Mrityoma Amritam Gamaya #1

Shravan! The language of “India and non-India,” “home and abroad,” is irreligious. It fundamentally reflects politics, diplomacy, violence, retaliation, enmity—this it reflects; not religion, not meditation, not samadhi.

What is native or foreign about meditation? What is native or foreign about love? People’s skin tones may differ, their faces and features may be different; but their souls are not different! Bodies may vary a little; yet the science of the body is one. And the soul, which is absolutely one—will it have many scriptures? Will you partition even the soul into national fragments?

It is because of this dividing that so much harm has been done! Because of this dividing, the earth has not become a heaven; it has become a hell. For wherever people become fragmented, filled with competition, seized by the ego—there is hell.
This is the language of ego, Shravan. You think you have asked a very religious question. Your question is utterly irreligious. Whom do you consider part of the nation, and whom do you consider foreign? Lines are merely drawn on a map, and you think the earth gets divided?
Lahore was India till yesterday; now it is not! Dhaka was India till yesterday; now it is not! When you use the term “Bharat-bhumi,” do Karachi, Dhaka, Lahore fall within it or not? Until yesterday they did—until before 1947 they did; now they don’t. Tomorrow the country may shrink even more. It may be that the South separates from the North. Then India will be contained only in the North; then only the Gangetic belt will remain India; then South India will no longer be! Even now, the names you counted are all from the North—Krishna, Buddha, Mahavira, Kabir, Nanak. Not a single person from the South is among them. At the very mention of the South, the instant memory that arises is of Ravana!

There have been saints in the South too—marvelous saints! There was Tiruvalluvar, whose scripture is called the Fifth Veda in the South. And certainly his scripture is the Fifth Veda. If there is any Fifth Veda in the world, it is the utterance of Tiruvalluvar. But you won’t count the South either! Your India keeps shrinking, getting smaller and smaller.

This whole earth is one. Why did you not include Christ? Why did you not include Zarathustra? Why did you not include Lao Tzu? Why did you not include Pythagoras? Why did you not include Heraclitus? Just because they are not part of your political India, were they not seers? Were they not luminous beings? The sun of the East is the same as the West. Likewise, the light of the soul is the same in East and West. It is everyone’s right.

Do not bind religion to politics. Do not betroth religion to politics. Religion should divorce politics. This engagement has cost us dearly. In it, politics sat on its chest and religion was left ground into the dust.

The first mark of a religious person is that he does not think in terms of boundaries. One who has set out to seek the Infinite—will he think within limits? And where do boundaries end anyway? There are boundaries of language; of color; of different customs, different climates—these have their limits. Different traditions, different conceptions of life—these have their limits. How many religions are there on the earth—three hundred! And how many countries! And how many languages—some three thousand! If you sit to think in terms of boundaries, you will land yourself in great difficulty.

Those who think Sanskrit alone is the language of the gods—for them Buddha and Mahavira are not awakened beings, because they did not speak Sanskrit. Perhaps they did not even know Sanskrit. They spoke in the people’s tongue—whatever was the language of the people then: in Pali, in Prakrit. One who thinks Arabic is God’s language—then for him, apart from the Quran, no other book remains of God. Or someone thinks Hebrew is His language—then the matter ends with the Bible.

Why do you think within such petty limits? This too is only an expansion of the ego. Because you were born in India, therefore India is great! Had you been born in China, then China would have been great. If, in your childhood, you had quietly been taken and left in China and had grown up there, you would never take the names of Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Nanak, Kabir; you would take the names—Lao Tzu, Confucius, Chuang Tzu, Lieh Tzu—whom perhaps you have not even thought of yet. Or if you had been brought up in Greece, you would say—Socrates, Aristotle, Plato, Heraclitus, Pythagoras. Where would Kabir be counted! Kabir wouldn’t even come to your mind. You would not even know of Kabir.

Even here, if you were born in a Hindu home or a Jain home, that is one thing; if you were born in a Muslim home, do you think you could take even one of these names? Even in the land of India, had you been Muslim, the names that would come to your mind would be—Mohammad, Bahauddin, Bayazid, Al-Hallaj Mansur, Rabia. These are only our boundaries. Do not impose these boundaries upon Truth.
Your question: “On this land of India...”
Which land of India? Once Afghanistan was part of India. Buddhist statues have been found there, ruins of Buddhist monasteries have been found there, Ashoka’s edicts have been found there. It was once part of India; now it isn’t. Once Burma was part of India; now it isn’t. And right before our eyes Pakistan broke away and is no longer part of India. Which land do you call the land of India?

And is any soil sacred or profane? Is Jerusalem less sacred than Kashi? Is the Kaaba less than Girnar? Are the peaks of the Alps less sacred, less beautiful, less majestic than the Himalayas?

As my sannyasin, drop such language. To be my sannyasin means we have set out in search of the infinite; we will make ourselves infinite; we will free ourselves from all boundaries, all pettiness. No book will bind us, no country will bind us, no church, no sect will bind us. We will drop all chains.

Yet in your mind the ego still hides somewhere: “Will the land of India always remain foremost in spirituality?”

Why foremost? Why should it be foremost? The language of “foremost” is the language of ambition. In wealth, “I must be first!” In position, “I must be ahead!” And Jesus has said: Blessed are the last, for in the kingdom of God they shall be first. And unfortunate are those striving to be first, for in the kingdom of God they will be counted last.

Humility, egolessness is virtue. But here is the ironic thing: when you bring egolessness into your personal life, people honor you. Bring that same egolessness regarding your religion, your country, your language, and people will insult you. They will call you traitor. If you say, “I am nothing, only the dust of your feet”—fine. But if you say, “The land of India is nothing, only the dust of your feet”—there will be a fight. “Hinduism is nothing, just the dust of your feet”—Hindus will be ready to kill you. They will forget the language of egolessness, forget the message of centuries. Then humility doesn’t work.

In truth we take our gratification in collective ego. In personal ego the group gets angry. If you say, “I am the greatest!” others will be offended. But if you say, “We are the greatest!” then others’ egos are also being gratified along with yours; why would anyone be angry? If you say India is the foremost spiritual country, at least in India no one will be upset. Yes, don’t go say that in China, don’t say it in Russia. No one goes to Russia to say it; and if someone does, they’ll laugh—“Gone mad, has he? India—foremost?”

I have heard: Sicily is a small island. Its ambassador went to China. In front of China Sicily doesn’t count at all. But the emperor of Sicily told his ambassador, “Remember one thing: the Chinese are under the illusion that their country is the largest in the world. If they say China is the largest, quietly agree; don’t say Sicily is the largest, because they won’t understand.”

What place does Sicily have in that reckoning! If China is the Himalayas, Sicily isn’t even a knoll. If China is an ocean, Sicily isn’t even a pond. Yet those who live in Sicily believe there is no country greater than theirs!

We don’t see our own foolishness.

When the English first went to China, they were amazed. Seeing the Chinese, they couldn’t believe these were human beings! Early travelers wrote in their memoirs: seeing the Chinese, for the first time we were baffled whether to call them human or something else—flat noses, protruding cheekbones; and as for beards, so few hairs you could count them on your fingers! Yellow faces! What kind of people are these! Their clothing!

And what did the Chinese write seeing the English? “Until now we had only heard that there are countries where men look like monkeys; now we have definite proof that there are men who look like monkeys. Absolutely simian! Their faces, their gait, their color! And listen to their language—what a cacophony, what a jumble!”

And the Chinese language? English travelers wrote that it seems when they name a child they throw all the house’s spoons and pots high into the air and let them crash down—ching, chung, chang, ching; out of those sounds they extract names. Otherwise how else could such names be invented!

This is entirely natural. We are blind like this. All of us. Our blindness is deep and dense. A sannyasin has to break this blindness. The world is lovely because it contains different kinds of people, variety. There is flavor in diversity, delight in diversity.

But we can’t tolerate one another, because seeing the other obstructs us. Then where are we? Always calculating, “In the queue, who stands ahead?” There is no queue here; people stand in a circle. Everyone is ahead of everyone, everyone behind everyone. Stand in a circle and see, who is ahead of whom? Someone is ahead in one direction, someone behind in another. Look behind and all are behind you; look ahead and all are ahead of you. The earth is round, and we stand in a circle. Yet for centuries these foolish notions have been repeated. So even if you become my sannyasin, the darkness of centuries doesn’t vanish in a day or two. Even when you listen to me, who knows what meaning you take!

I do not sing the glory of the nation of India! Neither Krishna sang it, nor Buddha, nor Mahavira, nor Nanak, nor Kabir. Such people go beyond pettiness. They belong to the whole earth. This whole earth is one; it is nowhere divided. Is there any crack where one country is separated from another? There is no crack anywhere. Everything is connected. Not only the earth is connected—the moon and stars are connected too. Existence is one whole. Who then is ahead, who behind?

But the ego thinks only in this language—ahead-behind—whether in wealth or position. And even if one forgives the arithmetic of front and back in money and status, in the realm of religion it cannot be forgiven. There, the very thought of being first is sin.

You ask: “Will the land of India always remain foremost in spirituality?”

Why? When was it foremost? Except you, who else thinks it ever was? Look within and check. Do Hindus accept Mahavira as a God? Do Jains accept Buddha as God? Do Buddhists accept Krishna as God? Jains have consigned Krishna to the seventh hell! They had to—by their doctrine, who is more troublesome than Krishna! Arjuna was a decent man, a gentleman, preparing to renounce and become a monk; he was not allowed to escape. Krishna ensnared him, reasoned, hammered away somehow… Such a long Gita doesn’t run for nothing! He was hammered and hammered. Arjuna tried to slip away here, then there… he raised this doubt and that doubt. Krishna allowed no doubt to stand. He forced him to fight! He presented such arguments: those whom you think alive are already dead; the divine has already killed them; you are but an instrument. And if you won’t kill, someone else will. Why miss the opportunity? The divine is giving you the chance to be the instrument. The divine will hang His coat on some peg or other; He is choosing your peg—why are you running away? Let the coat be hung! This is blessed fortune; such fortune is rare.

Arjuna tried many angles: “Let me go to the forest. What will I do with this kingdom! If it comes by killing my own, what is its worth?”

Look closely and Arjuna seems the more spiritual. He says, what good can come of killing? Can there be merit in violence? Hundreds of thousands will die. Eighteen akshauhinis stand arrayed; in this, hundreds of thousands will be cut down. The earth will be carpeted with corpses. And all are our own, because it was truly a civil war. They were split down the middle. Krishna himself stood with Arjuna, but his army fought on the opposite side. Cousins were here and there. Uncles on one side, in-laws on the other. Childhood friends were divided. All had grown up together, studied together. Bhishma Pitamah was on the other side—the feet at which Arjuna had always bowed, now he must attack his chest with the Gandiva! Dronacharya was on the other side, from whom he had learned archery. To drive arrows into the chest of the very one who taught you the bow! There is no murder greater than killing the guru.

If you look closely, Arjuna seems right—what is there in this war! Let them enjoy it. I will go to the forest. If they relish it, let them have it. What is there in it! A life of two days—I will pass it in the forest. If I have no clothes, I will cover myself with leaves. My heart recoils. My heart is not willing.

But Krishna gives great arguments and, by pounding from every side, somehow gets him to agree! If you read the Gita carefully, it seems Arjuna does not agree; he is made to agree. And even when he appears to agree, it still feels as though his voice has been silenced. Krishna offered so many arguments that Arjuna thought, “Better to fight! How long will this harangue continue! This man will not relent. And surely he is brilliant; I cannot stand before his intelligence. He has cut all my arguments.” So in the end Arjuna said, “All right. You are right. My doubts have fallen.” And, compelled, he picked up his Gandiva!

The war happened. A terrible bloodbath. So great a slaughter that before it such a war had never occurred in India, and after it neither. That is why it is called Mahabharata—the great war; all later wars, earlier and later, were smaller.

The entire Jain outlook stands on nonviolence. In this, Arjuna appears more nonviolent; Krishna appears violent. And Krishna preaches fatalism—everything is predestined, God has already done it. Jain thought stands on karma, not fate. Man can, if he chooses, change his destiny—that is their foundation. And Jains say there is no God who has written your fate, who has etched destiny on your forehead that “so it shall be.” What you decide, that will be. Your decision is your destiny.

So what should Jains do? They have not placed Arjuna in the seventh hell; they have put Krishna in the seventh hell! Arjuna was indeed an instrument—Krishna himself said it: “You are but an instrument.” He said the instrument of God; Jains said the instrument of Krishna. This is Krishna’s manipulation! Poor Arjuna was ensnared; he had no answer. So Arjuna is in the first hell; Krishna went to the seventh! Arjuna will have been released by now; his term ended. Krishna has not been released, and will not be—until this creation is destroyed and a new one created.

But those who revere Krishna have not considered Mahavira even worth mention. In their scriptures Mahavira is not mentioned.

I had an acquaintance, Rishabhdas Ranka. He brought me to Poona for the first time. He was a Jain and a Gandhian, so Gandhi’s “harmony of all religions” had thoroughly filled his head. He said, “I am writing a book on Buddha and Mahavira. If you look at it, it would be good.” I said, “Certainly.” When he showed me his book, I got stuck at the title; I did not go further. Then I said, “I won’t read beyond this.” The title was: Bhagwan Mahavira and Mahatma Buddha.

I asked, “Either call both Mahatma or both Bhagwan.”

He said, “How can I put them on the same level? Mahavira attained; Buddha is almost attained, not yet fully. I can accept Mahatma for him, but Bhagwan? Because the signs Mahavira has given of a Bhagwan are not fully present in Buddha!”

And ask the Buddhists! The signs they give of a Buddha won’t fit Mahavira. For signs are formulated looking at one’s own master; how will they apply to another? Buddhist texts mock Mahavira; Jains call him trikālajña—knower of the three times. The Buddhists say, if there is no fate, how can anyone know the future? Knowledge of the future is possible only if fate exists.

If someone tells you, “Tomorrow morning this will happen: the teacup will slip from your hand and break,” it means it is already fixed that tomorrow the cup will fall. Whatever you do, nothing will change; the cup has to fall. If it is fixed, what remains in human hands? Then the doctrine of karma collapses.

Buddhist scriptures say: “Jains call Mahavira trikālajña! And we have heard—once Mahavira begged for alms at a house in which no one was home! Trikālajña—and he stood begging before a house where there was nobody! The door was shut, and the trikālajña could not see there was no one inside!

“And we have also heard—one morning, in the dark, as he set out from one village to another, he stepped on the tail of a sleeping dog! The dog barked, then he realized it was there. Trikālajña—and he cannot perceive a sleeping dog right before him! What kind of trikālajña is this?”

Ask Buddhists and Jains whether Rama is an avatar, God? How can they accept? The presence of Mother Sita will be an obstacle. And he stands with a bow. God—and he stands with a bow and arrow! And Tulsidas says, “I am in love with the archer.” He does not bow before the image of Krishna; he says, “Until you take bow and arrow in hand, I will not bow.” As if bow and arrow are the symbols of God, that without them one cannot be God!

And Parashurama! What to say of him! It is said he emptied the earth of Kshatriyas eighteen times. A formidable Brahmin—mega-Brahmin, one should say—roaming with an axe, cutting down Kshatriyas. Violence is the very tenor of his life. Hindus count him as an avatar.

Just reflect, and you will be in difficulty. Leave aside the outside; even here you will not be able to decide. And I say: include Jesus too, and Muhammad too, and Zarathustra too, and Moses too. I am giving you a vast vision. You are all tied within narrow visions. Bound in narrowness, you will remain narrow. I say your eyes must be so open, your heart so vast, that Rama fits in, Parashurama fits in—axe included! And Moses, and Muhammad, and Mahavira, and Buddha, and Krishna, and Kabir, and Nanak. The whole earth is ours. All the flowers that have blossomed on this earth are ours. Why make the garden small? Why call only one flower a flower?

One who takes the rose alone to be a flower will naturally not accept the lotus as a flower, nor champa, nor jasmine. The tuberose will bloom and fill the night with fragrance, but the person who believes only the rose is a flower will pass with a handkerchief on his nose. He will call it stench; he cannot accept it as fragrance. Fragrance, for him, comes from the rose!

Why do you get fixed on a single flower? Mahavira is one kind of flower, Buddha another, Parashurama another, Rama another, Krishna another. There are many flowers in this garden of the divine. That is why this world is lovely—seven-hued, rainbow-like.

Until now your outlooks have been like a one-stringed lute—sitting and plucking one string. There are other instruments too, with many strings. There are other vinas; the one-string is not all there is. But the religions up to now have been one-stringed, one-sided, one-dimensional. The religious vision I am giving you is multi-dimensional.

Shravan, drop these petty issues. Who is ahead, who behind! This very language is delusion. It is the language of sin—ahead and behind. Because ambition is sin. Wake up from craving, wake up from ego. Accept the whole of existence. And of the unique beings who have arisen in this existence, drink them all in! Taste them all. If you taste them all, an unprecedented music will be born in your being.

Shravan, you are troubled that there are foreign seekers here. Engineers, doctors, thinkers, seers—running to Poona from all over the world! Will they get ahead of us?

Why do you separate yourself? They are coming, and you are coming. If you keep separating, then Punjabis will separate, Gujaratis will separate, Maharashtrians will separate. Pull the separation further and within Punjab the Sikh will be separate and the Hindu separate. Where does such separating stop? Nowhere. If you keep pulling at it, you’ll find the ultimate conclusion is: Will I be ahead, or will someone else be ahead? Keep pulling and the logical conclusion will be exactly this: Will I be ahead, or will the other be ahead?

But religion isn’t a race to be ahead. It is the art of dissolving oneself; the art of immersing oneself.

And if you feel that the foreigners have learned and imbibed here a quality of love, compassion, surrender—which is visible in the ashram’s activities—then you learn too. Then you too imbibe in the same way—nonviolence, compassion, love, service. Then you too dive in.

And why call them foreigners? Either we are all foreigners. In the ultimate sense, we are all foreigners. “Hansa, fly to that other land!” Then none of us has a home here; no country here belongs to anyone. We have to go beyond; we have to reach the other shore, the divine. On this shore we have no home; it is only a campsite, a halt in between. We have pitched a tent for two moments. But morning will come and the tent must be pulled up. Here all must die—what kind of “country” is this? It isn’t ours. If you use the word “foreigner” in this sense, I agree. But then, Shravan, you too are a foreigner.

And if you cannot use it in that sense—if you are “native” and those who have come from England, Germany, Italy, Holland, Japan are “foreigners”—then you are using the wrong language. Then there are no foreigners. We are all inhabitants of one earth. The days of nations are over; the days of politics are over. The future is bringing something else—something new is coming! What you see here is the first glimpse of that future. Even then you don’t wake up.

And it isn’t only your mistake. Journalists come—especially Indian journalists—their first question is: Why so many foreigners here and so few natives? But a German does not ask, “Why so many Italians here?” An Italian does not ask, “Why so many Dutch?” A Dutchman does not ask, “Why so many Japanese?” Why does this stupidity seize only you?

And foreigners will naturally be more visible: that includes Dutch, Swedish, Swiss, French, Italian, German, Japanese, Chinese, Russian, Korean, Australian—the whole world included. India then counts as one small part. Then of course you are troubled: why are there fewer Indians? As if you feel some inferiority.

This is the ashram of the whole earth. It is a sheer accident that it falls within India’s borders; only an accident. It could be in Pakistan, in Iran, anywhere. Its being here or there is purely incidental.

My message is universal, all-embracing.

But we have been trained to create divisions in everything. Even those we call “good people” have handed down the basic errors; they don’t disappear. The native-foreigner feeling never leaves.

Drop it! Either all are foreigners or all are natives—choose one of the two. I am fine with either. But do not fragment the whole; let it remain unbroken.

Now you ask: “Will India be deprived of your wealth?”

Again this “land of India” returns! Is your mind unhinged? What have you hung on this “land of India” refrain? The land knows nothing of it. Ask the land! Pick up a handful of soil from India and a handful from China and a handful from Japan, and try to decide which is Indian soil. You will be in trouble. Soil is soil. Stone is stone. Water is water. Man is man. Men are men, women are women. But we have grown addicted to adjectives.

You are afraid that so many foreigners are coming here; perhaps the truth I am giving you will be looted by foreigners!

Truth is not something to be looted. Whoever takes, receives. Don’t keep brooding like this. Hurry. Drink. And those who are thirsty are coming. Those who are thirsty in this country are coming. Those who are thirsty in other countries are coming.

And naturally, outside this so-called India, the thirst is greater. There is a reason. India suffers from the illusion that “we are already religious.” One who imagines himself healthy—why would he go to a physician? For what? Only one who feels, “I am ill,” goes to a physician.

India is deluded that “we already have religion. Religion is our profession. This is our work. God has given us the task of delivering religion to the whole world. We are the messengers of religion—whether there is religion or not!”

An English traveler wrote that he got off at Delhi station and a Sardarji, an astrologer, grabbed his hand. He tried to free his hand—but a Sardar! A Sardar doesn’t let go so easily. Out of embarrassment he couldn’t very well start hitting him; he was newly arrived and the Sardarji wouldn’t listen, just began reading his lines and telling his future. He kept on and on. The man said, “I don’t want to know my future. I have no interest in it. I don’t believe in it. Please, leave my hand.” But Sardarji wouldn’t listen. “If he listened, he wouldn’t be a Sardar!” And he gripped so tight that the man couldn’t free himself. Out of courtesy too it felt wrong to be rough—after all, the man wasn’t doing harm. After ten or fifteen minutes of this torrent, the traveler said, “Brother, let me go now; I have to go!” Sardarji said, “Two rupees, the fee!” He replied, “I’ve been saying from the start I don’t want my future told. This is coercion.” Sardarji said, “Ah, materialist! Quibbling over two rupees!”

Now who is the materialist here? Sardarji took the two rupees and only then relented. He didn’t leave him alone—kept following, shouting, “Hey, materialist! Hey, corrupt one! Hey, a man who quibbles over two rupees! I told your future—spent fifteen minutes!”

The traveler thought it better to give two rupees and end the scene; a crowd was gathering. As soon as he paid, Sardarji grabbed his hand again: “A few more things remain to be told.” He said, “Now I absolutely don’t want to know. And if you tell, remember—don’t ask for another two rupees!”

It is hard to find a country more materialistic than this one. But we carry the pride of being religious. We wear the garments of “Ram-naam.” And we think, “What need have we? We already know religion!” The West’s good fortune is that it knows it does not know religion. Your misfortune is your illusion that you do. Why this illusion? Because you have the Gita by heart. Because the Vedas are memorized. Because you believe all avatars were born here. This long history of delusions sits on your chest like a stone. And this is your only swagger—and there is nothing else behind it! This hollow swagger keeps your ego puffed up. So why would you come? You read the Gita at home, apply tilak and sandalwood paste, wave the aarti, perform yajnas and havans. Why come?

In the life of the Westerner an extraordinary thing is happening: he has become fact-oriented. This is the outcome of science. In three hundred years, science has taught the West to be factual—no false notions, no airy talk—down-to-earth. And the ultimate result of pursuing fact is that the West has begun to see there is a lack within. This fact has entered awareness. We cannot cover it with the Bible. We cannot hide it by memorizing the sayings of Jesus.

This realization is great good fortune, because the pain of this awareness leads him to search. He travels far, wherever a ray of sun is reported, wherever a lamp is lit. He has realized he is living in the dark night of the new moon.

You sit with eyes shut and shout that it is the full moon. You shout, “Full moon! Full moon! Full moon!” You do not open your eyes. You cannot open them, because if you look you will see it is new moon. There is deep darkness in this country. Your pundits are blind; they know nothing. And the blind are leading the blind. Nanak said: “The blind push the blind!” The blind shove the blind; the blind lead the blind. Both fall into the well! And even if they fall, they will say, “We have reached Mansarovar!” Even drowning in the well they will say, “Ah, what bliss!”

These are your delusions. Into what deeper well could you fall than the one you are in today? What darker darkness could there be? What greater poverty, what deeper wretchedness? But there is a hallucination in the skull; it prevents reality from entering.

People write to me. A Jain from Gwalior wrote four or six days ago: “I have been practicing for twenty years. Quite a lot of progress has happened; many experiences are coming. Kundalini is awakening. There are experiences of light. But I think perhaps by coming to you I could gain more! But first I want to know which mantra you give. Because I cannot take a mantra from you. I have already taken a mantra.”

I had him written back: “There is no need to come here. You have light; kundalini is awakening; you have a mantra. Why come here?”

And he cannot take another mantra. He cannot make another guru—because he already made one twenty years ago. Then what is the question of coming here?

In this country everyone has a guru and everyone has taken a mantra. And nothing has been attained through your mantras and your gurus. But to admit that requires a broad chest. From his letter it is obvious nothing has been attained—otherwise why come here? When you are on the right path and light has begun and joy has begun, just keep going.

I wrote back, “Walk happily on your path. Let me show the way to those who have no mantra, no guru, no path, who stand in darkness. You are in a lot of light; you have found the way; walk it. Keep walking straight, you will arrive!”

A gentleman came here some days ago. For thirty years he has been in the Himalayas, so he carries the Himalayas’ swagger. He left home thirty years ago. He was young; now he is old. He said, “I am finding supreme bliss in the Himalayas.” I said, “Then why trouble to come here? Beyond supreme bliss there is nothing.”

He hesitated. “No, I thought perhaps…”

I said, “There is no question of ‘perhaps’. If there is ‘perhaps,’ first it must be settled regarding supreme bliss—are you getting it or not?”

He said, “If you insist, perhaps I made a mistake. I should not say ‘supreme bliss’, say bliss.”

I said, “Is there more or less in bliss? Less bliss, more bliss—does such a thing exist? As a circle is either complete or it is not. Bliss is complete. ‘Supreme’ is an unnecessary adjective. Bliss is supreme.”

He got more entangled. “Then assume I am not getting bliss.” I said, “Why should I assume? If you are getting it and I assume you are not, why thrust ignorance upon me? If you are getting it, you must be. But if someone is getting bliss, why would he come from the Himalayas to here?”

I said, “I will not speak to you until you acknowledge the truth that you have no inkling of bliss. I can see in your eyes—there is no bliss. Thirty years wasted. But the ego is unwilling to accept.”

He looked around. That is why I don’t meet people alone; alone they accept quickly. But that acceptance has no value. He looked around—how to say it! But he was in a bind; he had come so far, had been writing for days about coming. He finally said, “You are right. The truth is I have no taste of bliss. Whatever was prescribed I did. But nothing happened. That is why I have come to you.”

I said, “Now something can happen. How can I diagnose when you say you are not ill? How can I treat when you say you are not ill? How can I give medicine when you are not ill? Who would be more mad than me then!”

This is India’s difficulty. Shravan, here everyone is a knower of Brahman! Whoever you see is engrossed in talk of Brahman. By hearing and hearing, everyone has memorized talk of Brahman. You remember four stanzas of Tulsidas and that’s that. You remember two couplets of Rahim and that’s that. Why go anywhere, why seek?

And then to come to someone like me is even harder—because I shake you from the roots. I don’t prune leaves. I have no faith in pruning leaves; I have faith in cutting roots. Because if you cut the roots, there is revolution. Cutting leaves—new ones will sprout, even more lush.

India will miss—if people are not ready to drop their ego. It will certainly miss. Ego is the obstacle—whether it be the Indian’s ego or the non-Indian’s; it makes no difference. Wherever there is ego, there is obstruction.

And you ask: “In the future too, will great men continue to incarnate on the land of India?”

Why are you getting entangled in such futility! Do you have any concern for yourself? What have you to do with the future? So many great men have come in the past—what did you gain? And suppose they keep coming in the future—what will you gain?

Drink something yourself. Live something yourself. Don’t worry about others. Look within! Understand your condition. Your responsibility is to yourself. Whether in India in the future they will come or not—leave it to those who will come. They will know their work. So many great men came in the past—did you benefit? When you could not take benefit of those already here in the past, how will you benefit from those of the future, who aren’t even here yet? The flowers that have blossomed you do not smell; how will you smell the flowers that may blossom in the future?

And flowers will keep blossoming. This earth is never barren. The divine keeps descending in some form or another. Because the divine has not yet lost hope in man. The divine is not yet disappointed with man. The divine has not taken sannyas from man. The divine still has affection for man, love for man. But don’t get entangled in these tangles.

Shravan, listen! I have given you the name Shravan—listen! Listen to your fill! Contemplate! And not only listen and contemplate—live it. Let the lamp within you be lit.

My whole commitment is to the individual; not to society, not to nation, not to past, not to future.

My whole commitment is to the present and to the individual. Because only the individual is transformed; societies are not transformed. Revolution happens in the individual, because the individual has a soul. Where there is soul, there the divine can descend. Society has no soul; there the divine has no possibility.

Chaitanya Kirti! Buddha says: birth is suffering, death is suffering, life is suffering. I both agree and do not agree. In one sense I agree; in another, I do not. The birth of the ego is suffering, the death of the ego is suffering, the life of the ego is suffering. In that sense, I agree. But the life of the soul is bliss. The birth of the soul is bliss, the death of the soul is bliss.

The “birth” of the soul is bliss because the soul is never born; it is before birth. The life of the soul is bliss because the soul is only a witness, not a enjoyer in the sense of grasping. And the “death” of the soul is bliss because the soul never dies; the soul is immortal.

Buddha spoke from the standpoint of the ego when he said that life is suffering, birth is suffering, death is suffering.

Your life is suffering; my life is not suffering. If you live centered in the ego, you create hell around you. Ego is false, untrue, illusory. There is no greater untruth than that. Build your house of life on untruth and you are trying to sail in a paper boat, to build palaces out of playing cards—one small gust of wind and it’s gone! Hence regret, tears, pain. Whatever you build will be demolished. Whatever you gather will be snatched away. The whole of life will be like bubbles on water.

But the cause is not life; the cause is your ego. Therefore Buddha said: drop the I-sense. Know, “I am not; I am emptiness”—and there is nirvana. What Buddha calls nirvana, I call the soul; I call it the supreme life. When the I drops, it is all juice, all rasa. Raso vai sah. Then the stream of the divine starts descending. Ego, like a rock, blocks the spring from bursting forth.

So, Chaitanya Kirti, in that sense I agree with Buddha: the birth of the ego is suffering. And only the false is born, because only the false begins. Truth simply is; it has no birth. And only the false dies. How can truth die? Truth is eternal. And how can the life of truth be suffering? The life of truth can only be bliss. The aura of truth is bliss. Truth radiates bliss; blossoms upon blossoms of bliss flower in truth. Truth is the wine of ecstasy. Ego is a thorn stuck in the chest; it wounds, festers, becomes a sore; worms gather there.

You have asked, “What is the meaning of the Upanishadic prayer—‘Mrityor ma amritam gamaya’?”

This Upanishadic prayer is the finest prayer in the world. So short, so deep, so vast—none other like it. It contains all.

The full prayer is: Tamaso ma jyotir gamaya! O Lord, lead me from darkness to light.

Let me remind you, darkness means ego. This is not about outer darkness. Why pray to God for outer darkness? For that you can go to the electricity office; even kerosene will do. Why bring God into that? Outer darkness goes with outer light.

But there is an inner darkness that outer light cannot dispel. In fact, the more outer light there is, the more the inner darkness stands out in contrast, becomes more sharply visible. Like stars appear on the backdrop of night yet disappear in the day, the more there is outer light, the more material prosperity grows, the more your inner darkness becomes evident. The more external riches grow, the more one senses inner poverty. The more paraphernalia of comfort increases outside, the more the inner sorrow stings.

Therefore I say a strange thing you may not have heard before: I want the earth to be prosperous, very prosperous. Let there be piles of wealth. Let there be no poor. Why? Because the more wealth piles up outside, the more you will become aware of your inner poverty. The more means of opulence you have, the more you will feel the pain that within all is empty, vacant.

Today in the West, where outer wealth and opulence are touching their ultimate peak, there is one dominant question: why is there so much inner emptiness, so much hollowness? In India no one even talks about inner emptiness—how to, when the outer emptiness isn’t filled yet! The belly is empty; who will talk of the soul’s emptiness? When you hear Jesus say, “Man cannot live by bread alone,” it won’t sit well yet. Even if you hear it, it won’t go home. You will say, first give us bread, then we’ll consider whether man can live by bread alone or not. Only after bread is available can one reflect on that.

I want to add one more sentence to Jesus’ saying. That sentence is incomplete. In a sense, all ancient sayings are incomplete. Jesus says: Man cannot live by bread alone. I also want to say: Man cannot live without bread either. Bread is needed, but it is not enough. It is necessary—yet not sufficient. When bread is available and the stomach is full, a new hunger is felt—the hunger of the soul. When there is light outside, a new darkness is experienced—the darkness within. That darkness is called ego. Because of that ego you cannot see who you are. This false notion of “I” does not let that which you truly are come into view.

Therefore the Upanishadic seer’s prayer is exactly right: O Lord, lead me from darkness to light. Asato ma sadgamaya! O Lord, lead me from untruth to truth.

There is a logic in this sequence. From darkness to light means from ego to soul. The soul is light; the ego is darkness. Then the second step: lead me from untruth to truth.

Ego is untruth. It is not; it only appears. How much we flaunt the ego that has no existence at all! We die and kill for that which is not. Someone just bumps into you and you thunder, “Do you know who I am?” You yourself don’t know who you are.

There is a story from the life of the famous philosopher Schopenhauer. One morning he went very early for a walk in a garden. He thought dawn was near, but it was still midnight. He began pacing in the garden; no one was there, deep silence. He started asking aloud, “Who am I?” He had been reading the Upanishads. Schopenhauer was so impacted by the Upanishads he danced with them over his head. They had kindled in him an inquiry: Who am I? It echoed within him. He couldn’t sleep; great restlessness arose: I don’t know who I am! Certainly I am not my name. I am not my form, because in childhood one form, in youth another, in old age a third. I am not the body, because if my hand is cut off, I am not cut; if my leg is cut off, I am not cut. I am not diminished at all. So I am not the body. And I am not the mind, because the mind runs every moment, changing. Now anger, now love; now hate, now enmity; now compassion, now cruelty. No telling—mind runs like this! How can I be this mind? Surely I am something else—beyond body and mind.

So, finding solitude in the garden, he was asking. No one was there, and gradually he began to ask louder and louder, “Who am I?” The gardener woke up. Lantern in hand he came to see who had slipped in at such an hour. Hearing “Who am I?” he thought, this must be a madman.

Only madmen ask, “Who am I?” Who else would! The so-called sensible already know. If someone asks you, you’ll say, what kind of question is that! Here is my name, my address—here’s my card! If you still doubt, I’ll show my identity card, my passport: my father’s name, my village, my name, my photo—what more do you want! The “sensible” are satisfied with that much. What sense is that!

The gardener, with lantern and stick, came trembling. Frightened—this must be a madman: in the middle of the night he sneaks into the garden and shouts, “Who am I!” Seeing the gardener, Schopenhauer fell silent, a little embarrassed to be shouting “Who am I?” in front of him. The gardener thumped his stick, raised his lantern, and barked, “Who are you, brother?”

Schopenhauer said, “You’ve hit the limit! That’s what I’m asking! If I knew, would I be making a racket in the garden at midnight in this cold, disturbing your sleep? If you know, tell me who I am!” The gardener said, “Aren’t you mad?” Schopenhauer said, “Until now I was mad, because I used to think I knew who I am. Today, for the first time, I am not mad. Do you know who you are?”

The gardener said, “Brother, keep those ideas to yourself. I have a wife and children. I just got married; my household is new, fragile. Keep such upside-down questions to yourself. I don’t ask such things. Is this even a question—‘Who am I’!”

What we have so far taken to be “I” is untrue, false, mere assumption. Hence the Upanishadic prayer says: O Lord, lead me from untruth to truth. I have taken the false as my I, and in that false my real I is hidden.

And then the third sentence: Mrityor ma amritam gamaya! O Lord, lead me from death to immortality.

Only the ego dies. Death can only be of the false. Truth has no death. So, Chaitanya Kirti, my meaning of this prayer is one: lead me from ego to egolessness. Its three steps, three expressions, three gates are:
- From darkness to light.
- From untruth to truth.
- From death to immortality.
But the indication is one. The temple has three doors; you reach one sanctum. There will be the knowing of “Who am I.” And that knowing cannot be contained in words; it cannot be said. You will be intoxicated. You will start dancing. Because God will be with you. Even “with” is not quite right—forgive me—you will become God, or God will become you. “With” is not right, because it leaves duality. As two lovers, in a moment of deep love, become one. But that oneness lasts only a moment—the eyelid blinks and it’s gone. Prayer is supreme love, the peak of love.

Love has three rungs. One is ordinary love—between friends, wife and husband, mother and child, brother and brother. One is extraordinary love—between disciple and master. And one transcends both ordinary and extraordinary—the third love—between soul and the divine, between the drop and the ocean.

Do not be shy; reach out your hand.
Whatever I sing, sing with me.
Every hardship I will make easy—if you come with me.
I will turn the thorns of the path into flowers,
I will turn midstream into the shore,
I will turn every sob into a song—if you come with me.
I will make autumn into spring,
I will make earth into sky,
I will make my chest like thunderbolt—if you come with me.
Open, open the doors of your heart,
What are you pondering? Say something!
I will make all guesses into truth—if you come with me.

This is the language of an ordinary lover, of ordinary love. But in supreme love the same thing happens. If there is union with the divine, you will start dancing, songs will begin to pour. Like jasmine flowers showering down, songs will shower within you. Like lotuses blossoming on lakes, the lotuses of your consciousness will bloom. Like rows of lamps on a dark night of Diwali, garlands of light will be lit within you.

What wine has the Master poured!
My eyes have become so full of nectar,
My words so intoxicating,
Whoever comes near, does not want to leave,
A fakir has bought the whole world!
My body has begun to shimmer like a mirror,
A hundred lamps have been lit in my mind,
The stain that remained upon my life-breath,
Who wiped it off, when—who knows, which thief!
Even drunk to the brim, I am alert,
Even with tears, I remain apart,
Now consciousness does not sleep at night either,
Every chain has been broken by a single stroke!
What wine has the Master poured!

The pain of love is a wine. Only by drinking will you know. Whenever a temple is alive it is a tavern. There, topers gather. There is a fellowship of drinkers.

Manikant was called by the Charity Commissioner for some inquiries. “How much money comes to the ashram? From where? Where does it go?” Manikant said, “God pours so much there—how to keep accounts!” He said, “So you people also drink there? You mean drinking goes on?” He told the clerk, “Write quickly!” Poor fellows are always on the lookout for such things. Manikant said, “You misunderstood. This is a different kind of drinking. Not the wine of grapes—they pour the wine of the soul. You should come sometime!”

The poor man grew dejected. The matter had started to become interesting to him.

Grape-wine can tempt only those who have not drunk the wine of the soul. Whoever has tasted the soul’s wine finds all other wines flat—just water—dirty water! Who would touch it!

What wine has the Master poured!
My eyes have become so full of nectar,
My words so intoxicating,
Whoever comes near, does not want to leave,
A fakir has bought the whole world!

Fakirs have always lived like emperors. Fakirs are the true emperors. The whole world is theirs.

The same Charity Commissioner asked Laxmi, “I’ve heard the ashram’s money is deposited in banks in Switzerland, in America.” Laxmi said, “America, Switzerland—there is no country where our wealth is not deposited.” He asked, “Where all is it deposited, and how much?” Laxmi said, “All wealth is ours. We don’t consider any wealth to be someone else’s!”

Then he was dejected again. He is very worried, hoping to get a handle on something. But these things don’t fall into his grasp.

“All wealth is ours”? The entire world is ours. The whole existence is ours. The moon and stars are ours. Why call a tiny courtyard our own!

In this small prayer the essence of all the Upanishads is gathered. Not only the Upanishads—the Quran, the Bible, the Dhammapada—everything’s essence has come together. But understand the central formula: if the ego goes, all three are fulfilled. If the ego goes, there is only light. If the ego goes, there is only truth. If the ego goes, there is only immortality.

This question is like that... It sounds fine—literally it sounds fine: What is prayer? What is the definition of prayer? One cannot call it wrong. But it is like asking, “What is the taste of the color green?”

“What is the taste of green?”—in this sentence you won’t find any error from the standpoint of language or grammar. But there is an existential mistake. Color and taste have no relationship. Green has no taste. Taste has no color. Anything green may have some taste, but that taste is not of greenness; it is of the thing that is green. And any taste might have any color, but that color is not of taste; it is of the thing that has taste. Taste and color are unrelated.

Just so, prayer and definition are unrelated. Prayer wells up in the heart; definitions are born in the mind. Definitions belong to words and arguments; prayer is feeling.

And Archana, I myself gave you the name Archana! Archana means prayer. This must be known by living it—by drinking it.

How long the night of separation,
and it will not pass.
Without my Beloved, sleep does not come.
The rosy smile of evening arrived,
then the night with curly tresses.
The moon rose in the sky, yet no clouds of the mind gathered.
Without my Beloved, sleep does not come.
Spring has entered the garden,
a tipsy thrill has awakened in youth.
Somewhere far, in the groves, the cuckoo sings a sweet song.
Without my Beloved, sleep does not come.
Since my lover turned his face away,
the dawn broke as I washed off my kohl.
In my two weary, drowsy eyes, the monsoon swells.
Without my Beloved, sleep does not come.

One who has not wept in love, who has not known love’s separation—he cannot even be pointed toward prayer. That is why I am a partisan of love, a preacher of love. I say, love deeply! Because the very essence of love one day becomes prayer. Squeeze a thousand flowers of love, and then somewhere a single drop of prayer—a drop of fragrance—will be born.

Morning unknown,
evening unknown,
when I recognized Your face.
Your beauty is a jeweler;
love is an ornament like a ring.
Bartering a few wants to pay its price,
I have slipped it on the finger of my heart.
Ever a bride—
yet a wanderer,
the notorious youth of memories.
By day, the songs of bustle;
all night, death makes its camp.
In what moment can I speak with You?
My love is a sunflower.
Sorrow stands guard,
darkness is deep—
desolate, the capital of the mind.
The love of the mind is a debt
whose interest must be paid all one’s life.
By telling of the mind’s relations
one must unveil oneself.
In the course of life,
you and I change,
walking along an unknown path.
Morning unknown,
evening unknown,
when I recognized Your face.

When you forget all arithmetic—when neither morning nor evening is recognized; when you forget the language of all accounting; when you descend from mind to heart, from thinking to feeling, from bargaining to the immeasurable, the priceless—only then will you know! Only then can it be known what prayer is.

Sit here; prayer is showering here. Archana, taste this peace, this silence. What is happening between you and me right now—this is prayer. This is not a conversation. This is not a sermon. No discussion is taking place. It is a side-by-side dance of our hearts. These words are only pretexts. Their purpose is just to point toward the wordless. They are merely a device.

Let us not lose
the hue of the saints’ soft drizzle—
in Phalguna’s playful showers, it is He I remember.
With threads of light, the sky
rolls little pearls
and braids them into the earth’s hair to adorn her—
in springtime sprinkles, it is He I remember.
Saffron, vermilion, sandalwood—
the Malayan breeze mixes and mixes them,
pours them into cups of fresh blossoms and bids us drink.
In tipsy swaying, it is He I remember.
The cooing of change,
forests and groves sway—
to robbed and cheated branches, life is given back.
In autumn’s defeats, it is He I remember.
The moon, calling from every courtyard,
invites and invites,
blending union-notes into the rhythms of the groves.
In the festivities of Raas, it is He I remember.
Spring’s veiling lifted,
drowsy eyes opened,
moonlight blooms in the blush-powders of shy delight.
In the cries of hope, it is He I remember.

What is happening here is not something visible to the eyes of flesh. Therefore one who sits here with prejudices will go away empty—came empty-handed, will go empty-handed. But the one who drops prejudice and agrees to listen—not only to listen, but to become one-taste with me!—what is sannyas but the declaration of this very thing! The one who agrees to become one-essence with me in love will instantly understand the meaning of prayer. He will not need to go asking anywhere else. The nectar dissolves into the very life-breath; sweetness spreads there.

Country unknown, path unknown,
name unknown, abode unknown—
You tell me, how am I to set out,
to sit in Your palanquin!
It is difficult. I call, I summon: Come, sit in my palanquin! Come, sit in my boat! But I understand your fear as well.
Country unknown, path unknown,
name unknown, abode unknown—
You tell me, how am I to set out,
to sit in Your palanquin!
In full spring the wind did not stir,
the moon and stars poured poison.
No cloud ever braided a lock,
modesty was looted.
No parting took vermilion,
no eyes took kohl,
no feet took red alta,
no hands took bangles—
how shall I brighten my brow
with that hostile bindi?
You tell me, how am I to set out,
to sit in Your palanquin!
The bud’s bed ever thorny,
youth yellowed and wan—
erasing dreamy pictures, sometimes on the bed,
sometimes on the pyre, spring never laughed;
saffron never scattered,
nor did bees gleam upon their sapphires—
how shall I become blossoms and fragrance,
the champak scarf upon Your chest?
You tell me, how am I to set out,
to sit in Your palanquin!
The sky spread and spread its veil,
the earth was covered;
feathers fell, burning bit by bit;
every branch taunted,
straw and grain all sulked;
no nest chirped at dusk or dawn—
how shall I pass the night,
on the strange, desolate bough?
You tell me, how am I to set out,
to sit in Your palanquin!
Whenever an auspicious hour arrived,
the trumpets and shehnai sounded;
the ornament box sobbed,
dreams turned beggars from door to door;
the veil and blouse could not glow,
the empty litter kept waiting—
with whom shall I tie the knot?
My age has gone to be death’s bride.
Country unknown, path unknown,
name unknown, abode unknown—
You tell me, how am I to set out,
to sit in Your palanquin!

But only if you move will you know. And you need no sandalwood, no saffron, no red alta. No ornament, no formalities. As you are, just as you are—sit in this palanquin.

I do not want you to fulfill any condition—that you must behave thus, that your character must be such. I lay no condition upon you. I am ready to give you the taste of unconditional prayer. But you must show a little courage! Take two steps and sit in the palanquin!

Take two steps, Archana—prayer will be understood. So understood that it will suffuse every pore. So understood that it will fill every breath. So understood that it will drip in every tear. So understood that whether you sleep or wake, stand or sit, it will sway around you like a shadow; it will become your aura.

Prayer is not a deed; it is a state of feeling. And when you are filled with prayer, the supreme experience happens. By “supreme experience” I mean: if your heart is prayerful, the Divine knocks at your door—most certainly. And only the one filled with prayer can hear that knock. The one not filled with prayer, who is filled with lusting desire, cannot hear that knock.

There are only two ways to live—one is lust, the other is prayer. The way of lust is the householder’s way; the way of prayer is the renunciate’s way. Between householder and sannyasin there is no difference of place, but of state. If you flee the home, you are not thereby a sannyasin. If you build a hut in the forest, you are not thereby a sannyasin. Let lust be no more!

Lust demands: give me this, give me that. Prayer gives thanks: what You have given is more than my capacity; it is overflowing my vessel.

Awaken the sense of grace, Archana—prayer will awaken on its own. Awaken gratitude, and prayer will arise of itself. The feeling of thankfulness is prayer. The mood of grace is prayer.

That is all for today.