surrender is conditional. And can surrender ever be conditional? Surrender means all conditions dropped—you fall at the feet: now whatever happens, happens; even if nothing happens, that too is fine. If anywhere, deep inside, even a trace of expectation hides—“now this should happen; now that should happen; now that death should occur by which Gorakh saw; I am still the same; samadhi has not borne fruit; the Divine’s feet are not yet seen”—if such desire and thought continue, then death will not happen.

And remember: the master cannot kill the disciple; the master can only teach the art of dying. Dying you must do.

If you eat, your stomach will fill. If you drink water, your thirst will be quenched. If I drink, your thirst will not be quenched. If I eat, your hunger will not go. If I breathe, your heart will not beat. And these are outer matters; the deepest matter is the death of the ego. That cannot be done from outside. You yourself will awaken; you will recognize the pain of ego, the hell it brings; you will see how much it has stung you.

So this is not a matter of eagerness; it is a matter of understanding. But good, Sudhir—that the thought has arisen. In this way the inquiry arises; thus the art is learned. This is what I am teaching—the art of dying. Call it the art of living if you like; it is the same thing. When you die, the Divine is revealed. Your death is His beginning.

Prayer is not done; prayer happens. This very surge of feeling is prayer. If you set out to do it, you will do something false. If you try to do it, it will turn into a formality. If you try to do it, it will be borrowed—an imitation of others.

Prayer is not imitation. Because of imitation, prayer has disappeared from the earth. People go off to their own temples. If there’s a mosque next door, they won’t pray there; they’ll walk two miles to a temple to pray. If they spent even the time of those two miles in prayer—the mosque was next door, where are you going! But that is exactly the situation of the one who goes to the mosque too: the temple is next door—he won’t even look at it; he turns his back and passes by.

In the Jain scriptures and in the Hindu scriptures there are such mentions—identical mentions, because foolishness is the same in everyone. It is said in the Jain scriptures that if you are passing in front of a Hindu temple and a mad elephant is chasing you, it is better to be crushed to death under the elephant’s feet than to take refuge in a Hindu temple. And the Hindu scriptures say precisely the same thing in reverse: if a mad elephant is after you, it is better to be crushed under its feet than to take refuge in a Jain temple.

What petty things are these that have gone on in the name of religion! And the Hindus and Jains at least are different religions. Even among Hindus, some are devotees of Rama and they won’t go to Krishna’s temple; some are devotees of Krishna and they won’t go to Rama’s temple. And better still, among Jains there are Digambaras and Shvetambaras: both revere Mahavira, yet even they cannot have one common temple.

Man gets entangled in politics even in the name of religion. And this whole nuisance is because of imitation. Prayer is a simple, guileless feeling. Seeing a tree, if joy begins to swell within you, bow down right there—prayer has happened. Bow down beside the tree. Rest your head at the roots of the tree, and your salutation has reached the divine. Because trees are connected with the divine. The idols in your temple are not connected with the divine at all, because they are of your making. Trees are still alive; life flows in them, sap flows in them. Otherwise they wouldn’t be green. Otherwise buds wouldn’t sprout. Otherwise flowers wouldn’t bloom. They are still connected with the divine—bow down.

At a tree’s roots, the feet of God are available with a simplicity you won’t find in your temple idols. Those are all false, formal. In things made by man you go looking for the One who made man? You are making a mistake. His creation is spread on all sides. His rivers flow, his oceans are filled with towering waves. His moon rises. His sun comes up. His trees, his animals and birds—there is you.

In a moment of love, if you bow at your son’s feet, your salutation will reach. In a moment of love, if you bow at your wife’s feet, the salutation will reach.

Prayer is informal. Don’t turn it into a ceremony. But prayer has become so formal that you have forgotten what its natural, spontaneous form is.

You say: When I listen to you, a feeling of prayer begins to surge in my heart.
That is prayer—what more do you ask now?
Now you ask: How should I pray?
Prayer is taking place. Sitting in satsang, prayer happens. If I am prayerful and you have come to sit near me with a simple heart—there is no inner dispute; you aren’t listening to each word as if you are my judge who must decide what is right and what is wrong—if you listen as one listens to music, without worrying about right or wrong, if you are simply savoring being near me, then prayer will ripen; prayer will happen. Something within you will bow down. Something within you will disappear. Something new will begin within you. A certain wave will arise in which you will be submerged. That is prayer.

But I understand your difficulty. You think: this happens once in a while; how to do it daily and systematically? Precisely when you make it systematic, it becomes false. It happens when it happens. You cannot assign a time for prayer. It is not that you will do prayer every morning on rising. Whenever it happens. Sometimes at midnight, sometimes in the morning, sometimes at noon. Prayer has no fixed time, because all time belongs to the divine. There is no auspicious hour for prayer, no designated moment.

Instead of making rules or turning it into a ritual, move in the direction of your naturalness. When it begins to happen, close your eyes; for a moment, dive in. You will be astonished where it starts happening—you would never have imagined. Someone plays a flute—and it begins. It is noon; silence; the winds are still; the trees don’t stir—and it begins. It is night; the crickets are singing—and it begins. You are sitting with a friend, hand in hand—and it begins. There is no fixed time. And how it will be each time is hard to say. It is not a repetition. Prayer is a state of feeling, not a matter of thought.

Prayer is not a gramophone record that repeats the same thing again and again. Prayer reveals itself in ever-new colors, ever-new forms, ever-new ways.

Accept my greeting of longing, accept my love!
These sad eyes, throbbing with ache, search for your splendors,
They search for those beautiful moments that slipped away like a dream.
If it is not distasteful to you, then accept this complaint—
Accept my greeting of longing!

You alone are the quest of my gaze, you alone the subject of my thoughts;
You are my beloved, and you are my God.
Keep the honor of my worship; accept my devotion—
Accept my greeting of longing!

Until your lowering glance sends a message,
Neither will the soul find solace, nor will the heart find rest.
The pain of separation is deadly—accept this one truth—
Accept my greeting of longing!

Send your salutation anywhere, from anywhere. Bow by a flower—send your salam. Hearing the cuckoo’s call, dance—send your salam. It is drizzling on your thatch, the drops have struck up music—send your salam.

Accept my greeting of longing; accept my love.

And there is no need to make words—send it without words. God does not understand your language; he understands your feeling. There are so many languages. If God had to learn languages he would go mad. There are about three hundred languages on earth—those are the major ones; if you count the little languages and dialects, he would be in a real fix. You can understand God’s predicament! And it isn’t only this one earth; scientists say there is life on at least fifty thousand earths—at least; it could be on more. Such a vast expanse! And it is not just man; animals and birds too become prayerful!

At Maharshi Raman’s ashram, when a cow died, he sent her off as one sends off a person established in samadhi. People were very surprised. But the cow was no ordinary cow; she was a great satsangi. Those who came to Raman sometimes came, sometimes not; but the cow came regularly. There was not a day she missed his darshan. She would come and stand with her head inside through the window. She would stand outside but put her head in. She would stand for hours; when others sat, she stood. When satsang ended, she would go. And sometimes streams of tears would run from her eyes as she stood there at the window. When the cow fell ill and one day could not come, Raman himself went to her. As soon as she saw him coming, streams of tears began to flow from her eyes. Raman’s hand was on her head when she died. He honored her as one honors a person in samadhi. He had a samadhi built for her.

People asked, “Maharshi, do you really think this cow was so valuable?” He said, “This is her last birth. She will not return. Her prayer has been heard. Her salam has reached.”

So it is not only about human beings: there are animals and birds—among them too, some become prayerful. There are plants—among them too, some become prayerful. Scientists are deeply engaged in research now. And one thing has been clearly, decisively established: plants have great sensitivity—at least as much as humans; perhaps more, certainly not less.

On hearing Ravi Shankar’s sitar, plants become absorbed in feeling. Experiments have been done on this; they become intoxicated with bliss. Now instruments have been invented—like your cardiograph that detects your heartbeats—by which a tree’s “heartbeat” can be detected. Attach the instrument to the tree, and its states of feeling begin to show: is it sad, happy, angry, full of compassion?

Hearing Ravi Shankar’s sitar, trees bend—toward the direction from which the sitar is playing. They begin to lean that way. And hearing modern music—jazz and such—trees draw away; they lean to the other side as if to say, “Stop it! What racket is this?” The filmi music you keep blaring on loudspeakers, which you call music—trees writhe. Perhaps man has lost sensitivity; trees still have just as much.

The scientist experimenting with trees was astonished; he could not believe it at first when the results began to come in. When someone comes with an axe to cut trees, even before he starts cutting, as soon as the trees see the woodcutter approaching with an axe, all the trees tremble. The instrument immediately shows that the trees are anxious, very frightened—whose turn has come now! And astonishingly, if you cut one tree, all the surrounding trees suffer. And not only when a tree is cut; if you kill a bird, all the trees suffer. Kill a bird! What have trees to do with a bird? But the bird was theirs too—she built her nest on them, gave them pride and good fortune, danced around them, hummed songs, tapped-tapped upon them. She was life. And whenever any life is hurt, trees feel it.

And when they see the gardener coming with a spray of water, they become ecstatic. The water has not yet fallen on them, but their thirst grows eager. They are ready, full of cheerfulness. Gratitude begins to arise. These are now scientific facts. Poets have been saying such things forever. Poets say thousands of years earlier what takes science thousands of years to grasp.

Mahavira must have heard something like this in the trees, must have recognized it. That is why he said: do not pluck unripe fruit from a tree. When the fruit ripens and falls of itself, only then accept it. If this is the state of trees, what must it be for animals and birds! How hard-hearted must those be who go on eating animals and birds. And leave aside the petty folk from whom you don’t expect much...

Just now India’s president, Sanjiva Reddy, returned very angry from Madras because at the Raj Bhavan he did not get the facility of meat-eating. He is a Gandhian! Does one become a Gandhian by wearing a Gandhi cap? What sort of Gandhism is this? A Gandhian is eating meat—then why spout this empty nonsense about nonviolence? Stop the nonsense! Forget Gandhi and Gandhi’s name! Why keep repeating these hollow words? Whom are you deceiving?

But among your politicians most are meat-eaters. Among your politicians most are drinkers. And they are all Gandhians. And on 2 October they sit at Rajghat and spin the charkha. If someone can eat meat and still claim to be nonviolent, then what greater falsehood can there be in this world? But behind everything there is just one aim—how to get your vote.

I have heard: the leader gathered a crowd and called out—Sisters and brothers, it’s something to say and not to say; something to hear and not to hear; something to think and not to think. You must have seen many miracles, but brothers, wait, wait till the end and see all the tricks. So… so here is the first trick… You have seen how many miracles, how many tricks; now place your hands upon your hearts, set your brains down somewhere else. My sisters, my brothers! Swear, each brother and each sister, do not leave midway, otherwise my twenty-seven-year-old daughter will lie here. So whose daughter is she?
“Ours,” a single voice resounded.
“Name?”
“Freedom.”
“Say, shall I cut off her head?”
“Cut it off.”
“Yes, cut it off. What is she to you? The girl is mine. Say: cut it off and join it again, leader!”
“Cut it off and join it again, leader.”
“So, patrons, here you are.”
He threw a cloth over her and cut off Freedom’s neck and set it aside.
“Say, shall I show it—shall I lift the cloth?”
“No,” several cries rose—but the leader’s voice was above all:
“Swear not to move from your place, or your freedom, your truth, will lie just like this. Gentlemen—one, two—as many as you can, cast your votes. Restore my child to me.”
He sat to one side, and in the frightened gathering, for fear of seeing the severed head, everyone cast all their votes into his sealed box.

Your leaders are no different from street magicians. And the longing behind every act is one—how to make your vote fall. So they spin the wheel, wear khadi, take Gandhi’s name. They go to temples and also to mosques. “Allah Ishwar tere naam, sabko sanmati de Bhagwan!”—they sing such hymns too. And if meat is not available, the president of the country—the president of a country like India!—is upset. One day he could not get meat, and it became a problem. Had he gotten it, perhaps people would not even have known that he eats meat.

Mahavira must have seen that you can only hurt trees if your sensitivity has died, if you have become stone. You can only kill animals and eat them if your heart is dead, if your soul has become utterly inert.

That’s what Gorakh said yesterday—do you remember?—you worship stone and have become stone! Your temples are of stone, your images are of stone; inside you too there is stone. The life has gone out of your within.

The whole world is sensitive. This whole world is praying in its own ways. Worship goes on, adoration goes on. It isn’t a question of language, it’s a question of feeling. Drop language. When feeling surges, when feeling fills your very life-breath, then dive in. Yes—if you need to cry, cry; if you need to laugh, laugh; if you need to dance, dance. These are the modes of feeling.

Your tears can bring you nearer to the divine than your scriptures can. Because your tears are yours; they come from the depths of your heart. Your tears are your petition.

Accept my greeting of longing; accept my love.

Dance sometimes in ecstasy. He has given you such an extraordinary world! Such a precious life! Every single thing is priceless. Here every particle is suffused with him—such a rhythmic existence—and you don’t even give thanks!

Thankfulness is prayer. And certainly, to be haunted by his remembrance is auspicious. Let his remembrance churn you—that is auspicious. But don’t turn that remembrance into a formality; otherwise it becomes false. Formality won’t do.

I was a guest in a home. The little girl there had a debate competition at school. She said to me, “You speak so much—my speech is only three minutes. Prepare it for me. And if you prepare it, I’m bound to get first prize.” She insisted, so I prepared it for her. I made her repeat it again and again. I told her to say at the very beginning, “Brothers and sisters, if I make any mistake, please forgive me.” I told her, “Say this first.” Her parents were going; they said, come along; so I went to listen. She began her speech, looked at me. She was very happy because she had memorized it exactly. She said, “Brothers and sisters! If I happen to forgive any mistake, please forget it.”

Now what can you do! Coach a parrot and it won’t go very far. Likewise your prayers stumble and fall. You have learned them like parrots. You sing bhajans, but all learned and rehearsed. That is acting, not reality. It should be real.

So don’t ask, “How should I pray?” Let the swell come—flow with that swell. Just don’t block it. When the wave seizes you, don’t resist. We have become very stingy. We are afraid to weep; we are afraid to laugh; we are afraid to dance. We are afraid to be overwhelmed. We have shrunk. Our whole humanity has become false, hollow, hypocritical.

Your memory torments me.
It increases the sting of the wound!
On the mango the cuckoo calls—
Buds dissolve some pain;
You are hidden from my eyes—
Somewhere the lone bride sings:
Your memory torments me!

Somewhere a bewitching flute plays,
It steals sleep from the eyes;
In a scorching desert a tender fish writhes—
The south wind touches you and returns!
It increases the sting of the wound!

Now I say—speak a few words,
Give me a few priceless kisses;
Let breath barter breath for a moment—
Life is slipping by!
It increases the sting of the wound!
Your memory torments me!

Let the remembrance of the divine torment you. Let the ache grow. Let a deep wound open within you—that wound itself is prayer. Prayer is not in words; prayer is the humming of your very life-breath.

Don’t be hasty to cast it into words; otherwise the mind is very clever. The mind knows how to falsify everything.

On the road you meet someone—you instantly smile. That smile is false. It isn’t inside you; it’s just pasted on your lips: a Jimmy Carter smile.

I have heard that Jimmy Carter’s wife has to shut his mouth at night; otherwise he keeps his mouth open all night long—the practice of the day! She has to close it, or a mouse may go in, or something—some trouble could happen.

Your smiles are false. You laugh because it is expected to laugh; you weep because it is expected to weep. Someone dies and you weep.

I was a guest in a house. A gentleman there died. No one cared that he died; everyone was happy, because he had harassed them a lot. He had been ill for many years. And if there was one prayer in everyone’s heart in that house, it was: somehow let him go now; God, take him! He had made a hell of the house. He died; everyone was happy—but they couldn’t express their happiness. You can’t announce with drumbeats that you are rejoicing. You must weep. It was winter; I was sitting outside. The lady of the house had told me, “If anyone comes to sit, please ring this bell.” I said, “Why?” She said, “We will have to weep, no? If someone suddenly arrives and sees that no one is weeping—we have to keep up social decorum.” I said, “All right.” A gentleman came; I rang the bell. He went inside; I also went in and was astonished. The lady quickly pulled her veil tight and began to wail loudly. She pulled the veil because tears wouldn’t come—how could they? As soon as he left, the veil went back, and she resumed the conversation. Everything was smooth—no hitch anywhere.

You weep falsely; you laugh falsely. Your whole personality is counterfeit. Don’t let this counterfeit personality become a part of prayer too. That is why people get a Satyanarayana katha done. They hire a priest: “Do it—take ten rupees. This God is after us—get the katha done; at least we can say we did it.”

The Tibetans have made a prayer-wheel—a small wheel like the wheel on a spinning charkha. It has as many spokes—one hundred and eight—as the beads on a rosary. On each spoke a mantra is written. They spin the wheel; as many turns as the wheel makes, so much benefit of mantra-recitation is earned—merit gained.

I was in Bodh Gaya. A Tibetan lama was staying with me. He would read his book and, in between, give the wheel a spin. I watched for a day, two days; then I said, “Do one thing. Why carry this old method? Attach an electric wire and connect it. Then you can do whatever you like—this wheel will keep turning and turning. At night you can sleep and it will keep turning. Your merit will be without end—merit will shower upon you.”

Whom are you deceiving? People have invented tricks even for prayer—false tricks. People are false; therefore whatever they do becomes false.

Don’t ask, “How should I pray?” The wave is rising, feeling is arising—just don’t put a barrier in it. Don’t interfere. Wherever this wave takes you, walk a little with it. At first you will feel afraid: who knows where it will take me? I may start crying in the middle of the market; where people are sitting seriously, I may start laughing—they will think I’m mad! Remember: only mad people can pray. Only those who have the courage to be mad can walk the path of prayer.

Touching the pain of my life-breath—become love!
Whatever was untangled, tangle it today;
Whatever was tangled, untangle it today.
Dry up today the monsoon of my tears;
I am longing—make me ache today.
Become the loving law of my eyes’ affection!
Touching the pain of my life-breath—become love!

Be the Swati-drop of tenderness; make me yearn my whole life.
Do not show my heart’s rain-bird too much of your sight.
If you steal the smile of my lips—I will understand;
Do just that much, and I will count myself blessed.
Become the eternal past of the present!
Touching the pain of my life-breath—become love!

Before me there is no false adornment,
No prop of dreamy hopes.
String the scattered strings of my veena;
With a gesture, make them sound for a moment today.
Singing my songs—become my friend!
Touching the pain of my life-breath—become love!

Do not you do prayer—call upon the divine that prayer be born within you.

String the scattered strings of my veena;
With a gesture, make them sound for a moment today.
Singing my songs—become my friend!
Touching the pain of my life-breath—become love!

True prayer is not yours—it is the divine’s, by the divine himself. You are only the medium—the hollow bamboo. He sings his song through you. Only then is prayer true. And only then is prayer liberating.

Men have always arranged privileges for themselves and blocked women. They locked women within the four walls of the house and kept themselves free. Those days are gone. Now, to the extent you are free, the woman is equally free. And if you don’t want to burn in jealousy, there are only two ways. First, become free of lust yourself. Where there is no lust, jealousy does not remain. And second, if you do not wish to become free of lust, then at least grant the other the same right you claim for yourself. Gather that much courage.

I would like you to become free of lust. If you have truly known one woman, you have known all women. If you have truly known one man, you have known all men. The differences that remain are only surface lines. And if, having known one woman, you have not known Woman, understand that you are living in unconsciousness. Even after knowing countless women he will not know; he cannot know. Because knowing happens through awareness, and he is unconscious. He will keep running—from one to the next and the next.

And of course you will burn, because the male ego is hurt. You take it as perfectly fine that you should be attracted to someone else’s wife. We say, “After all, a man is a man!” Men themselves must have coined this proverb that “a man is a man.” Men themselves devised this arithmetic: a man is not satisfied with one, he needs many women; a woman is satisfied with one. These are men’s tricks. A woman should be satisfied with one—that one is you! And you? How could you be satisfied with one—you are a man; a man should have more privilege!

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin got new neighbors—Mr. Malhotra. His wife is very beautiful. To tease his own wife, one morning as soon as he woke up, Mulla said, “Listen, don’t be upset, but for some days now I keep seeing Mrs. Malhotra in my dreams.” The wife said, “She appears alone, right?” Mulla said, “Yes—but how did you know?” The wife said, “Because Mr. Malhotra comes in my dreams.” Mulla was very distressed. He had set out to tease his wife and ended up being teased himself.

The freedom you want for yourself belongs equally to your wife. And if you feel that no, it is not right that your wife be interested in other men, then it is not right for you to be interested in other women either. And whatever you want your wife to do, you should do first; only then do you have the right.

Drop these races of lust. And let me tell you this: women are certainly not as lust-obsessed as men are. In women there is a certain quality of surrender. In women there is a kind of fidelity, trust, and reverence. A man’s love is shallow, not deep; it remains on the surface. In a man’s life, love is not everything—there are many other things; in a woman’s life, everything is love, and all other things are included within love. In a man’s life there are many tasks, and love is one task among them. In a woman’s life there is no other task; all tasks are encompassed in love.

Man is unruly, man is restless. You can see this even in little children. A little boy cannot sit quietly. He will throw things, open a clock, catch flies—he will do some mischief or other. A little girl sits quietly in a corner, perhaps holding her doll to her chest.

And note: women begin to sense, even in the womb, whether it is a boy or a girl. If the mother is a bit sensitive she begins to know, because the boy starts his mischief right there—kicking somewhere, moving his head. The girl is quiet. An experienced mother begins to know whether it is a boy or a girl by the proportion of the commotion.

There is a scientific reason for this. Biology says that in the woman’s personality there is proportion; in the man’s, there is not. The female unit is even. A person is born by the meeting of two units—the male and the female. In the male there are two kinds of units: one with twenty-four compartments and one with twenty-three; in the female there is only the twenty-four-compartment unit. When the man’s twenty-four meets the woman’s twenty-four, a girl is born—forty-eight; the balance is even, both pans of the scale level. And when the man’s twenty-three meets the woman’s twenty-four, a boy is born—forty-seven; one pan is low, the other high; there is no equilibrium. In the woman there are twenty-four and twenty-four. Therefore the woman is more beautiful, proportionate, tranquil. There is a certain symmetry, a certain steadiness, a certain roundness in a woman’s personality. The man is a bit skewed; he goes slantwise. There are scientific bases as well.

Dhabbuji and his wife went on a pilgrimage. Dhabbuji is a great lover of books; he carries books under his arm twenty-four hours a day. Even in the temple—perhaps the Vishwanath temple in Kashi—standing there he was reading his book. His wife was praying. Now understand her sorrow. She cried out, “O Lord of Vishwanath! Do only this much: in my next birth, after I die, may I not be a woman—make me a book, so that at least I can stay with Dhabbuji twenty-four hours a day.” Dhabbuji heard. He too immediately knelt, folded his hands, and said, “O Lord! If you must grant her prayer, then make her a telephone directory, so I can change her every year.”

Such is the man’s mind—restless. Let this restlessness go. Become a little steady. Become a little quiet. Become a little wise in life. You have run for lives upon lives—where have you reached? And how long will you go on running? Now stop!

“If the feet halt, the village is found.” If you stop, the village appears; what you are seeking is found. That stopping is meditation. The ongoing movement is the world. Stopping is God.

That’s all for today.