Mrityoma Amritam Gamaya #3

Yog Bharat! Who does not shrink? People talk about love; talking is a way of avoiding love. Talking of love is not love. Talking of love is the art of covering up its absence. Yes, people sing songs of love—borrowed songs, not born of their own experience. They praise love, they extol it, they honor it—but in that honor there is neither experience nor authenticity. It is the mind’s self-deception.

Who does not shy away from love? You will, because love is risky. There is no greater risk than love. Love demands daring, for it is an adventure—a journey into the unknown. And it is not free. You have to pay dearly—most dearly. Only the one who can offer himself will taste love. Love is the dissolution of the ego.

Understand love rightly and the difficulty becomes clear: love means the dissolution of the ego. Wherever, in relation to anyone or anything, you drop the “I,” there the uninterrupted stream of love begins to flow. Then whether it is a woman or a man, a master or God; music, poetry, sculpture—whenever, in any context, your “I”-sense dissolves, where you are no more; in dance, in song, in celebration—when the dancer becomes empty and only the dance remains—dance without a dancer—that is the arising of love. Where the singer disappears and only the song remains; the musician disappears and only the music remains—there love manifests.

Love does not mean relationship. Relationship is love’s lowest rung. A relationship is like a bird still in the egg; love has not yet been born. The egg must be broken; the bird must come out; it must beat its wings; it must set out into the unknown, unfamiliar sky. And it must leave behind that house, that home where there was security, where everything was safe. How secure the bird was inside the egg! No worry for food, no fear of enemies; no sense of death, no problems of life. Nothing at all. A peaceful, carefree, secure existence. And then the egg is broken and it sets out on a journey whose end is unknown! Whether there is any destination at all—unknown. And it must trust wings that have never flown! Audacity is needed.

Relationship is like the bird in the egg. The love I speak of is love beyond relationship—love as a state of being. Love is not a relationship but a quiet, silent, blissful state of the mind. Love is a state—not a relationship. Then love becomes prayer. And as prayer deepens, prayer itself becomes God.

God is nowhere else; God is love’s ultimate form. Kama is love’s lowest form; Rama is love’s supreme form. The journey is from kama to Rama. People remain entangled in kama—lust—because lust is cheap, accessible, available in the marketplace. It can be bought with money, with position. The ego need not be dropped.

So what you call love relationships would be better called lust relationships. Lust anyone can manage; animals and birds manage it. To lust you need not be human. Only man can love. When lust becomes entirely free of its poison, prayer is born. As mud becomes a lotus, so lust becomes prayer.

I am calling you to that ultimate love. And Bharat, fear will arise. You have never walked that path; you will want to escape; you will shy away. But it is good that at least the awareness has dawned that you are shying away. The unfortunate are those who don’t even have that awareness. They shrink and yet believe they are great lovers—they love the wife, the husband, the children, the family, the friends. Love hasn’t been known; it has only been assumed.

Do you love your son? Truly? Or is the son a means to fulfill your ambitions? The gun you could not fire, perhaps through him you will! The office you could not reach, perhaps through him you will! The wealth you could not earn, the son will. You may not remain, but some part of “you” will continue. Are you seeking your immortality through the son? You know this body will die. But at least a fragment of this body will continue. In some form I will live on! My name will remain—“whose son he is!”

In olden days, the man without a son was considered most unfortunate. Who would continue the lineage! A son had to be. If not one’s own, then borrowed—a son adopted would do. For it is clear we will perish. At least something should remain. If only the name remains, someone will still offer water at the ritual for the ancestors! A name remains; somehow our memory will be preserved. Man loves his children because he wants to escape death.

Do you love your wife? Or is she merely a means to exploit? Do you love your husband? Or is he merely a means of economics—a way to food, housing, arrangements, convenience?

Love is neither arrangement nor economics. Love is neither convenience nor security. Love is poetry. And how many have the sensitivity to experience poetry? How many get intoxicated seeing flowers? How many fill with joy seeing the stars in the sky?

Those for whom the stars have no impact, whose skin does not tingle at the birds’ songs, who do not tie anklets on their feet seeing flowers dance in the breeze—can they love? Impossible. They are stone. The rock within has not yet melted. And that rock I call the ego. That very ego dodges and avoids. And the ego’s cleverest device is to give you the illusion that you already love. “What more love? This is love!” And because this is not love, and you live believing it is, sooner or later disgust arises, sorrow arises, anguish arises out of this false love.

That “love” was false to begin with. Then from that false love a renunciation arises. But renunciation born of false love is as false as the love was. Then you go to the forest—you become a monk, a saint, a holy man. That sainthood is only the culmination of your false love. That saintliness is equally false.

True love also yields vairagya—dispassion. But that dispassion is not the opposite of passion; it goes beyond passion. Understand the difference well. It transcends passion—neither opposing nor denying it. It is passion refined, ripened, clarified.

Passion is like a crude stone; dispassion is that same crude stone in the hands of an artist—he carves a statue. Yes, much is cut away, much is chiseled. But there is no enmity toward the stone. Who could be a greater friend to the stone! He gives the stone new life, new meaning, a new expression. He gives it poetry; he gives it life; he breathes into it. He makes it alive.

When an ordinary stone becomes a statue of the Buddha, you see the difference. Your eye would never have rested on that stone; but this statue will captivate your very life-breath.

It is said of the great sculptor Michelangelo that he went one day to a marble dealer and said, “On the far side of your shop, along the road, I’ve been seeing a big block of marble for years. Will you sell it?” The dealer said, “It doesn’t sell. I’ve given up hope. I’ve put it aside. If someone takes it, good riddance.” Michelangelo said, “I’ll take it.” The dealer was delighted: “You’ll clear my space. That stone is useless. I’ll even pay the hauling cost. Take it away. Trouble gone, space freed!”

Michelangelo took the stone. A year later he invited the dealer home: “Come, I have something to show you.” The dealer saw—and tears of joy rolled from his eyes. He had seen many statues, but never such a one. Michelangelo had transformed the stone. He didn’t even recognize it as the stone he had given away—paying even for its hauling!

The statue was the Pietà—Mary holding the body of Jesus taken down from the cross. It is said there is no second statue like it.

Just two or three years ago, a madman brought a hammer in Rome and smashed that statue. When asked—he had come all the way from America—“What have you done? You have destroyed one of the world’s greatest creations!” he said, “Just as Michelangelo’s name became famous, so will mine. He created; I destroyed. I cannot create, but I can destroy!”

Those who cannot create set themselves to destroying. Those who cannot compose poetry become critics. Those who cannot experience religion become atheists. Those who cannot search for God begin to say, “There is no God.” Sour grapes! Denial is easy; acceptance is hard. Those who cannot surrender say, “Why surrender? Man’s dignity lies in resolve, not in surrender.” Those who cannot surrender say, “It is cowards who surrender; the brave fight.”

Remember: creation is difficult; destruction is easy. The one who cannot be a Michelangelo can be an Adolf Hitler. The one who cannot be a Kalidasa can be a Joseph Stalin. The one who cannot be a Van Gogh can be a Mao Tse-tung. Destruction is easy. The one who cannot be religious can be a politician. What intelligence is needed to be a politician! Intelligence is the only hindrance in politics. An intelligent man cannot be a politician—he cannot be so small, so petty, so mean, so low. He cannot easily stoop so far down. His genius will prevent him.

Turning a stone into a beautiful statue is a way to know love. Taking simple words and weaving a song is a way to know love. Dancing, playing the sitar, coaxing a melody from the flute—these are all forms of love.

You have made love very small. You built a household and concluded love happened. That is not love; animals do that. Bearing children, making a home—animals and birds do it. There is nothing special in it. It does not make you human; it keeps you among animals. The day your love becomes an inner sensitivity; the day it is less a relationship and more your natural state; not that you love someone, but that sitting you are in love, rising you are in love, walking you are in love, speaking you are in love, sleeping you are in love—when every act is suffused with love; when love is not addressed to anyone but pervades each breath, resounds in each heartbeat—that is the love I speak of.

And surely you will tremble, be afraid, and shy away. But without this journey—the hard road, the razor’s edge—you will not be refined.

So, Bharat, shy away as much as you will, fear as much as you will—but in spite of fear, go. This journey must be undertaken; it has to be.

How long will you stagger under the burden of beliefs?
You did well to break every chain.
The world’s practicality carries more weight;
The mind’s compulsion counts for little.
We may break under the frauds of desire,
Yet we’ll never say pain doesn’t suit us.
The very embrace you longed for till dawn—
You did well to shatter that very dream.

Granted, companionship seldom lasts an age,
Granted, the world is often heartless.
That which blooms only in the shell of sorrow—
Believe it or not—the mind is that very pearl.
In the mirror where you could glimpse life itself,
You did well to smash that mirror.

Many are smashing just that mirror in which life looks like life. Many are protecting themselves from the very pain without which pearls are never born. It is in the oyster’s pain that the pearl is born. And no one bears as much pain as the lover.

Love is indeed great pain—but sweet, honeyed, God-soaked. At first you will be afraid. The first steps tremble, like a child’s first steps. Naturally—he has never walked. The mother takes his hand, coaxes him, stands a few steps ahead and gestures, “Come! I’ll hold you—come!” He hesitates, he fears, but trust in the mother, reverence for the mother—and he comes. When he takes one step, his joy knows no bounds, as if he has reached the goal. He falls into the mother’s lap and is so blissful, as if nothing remains to be done.

This is the true master’s function—to keep a little ahead of the disciple, saying, “One more step! Just one more step!” And when you take one step your joy will grow; take another and your experience grows, and courage for two steps comes; two steps give birth to the courage for three. And as Lao Tzu says: step by step, the journey of a thousand miles is completed.

But the first step is certainly the hardest, Bharat! If you have noticed, when a young bird is to fly, its mother often has to push it. Otherwise it clings to the nest. It flutters its wings; it looks at the sky; the sky’s blue calls to it—who does it not call? The infinite touches everyone—no one is that much stone. It touches you; only fear keeps you from accepting the invitation. The moon and stars are signaling to everyone. If you don’t heed them, that is your choice, your cowardice, your impotence. The chick looks, and sees birds flying.

That’s why I am flying so many birds around you—Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Kabir, Nanak, Dadu, Farid; Lao Tzu, Chuang Tzu, Lieh Tzu, Mohammed, Bahauddin, Mansoor. I am flying so many birds in your sky that seeing them your own wings begin to quiver; that you feel, “How long will I sit? Am I to remain caged when the door is open? Am I to remain bound to this nest when no one stops me except my fear? And who but I can break my fear?” This flock around you, this is satsang—where seeing others fly, the thought arises, “I am like them. I too have wings.” Try fluttering. Lift yourself a little into the sky.

Often the mother must shove. That shove the master gives. While shoving, the mother cannot look good to the chick—remember that. Who would like such a mother! She must look an enemy, pushing. The master too doesn’t look good, the one who pushes. You come in search of consolation, not for shoves.

Hence priests please you more—the line-bound fakirs: Jain monks, Buddhist bhikkhus, Hindu sannyasins, Muslim faqirs—bound types, who won’t push you; they soothe you, pat your back: “Son, you’re doing very well. Build another hospital. Endow another school. Give alms to beggars, feed Brahmins, sponsor rituals and fire-sacrifices—but don’t leave the nest. Sit comfortably in the nest.”

The fire-sacrifice will go on. What has that to do with leaving the nest! Priests will come and “pray” for you. They say, “Why take trouble to pray? Son, you keep earning. In that time you’ll earn thousands, and I’ll do your prayer for a few rupees. Straight arithmetic! Why incur such a loss? Yajnas and havans are our business; we are skilled. You be skilled in yours.”

A beggar once caught America’s great tycoon Andrew Carnegie on a morning walk. “Hard to catch you; today I’ll take something! Your servants always shoo me away.”

Carnegie looked him over: hearty, tall, robust, young. “Aren’t you ashamed, asking alms so burly!” The beggar said, “Listen! What’s your business?” “Banking,” said Carnegie—the greatest banker then. The beggar said, “I don’t advise you how to do banking. Did your forefathers ever beg? Do you know the art of begging? Keep your advice. If I look burly, it’s because I beg. Why don’t you look burly? Look in the mirror! I’m carefree. No worry about tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll nab someone as I nabbed you today. Remember, this is my profession—ancestral too. My father begged; his father begged. We know the art. There’s no better trade—if you ask. No capital, no interest. Just get up in the morning and find two or four people. Someone always turns up. And we become skilled at knowing who will give and who won’t.”

Carnegie gave him something and said, “I give because I’ve not seen such a bold beggar—you could tell me, ‘We don’t advise you; don’t advise us.’ You are right. We don’t know the secrets of begging. We shouldn’t advise.”

Priests know their trade. “We’ll do it for you. We are acquainted with the scriptures. Even if you pray, your prayer will be crude. Ours has order, method, exact procedure; proper and precise. And we settle it cheap. Our work gets done, and in that time you earn so much!”

Do priests ever get crucified? Have you heard anywhere a priest was stoned, crucified, murdered? Never. People touch the priests’ feet, honor them—the ones who keep dressing your wounds with flowers, beautiful flowers. Whom else will you honor?

Those who honored priests crucified Jesus. What was Jesus’ fault? He was pushing. Jesus is like your mother. And shoves never feel good. That’s why I am abused; it will go on increasing. As I push, as my sannyasins spread their wings and take to the sky, as the sky begins to blush saffron with these ochre birds, as if dawn is breaking and the East grows red, the abuse will increase. The stones too. The cross is also possible. All is possible. People don’t like shoves. They want consolation. They want their back thumped. And I am ready to cut off your head! You came for pats, and I am ready to behead you! When the ego falls, it is as if the neck is cut. If in anger you long to cut my neck, no surprise.

When the mother pushes the chick, it grabs the nest tighter. But the mother doesn’t give up so easily. She flies—shows, “See, I can fly; you can too. You are born of me; like me.”

Amritasya putrah—“You too are a child of the immortal”—this is what the master says: As I am, so are you.

When Buddha was dying, Ananda began to weep. Buddha said, “Don’t cry. For as I am, so are you. Appo deepo bhava—be a light unto yourself. I’ve been saying it forever; fly! You can fly. Seeing me fly, have you not understood? As I am, so are you. There’s not the slightest difference.”

But people are strange. Their derangement is deep, their unconsciousness dense. When Buddhas say, “As we are, so are you,” what do they hear? “As we are, so are the Buddhas”—so no difference! “We fall ill; you fell ill. We age; you age. We die; you die. So what’s the difference? As we are, so are you. You yourselves say so!”

There was a man who went mad—strangely mad: “I am dead.” Alive—yet he would not be persuaded. How do you convince a living man he is not dead? The family tried everything, exhausted themselves. He would not agree. He ate, bathed, slept—but would not admit he was alive. “I have become a ghost. Ghosts too eat; ghosts too sleep and bathe. Believe it or not,” he said. “You can lecture me, but I know from within—I am dead. Don’t waste your time.”

Finally he was taken to a psychologist. The psychologist tried much. At last he had an idea. “You will admit one thing: if we prick a dead man’s hand with a knife, no blood will flow.” “Yes,” said the man, “it won’t.” “Come.” He stood him before a mirror, took a sharp knife, nicked his hand—blood spurted. The psychologist said, “Now do you accept you’re alive? Dead men don’t bleed!” He said, “No. Now I accept that dead men do bleed. This proves only that I was mistaken—dead men do bleed. Explain it to others too!”

Buddhas say, “You are as we are.” You hear, “We are as you are.” A subtle difference in words—heavens and earth apart.

You won’t allow Buddhas to push you. You ask them, “Sir, give us peace, consolation, contentment.” They want to give you divine discontent—an unrest that burns until God is found; flames of longing and love; a turbulence that will not leave you until the ultimate is attained. You wanted a mantra to hum for a minute and be fine. They hand you an upheaval, an anarchy, that will not cease until God is realized. They do not give you a shore—they give you a storm. They shove you and snatch away the bank.

A true master is one in whose presence you lose the shore and gain the storm—who teaches you the art of seeing the shore in the midst of storms, who gives you the taste, the joy of sailing through tempests.

So the mother bird shoves; she flies; she perches on another tree; she calls from there. The chick wants to go, yet fears: “What if I fall!” And again: “If mother calls, she must be right. If she can fly, why not I? I look just like her. I do have wings. I can flutter.” If not today, tomorrow; if not tomorrow, the day after. The mother waits; she pushes; she calls; she hides in the bushes and beckons. One day the chick gathers courage, opens its wings, and rises into the sky. Then no mother is needed to call.

My work, Bharat, is to shove you—to abandon you to the storm of love.

I have a keepsake—guard it with care:
I leave my song with you, friend, in your village.
The scale lies nearby, yet silence reigns—
Who listens to whom, in loneliness?
A burning night finds no rest;
Who will hold back the swelling rain of eyes?
With tender care I raised a flower of practice—
See it does not wither in the banyan’s shade.

I have a keepsake—guard it with care:
I leave my song with you, friend, in your village.
The world is heartless—an old story;
Yet everyone must bear the blows.
Perhaps someone is cross with me—
He never grasped the secret of my ecstasy.
But I listen to all, thinking thus:
He who calls his winning victory has lost the game.

I have a keepsake—guard it with care:
I leave my song with you, friend, in your village.
Breath moves on; I too keep moving.
The wick burns on; I too keep burning.
A great distance lies between me and the Beloved, friend—
Only song can shorten that distance.
My song, your melody—let it resound to the world’s rhythm—
Anklets chiming on life’s feet.

I have a keepsake—guard it with care:
I leave my poem with you, friend, in your village.

This is all a master does—he hums a song in your heart, awakens a poem, and then leaves you to the journey into the infinite. He ties anklets on your feet; he places an ektara in your hand.

My song, your melody—let it resound to the world’s rhythm—
Anklets chiming on life’s feet.
I have a keepsake—guard it with care:
I leave my poem with you, friend, in your village.

Thus the awakened ones have always left their poems in your village. But if you impose your own meanings on them, you will miss. Don’t give those poems your meanings. Give them your heart—don’t give them your intellect. Listen to them, taste them, hum them, dance them—but don’t analyze them with the mind, else you will miss. Whatever analysis you do will be wrong.

Mulla Nasruddin was riding a bus. Every little while he told the conductor, “When Shahdara comes, tell me.” The conductor said, “Don’t worry, elder—still far.”

Because of the crowd the conductor forgot; the bus passed Shahdara. Mulla asked again, “How far now to Shahdara?” The conductor said, “Forgive me, elder—Shahdara is behind us.”

Then Mulla created an uproar: “I told you again and again—inform me at Shahdara! Whose fault is it?”

At the passengers’ insistence the bus was brought back to Shahdara. Reaching there, Mulla asked for a glass of water, took out a pouch of medicine, swallowed it with water, and stretched out at ease. “Quickly get down, elder!” said the conductor. Mulla, still lying, replied, “I have to go to Ghaziabad.” The conductor flared up: “You blockhead! If you had to go to Ghaziabad, why bring the bus back halfway!” Mulla said, “What could I do! When I left, the doctor had said, ‘Take this medicine when you reach Shahdara.’”

What you will understand depends on you. If you bring in your “understanding,” some misunderstanding is sure to happen. Don’t bring it in.

Listen! Drink! Be intoxicated! Your understanding is of no use—because your understanding will explain that you must cling to your nest; don’t let go. Cling to your beliefs; don’t leave them. They have protected you so long. And who knows, with this unknown man—where will he take you? Where will he mislead you?

It feels safe to go with the well-known—even if you wander your whole life. The tilak-wearing priest looks familiar—seen since childhood; your forefathers followed him. The priest muttering Ramayana couplets is familiar—those verses soaked into your blood.

Whenever there is an awakened one, he will push you toward the unknown. The known is not where their trust lies—it lies in the unknown. Because God is unknown. Because love is unknown.

It was the festival of Holi. Mulla Nasruddin was getting a shave. The barber was well-stoned on bhang. While shaving he nicked Mulla’s cheek with the razor. Mulla was furious: “Look! I’ve told you a thousand times—this is what comes of your bhang!” “Ah!” said the barber, “So that’s why your cheek felt so soft!”

Your “understanding” is useless in the realm of the unknown. You are unconscious. Asleep. Your eyes are closed. You cannot understand the talk of the seeing. Yes, you can drink it; you can sing in their tune; you can dance in their rhythm. And dancing and singing with them, your closed eyes will open too.

A police officer and his wife were both sleepwalkers. One night the officer came late, hung his coat, and slept. The wife saw his pockets bulging with bribe money. She got up stealthily to take a thousand rupees. But the officer was no ordinary fellow; he caught her red-handed: “You shameless woman! Stealing from a high-ranking police officer! To the station—you’ll be taught a lesson.” She panicked, slipped a hundred-rupee note into his hand and whispered, “Listen—let’s settle the matter here.”

And both are asleep! The whole earth is asleep. Bribes are being taken and given, pockets cut and filled, houses built and demolished, people thriving and ruined—everything goes on, but the sleep doesn’t break. And when it breaks, love enters your life.

In stupor there is lust; in wakefulness, love.

So, Bharat—wake up! Fear will arise, because in waking you will have to drop your dreams. In spite of fear, awaken. And it is good that you have seen you are shying away. That is the first step. Now the second: leave the shrinking aside and, with courage, set out on love’s journey. For only love’s journey leads to the Beloved’s destination.

But understand my “love” rightly. Don’t impose your own meaning. And beware of others who will interpret what I say.

There are a thousand commentaries on the Gita. If you read the Gita directly, it is not so tangled. The Gita is clear. But if you read the thousand commentaries first and then the Gita, you will not understand it at all.

Read Shankara first, and he paints the Gita in his color. He twists and contorts it; he makes it perform such yogic postures! He extracts meanings that perhaps never occurred to Krishna.

Krishna tells Arjuna: “Enter the war.” Shankara extracts from Krishna’s words: “Renounce action; become a sannyasin; abandon all karma.”

This is astounding! The man standing on his feet has been made to stand on his head! Krishna says, “Enter action, with the sense of non-doership—act as if non-acting. You are not the doer; God is the doer; you are only his vehicle.” But from this Shankara derives: “Since you are not the doer, why get embroiled at all? Go beyond action; cultivate inaction; renounce karma.”

“Renounce the doer”—that was Krishna’s intent. To turn it into “renounce action” is easy—especially for a logician like Shankara. If you read Shankara, he will seem right. You will feel that if even Krishna stood before him, Shankara would persuade him: “This is the meaning of your words. You spoke, but perhaps your meaning isn’t clear.”

Then read Ramanuja—no accord with Shankara. Where Shankara finds renunciation and dispassion, Ramanuja finds devotion and love, attachment to God. He is no less a logician. Read Ramanuja and the Gita becomes a scripture of bhakti.

Then Lokmanya Tilak, here in Poona, drew a third meaning—karma, the yoga of action. Neither bhakti nor renunciation—unceasing industriousness. This must have pleased the Marathi man: relentless work! What renunciation, what devotion! Clash and engage; throw yourself into action.

It is said that the day Tilak’s wife died, he was at work in the office of his newspaper, Kesari. A man came running: “Your wife has passed! She was very ill—now she is gone. Quick!”

Do you know what Tilak did? He looked at the clock: “It is only 4:30. If the wife died half an hour early, what can I do! The office closes at five. I will come at five.”

And there are those who praise this, “Wonderful man! The wife died, but he did not abandon work. A karma-yogi! He’ll come at five, by the clock!” As if death were in the wife’s hands: at 4:30 or 5:00. If she were clever she would have died on Sunday—holiday!

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife died on a holiday—Sunday. Mulla smote his head: “I knew she would take revenge even while dying. Today we were to go on a picnic—such beautiful weather. What a day she chose to die! She could have died any other day; there are seven days in the week. But she had to die today. I knew she would choose a moment to torment me to the end!”

People think in their own ways. Satsang is available only to those who set thinking aside; who say, “Enough thinking—now we will live, experience.” Ages have gone in thinking.

Bharat, don’t go on thinking about love! Great scriptures have been written on love—and the more the scriptures, the more the entanglement. The more you “know” about love, the more difficult love becomes.

Mulla Nasruddin said to his son Fazlu, “Did your teacher realize I helped you solve this problem?” Fazlu said, “Yes, the moment he saw it. He said immediately: ‘This looks like the work of two people. How could one person make so many mistakes!’”

You don’t show the signs of one pundit—you show the signs of many. Many “knowers,” many holy men have spoiled and ruined you. So much rubbish has filled your head!

Empty out all the trash. Forget whatever you “know” about love—then there is a possibility of knowing love. Forget whatever you “know” about God—then there is a possibility of knowing God. Become ignorant again—and knowledge can dawn.

Nandan! You ask, “ever?” At every moment. Moment to moment. To be with the true master is an examination. Satsang is an examination—continuous, day and night—whether you understand it or not.

With the true master there is no exam as in a university—no announcement that the test begins on such and such date, no bell rings, no examination hall, no distribution of answer sheets, no way to cheat. It goes on silently. Only when it is over do you sometimes notice, “Ah! The examination happened.” If you notice even after it’s over, count yourself very fortunate. Otherwise it happens and you don’t even know. People keep passing and failing without any idea of what’s going on. Such is the unconsciousness!

A Sufi story. A man came to a dervish and offered him a stitched garment. Immediately the dervish put his hand into his bag, took out a fish, and gave it to the man—then and there.

The disciples sitting around saw this and began debating among themselves to discover the secret of that exchange. What was the matter? The man said nothing—just offered a garment. And the master suddenly took out a fish! What connection between fish and cloth? Surely there must be some hidden meaning, some esoteric symbol we are missing. The cloth must stand for something; the fish must stand for something! A great hue and cry arose. Endless argument—because such things invite argument. When no words are spoken, the mind can project any meaning it wants. It remained a riddle.

After many days the dervish asked what conclusion they had reached. When all the disciples had had their say, the dervish said, “By that exchange I wanted to see whether any one of you was intelligent enough to understand that it had no meaning at all.”

A very strange examination indeed! The fakir wanted to know whether any of you had the intelligence to see the purposelessness of that exchange. And that is the height of intelligence—because existence itself has no purpose. It simply is. It is not going anywhere.

Do not ask why existence is. There is no cause for its not being, and no cause for its being—neither behind nor ahead. It is not coming from anywhere, going nowhere. It is here, always here. It simply is. Enjoy its is-ness. Purpose, motive, cause—these are human inventions. Yes, a car has a purpose: it takes you from one place to another. Clothes have a purpose: they cover the body, help in sun, heat, rain. An umbrella has a purpose: shelter from rain or sun. Things made by man have purposes. But what is the purpose of the sky? Of the moon and stars? Of flowers? Of you? Of being itself? None.

The Sufi fakir is saying: I wanted to know whether there is anyone here with enough intelligence to understand the purposelessness of that exchange—because only such a one will be able to understand my other words; otherwise he will miss.

The examination is going on every moment. You will not even know you are being examined. You will know only on the day you have already passed—fully passed—when the last examination is over and you are back home. Then you will see how many examinations you kept passing—test after test. But while they were happening you would have had no inkling at all. If you do get an inkling, your master is not very skillful. Then he does not know how to examine. For if you understand that an exam is being conducted, you can cheat. You can give false answers, contrived answers. You can ask others, look into books, consult the scriptures.

A Zen master asked his disciple, “What is the mark of a disciple?” The disciple, very simply, said, “Buddham saranam gacchami. Sangham saranam gacchami. Dhammam saranam gacchami.” To take refuge in the awakened ones is what it means to be a disciple; to dissolve into the community of the awakened, satsang, is the mark of a disciple; to surrender to the law, the ultimate principle by which the awakened have awakened and by which they have become a garland of flowers, is the mark of a disciple.

The master said, “Right.”

The next morning, when they met again, the master asked, “What is the mark of a disciple?” The disciple instantly replied, “Buddham saranam gacchami. Sangham saranam gacchami. Dhammam saranam gacchami.” The master said, “Get out of here, you fool! Is that an answer?”

The disciple said, “But this is strange. Yesterday you said, ‘That is the answer,’ and today you say, ‘Is that an answer!’”

The master said, “Yesterday was yesterday, today is today. Yesterday it was right—not because of the words, but because of your spontaneous flare.”

Understand the subtle difference. What is in the words? Fools have been repeating them for centuries—thousands, millions of buddhu, simpletons, have kept parroting “Buddham saranam gacchami,” and remained simpletons. Nothing changed. Parrots repeat it too. In Buddhist lands parrots chant “Buddham saranam gacchami,” just as in your land parrots chant “Ram-Ram, Sita-Ram.”

There is nothing in the words themselves. Yesterday your response sprang spontaneously; you answered instantly—without thinking, without deliberation. It did not come from your mind; it welled up from your heart. Yesterday it was true. Today it is false—because today you are only repeating yesterday. Today it is coming from the mind. Today it is a carbon copy, borrowed, stale. Yesterday it was a fresh flower. Today the petals have fallen, covered with dust. Today it is not true.

Answers cannot be learned—this is that kind of examination. Learned answers are of no use—this is that kind of examination. This examination is of your spontaneous intelligence, your naturalness. Therefore there are no keys, as there are keys for ordinary exams. And what was right yesterday may or may not be right today.

That is why you often ask me, “Five years ago you said this; today you said that. Which is true?” You bring today a statement from five years ago! Even yesterday is no longer today. How much water has flowed in the Ganges in five years! I myself don’t know what I said five years ago. Who keeps account? Are these matters for bookkeeping? And to whom did I say it? Surely it was not you. For that person it was an answer—and only for that very moment. Even if that same person were here today and said, “Five years ago you told me so-and-so; now you say such-and-such,” I would tell him, “In five years you too have flowed on. Not only the Ganges—you too.”

Heraclitus has said, you cannot step into the same river twice. And I tell you, you cannot meet the same man twice. As the river flows and changes, so do human beings flow and change.

That day, within your context, the answer was right. In today’s context, it may have no meaning. Neither are you you, nor am I I.

If you go to a photographer today and get your picture taken, then look at it and say, “What is this? Five years ago I came and you took my picture—these two don’t match!” A small boy sits with his mother looking through the family album. A handsome young man appears—long curly black hair, a radiant face, tie and coat. The boy asks, “Who is this? I’ve never seen him.” His mother says, “Don’t you recognize? That’s your daddy.” The boy says, “That’s my daddy? Then who is that bald fellow at home whom I’ve been calling Daddy?”

Twenty years have passed. The hair is gone, the curls are gone, the face is no longer the same.

When you ask such questions—“Five years ago you said this, ten years ago that”—you show no more intelligence than that child.

What I am saying now is true now, true for now. What will be in the next moment—the next moment will know.

At the master’s place the exam goes on moment to moment. But no fixed answers will work. Hence you do not even recognize the examination.

A young man came to a Zen master for three years—again and again. Each time he was given a riddle and could not solve it. Whenever he came, the master beat him. Zen masters beat; their compassion is great. They keep a staff at hand. Whether the head stays or goes, whether it cracks or breaks—their staff strikes mercilessly.

For three years the disciple was thrashed. At last he panicked: how long will this go on? In two or four days the pain would somehow fade. He would return with a new answer to the riddle—and the staff was ready. Once it even happened that he was struck before he had answered. He said, “At least hear my answer!” The master said, “Just seeing you I knew you would answer wrongly. Off with you! Get on the path!”

Is this any way to conduct an examination? At least hear the answer! But the true master can see. Your gait tells him. He must have entered timidly, hesitantly, afraid, steeling himself; eyes full of doubt: “Now the staff will fall again!” Watching the staff more than the master, trying to judge the master’s mood, measuring from how far to answer. One who has been beaten for three years learns at least that much from experience.

Many times the master did not open the door at all. The disciple knocked; the master said, “Go away! Don’t force me to beat you. Do you think only you suffer? My hand aches too.”

Finally he thought, “This won’t do. Let me ask the older disciples. Someone must know the answer. How did they solve it? Their skulls no longer receive blows.” He asked the oldest disciple, “You are now accepted, even revered. You solved the riddle. How did you do it?” The elder said, “Brother, I too was beaten plenty. But one day it happened. I went in, and as the master asked, ‘Have you brought the answer?’ I don’t know what happened—I just fell flat, four limbs spread, eyes closed. And the master said, ‘Right.’ I can’t say for sure what happened. That day he didn’t beat me. He embraced me and gifted me his favorite teacup. I don’t drink tea from it; I offer flowers to it. It has become my object of worship. From that day he never asked me the riddle. What happened—I can’t say. But after that moment I was not the same man. That one truly died. I am altogether other.”

The young man said, “Master! You have watched me being beaten for three years, seen bandages on my head. You could have at least had that much compassion—Buddha taught so much compassion—at least told me this much. I could do that any time. I will practice for two days—and you watch on the third.”

He practiced two days—again and again falling flat in his room, eyes shut, holding his breath. When his practice felt complete, on the third day he reached the master’s door. Not only was the door open—the master was oiling his staff. His chest sank: this is the limit! He had never seen the staff being massaged! He trembled: has something been found out? Has the elder disciple spoken? Then he thought, “Whatever is to be done, I must do it. I have practiced for two days.” The master asked, “Have you brought the answer?” He instantly crashed to the floor, arms spread, eyes shut. The master burst into laughter, came close and lifted one eyelid—and of course when one eye opens, the other opens too. The master said, “Get up!” and gave him two blows instead of one.

The disciple cried, “What are you doing! This is injustice. Today for the first time I must call you unjust. You accepted this answer from another disciple!”

The master said, “I did. But he had not practiced it. It was spontaneous. He did not know from where it came—call it from the unknown, from the divine, from nature. A wondrous flower bloomed in his being. It was not his; it was of the beyond, born of his own suchness. You have come with practice. This is a paper flower. And remember: if you open one eye of a corpse, the other does not open. If you practice again, remember this too: if you open one eye of a dead man, the other does not open. What kind of deadness is this that when I opened one eye, both of yours opened! With such a death you will not die—and if you do not die, you cannot be new.”

With the true master the testing is continuous—not overt, but subtle. Satsang is an examination. And as human consciousness has evolved, the processes of the masters have become subtler and subtler.

I do not sit with a stick. But I certainly strike. Now, what is there in striking with a stick in the hand? Anyone can do that. That the masters in Japan had to carry sticks simply means people there had very thick skulls; subtler things would not reach them without a blow.

I too have a stick, but it is subtle; you cannot see it; it is invisible. I strike as well. The blows land, but not directly. You cannot pre-determine how or when I will strike. Sometimes a smile is a blow. Sometimes, with just a joke, I slap you. Sometimes Mulla Nasruddin gets beaten, but in truth you are being beaten—Mulla is only a device. Sometimes I speak of Dabbuji, and it is your story.

These are subtle processes. As human consciousness has grown, these processes have grown subtler. We are living in a very extraordinary time, when man is close to touching a majestic peak of consciousness. Therefore the ways of the masters will also change. With this new consciousness, new methods must be tried.

I am experimenting with all sorts of new ways. Because they are not old, you may not understand them immediately. Only by and by.

But Nandan, your question is important. Now look a little more consciously and see when and how you are being tested. Observe with alertness, with awareness. But remember one thing: do not prepare answers; otherwise you will keep failing. In this examination those who memorize answers always fail. This examination is for those who do not memorize, who allow the question to enter and allow the answer to arise.

Ready-made answers will not work. What is needed is an answer from your very life-breath—your own response, your own resonance. Only then can you pass.

Narendra! Sannyas has always been life, celebration—but the sannyas of Buddha, Krishna, Mahavira, Kabir. Followers, the crowd of the blind who trail behind, they turn everything upside down. There is a psychological reason behind that inversion; if you understand it, everything will become clear.

Mahavira, for instance, fasted—he fasted a great deal. It is said that in the long twelve years of austerity he took food only three hundred and sixty-five days—meaning one year in all. On average he fasted eleven days, then ate on the twelfth: eleven days fast, one day food. Naturally people saw that by fasting and fasting and fasting, one day Mahavira attained the supreme light. People can only see the outside. Who has an eye to look into Mahavira’s within? Whoever can look into Mahavira’s within has himself become a Mahavira. He has no need then to peep into Mahavira; if he can look within Mahavira, he has already looked within himself. What further need of another Mahavira? He has become his own lamp.

But people saw Mahavira from the outside. From the outside conduct is visible; the soul is not. Here lies the hitch. From here the mischief starts. From here the distortion of religion begins.

Within Mahavira there was so much joy—of meditation, of samadhi—that he would forget hunger and thirst. Days would pass. That is the real meaning of the word upavasa (fast): to be near oneself—upa-vasa; or to be near the divine—upavasa. He was so near to himself that he fell very far from the body; the body did not even come to mind, he had gone so far. When one is near the soul, one is far from the body. Between soul and body there is an infinite distance. Do note, I am saying—infinite. It cannot be weighed, so vast is the gap. It cannot be measured, so vast it is. Whoever is close to the body is far from the soul; whoever is close to the soul is far from the body.

Mahavira’s fasting happened because he was near the soul. The body was forgotten. You yourself must have noticed at times—when very happy you don’t feel hungry. Happiness fills you, and hunger disappears.

I was a guest in a home. The lady of the house said to me, “I don’t want to ask anything else. People ask you very big questions; I have only one, and that too in private.” At noon, as I was going to rest, she said, “Now no one’s around—may I take five minutes?”

I said, “Ask. What is it? What kind of question?”

She said, “It’s a foolish question; that’s why I can’t ask it in front of others—I’d be embarrassed. The thing is, I loved my mother-in-law very much—which is almost impossible. Daughters-in-law and mothers-in-law usually don’t love each other. But my mother-in-law loved me so much that even my own mother could not have loved me that way. I loved her immensely. When she died, she died in the evening; we are a Jain family; so that evening there was no meal. And that night I felt so hungry that I couldn’t even tell my husband, ‘I’m hungry.’ What would he say—‘My mother has died and you’re hungry at midnight! You aren’t even sad!’ So I went stealthily into the kitchen and ate whatever I could find in the dark. I was tormented by guilt: what am I doing? My mother-in-law has died—her body is in the house—and if there had been enmity between us it might be understandable: ‘Good, the trouble is gone.’ But I loved her. And I have never loved anyone as much. No one has cherished me as she did. I don’t feel as attached even to my husband as I did to her. With her death, everything in my life seemed lost. And I felt hungry! I couldn’t ask anyone because what would people say? So I ask you.”

I told her, “It is absolutely natural. It is purely psychological. When one is in joy, it is not only the soul that feels full; everything feels full—so hunger and thirst are forgotten. But when one is in sorrow, in pain, everything becomes empty, hollow. Not only the soul feels empty—the body too feels empty. Fierce hunger can arise. There is nothing unintelligible in it. Do not burden yourself with guilt. It is only proof that you truly loved your mother-in-law.”

It was as if the Himalayas were lifted off her head. She said, “I lived under that guilt, gnawed by it—that I couldn’t stay hungry even one night! And a Jain household! And I myself fast ten days every Paryushan. How can someone who can fast ten days not remain hungry for one night? It seemed impossible.”

But it can happen that sorrow is so deep you feel such emptiness within that it seeks to be filled. Psychologists accept this truth now. In countries where there is a pervasive sense of emptiness—especially America—people’s lives have become very hollow: everything is there, and yet nothing is there. So people keep filling themselves with food. America’s biggest disease is obesity. Most people there are afflicted. Everyone you see is dieting, seeking naturopathy, going to fast—somehow to reduce body weight.

One of my sannyasins is Preeti Ganguly, the daughter of the famous actor Ashok Kumar. A thousand remedies were tried; her obesity would not lessen—it kept increasing. In the Indian film world there are only two really fat women—Tun Tun and Preeti. Preeti’s face is truly lovely; if her body had been in proportion, she could have been a Hema Malini. She has as much artistry, as much talent. But the body became so large she couldn’t get heroine’s roles. All remedies failed. She asked me what she should do.

I told her, “There is only one thing that might one day work for you: fall in love—so deeply that love fills you.” She said, “But I am in love—with someone who is married.” I said, “To love a married man is simply a way to avoid love. It means it cannot become the center of your life: only on the fringes. Meet once in a while; he is married, has children, his own world. It can’t become your foundation. Nothing will change through that.” And the matter dropped.

Just the day before yesterday I read in the papers that Preeti has fallen in love. And a miracle has happened—sixty pounds shed at once! For Preeti that is joyous news. But the filmmakers are in trouble: the roles they gave her because of her size—now what will they do? Where will they find that old, fat Preeti? And the particular smile that used to hover on her face—which is almost always on the faces of fat people—that too has vanished. That smile is a strategy, a psychological device to make up for what one feels lacking in the body. A fat person smiles a lot, is jovial. Just seeing a fat person often makes you feel cheerful—because he wants somehow to attract you.

Preeti’s jester-like phase is gone; the fat is gone. Films stuck midway have run into problems. Her entire future as a comic actress is in danger. But she doesn’t care. Now she must have understood what I told her long back: if you ever truly fall in love—if someone’s presence fills you—your excessive craving for food will disappear. She spent her days and nights eating and drinking—eating as much as possible, drinking as much as possible.

In happiness one is so filled! And when one is filled with bliss—what to say then! Mahavira found bliss, found God. That was the fruition of his upavasa. This is the inner story, the inner tale—which I can tell you, because it is known to me; it is my experience. I too have fasted in that way, but only when there was joy within.

Then come the followers. They also fast. Their fasting is a hunger strike (anshan), not upavasa. They starve themselves. They impose it upon themselves by force.

Mahavira’s fasting is celebration, joy. The fasting of the Jain monk walking behind Mahavira is sorrow, anti-life, self-destructive, death-oriented.

Narendra, you asked: “Once sannyas was adorned with the glory of life...”

Whenever there has been a true sannyasin, he has indeed been adorned with life’s glory. Sannyas is the fragrance of life. Sannyas is life’s ultimate flight. Sannyas is the essence of life. Sannyas is aliveness.

You asked: “But today it has become synonymous with death.”

It has become so because of escapists, liars, hypocrites—and followers. For followers grasp from the outside. Mahavira became so joyous, so innocent that he dropped his clothes. Such innocence came that he became like a small child; he was no longer aware of clothing.

The Bible tells a story: when Adam and Eve ate the fruit of the tree of knowledge, the first thought that came to them was that they were naked. This story is worth understanding—especially in the context of Mahavira. The two stories are two sides of the same coin. The first awareness Adam and Eve had after tasting the fruit of knowledge was, “We are naked.” And what was the first thing they did? They hurriedly gathered leaves and, fastening them with twigs, made garments. The first act after tasting knowledge was to make clothes.

Mahavira became innocent again—as Adam and Eve must have been before tasting the fruit of knowledge. The fruit of meditation can be tasted only by one who has renounced the fruit of knowledge.

Mahavira became innocent again; so the first happening for him would have been the falling away of clothes. That nakedness is something else altogether. It is not mere bareness. There is a difference between true nakedness and being bare. True nakedness is a rare state. Mere bareness is a very petty psychology, a smallness.

Jain monks are bare; they are not truly naked. They have arranged it; they have practiced it. Like that man who “practiced” for two days to lie down flat, eyes closed, motionless, held his breath, and “died.” Just such practice. The bareness that comes from practice is mere bareness. The nakedness that flows from innocence has a different fragrance, a different music. In it there is the joy of life, the dance of little children, their peals of laughter. Practiced bareness is false, futile, hollow, egoistic, death-bound, anti-life.

There are people who take sannyas out of grace toward life; and there are people who take sannyas out of fear of life. Their sannyas will be utterly different. Someone’s wife dies, and they say—“Shave the head and become a renunciate!” The wife died; now what to do? They shave the head and become a sannyasin. Who will bother running a shop now! As a sannyasin you’ll get respect, you’ll be fed, people will come to serve you. Who will worry about bread and work? The wife’s death gives them an excuse to run away. While she lived they could not run—responsibility was felt, guilt was felt; and a wife does not let you run so easily either. Where would you run? She would track you down, drag you back from anywhere.

I know one wife who found her runaway husband in Benares after fifteen years. Fifteen years a sannyasin—and the moment he saw his wife, he began to sweat. She said, “Get up! Come home!” And up he got and trailed after her—why invite further humiliation? When they returned, his wife told me, “I brought him back. It took fifteen years, but I left no haunt unchecked. I searched every ashram.”

I said, “You didn’t come to my ashram?”

She said, “That’s the one place he can’t be found. Here sannyasins are of another kind. I didn’t come. I was sure he wouldn’t be here. Black-blanketed babas—I looked there. Haridwar, Rishikesh, Kashi, Mathura-Vrindavan—I searched there. I didn’t come here.”

She was right. Her understanding was right. “How would he be found here!” she said.

Here, another kind of sannyas is unfolding—one that is not anti-life, not cowardly, not escapist. One kind of sannyas comes from exhaustion—from gloom, from despondency:

Life-breath, hide me in the dense tree of your mind;
I am a traveler, tired!
Feet found ceaseless love of motion,
Eyes absorbed the sky’s vast expanse,
The mind, like a restless bird, flies aimless—
Let my mind be its nest, for a while;
I am a traveler, tired!

I composed so many songs to sing,
Yet some remain in the heart—
They long to touch your lips;
Seat them today upon the throne of sound,
I am a traveler, tired!

Life’s road has somehow been cut and crossed,
Like a river pining for the shore;
Having touched all the edges of all directions,
At the horizon—dusk is falling; now pour your tenderness,
I am the lamp of age that is going out.
I am a traveler, tired.

One kind comes from fatigue—old age is dimming, life is ebbing; death is coming. Seeing death, in panic, in fear, in greed for heaven, in dread of hell, one kind of sannyas happens. That sannyas is hollow, false, not true. God is life; therefore that sannyas cannot lead toward God.

Whenever sannyas is true, it is born not out of life’s weariness, but out of life’s exuberance; born from the waves of life—from the songs of birds, the greenness of trees, the colors and fragrance of flowers, the sparkle of stars. Ripened by life’s endless experiences, it takes you beyond life, not against life.

Yog Pritam has sent me a poem. It will remind you of the second kind of sannyas:

Sing as you walk every path, keep spreading this ecstasy;
Whoever meets you on the way, shower them with love.

Swaying in intoxication is this village of mad lovers;
Those who have drunk love’s wine—only they are the true revelers.
Such dancing, singing, celebration—you’ll find nowhere else;
Here the lamp is lit, and the moths throng to it.

You too keep playing your instrument, laughing and making others laugh;
This springlike world—keep spilling out its colors.

The brave of heart, the true-hearted—this is the gathering of those lovers
Who are engaged in a new creation—this is the gathering of those friends.
Those betrothed to the Beloved, lost in Him;
Those who lost their hearts unconditionally—this is the gathering of such heartful ones.

You too keep staking your all, keep heightening the joy of the mind;
Mingle with all of them, go on embracing everyone.

There is no caste-class divide here, no national bondage;
All who are seekers, who are thirsty—welcome to them all.
No condition, no restriction; whoever loves life—
Flowers will surely bloom in them; sweet is the bee-hymn for them.

You too keep coming and going, take a dip right here;
This is the pilgrimage of pilgrimages—come earn your merit here.
Earthlings can declare—this is our adventure;
Here art and science meet—this is our garden.

Flowers of every kind are in bloom, each with a unique fragrance;
All bathe in the Ganges of sound—this is our call:
You too keep playing the lute, let some music be heard;
This very earth will be heaven—keep spreading beauty.
Sing as you walk every path, keep spreading this ecstasy;
Whoever meets you on the way, shower them with love.

One sannyas is of the old, of the dead. Another sannyas is of the young—of those who are still alive. And remember, old age is not of the body; it is the name of a defeated state of mind. A youth can be old; a child can be old. And youth is not a matter of years; it is a psychological fact. An old person can be young. Whoever loves life is young; whoever does not love life is old.

Live! Live in totality! Then you will come to know true sannyas.

This dispassion (vairagya) arises out of the intensity of passion (rag). From the seed of passion itself the flower of dispassion blooms. This dispassion is not of those who have turned their backs on passion out of fear. This is not the sannyas of repressors.

And let me repeat, Narendra: whenever sannyas has visited the earth—be it of Yajnavalkya or Uddalaka, of Buddha or Kabir, of Zarathustra or Bahauddin—whenever sannyas has come, it has come singing, it has come dancing. There is always a veena in its hands; a flute at its lips; and in its very breath only one note—the note of wonder, of gratitude. Blessed are we that we are part of this vast existence. Blessed are we that this immense existence has given us life, breathed breath into us. That very gratefulness is sannyas.

Enough for today.