Mrityoma Amritam Gamaya #2

Narendra! Whatever is essential in life—be it meditation, love, or sannyas—does not come the way mathematics does. It has no method, no staircase. There is no sequential movement in it. It is an explosion. Everything happens in a single instant. It is not a conclusion of thought; it is a condition of the heart, a state of feeling. Suddenly! When you light a lamp, darkness doesn’t go away gradually—first a little, then a little more. Here the lamp is lit, and there the darkness is gone—in one moment, at once.

I call the lighting of the lamp and the vanishing of the darkness a leap. If it left little by little, in sequence, in measurable increments, then it would be a process.

So too with sannyas: it is not a process. In a moment of awakening, the futility of life is seen. It is seen with such intensity that nothing needs to be renounced; there is simply nothing worth holding on to anymore.

If you must force a renunciation, that sannyas is not authentic. If you must force it, then it will be a process, a gradual one. Today you will drop something; tomorrow, something else; the day after, something more. Dropping and dropping, lifetimes may pass. But in the intensity of awakening, as a flame flares within, it is seen that the world is futile. This is not a product of thinking; it is the experience of wakefulness.

Therefore sannyas can flower only in satsang—in the company of the awakened, where other lamps are already alight. Sitting near a lit lamp, it can happen.

Have you ever brought an unlit lamp close to a lit one? At six inches, the unlit lamp is still unlit and the lit lamp is still lit. At five inches—still the same. Four, three, two, one inch—still unlit is unlit, lit is lit. It is not that it begins to glow a little because it is five inches nearer. Bring it closer still—half an inch—and still lit is lit and unlit is unlit. Then there is a threshold where a sudden leap happens: the flame of the lit lamp catches the unlit lamp.

This does not happen gradually. There is no method to it. It is the color that rubs off in satsang.

Sannyas is the culmination of satsang. Coming to the Master, coming and coming, a day arrives when there is simply no way to turn back. It is not that you want to return and do not. No—even if you wished to, you could not. After a certain point, even if the unlit lamp wishes not to kindle, there is no way. Once a precise nearness is achieved, the unlit lamp must catch fire; lighting becomes a necessity.

So I say: sannyas is not a thought. Those who keep thinking do not take it. And those who think and decide to take it still do not truly take it. Those who weigh pros and cons, who ask what will be the result, what will be their status in society, get caught in a great storm within. Endless vacillation goes on. The mind, already restless, becomes more turbulent with a new anxiety: should I take sannyas or not? As it is, countless options surround you: do this or do that? And now a great new option arrives: to take sannyas or not?

The thinker will not be able to take it at all. Thinking never brings you to a final decision. In the realm of thought, all decisions are relative, conditional. And as you continue thinking, your conclusions will have to change.

That is why in science no conclusion is ever final, because science is based on thought. Science never arrives at eternal principles. Principle means “that which is proven.” Science arrives only at working hypotheses. Understand the distinction between hypothesis and principle.

A hypothesis means: given what we have thought so far, this seems correct—but tomorrow we will think further; who knows whether it will stand? The day after we will think again; new facts may emerge, and the old truths will have to be revised. But any “truth” that must be revised was never truth; it was only a semblance of truth. Something that was “true” until Einstein was born—when Einstein came, Newton was rendered untrue. Could truth ever become untrue? It was never truth—only a conclusion of thought. No conclusion of thought can be ultimate. As thought proceeds, the conclusion must be altered. After Einstein, another will come, and Einstein’s “principles” will no longer remain principles.

Better that we do not even call them principles—and Einstein himself doesn’t. That is the very foundation of his relativity: no truth is complete. As of today, given what is known so far, this appears correct. About tomorrow, no statement is made. When tomorrow comes, we will see. Perhaps it will stand; perhaps not.

Hence Mahavira gave birth to syadvada—“perhaps-ism.” It means: no decision reached by thought can go beyond “perhaps.” Therefore a wise person will never proclaim conclusions of thought with absolute claim. He will say: perhaps it is so; perhaps it is not. Given what has been known, understood, pondered, weighed, tested—this seems right. But who knows what news tomorrow’s sun will bring, what messages the winds will carry, what secrets the sky will unveil—everything ahead is unknown.

But such hypotheses cannot transform life. They are feeble, unstable, wavering—how will they grant you stability? Stability can come only from a truth that is unchanging, eternal, which time’s stream cannot alter—true in autumn and true in spring; true in life and true in death; true in childhood, youth, and old age; in success and failure; in pleasure and pain—and yet the truth unmoved, unwavering, the same, not a hair’s breadth of difference, not the slightest need of modification.

Such truths are not produced by thought; they arise in the heart. Love is such a truth. Meditation is such a truth. And sannyas is the ultimate culmination of love and meditation. Where meditation and love meet—that confluence is sannyas. If sannyas happens, love and meditation happen; if love and meditation happen, sannyas happens.

But where does this coloring take place? Where the festival of spring is in full swing, where Holi is being played, where water-jets are full of dye, where a celebration of joy is on. If you pass through a garden in bloom, whether or not you touch the flowers, the scent of jasmine will cling to your clothes; the fragrance of the night-blooming jasmine will tangle in your hair. Even after you go home, far from the garden, your nostrils will retain its memory; a presence of the garden will hover around you like a shadow.

Satsang means: where flowers are in full bloom. Satsang means: pass through and you will be colored, suffused with fragrance. Where many lamps are lit, how will you carry away your lamp unlit! It must be lit. You will have to edge closer to some lit lamp. As long as you are only moving closer, you are still unlit. And then there is a leap—just now you were unlit, now you are aflame. That is why I use the word leap. Understand it well.

And because sannyas, meditation, and love are leaps, they are only for the daring—for the moths, for the mad ones.

Thinking is a kind of cowardice. You sit there, doing arithmetic, calculating endlessly. Life comes and goes, and you keep balancing accounts, never planting the seed. You go on computing profits and losses. Beware lest your life’s opportunity slip by like this.

Sleep was very deep—
with a jolt it broke.
Did You call to me, or did You come to the door and turn back!

Like shaking someone awake in a single jerk—that is a leap. When someone shakes you, in one instant—just now sleep, now no sleep; just now the eyes were closed, now they are open; just now unconscious, now conscious.

God is calling, but God’s call is so subtle you cannot hear it. A true Master is needed—to give force to that call, to give it emphasis. God is already stirring you, but His hands are invisible. Some visible hands are needed.

This happened in England during the Second World War. In London, at a crossroads, there was a statue of Jesus. A bomb fell on it, and the statue shattered to pieces. It was a lovely statue, very artistic. People collected all the pieces and requested a sculptor to reassemble them.

All the pieces were found except the two hands. They must have been pulverized; they were nowhere to be found. People said to the sculptor, “Make two new hands and attach them. We love this old statue.”

But the sculptor did something remarkable. He did not make new hands. Instead, he carved a small sentence on the pedestal: I have no hands. From now on, I will do my work with your hands.

That statue of Jesus still stands, without hands; below it, the inscription: I have no hands of my own. From now on, I will work with your hands.

God’s hands are even more invisible. Even if God were to touch you, you would not recognize it. You would think: a gust of wind passed, what was that? Who touched me? You might even be frightened. The first touch of the divine brings a tremor, a fluttering of fear.

A Master’s hands are needed—earthly, that can touch you and wake you. God’s voice is void—who will give it words? Who will express the inexpressible? The Vedas, the Upanishads, the Koran, the Bible give words, form, method, and color to that God—then He begins to come within your grasp.

Sleep was very deep—
with a jolt it broke.
Did You call? Or did You come to the door and turn back!

Again and again I came to the door, but found nothing.
Again and again I slept; not even a dream came.
Neither asleep nor awake,
each moment I offered myself to You—
did You accept me? Or did You come to the door and turn back!

I could say nothing, nor could I keep silent.
Life’s flowing river became a lake, unmoving.
Sulking, the royal swan of the mind—
did it reach You?
Did You coax it? Or did You come to the door and turn back!

Night moved with a gentle breeze, and the season stretched its limbs.
Who scattered saffron over my mind?
The innocent curls of remembrance
gathered on my brow—
did You arrange them? Or did You come to the door and turn back!

At the dusky hour when the cuckoo called,
some pain cried out in my heart.
Unbidden guests
settled on my eyelids—
did You behold me? Or did You come to the door and turn back!

In this ocean of the heart, like a pearl within a closed shell,
my longing slumbers even in dreams.
Upon the shores of my eyelids
again and again it drowned—
did You rescue me? Or did You come to the door and turn back!

So many little lamps, shielded in the fold of my veil,
I carried to the river and set them upon the waves.
Did the boat of the waters
bring the pilgrims of the lamps
safely to shore? Or did You come to the door and turn back!

God is very invisible. Even if He knocks at your door, you may feel the door tremble, yet you will not see His hands. Perhaps He even takes you by the hand and leads you—He is leading, otherwise how would you move at all? Who breathes your breath? Who beats within your heart? Who runs in your blood as life? Who is this that is your marrow and flesh? Who is this that is your consciousness? It is He. But His way of working is exceedingly subtle.

You need someone embodied—some Buddha, Krishna, Christ, or Zarathustra—into whose eyes you can gaze and catch a glimpse of the invisible; whose hands, when you hold them, can give you a feel for the hands of God; in whose presence, nearness, and company, new waves arise in your heart—of light and of bliss; in whose presence something begins to quicken within you; the hairs on your body stand alert; some invisible dance moves through your every particle; the strings of your heart’s vina begin to hum; your song bursts forth. That is sannyas.

The bird of sannyas has two wings: love and meditation. Where there is sannyas, there is love; there is meditation.

Meditation means the capacity to be blissful in aloneness—the fitness to be intoxicated even in solitude. Love means the capacity to be blissful in togetherness. Meditation is like a solitary flute. Love is an orchestra—the flute sounds, the drum keeps time, the sitar plays, other instruments join. Love is the duet between two or among many. Meditation is delighting alone, in one’s own life-breath. Love is dialogue, communion—the bridge between I and Thou. Meditation is self-sufficiency: nothing is needed, one’s own being is enough.

Up to now, however—unfortunately—paths of meditation and paths of love have stood opposed. The meditator considers the devotee a fool; the devotee considers the meditator ignorant. In the lineage of meditators, worship, ritual, and prayer have no place; even God has no place.

Therefore in the language, expression, and thought of Buddha and Mahavira—peaks of meditation—there is no place for God. Being oneself is enough; no God is necessary.

Patanjali accepts God, but with a great qualification. He says God, too, is merely a support for meditation—not the goal of life, just an aid. Use it if you wish; if not, do without. One way among others. You could come here by bullock cart, or by train, or on foot. No vehicle is compulsory; even a plane is an option. Patanjali calls God merely an alambana—a prop. Those who want it may use it; those who do not, do not need it. The path will do without it as well.

Patanjali still speaks the language of the meditator—though not as sharply as Buddha and Mahavira. He stands somewhat in the middle, between love and meditation, and gives a little space—yet the fundamental note remains meditation, for yoga rests on meditation.

Buddha clearly dispenses with God; Mahavira plainly says there is no God. The meditator must be alone—eyes closed, diving within. For diving within, what need of God? And when one dives fully, what is known is what others call God. But the meditator uses the word in his own sense: param-atman means the supreme Self, not a deity.

Mahavira uses the word paramatman, but not in the sense that Kabir, Meera, or Krishna use it. Mahavira has changed its meaning. For him, paramatman is the pure state of the self. He says the self has three states: jiva—the sleeping soul; atma—the soul awakening, drowsy at dawn, when sleep is both gone and not gone—you are still in bed, yet you hear the street, the children getting ready for school, your wife making tea, the kettle humming. You sense that morning has come, the warmth of the sun’s rays touching your face—yet you pull the blanket and roll over for one more turn. Jivatma—sleeping soul. Atma—half-awake. Paramatma—the fully awakened self. These are states of the same self, says Mahavira.

Paramatma is not a creator standing outside the world, not a controller running it; it is the witness seated within. This is the meditator’s stance.

Naturally the meditator says: What worship? What ritual? What prayer? For whom are you arranging plates of worship? Are you mad? Go within—this is all outer.

And the lover, too, banned meditation. He said: If you go within, who will arrange the plate of worship? Who will pray? Into whom shall we fall in love? Without love everything will become dry.

The lover said: God abides in the image, in the Kaaba, in Kashi, on Kailash. I will call to Him. The sky is full of Him; He is present in the moon and the stars. All existence is His play. I am but a drop; this drop must be drowned in the ocean. If the drop keeps drowning only in itself, how will it become the ocean? If it keeps drowning only in itself, it will remain a drop; without drowning in the ocean there is no deliverance.

So the lover called out to God, “Where are You? Save me!” The meditator went within; the lover opened his eyes and sought His glimpse in the far-off moon and stars.

Both were right, but both were incomplete. From their incompleteness arose incomplete religions. The religions of meditators forbade prayer, and love died. And when love dies, the world becomes a desert—no greenery, no streams, no cuckoo’s song, no papiha’s call, no flowers blooming, the rasa ends. All becomes desolate; existence turns into a cremation ground.

And the lovers sang songs of love, played the flute, tied bells to their ankles, and danced. But because meditation was lacking—Thou was invoked, but the I was unknown. If the caller himself is unknown, whom will he call? If you do not know the drop, how will you merge it into the ocean? In the lover’s world there was some flavor, some intoxication in the eyes, but no awareness. Songs were born in abundance, but the songs lacked something—their notes had no light.

I want my sannyasin to be a whole human being—an undivided human being. To have the silence of the desert—stillness, vastness—and also the flowers of the garden, the streams, the cuckoo’s call, the papiha’s cry. To know himself and the vast. At times to know with eyes closed; at times to know with eyes open. Because He is outside as well as inside. Know the within through meditation; know the without through love.

That is why I call love and meditation the two wings of sannyas. But sannyas happens like a leap. It is the work of the mad, the moth-like. If the moth begins to think, “Shall I fall into the flame or not? What’s the profit? I will be annihilated. I will become one with the light—there will be no survival. This is suicide,” then the moth will keep away from the flame, live in darkness, go blind, and never become light. The moth sees the lamp, sees the flame—and takes the leap, is consumed, and by being consumed finds himself. By being consumed, the innermost longing is fulfilled—the bliss of becoming one with the flame is complete. Sannyas is a leap—into oneness with the Master’s flame.

Satyanarayan! Nectar can become poison if it falls into unknowing hands. Poison becomes nectar if it comes to the hands of the wise. So neither is nectar simply nectar, nor poison simply poison. The real point is: it depends on you. In a physician’s hands poison turns into medicine; it can save someone on the verge of death. And some fool can drink so much nectar that he dies of it—drinks beyond need, beyond the limit!

The love I am speaking of may not be the love you are speaking of. I speak of the love that leads toward prayer; you are talking of the love that leads toward lust. These journeys are different—indeed, opposite.

If love falls downward it becomes lust; if it rises upward it becomes prayer. On the descent, love is lust; on the ascent, love is prayer. If love starts rolling down the mountain like a stone—that is lust. And if love grows wings and flies toward the sun—that is prayer.

Going down is full of suffering. That’s why all religions say hell is below. Don’t take “below” geographically—as if you keep digging into the earth and one day you will find hell. You won’t find hell—you’ll land in America. And if Americans keep digging, they’ll come up in India, in this sacred land! They too think hell is below. The whole world thinks hell is below. “Below” is not geography; it has a deeper meaning—understand the reference. Whenever the life-energy descends, it leads to hell.

And this is the meaning of heaven being “above.” Not that if you sit in a spacecraft one day you’ll arrive in heaven! Perhaps Yuri Gagarin had such a misunderstanding. He came back and said, “I went around in space, circled the moon—I did not meet God anywhere. There is no heaven, no God!”

In Russia they have a whole museum devoted to the lunar journey. Whatever reports the astronauts brought back, the rocks and soil from the moon—everything is displayed there. On the museum’s door is engraved Gagarin’s statement: I went to the moon, circled through space; there is no heaven, no God.

The theist is in delusion—and so is the atheist. The theist imagines: heaven is above. So when you pray, you raise your hands upward as if God were up there.

But the Divine is everywhere. Below too, above too. To the left, to the right—everywhere. The talk of above is symbolic, meaningful. If you clutch a delicate meaning in a tight fist, it dies.

Some meanings cannot be grabbed; they are subtle. “Hell is below”—you grabbed it. Temples hang charts: hell below, heaven above! And the religions that speak of many hells draw hells under hells—seven hells—so keep going down, drilling on and on. And seven heavens above—keep climbing, mountain upon mountain; at the seventh heaven God is seated.

Above and below are poetic symbols. Below means the regression of consciousness; above means the ascent of consciousness. To become urdhvaretas—energy flowing upward—is to become heavenly. When your life-force starts moving upward. Lust is the force that pulls downward; lust is like the gravity of the earth.

Satyanarayan! You say, “In my life love has become suffering.”

Not only in your life—love becomes suffering in ninety-nine lives out of a hundred. Because people sow neem and wait for mangoes! I am saying: sow a mango seed—then the mango harvest will come. The fruit proves what the tree was. Before the fruit, you cannot even tell. When you sow neem, you don’t yet know what’s coming. Taste a niboli—the little neem fruit. Taste its bitterness. And when the first leaves come, taste those too. Don’t end your life on that. There is nothing there but bitterness.

A man knocked at the gates of heaven. The gatekeeper opened a window: “Who are you?” He said, “My name is Chandulal.”
“What do you want?”
“This is heaven, isn’t it?”
“What else would you want! But first you must answer one question before entering heaven. Married or unmarried?”
“Married.”
“Good then—you’ve seen hell. Now come into heaven.” And he opened the door.

No sooner had he shut it than another knock. “Who’s there?”
“I’m Dhabbuji, friend of the Chandulal who just went in. We died together in a car accident. He walks fast; I’m limping in. Open up! If he’s in, I’m going in too.”
“First answer one question. Married or unmarried?”
“I married four times.”
The gatekeeper closed the door: “This is heaven, not a madhouse!”

Learn from mistakes. Once can be forgiven. But four times! There is a limit to errors. Yet people go on repeating the same mistake all their lives. Again and again they sow neem seeds—and think, “This crop turned bitter; next time it will be fine”—but the seed is the same! You must change the seed.

Vasana—lust—means: you are a beggar. And beggars cannot know love. Lust means: you are asking. If you are a man, you are asking a woman, “Give me happiness.” She doesn’t have it herself—she is begging from you: “I hold out my bowl—fill it with joy.” She is a beggar-woman, you are a beggar-man. Two beggars stand facing each other with bowls out—what can happen but trouble? Neither has anything to give. You want; she wants. People complain: “I don’t receive love.” No one complains: “I don’t give love.” Many people come to me and say: “There is no love in the world; nobody gives.” If no one gives, how will there be love in the world? Everybody wants to get.

Lust means—to get. Prayer means—to give. Prayer is donation; lust is begging. But before giving, you must have! You can only give what is within you. So grow love.

To grow love is a great art. It requires a radical transformation of life. Where the mind is full of hatred, fear, jealousy, enmity, ego—how will seeds of love take root? Think of it like this: your whole being is overgrown with weeds, and you drop seeds of jasmine or champa in that tangle. The weeds will devour the seeds. A special feature of weeds is: you don’t have to plant them; they sprout by themselves.

Mulla Nasruddin’s new neighbor saw his garden. “Such a lovely garden! Even your weeds look nice, and your roses are beautiful. I want to make a garden too. I’ve planted roses, but I can’t tell what is rose and what is weed. How to tell the difference?” Nasruddin said, “Simple. Uproot everything. Whatever grows back—that’s weed. Whatever doesn’t grow back—know that was the rose.”

That’s a feature of weeds: they sprout on their own. Lust too arises on its own. It comes with birth. In truth, your very birth happens because of it. Lusts are bonds; tied in them, pulled by them, we come.

We have a word—pashu—animal. It is a wonderful word; no other language has its like. In English “animal” comes from anima—meaning life, vitality. So an “animal” is that which is animated, alive. Our word pashu means one who is in pash—bonds; the one in chains; the one being dragged by fetters. Like a cow led with a rope—the cow is pashu. But you too are tied—with ropes you yourself twist. The webs you yourself weave—like a spider that spins a web and is sometimes caught in its own. We are all caught in webs of our own making; no one else’s.

Be a little alert, Satyanarayan! What you have taken to be love is not love—it's lust, desire. There is demand in it. Your love still means: “Let me get happiness from the other, let me exploit the other.” And the other wants to exploit you. You are each other’s exploiters. You will make each other miserable—what else? Exploitation breeds suffering.

Your love must become giving. But before it becomes giving you need wealth—love’s wealth. It is this art of love I am trying to teach here.

A few sutras of the art of love: first uproot the weeds; otherwise the roses will not grow. If somehow they do grow, they won’t flower. If they flower, the flowers will be small and lifeless, without fragrance. The weeds drink up all the sap; nothing reaches the flowers. Free your life of weeds. Fear, anger, enmity, jealousy, hatred, malice—these are weeds. Until you trim them back, you will not taste love. Your energy is entangled in them. With what energy will love be made?

So you paste the label of love on top of all this. You call hatred “love.” You call jealousy “love.” Your wife is talking with someone—and jealousy flares. You see your husband with a woman—and jealousy flares.

Mulla Nasruddin is walking through the market with his wife. A very beautiful young woman says, “Hello, Nasruddin!” Nasruddin says nothing—husbands are absolutely silent in such moments. But the wife is aflame: “Who is that woman? I won’t take one step forward. First explain!” Nasruddin says, “Goddess, forgive me! My plight is worse. I’ll have to explain to that woman who this woman is who was with me! Leave me alone; one mess is enough. She said hello—I know what that means: ‘Who was that woman?’ The trouble I face with her is sufficient. At least you’re my wife—please keep quiet.”

The so-called love of women; the so-called love of men—scratch it a little, peep inside, and you will be shocked at what you find there.

Guests are at Nasruddin’s house. His wife is serving the meal. They need salt. Nasruddin runs to get it. Five minutes, ten minutes go by. The guests are waiting. The wife says, “Haven’t you found the salt tin yet? Are you blind?”
Nasruddin says, “I’ve opened nearly every tin. This one has turmeric, that one cumin. I just don’t see salt.”
She says, “You blind man—it’s right in front of you. The one marked ‘Chili’—that’s the salt!”

On the tins something is written; inside, something else. What is inside the thing you call love? Have you truly loved anyone, Satyanarayan? Have you truly offered yourself? In love have you known surrender? For the one you love, can you die, disappear? What have you given to your love?

Don’t even talk of giving! People only talk of taking. Everybody wants to get.

A young man asked his friend, “Whom should I marry? There are five or six women. I can’t decide.”
Love too must be decided? Love happens. If you must decide, it’s not love; it’s something else.
The friend asked, “What’s the problem?”
“The real problem is between two women. If I can decide between them, it’s solved. One is beautiful but poor. The other is very ugly—very—but rich.”
The friend said, “Do you understand love? If it’s truly love, love the beautiful one—marry her. Money? It’s the dirt of the hand.”
“Right,” he said. “Good advice. A friend indeed!”
As they parted the friend added, “And please give me the address of the other woman.”

People’s interests, expectations, ambitions—something else entirely. The name can be anything.

Nasruddin’s wife says, “Can’t you see Chandulal there? Not a week goes by without his bringing his wife a new sari. That’s what I call love! Not a month goes by without a piece of jewelry. That’s love! Not a year goes by without diamonds being bought. That’s love! And you…”
Nasruddin says, “I too wish to buy a sari every week, jewelry every month, diamonds every year. Who wouldn’t! But I’m afraid of Chandulal.”
“Why fear Chandulal over this?”
“Chandulal is a wrestler, strapping; he’ll break my bones.”
“What has Chandulal got to do with it?”
“How not? I’d be gifting those things to his wife.”

People live with one person and gaze at another. The body is here, the life is elsewhere. And this is called love! Love is weighed in saris, jewelry, diamonds.

This is not love. Jealousy is standing there in the clothes of love. Hatred is standing there dressed as love. That’s why your love can turn into hate any moment. For the one you were ready to die, you become ready to kill. Lovers fight all day. Look at their lives—they mostly fight. As if fighting and bickering is the only way they know to love. So if love has brought sorrow in your life, it’s no surprise. You have reaped the fruit of the love you practiced.

I am speaking of a different love. I say: love must be unconditional. Don’t ask for anything. If you can give—give. Give whatever you can.

And before giving, you must have. Therefore, before love, one must descend into meditation. Only a meditator can love, and only a lover can meditate. Because the one who goes into meditation finds within inexhaustible springs of bliss—then sharing becomes inevitable. Whom will you share with? Those near you, close to you, your own—wife, husband, mother, father, brothers, sisters, friends. You will invite your friends to taste these springs. Your eyes will be lifted from the petty. And when you find the soul within yourself, you will find the soul in your wife too. Otherwise the wife remains a body. And the body is earth. However much you try, how will you love earth? Love is only for the soul. Love is only for the invisible. But if you have not discovered the invisible within, how will you discover it in another?

So first go a little within. First search yourself. Stand on your own feet. Find your treasure. Then share. And you will find that love brings only joy. And when you see that by sharing, love brings joy, why will you be stingy? You will pour with both hands. Whoever is willing to receive, you will be willing to give—to near ones and strangers too. Then who is near and who is stranger?

That is why Jesus says: Love not only your friend, but your enemy too. When love is born, friends remain friends and even enemies become friends. There is no other way.

The Sufi mystic Rabia cut a verse out of the Quran.

One does not cut from the Quran. Can you “edit” the Vedas—pick up a pen and strike things out? Hindus would be very angry. And if Hindus might not be that angry, Muslims certainly will not tolerate anyone amending the Quran—the last book. God sent the last book. For fourteen hundred years God has felt no need to revise! The world has changed so much, everything changed—but some people search only in the old books.

A priest was teaching children in a school: “God made all creeping things.” A little boy stood up—children ask such questions—“Who made the train?” The priest said, “Why, that too is a creeping thing!”

When the Bible says “God made all things that creep,” it meant snakes and the like. He never imagined trains would be counted among creeping things. But those whose eyes are stuck on old books will extract all meanings from there.

When science first discovered that the earth is very ancient—about four billion years old—Christians faced trouble. Their book says creation happened exactly four thousand and four years before Jesus—surely a Monday, the first of January. So six thousand years ago God made the earth. In six days he made everything, and on the seventh rested—that’s why Sunday is a holiday. Before Christians came to India there was no weekly Sunday holiday here. In India there was no weekly holiday at all, because the Hindu God works all seven days; he never takes leave, never retires, never goes on pension—always on the job! The Christian God grew limp—worn out in six days. He pulled up a blanket on the seventh—and never got up again. He never looked back to see what became of the world!

Mulla Nasruddin went to his tailor. “Brother, if the coat is ready, please give it.” His son was with him. “It’s been seventeen years since I gave it to be stitched. I was seventeen then. Now my son is seventeen. Give it at least now—he’ll use it. My eyes will be satisfied—I’ll see him wear it.”
The tailor looked at his assistant: “I’ve told you a thousand times, don’t take urgent jobs!” Then to Nasruddin: “What do you think? When a thing is made, it takes time. It’s not magic—blow a puff and the coat is ready.”
“Seventeen years isn’t enough? God made the whole world in six days!”
“Just take one look at the world,” said the tailor. “Made in six days—see what a mess it is! When I work, I do it solid. Whether your son wears it or your grandson—no worry. But I’ll make it properly. If you hurry in six days, everything turns out upside down!”

Rabia found a verse in the Quran that didn’t fit her; she cut it. The fakir Hasan stayed at her home and read the Quran. He saw the strike-through and said, “Rabia, which fool amended the Quran?” Rabia said, “I did.” Hasan was shocked: “You—so pure, so prayerful, so realized—and you edited the Quran!” She said, “I had to. It became a necessity—precisely because of my arrival. The Quran says: Hate the Devil. But since love has arisen in me, I see no devil at all. Even if the Devil stood before me, I could only love—because I have no hatred left. From where shall I bring hate? This book is mine—my Quran. I must set it right according to my state. So I have set it right. For me there is no devil, and no hatred. Whoever is, is God. And whatever is, I can only give love—because except love nothing remains in me. My whole life-energy has become love.”

Bid farewell to hatred. Bid farewell to enmity. Bid farewell to jealousy and competition. And dive within. Become a little acquainted with the soul. Then meditation will be kindled within you, which becomes love in relationships. It is meditation that becomes love in relationship. And they are interdependent. The deeper you go in love, the deeper becomes your capacity to go within—because love is a mirror. Without a mirror you cannot see your own face.

A train is coming from Amritsar to Delhi. A Sikh gentleman keeps opening the lavatory door, peeking inside, saying, “Excuse me!” and closing it. He has done it so many times that the ticket collector, sitting nearby, asks, “What’s the matter?” “There’s a Sikh inside who won’t come out. How can two people fit in one lavatory? So I apologize and come back.”
The ticket collector gets up—he’s a Sikh too. He also opens the door gently, quickly closes it. “Sorry!” Then says, “You’re right. Not only is someone inside—looks like a government employee! At least the railway staff should care—once he’s in, he won’t come out!”
After a while the first Sikh’s wife gets up. She opens the door, peeks in, “Forgive me!” and returns. She tells her husband, “I knew why you kept going there. I suspected there must be some hussy inside.” She turns to the ticket collector, “And you—have you no shame!”
In the mirror your own face will appear. In love you will see exactly what you are. Love is a mirror. If you are miserable, misery will appear. If you are blissful, bliss will appear. If you have known God, in every beloved you will see God. And surely, when love deepens it becomes a bridge that leads to the Divine.

I painted as many images in song
as you drew nearer to my very breath—why?
On that bond I could lavish a hundred freedoms,
the bond woven by your sighs.
Within that speck my heart’s flower smiled,
the speck your trust had shaped.
Whenever midstream tried to drown me,
you set me on the waves and brought me to shore—why?
I still wander the alleys of the mind
where the sound of your flute resounds.
How can I, cruel as I try, forget those scenes
where the magic of my anklets spoke?
The more I fled in fear from the night of despair,
the more you taught me to love life—why?

Run as much as you like—God will send you back again and again into love. Because love must be learned. Without it there is no mirror. And if in love you must also suffer, then suffer—because that suffering will refine you. On the path of love, if you meet thorns, you must bear them—because only those thorns point toward the flowers.

The more I fled in fear from the night of despair,
the more you taught me to love life—why?

Why has God given such trouble—why has he so harried the saints? God seems an enemy of saints. The saints want to be rid of all the bother of love, to be free, to be liberated. But God’s intent is otherwise. If God had only to make saints, why make love? God knows that without love no one can truly be a saint. And those who have become “saints” without love—their sainthood is worthless, shallow, cheap. They have never looked into the mirror—how will they know their own face? Having never tasted the ultimate of love, they abuse love.

It is the world that is abused by those who do not know that the world is an examination. God puts you through a thousand tests every moment.

Do not run away from anything, Satyanarayan. Do not escape. Seek to understand everything. If love is giving you pain, try to understand—why? There must be a cause somewhere. And the cause will be in you. The cause is not in love. Love is nectar. But your vessel may be poisoned. If you pour pure water into a filthy pot, you cannot drink it. If you fill dirty jars with clean water, the water will turn foul.

The rain poured plenty, every pore still thirsts,
no one knows this ache, this sleeplessness.
Not a single cloud remains in the sky,
a thousand flowers have bloomed beneath the dusky canopy,
yet more and more my body is drenched with talk,
my ears ring with the patter of drops,
my eyes brim over, then dry again,
but there is no smiling.

The lids close and open in a strange land,
it seems night has gone, dawn lies asleep,
the gaze keeps circling in the illusion of rain—
when the leaves rattle down in the solitude,
irritation writhes,
awareness blushes,
but there is no hiding my face.

My house of clay seems drowned in water,
the body shivers like something adrift,
life is drying while every limb is soaked—
these breaths of mine blow away like ash,
I don’t like the light,
this flame burns,
but I cannot snuff it out.

Love will burn you. Love will drown you. Love will efface you. Die! Drown! Burn! But do not abandon love. Refine love. Drop whatever in it is unloving—and save love.

Worldlings are those who, in the name of love, keep doing every kind of unlove. And the runaways, the renouncers, are those who, afraid of unlove, drop love too and flee. Granted the gold is not pure—but it can be refined. Why run away? Both are fools: the indulgent fool, and your ascetic fool. So I say to you: be neither indulgent nor renouncing; transcend both. In enjoyment too the Divine is hidden—seek it. In renunciation too the Divine is hidden—seek it. And the day you find the Divine, you will no longer see enjoyment and renunciation as separate—they are two sides of one coin. The worthless drops away on its own; the meaningful is enjoyed on its own.

Satyanarayan, you ask: “You say love, deepening, becomes prayer…”

Certainly. There are no two opinions about it.

And you ask: “You also say prayer leads to God. But in my life love has become suffering.”

Then surely something else, disguised in the garments of love, is walking around. Recognize it. Open your eyes. Examine and test. And to open your eyes, you must meditate. Without meditation the eyes do not open. Without meditation you are blind—even if your name were Nainsukh, “joy-of-eyes.” Names don’t give sight. We are clever with names: a blind man is called pragyachakshu, “he who has the eyes of wisdom.” But because he lacks eyes of flesh, it does not follow that he has the eyes of the soul. Otherwise everyone would gouge out their eyes and become pragyachakshu!

Don’t gouge out your eyes—use them. You have looked outside; now look within. You have let the eyes wander without—now lead them inward, into the inner journey.

Meditation is the inner journey. And the one whose inner journey succeeds, his outer journey too succeeds. For then the same eyes, carrying the inner nectar, when they look outside, begin to see that supreme nectar everywhere. The day you see God in your wife, in your husband, in your children—know that religion is born in you. Know that that day sannyas has happened. Before that, all is escape, cowardice, running away.

You ask: “Why am I unhappy?”
Because you are—and you are too much; that is your misery. Let the Divine be. Move aside, give way, don’t stand in between; become a nothingness. That is why you were given the name Haridas. Haridas means: you are no longer there—only a servant remains. As Meera sings—“Keep me as Your servant, Lord!” Become the Lord’s servant. Let Him be the master. Disappear. Vacate the space. Empty the throne. Seat Him upon it. And there will be showers of bliss upon bliss.

If you set out to search why you are in misery, you will find a thousand and one reasons. The body’s miseries are endless. The mind’s miseries are endless. The heart’s, the emotions’ miseries are endless—countless. If you try to remove them one by one, when will you succeed? Before you can deal with one, ten more will be born.

Removing misery one by one will not work. A panacea is needed. What is called a “Ram-baan” remedy? Ram Himself is the Ram-baan—the unfailing cure. Only a remedy that ends all ailments at once can take you across. If you must keep fixing each misery separately, life is too short and miseries are many. You will prop up one wall here only to find a hole opening there; you will rush to support that side and another side will start collapsing; you will keep patching until suddenly you find life has slipped away and death is near. All your fixing and propping proved futile. There was never a chance to truly live; the house was never built.

There is one medicine.

Someone asked a Zen fakir, “Tell me, in brief, the essence of religion!” The fakir said nothing. He sat silently, simply gazing into the questioner’s eyes. The questioner fidgeted, grew restless, began to sweat. “What kind of man is this! I ask for a small word on meditation, religion, truth—something useful—and he won’t speak! And he stares at me as if I’ve stolen something! Why don’t you say something? Why are you looking into my eyes? Why are you frightening me?” The eyes of a fakir can pierce like arrows when they look. The fakir said, “I am speaking. Why don’t you listen?” The man said, “But you haven’t spoken a word. What am I to listen to?” The fakir said, “I have said: be silent, as I am silent. And as I am looking into your eyes, so look into your own eyes. Go within. That is what is called meditation. What else is meditation!”

Haridas, look a little within. Where is the wound from which the pus keeps oozing? The pus flows through many channels, but the wound is one. And that wound is: we have fallen far from the Divine. We have turned our backs on the very source of our life.

You turned away, and all the world’s calamities took form.
Such a wind blew that the city’s lamps turned to embers.

I am grateful even to the one
who has rejected me;
the one who has embraced me
is the lord of my life-breath.

Who knows what offense occurred—no guess can tell;
bribed by the tempests, even the boatman abandoned me midstream.

The wind can blow me away,
the water cannot drown me;
I am a blade of grass—my lightness
will ferry me across.

I have surrendered till now; I never begged for favors—
then why have venomous cobras become sentries over the garden’s sandalwood?

Upon whose pains I daily
offered oblations of tears,
even after giving assurances,
they proved of no use to me;

Becoming a blossom in autumn’s hand,
I was scattered a hundred times in the groves;
now even obedience to that blossom’s command
is refused.

The world shows me the sun’s crown
and asks for my eyes;
it shows me the moon’s dominion of the sky
and asks for my wings.

If I have no right over joy,
how can I lavish gifts,
when all the springtimes of life
have turned into festivals of the cremation ground?

Whoever keeps searching outside will find—if not today then tomorrow—life turning into a cremation ground.

If I have no right over joy,
how can I lavish gifts,
when all the springtimes of life
have turned into festivals of the cremation ground?

Remember, all outer springs only bring the fall. In every spring the fall is concealed. Every flower is about to drop, scatter, turn to dust.

There will be sorrow—inevitably. Because whatever you grasp outside will slip away. Whatever you try to hold will break. Do whatever you like outwardly, you will not be able to be happy. Happiness is your inner nature. But people will not go on the inner journey. They go far, far away; they are ready to go to the moon and the stars, but not ready to go within themselves. They do not seek the Near. And the Divine is nearer than the nearest. Granted, it is also farther than the farthest—but first you must know It as the nearest; only then will you be able to know It as the farthest. And when the Divine turns away, everything turns away.

You turned away, and all the world’s calamities took form.
Such a wind blew that the city’s lamps turned to embers.

Who knows what offense occurred—no guess can tell;
bribed by the tempests, even the boatman abandoned me midstream.

I have surrendered till now; I never begged for favors—
then why have venomous cobras become sentries over the garden’s sandalwood?

Becoming a blossom in autumn’s hand,
I was scattered a hundred times in the groves;
now even obedience to that blossom’s command
is refused.

If I have no right over joy,
how can I lavish gifts,
when all the springtimes of life
have turned into festivals of the cremation ground?

All that is outside will prove futile. Haridas, turn within! Within you will find the Master who, when pleased, causes fountains of joy to burst forth outside. Within you will meet the One with whom there is no more parting.

Turn toward yourself. This is what I call meditation. And when the dignity of meditation arises within you, love will overflow. Countless streams of love will spring from you—like Ganga flows from the Himalayas, Brahmaputra flows, Yamuna flows, Sindhu flows—rivers upon rivers. From the Himalayas of meditation countless Ganges of love are born. Not only will you be blissful; you will be able to bestow much bliss upon this world as well.

One who is miserable will spread misery. What else can he do? Only one who is happy can share happiness.

The first understanding comes from meditation, from self-observation, from self-watching. We see everyone else’s mistakes—we are very skilled at that. Our own fault is not visible. The fundamental fault is not visible. The specks in others’ eyes appear like mountains; the mountains in our own eyes don’t appear even like specks. Our eyes are fixed on others. People are endlessly gossiping—engaged in condemning one another. And no one thinks: if only this much talk, this much seeing, this much discernment were turned back upon oneself, this whole empire of existence, this entire festival, this entire bliss would be yours. But you are so concerned—busy in great “service,” great altruism!

I call such people “pararthi”—occupied with others’ business! Who is committing how many mistakes? Who is committing how many sins? Who drinks alcohol? Who drinks tea? Who smokes? Who ran away with whose wife?

The world is so vast, people are infinite. They are all busy discussing one another. And do not think they are not discussing you. Whom else would they discuss? They are discussing you. Here, behind everyone’s back, it is that very person who is being maligned.

Sigmund Freud has said: If all people became honest for twenty-four hours and spoke to each person exactly what they think about him, not even four friendships would remain in the world. There are four billion people—four friendships would not survive.

It is true. If you were to say exactly what you think about another—just as it is—and people were honest for a day…

Friedrich Nietzsche has said that all religions teach people: be honest. But beware—do not obey them, or the world will be ruined. The world rests on dishonesty. All religions teach: speak the truth. But Nietzsche says: do not make this mistake, even by mistake. Here all relationships are built on lies. If you speak the truth, all relationships will be destroyed. If a wife were to say to her husband exactly what she thinks of him, divorce would happen that very day. But the wife thinks one thing and says, “O revered husband!” And when she writes letters, she signs, “Your maid-servant.” And the husband reads and is delighted—his heart becomes a garden. In Mulla Nasruddin’s language, it becomes “garden-garden”—he has translated “bagh-bagh” into English as “garden-garden.”

And if the wife were to say exactly what she thinks of you—or you were to say to your wife exactly what you think of her!

No, no one speaks the truth about anyone. This whole world runs on falsity.

Chandulal’s young son, Ghantalal, at the age of thirty, fell into the jaws of death. Mulla Nasruddin was a bit unwell; so he told his son, Fazlu, “Go to Chandulal’s home and convey our condolences.”

Fazlu went. On the way he met others who were also going there. All of them were criticizing Ghantalal. Fazlu listened to it all. He reached Chandulal’s house. He didn’t know what one should say on such occasions, so he simply repeated what he had heard.

Putting on a mournful face, Fazlu said, “Daddy had a slight fever, so he couldn’t come; he sent me. Not just we, the whole village was very happy to hear that your elder son, Ghantalal, died before his time. A baser and more deceitful person we haven’t seen! He harassed all the girls of the neighboring villages. He never repaid a single debt. He was a gambler, a drunkard, and frequented prostitutes. It is God’s great grace that we are rid of that wretch. We extend our heartfelt sympathies to your family in its sorrow!”

Chandulal was furious, but said nothing. Later he went to Nasruddin’s house and told the whole story. Nasruddin immediately called Fazlu, gave him two slaps, and said, “You idiot! Is this what one says when someone dies?” Then Mulla Nasruddin turned to Chandulal and said, “Friend, forgive us this time. I regret having sent this lout. But no matter—when your younger son, Bhondulal, dies, I’ll come personally to offer condolences, even if I have a fever!”

Nietzsche is perhaps right. If people spoke the truth, the township of life would be uprooted. All relationships here are lies, all deception. Behind your back they abuse you; to your face they welcome you warmly. Perhaps the world will continue like this.

I am not telling you to start speaking the unvarnished truth to people. I do want to say: begin to understand the truth about yourself. You too may feel like telling the truth to others, but you suppress it because it would create trouble—and you don’t have the courage to invite that much trouble. You put on masks. You swallow it. An abuse rises to your lips; you sing a song instead. You feel like breaking someone’s head; you garland him with flowers.

But about yourself you must know the truth. There is no need to tell the truth about others. The other has not even asked you. He is not your disciple. Truth about another can only be said when he accepts the attitude of a disciple. Leave that to the true Masters. People come to them eager to hear the truth, they pray for it, and even then the Master tells them with great difficulty—only when they become capable of bearing it. Then that truth brings an unparalleled polish, an incomparable beauty, grace.

You have no need to go around telling the neighbors the truth. What truth of theirs could you possibly know? You are not seated in their innermost being. You have seen them only from the outside. And what can be seen from the outside? From the outside they too have set up deceptions, just as you have. Do know your own truth. Look within. Certainly there is misery. And the first reason for misery is that you do not look within; you look without. And the first source of happiness will open from within.

To look within means: not only leave the outer world for a while, but for a few moments in the day leave the inner world too—the world of thought, imagination, memory. Remain only a witness. Just keep watching. With eyes closed, watch whatever is happening inside. Thoughts will arise, feelings will arise, imaginations will arise—keep watching. And keep in mind, keep remembering, keep saying: neti, neti—not this, not this. This thought is not me; this imagination is not me; this memory is not me. Who am I? I am the one who sees all these. I am the witness.

Slowly, when the time ripens, thoughts will depart; the thoughtless state will blossom. There will be silence. An incomparable emptiness will surround you. The entire inner sky will be revealed—uncovered, naked, cool. Its coolness is incomparable. Only the seer will remain, with nothing left to see. And when there is nothing left to see, the seer returns to himself, sees himself. When nothing remains to be seen, a revolution happens—the great revolution—the seer sees the seer. That is self-realization. And that is the doorway to God-realization.

Haridas, then even if you search for misery, you will not find it. Even if you want to, you cannot find it. Then there is only joy—great joy—mahāsukha. Sat-chit-ananda.

That’s all for today.