Mrityoma Amritam Gamaya #5

Madhuri! I had held back to answer your question; I knew sannyas would happen anyway. Now that your sannyas has happened, I will answer.

Madhuri asked the question before sannyas; I am answering after sannyas. Because Madhuri is not the only Madhuri. There are many more, caught in the same dilemma, the same hesitation, the same trembling. One cannot step forward, and there is no way to go back.

You cannot return, because back there is nothing but sorrow—a deep new-moon night. Moving forward feels frightening—fear of the unknown, an unfamiliar, uncharted path. Behind you is the crowd—its company, its sense of security. Someone is a Hindu, someone a Muslim, someone a Christian. In the crowd there is a kind of assurance—so many people can’t all be wrong.

Sannyas is a declaration of being alone. It proclaims: I came alone, I am alone, I will go alone. All companionship is false. It is maya, attachment, affection—a delusion, a web of the mind.

Sannyas means the world I have built for myself is only for distraction, for consolation—for somehow getting through these few days of life, for busyness. Then death comes and leaves one utterly alone. What death does, sannyas does. Death makes you alone by force; sannyas is your voluntary declaration to be alone. Therefore death misses, because no one can be changed by force. Real change is for one’s own joy; it is voluntary, spontaneous. Change is the flower of freedom. Death compels, and the more it compels, the more tightly you cling—to your illusions, your body, your mind.

As death approaches from one side, your attachment increases on the other. You clutch the shore even harder lest the storm snatch you away—because you cannot see the other shore. It is visible only to those who take the storm as an opportunity, who step into it of their own accord, who await it, who sit with their sails unfurled, ready to depart when the winds rise.

The other shore is seen only by such daring eyes. A certain audacity is needed for it to appear. Sannyas is audacity. What death cannot do, sannyas does.

Madhuri, you asked: “How then can I take sannyas?”

Everyone who longs for sannyas is tormented by this question: “How can I take sannyas?”

What are the hindrances? What are the obstacles? What do you have to lose? What have you ever had that could be lost? Are your hands empty, or filled with ashes—which is worse than empty? What music within will be lost? There are only thorns. There is noise, yes—but where is music? Thorns abound; no flower has blossomed. You hoped for flowers; thorns have come. You wished for celebration; you got melancholy. What is there to lose? If this shore is lost, what is lost? Why keep your boat tied to this bank?

But no. The human mind forms a relationship even with familiar miseries. Familiar anxieties start to feel good. We even befriend familiar enemies. If the enemy dies, something empties out of your life.

I have heard that the day Gandhi was shot and Jinnah was informed that Gandhi had died, Jinnah was sitting in his garden in Karachi. The messenger thought Jinnah would be pleased—his lifelong enemy dead. Whom the Muslims could not kill, Hindus killed. Such an upside-down world! Strangers are strangers, yes—but those who are “yours” can be even more estranged. The distant are distant, of course, but you have no idea how far those near you can be!

But the messenger realized his mistake. Jinnah became utterly sad, rose from the garden, and went inside. The man followed him and said, I thought you would be happy—your lifelong foe is gone!

Do you know what Jinnah said? “With Gandhi’s death, something in me died. That enmity was old; that tie was deep. I am no longer who I was while Gandhi lived.” And Jinnah was no longer the same. Gandhi’s death killed something inside Jinnah.

It is a profound psychological fact: you become attached even to those you fight. Your sorrows, too, are your companions. Without them you feel restless. Those who remain ill for long even cling to illness.

Psychology now scientifically acknowledges that people who stay ill for long—perhaps the disease began in the body, but the body has long since healed—continue to hold the illness in the mind. They cannot let it go. Illness becomes a vested interest, with benefits they don’t want to lose.

When you are sick, you get sympathy. If you fail, no one can blame you—you were ill! If in illness you can’t earn money, gain status, or fame, you can always say—an insurance policy—what could I do, I was ill! You have an umbrella you can open which protects you on all sides.

At exam time students often fall sick—not consciously; illness rises from some deep unconscious layer. I know students who fall ill only during exams, every year! As exams approach, illness approaches. The nearer the exam, the worse the illness. All bodily symptoms are there, but it is not of the body. The mind is afraid of the exam. Illness serves as protection. If they fail, the illness is responsible. And if they succeed—what glory for the ego: I was ill and still succeeded!

Madhuri, what is there to drop? Your hands are empty.

For centuries people have thought sannyas means renunciation. I want to tell you: what do you have to renounce? Which fools have convinced you that sannyas is renunciation! The world is renunciation; sannyas is not. The worldly have renounced God and drunk poison. They have abandoned what is essential and piled up the trivial. They have renounced the real treasure—meditation—and collected shards—silver shards; now not even silver, but rotting paper notes. And yet you keep saying the sannyasin is the renouncer and the worldly the enjoyer!

Change your language. Start saying: the worldly is the renouncer; the sannyasin is the enjoyer. Because the sannyasin goes to enjoy the Divine—to drink the supreme nectar. He drops the garbage and goes to gather diamonds and jewels. And those who clasp garbage to their chests—you call them enjoyers? Have some compassion! They suffer enough already; at least don’t abuse them.

The sannyasin is already in great bliss, and you go with garlands calling him a great renouncer! I want to change the language. Because language is not just words; it expresses your inner feelings. Let me say it: the sannyasin is an enjoyer—supremely so. The worldly is the renouncer—a great renouncer.

Madhuri, there is nothing to drop, nothing to renounce. Everything is to be gained. Karl Marx, in his extraordinary book from which communism was born, the Communist Manifesto, wrote a final line. It is not true about communism, but it is absolutely true about religion. That line should have been in the Gita; it should have been in the Quran. It isn’t—how strange! But it is in the Communist Manifesto—stranger still. It didn’t belong there.

The final line of the Manifesto is: “Workers of the world, unite! You have nothing to lose but your chains. You have a world to win!”

Marx called the worker the have-not. I call the worldly the have-not. Even a worker has something—if not gold, then clay pots—but something. The worker is not utterly without. The true have-not is the worldly man. He thinks he has so much, and has nothing. He holds dreams in his hands. When his eyes open, he will be shocked and writhe: What wealth was I calling wealth! The real have-not is the worldly.

And what have you to lose but chains? And ugly chains at that—coarse, painful, grief-laden, melancholic! And to gain? Everything—the whole of existence; the entire kingdom of the Divine; this grand festival of God—the moon and stars, the sun, the rivers, the mountains, the deserts—their stillness, their emptiness, their silence, their peace, their joy; the flowers; the music of raindrops; the clouds massing in the sky—this is all yours. Not “yours” in the sense that you can lock it in a safe. Moon and stars cannot be locked away. Not yours in the sense that you can put a padlock on flowers. Flowers cannot be padlocked. Yours in the sense that you can drink this nectar. You can dive into it. You can participate—you can fall into rhythm with it. Yours in the sense that you too can tie bells on your feet and join the great dance. You too can raise the flute. You too can strike your drum. You too can be Meera. You too can be Chaitanya. Yours in the sense that if you become a Buddha, the Himalayas will be absorbed into your breath. Yours in the sense that if you become a Mahavira, the moon and stars will roam within you.

You are not the owner of it. But you can enjoy it. In truth, ownership makes enjoyment difficult. Ownership breeds stinginess. Where there is possessiveness, fear arises—lest it be spent. The more you spend, the less you own. Ownership depends on wealth—and wealth grows only as you grow miserly.

I have heard: a miser closed his shop and came home. There was no electric light then—only clay lamps. He saw the flame burning high. He scolded his wife, “Don’t you see how high the flame is? Who knows how much oil has been wasted!” Just then he remembered he had put only one lock on the shop, not the second. “Everything might be looted!” In a hurry he thought, Let me first go put the second lock on the shop. He rushed out.

On the way another thought came: What was the urgency! One lock is already there; the second can be put later. First let me turn the flame down, otherwise so much oil will be wasted in the meantime!

Thinking this, he returned home. He saw the flame was already low. His wife said, “I turned it down with the tip of a needle. The oil that stuck to the needle I rubbed into my hair. Don’t worry. You remembered the oil, but forgot your shoes! You left, came back halfway, and now will go again to lock the shop and come back again. Won’t your shoes wear out for nothing?”

The miser said, “No, dear! See, I never wear my shoes on my feet. I keep them in a bag under my arm!”

Where there is possessiveness, there is parsimony.

I have heard that Mulla Nasruddin once asked the richest man in town, “I want to know a secret no one else could tell me. How did you become so wealthy? I’ve heard you started as a beggar.”

The rich man said, “One moment.” He blew out the burning candle beside him and said, “Now speak. If we talk needlessly, who knows how much candle will burn in the meantime!”

Mulla said, “Now nothing more needs to be said. I understand the secret. The moment you blew out the candle, you told me everything. Thank you!”

Fortune gathers by miserliness. The rich cannot enjoy. The possessive cannot enjoy. To enjoy, one needs a feeling of non-possession. Only the sannyasin can truly enjoy.

So I am not saying that once you become a sannyasin you will become the owner of existence. The very sense of ownership will vanish. Ownership is foolishness. Sannyas will slowly show you that you are not—only the Divine is. If I am not, whose is ownership? Whose is possession? And when you are gone, all is yours. Remember well: when you are gone, all is yours. The moment you disappear, the whole of existence appears.

Madhuri, what is there to fear in taking sannyas? But the reasons you have given are worth considering.

“I cannot get jealousy, ego, anger—anything at all—out of my mind.”

Jealousy, ego, anger—these are diseases. Sannyas is the medicine for them. Is it a necessary condition that ailments must vanish before taking the medicine? If you must be cured before taking the cure, what purpose does the medicine serve? If a physician says, “Come when you are well. Right now you are ill—first get well, then come,” would you call him a physician?

Buddha called himself a physician. Nanak, too, called himself a physician—and rightly so. For one like Buddha or Nanak has the medicine, the treatment, the remedy. They cannot set the condition that you first be well.

So, Madhuri, I will not say to you: First drop jealousy, then sannyas. Then you would be in trouble. Neither will jealousy drop, nor will sannyas happen. If I say: First drop the ego, then sannyas—it becomes impossible. If the ego could drop without sannyas, what point would there be to sannyas? If I say: First drop anger, then sannyas—what would be left for sannyas to do?

It is like telling someone: First remove the darkness, then the lamp will be lit. This is sheer stupidity. Has darkness ever been driven out? Push at it as much as you like—you will be exhausted and gone; darkness will remain. Darkness is a negation, an absence. You cannot shove absence away. Whoever tries will go mad. And if the so‑called religious people have turned this earth into a madhouse, it is not without reason. This is the secret.

Your priests, pundits, saints, and sages have turned the earth into a lunatic asylum. They taught you a task that cannot be done. They gave you a riddle that, even if you died and were born a thousand times, you could never solve—because that is not how a riddle is solved. They said: First banish the darkness, then sannyas.

I tell you: First light the lamp; then the darkness is already gone.

Sannyas is the science of lighting the lamp, not of expelling the dark. What has light to do with darkness! Light and darkness have never met.

I have heard: once darkness complained to God, “Why is your sun after me? Every morning it rises! I can’t even rest at night before it comes chasing me. I have never harmed it. I don’t even remember any conversation with it, any meeting. Forget enmity—even friendship never happened. There has been no encounter, no eyes meeting. This is injustice!”

The matter was reasonable, logical. God had to summon the sun, “Why are you persecuting poor darkness?”

What the sun said is worth keeping in your heart. The sun said, “Which darkness? What darkness? Where is darkness? I have never seen it. Why would I chase what I don’t even know? Why would I torment what I cannot recognize? Kindly call darkness here before me so that I may behold it!”

Ages have passed. God has still not managed to bring darkness before the sun. They say God is omnipotent—but not in this matter. Here God is defeated.

How will you bring darkness before the sun? And if darkness does come before the sun, will the sun remain the sun? It would be a castrated sun—a picture of the sun, not the sun.

If the sun is, darkness cannot be. Yes, however great the darkness, the sun can appear. Darkness cannot prevent the sun—not even a tiny clay lamp. Darkness is utterly impotent—a negation, an absence; it has no being. It has no existence.

So it is with ego—inner darkness. So it is with jealousy—an offshoot of the ego. So it is with anger—one limb of the ego.

There is little difference between anger and jealousy. Anger is jealousy in action; jealousy is anger at rest. Men are prone to anger; women to jealousy. The male trait is anger—flaring up; for him jealousy comes as anger. The female trait is jealousy—burning within, whether or not it is expressed. She suffocates inside. Jealousy is the feminine form of anger; anger is the masculine form of jealousy. Both arise from the ego.

Why does jealousy arise? Because someone seems to be getting ahead of you. Someone has bought a better sari, more beautiful jewelry, built a new house, gathered more money in a safe. Jealousy is born because your ego is bruised. A fire flares up inside, smoke begins to rise. You climb onto your own funeral pyre. Anxiety is born inside you.

Anger means someone blocks your ego. You set out on a journey of conquest and someone stands in your way, a stone falls in your path because of someone, someone shoves you aside—someone becomes an obstacle. Anger erupts.

Anger and jealousy are not very different—two sides of the same coin. Anger is a bit crude; jealousy a bit more civilized.

I have heard a Rajasthani tale. A proud Rajput, full of swagger, would twirl his moustache all day long. His arrogance was such that he never allowed anyone else in the village to twirl their moustaches. Everyone had to keep their moustaches down. If they didn’t, the chief would be offended. He was a nasty Rajput; he had people beaten. He could have had them killed. Out of fear, people kept their moustaches trimmed short, lest a gust of wind lift them and the Rajput see! At least when passing his house, they had to hold their moustaches down with both hands.

A new merchant arrived in the village. Young still, he liked to keep a moustache. People warned him, “Brother, keep your moustache low if you wish to live here.”

He said, “Go away! I’ve seen many men who tried to make me lower my moustache. Let someone try!”

The Rajput heard of it and drew his sword. “Which bastard is showing off! Let him come out—I’ll take his head!”

People tried to rouse the merchant’s son too. They themselves were angry at the Rajput, thinking maybe a clash will happen. They said, “Please, brother, keep your moustache low”—meaning, of course, don’t lower it! They warned him, “He is dangerous. Swords will be drawn!” The merchant’s son said, “I’m no ordinary man either. If he is a Rajput of Rajputana, I am a Marwari of Marwar. Keep my moustache high at home? Fine. But don’t pass by his house.” He said, “I’ll pass by right now.”

With moustache proudly upturned, the merchant’s son walked past the Rajput’s house. The Rajput came out with a sword. “Stop! Didn’t they tell you? Lower your moustache!” The merchant’s son said, “Lower yours. It has been high long enough; now mine will be high.”

The Rajput was a Rajput. He handed the merchant a sword too. “Take this. I cannot attack an unarmed man. Come to the field; we will settle it. Only one high moustache will remain in this village—either yours or mine. The other will not remain alive.”

The merchant said, “As you wish. But give me five minutes. Let me go home and take care of my wife and children. If I die—maybe I will—why should my wife suffer for nothing? The moustache is mine; the quarrel is mine. Why should my children be orphaned? I’ll go and finish them. And if you take my advice, you go too and finish yours. Who knows—you may die!”

The Rajput found the logic good. “The quarrel is ours. Why should wives and children suffer!”

Both went home. Five-seven minutes later the Rajput returned, having “finished” his wife and children. The merchant returned with his moustache lowered. The Rajput asked, “Why did you lower your moustache?”

He said, “I thought, why needless killing! Kill the wife, kill the children, then kill you. What’s the point? Let the moustache be lowered!”

But he ruined the Rajput. He destroyed him. This is the feminine way of revenge—of anger, jealousy, spite. But the issue was the same: high moustache or low—it makes no difference. The merchant still played his trick.

Anger is the ego in action—the Rajput mode. Jealousy is the ego at rest—the merchant mode. Two sides of the same coin.

Madhuri, the ego will go through sannyas. Sannyas means surrender. It is the capacity to bow down. It is to bow with gratefulness. It is the declaration before the true Master that “I am no more; only you are.” And this very declaration reaches one day before the Divine. What you surrender to the Master is, in truth, surrendered to the Divine—because the Master is only a postman. He delivers your message there, because for now you cannot.

The Master knows your language and God’s. You speak in words; God speaks in silence. The Master speaks to you with words; and when he speaks to God, he adopts silence. There the language is silence—communication in silence.

The Master has one foot in this world and one in that. His body is on earth; his soul in the sky. To be joined to the Master is satsang. To be joined to the Master is sannyas. It has nothing at all to do with renunciation and the rest. It is a unique union. A unique betrothal—circling the sacred fire with the Vast.

Madhuri, I did not answer earlier because your question made it clear I should wait and let sannyas happen first. Also, it could have happened that through my persuasion you would take sannyas. Then a subtle error creeps in: sometimes my argument convinces, my logic appeals, your intellect is influenced—you take sannyas—and tomorrow, far away, doubts return.

So my whole wish is that sannyas be your own inner flowering. Not because of my explanation, but because of my presence. Not through my words, but through my being. If I persuade your intellect in every way and then it happens, that sannyas will be of the head. But if in my presence your heart begins to throb and then it happens, that sannyas will be of the heart. Its depth is different; its joy different; its ecstasy different; its color different; its way different.

In the head, dry arithmetic happens; no streams of nectar flow there. The head is skilled at calculation; love doesn’t set foot there. Love blossoms in the heart. And sannyas is a step of love—a pilgrimage of love.

So I kept silent. I held your question within me—today if not tomorrow, tomorrow if not the day after… Now your sannyas has happened. Now I can speak heart to heart. Now you have opened your heart. Now I can sign my name upon it.

Sannyas means: the mind is full—you have seen all—there is nothing here worth attaining. It means: there is no coming back now. You have come innumerable times into the body; fallen into the pit of the womb countless times; suffered enough pain, enough torment. No more. Not again.

Do not come again from the clouds,
do not let eyes within my eyes smile again.
It is a dark night; I am lost,
entangled from head to foot,
the line on my brow turned blind,
do not make my anklets throb again.
Once more I have been deluded,
to be cheated thus has become the way,
life’s every effort has been in vain—
do not come from that village of hope.
Beauty is but a moment’s laughter—
look, a white shroud lies near my head—
life is only death’s own dance—
do not go on preening over form.
Do not lead me astray any more,
do not tempt me with more grain,
do not put my clay to shame—
this time I do not want to come to this shore again.

Sannyas is such a knowing:

Do not put my clay to shame—
this time I do not want to come to this shore again.
Do not lead me astray any more,
do not tempt me with more grain,
life is only death’s own dance—
do not go on preening over form.

We have preened enough—over body, wealth, position. Enough preening—lifetimes upon lifetimes. How long will you keep coming back? Madhuri, enough!

Sannyas is the decision that “enough is enough.” No more coming back. There is only one real mistake in life: not to understand sannyas. All other mistakes are secondary, of little consequence. One who understands the meaning, the dignity, the glory of sannyas—understands all.

To forget a memory, one lifetime is too short,
but one mistake is enough to make you weep for life.
One breath comes only once in life,
yet why do the eyes brim again and again?
A wished-for shawl is hard to find,
that is why dust so befits the tear;
to add to beauty a thousand flowers are too few,
but four flowers are enough to deck a bier.
To forget a memory, one lifetime is too short,
but one mistake is enough to make you weep for life.

The mind wanders after mirage-water,
and somehow clouds and the desert are related in the heart;
in hope upon hope, the lips go dry—
who can quench the thirst of spent breaths?
To receive the gift of life, each drop is hard to earn,
but one drop is enough to drown a life.
To forget a memory, one lifetime is too short,
but one mistake is enough to make you weep for life.

Who knows why dawn laughs and dusk makes you cry?
How to write the tale of every breath?
Time cannot fill every wound;
buried pain keeps rising again.
To erase pain, even hundreds of joys are too few,
but one pain is enough to make you forget a hundred joys.
To forget a memory, one lifetime is too short,
but one mistake is enough to make you weep for life.

And I call that mistake: failing to understand sannyas. Here everyone is busy trying to understand the world. They understand nothing; their unknowing only grows. As age increases, so does foolishness. Children are often wiser than the old, because their consciousness is fresh, the mirror of mind clean: things appear clearly. As age increases, dust gathers—the dust of “experience,” the dust of “knowledge”—and understanding becomes harder and harder.

Your understanding has dawned. You have entered sannyas. You are blessed! Now you will see: as the lamp of awareness burns brighter, jealousy, anger, ego—all will go. You won’t have to drop them; they will drop you. Only then is there joy, taste, nectar.

What we try to drop never quite leaves us—something remains stuck. A man who gives up wealth and goes to the jungle will still think of wealth there. He will—he fled from it. We run away only from what attracts us so much that we fear, if we don’t run, we’ll be entangled. One who leaves his wife and runs away will keep thinking of women; it’s impossible to avoid. Why else would he run? Those who run are cowards, afraid; where there is fear, there is no freedom.

Those who called woman “the gateway to hell” did not understand women. They ran without understanding. Lust did not end; it was repressed, pushed into the unconscious, smoldering under your chest—embers under ash, not extinguished.

No—if you run from wealth, wealth will chase you. Run from status, status will chase you. Run from women, women will chase you. Run from men, men will chase you. Whatever you flee will pursue you. Sannyas is not escape—it is awakening. Right where you are, awaken. Sannyas is witnessing.

Madhuri, be a witness! Watch jealousy, watch anger, watch ego; watch attachment, intoxication, envy—whatever arises, whatever smokes envelop the mind—sit quietly within and witness. Just watch. Do not judge. Do not call it good or bad. Do not abuse it. Do not be a magistrate. Do not choose. Choiceless, without alternatives, simply witnessing—this is the essence of sannyas. Then all that is futile will fall away; and the essential will arise. Then this very world is transformed into the Divine.

Let me add a story here about how religions treat women—for you to see how foolishness masquerades as wisdom. Even today, Jewish women cannot enter the synagogue proper. There is a separate high gallery for them. I heard that when Indira Gandhi was prime minister of India and Golda Meir of Israel, Indira visited Israel. Golda showed her many things but hesitated to show the synagogue—the custom is that women cannot enter. Yet Indira insisted, and Golda took her. Both sat in the gallery.

When Indira returned to Delhi, someone asked, “Did you see anything special?” She said, “Yes. In Israel, prime ministers sit on galleries to pray, not in the main hall.” Both women were prime ministers! She thought it was a special arrangement for prime ministers. It wasn’t; it was a way to keep women out. Sometimes this causes trouble. Once a young woman, peering over, fell from the gallery. Her skirt snagged in the chandelier; she hung there exposed. The rabbi, an old, shrewd man—old men become shrewd—instantly found a solution: “Attention! No one looks up. Whoever looks up will go blind in both eyes!” Yet one old man still looked up. “Look,” said the rabbi. He replied, “I am looking with one eye only. At my age, what harm if I lose one!?” He had one eye closed and the other looking.

If you use cleverness, others will too. You are old; he was old as well. You are experienced; he was no less. He said, “At this age, staking one eye is no great loss!”

So it is. If scriptures call women the gateway to hell, those who wrote them were fugitives. They did not understand women. Their minds were immersed in women; so women felt like the pull toward hell. Hence they wrote such things.

Sannyas is not flight, but awakening. Witness everything that arises in the mind—without choosing, without condemning or praising. Then what is false dissolves of its own accord, and what is true reveals itself. Then this very world is transformed into God.

Prem Kavya! When the ocean descends into a drop, the drop will dance. Only then has the auspicious moment to dance arrived; only then has the hour to dance come. When a flower blossoms, it becomes fragrant; when the sun’s rays dance upon it, the hour of whorls and swirls has come—the auspicious moment has arrived. This is the moment you have been waiting for, birth after birth. The flower will dance, be ecstatic, intoxicated, carefree.

In satsang, energy will shower—this is precisely what satsang means. And this energy is not mine, it is God’s. What has begun to dance within you is God’s too. For only God can meet God; harmony can happen only between the divine and the divine.

When a perfect jugalbandi arises between disciple and master, neither disciple remains nor master remains; only the jugalbandi remains. Then there is a single rhythm between sitar and tabla. Then the sitar is no longer just sitar, the tabla no longer just tabla. When the duet reaches its peak, the tabla is sitar, the sitar is tabla—who is who becomes impossible to decide!

Kavya, in such rare moments—dance! Sing! Hum! Laugh! Cry! Language is inadequate. These gestures are natural. This is exactly the right way for expression to happen. And don’t be afraid. Don’t think, “By expressing it like this, am I wasting the energy and the blessings I have received?”

Nothing is ever destroyed. In this existence nothing is lost. There is only exchange—comings and goings. Nothing is truly created, nothing is truly annihilated. Now clouds gather in the sky and it drizzles. It rains on the mountains. Rivers fill. Floods come. The rivers pour themselves into the ocean. Sunlight dazzles upon the sea. Fire rains down from the sun. Vapor rises. Clouds form again. Again it drizzles. Again rivers swell. Again floods. Again the sun. Again floods. Existence moves in a circle. Nothing is destroyed. The dance goes on. The rasa goes on. Nothing is lost.

But our mind is miserly. So when an event of joy happens, old miserliness, old habits assert themselves. Old conditioning says: just as we locked up our money with key and padlock, so too, a thrill of joy has come—bind it, don’t let it go. What if it slips from the hand!

If you clutch that thrill of joy, it will die. Those who grasp—miss. Those who share—save. Understand this arithmetic properly. Let this inner arithmetic be inscribed in gold within your heart. Jesus has said: “Whoever tries to save himself will be lost; and whoever is willing to be lost—his loss is impossible.”

Kavya, when joy begins to make you dance, do not stop it with the thought that it should be preserved. Don’t worry that it may scatter, spill, get divided; “my vessel is small—what if it overflows!” Let it overflow! The more it flows, the more you will receive. The more it flows, the bigger the vessel becomes. The more it flows, the more new springs will burst forth within and fill you. Like a well: draw water out, and new springs begin to feed it.

But if some miser locks his well—fearing that if people draw water every day, someday it will be finished; summer may come, trouble may come, and he will die of thirst—if he bolts it, saying, “I alone will drink when I need it; I won’t let everyone drink,” then the well will die. Its springs will die. Stones, pebbles, sand, dust will choke them. When water is not drawn, new water is not needed. The old water will rot, stink, become poisonous. And if ever in an emergency that miser drinks it, he will die—not live. That water will no longer be life-giving.

Whenever joy showers within you—share it! Pour with both hands! Do not be stingy with it. But miserliness is the habit of the mind, remember this. The mind is a miser. Because the mind’s arithmetic is this—save. The mind says: if you save money, it will be there; if you give it, it is gone.

One day Mulla Nasruddin was walking down the street. A beggar held out his hand. Only yesterday Mulla had won a lottery, so he was in a grand mood. Any other day, he would have delivered a thousand sermons to this carefree beggar; but today his heart was buoyant, blossoms everywhere, his cup brimming with flowers, his feet not touching the ground. He pulled out a hundred-rupee note and placed it in the beggar’s hand. The beggar could hardly believe it. He wondered if it was counterfeit; he turned it over and over.

Nasruddin asked, You look like you’re from a good family, well-bred. The lines on your face, your bearing. Your clothes may be old and worn now, but they must have been fine once. How did you come to this state?

The beggar said, It won’t take you long to find out how I came to this. Keep giving hundred-rupee notes to beggars like this. That’s exactly what I did. In six months to a year, you’ll be in my condition too. You’re on the right road!

The beggar is right. In economics the rule is: if you hand out money like that, you’ll soon run out and be begging yourself. But there is an inner economics in which the rule is precisely the opposite. Have you ever stood by a lake and looked in? The image it makes of you is inverted—your head appears downward, your feet upward. If fish see you in the lake, they must think, “What a strange creature! Head down, feet up!”

This world is the reflection of the beyond. We are the fish in the lake. What appears to us is the reverse of the eternal law. In this world, heads are down and feet are up—everyone is doing a headstand. And because everyone is in a headstand, the whole world appears upside down. It must appear so.

I have heard: When Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru was prime minister, one morning a donkey wandered into his garden. If it had been a man, the guard would have stopped him. But the guard, tired from night duty, was dozing. He saw it was a donkey and thought, “Let him go. He can’t spy, he can’t shoot anyone. He’s a donkey—what will he do? Graze a little and go back.” So in went the donkey.

But it wasn’t an ordinary donkey; it was highly educated! Its owner, who loaded bricks on it, had a great passion for newspapers. Whenever there was no work, the owner read. The donkey would stand behind him and look at the paper, look and look. Company has its effect—satsang does its work. First it learned the big headlines; then the small print; then it became completely adept at reading the paper. Slowly, having learned to read, it even learned to speak.

Pandit Nehru was practicing shirshasana, a headstand, as was his habit in the morning. The donkey stood right in front of him. Panditji forgot he was in a headstand. He thought, “Why is this donkey standing upside down!”

He said, Hey donkey! You son of a donkey! I’ve seen many ill-mannered ones, but none like you. Why are you standing upside down?

The donkey said, Forgive me, Panditji! I am not upside down—you are.

When the donkey said, “Forgive me, Panditji,” Panditji was stunned. He broke into a sweat, leapt up, stood straight. A donkey—speaking!

The donkey said, Did my speaking startle you? Are you frightened? I have no other special quality—only that I am a speaking donkey!

By then Pandit Nehru had composed himself. He was a politician, expert at recovering his balance—such moments came daily. He said, No, no, I’m not disturbed by your speaking. I’ve seen many speaking donkeys before.

The donkey asked, Then did you get scared that a donkey came to meet you?

By now Panditji was fully composed. He said, Not at all. Who else comes to meet me except donkeys!

If you are doing a headstand, you may believe the whole world is upside down. Worldly people are in a headstand. You have seen yogis doing headstands; my experience is different—worldly people are the ones in headstands. A yogi is one who stands on his feet—no longer inverted. Here the heads of the worldly are upside down; a yogi’s head is not.

Kavya, understand that grand arithmetic—the inner arithmetic. There, by squandering you receive. By sharing it grows. By saving it dwindles. Whoever saves completely—loses everything. But the mind is a miser; it knows only the outer rule.

Chandulal had a million rupees in the bank. He never spent a penny on himself; only thus did he accumulate a million. He lived like a beggar. He rode a rickety bicycle. It needed no bell—people could hear him a mile away. So many patches on the tires and tubes that even Chandulal lost count. His bicycle was a marvel, worthy of exhibition. That it moved at all was a miracle. Only he could ride it; no one else could. He could leave it anywhere without a lock; anyone else would fall at once. Only Chandulal could manage it—like circus riders.

Chandulal never ate ice cream. And since Coca-Cola was banned, he was even happier—one more expense gone. Once he even thought of suicide—but seeing the high price of poison, he stopped!

Then he grew old and fell ill. Friends said, Chandulal, your condition is bad. You must be treated. We’ll admit you to a hospital.

Chandulal said, First tell me, how much will it cost? Old age comes to everyone, and death is nothing new; whoever is born dies. He spoke wisdom! The mind is such a trickster—he wanted to save money, so he began discussing Brahma-knowledge: “Don’t you know what the Upanishads say? Sarvam khalvidam brahma—everything is pervaded by Brahman. Who dies? Who lives? It’s all a divine play. None comes, none goes. The Self is immortal.”

Friends said, Chandulal, cut the nonsense. Your condition is worsening. You must go to the hospital. He wouldn’t agree. So he said, First the account. Friends said, A room, twenty rupees a day; doctor’s fee, ten a day; injections, another ten; medicines and other expenses; treatment for about fifteen days.

Chandulal asked, Total? Give me the exact figure.
Friends said, Around five hundred rupees, a little more or less.

Chandulal’s chest caved in. He grew older than he was. Death, not so near, suddenly felt close. Five hundred rupees! Then he asked, And how much does dying cost?

Friends said, For dying you’ll need firewood, a shroud, something for the priest.

Chandulal asked, Total, exactly—no time to think.
Friends said, About ten rupees for wood, fifteen for the shroud, five or ten for the priest—twenty-five to thirty rupees. Get a cheap priest, damp wood, a previously used shroud—perhaps fifteen rupees.

Chandulal said, Then dying is better. Besides, the rishis say the soul is immortal. For an immortal soul, spend fifty rupees? Settle it for fifteen. In fact, if I die, take me to a charity—wood and shroud will be free. And if nothing works out, once I’m dead, what’s the worry—the municipal cart will take me. Don’t bother!

There is a mind in us that thinks only in this language—the language of miserliness. Save whatever you can. That is the way to waste life.

Kavya, the joy that is showering on you here, the fireworks of song bursting within—squander it! Dance! Sing! Don’t hoard—share! The more you share, the more this joy will increase.

You ask, “It makes me very sad that my vessel is not big enough...”
Whose vessel is large? However vast the vessel, before God it is small. Even the whole sky falls short—where can it contain him! So don’t get into this worry; don’t fall into this sorrow. If our vessel can hold even a single drop of him, it is enough—for a drop of the nectar is the ocean. One drop of amrit is enough; you don’t have to drink the whole ocean to become immortal! Let a single drop slip down the throat, pass the larynx, reach the heart—enough.

You say, “Whenever I allow you in, your energy is so overwhelming that it becomes laughter, tears, or dance and flows away.”
Let it flow. Let it flow with an open heart. Laugh like a reveler. Dance, carefree. This is a tavern—never forget. This is a living temple, and living temples are always taverns. Drink and pour for others. What I have placed before you is a decanter not for show. Drink! And don’t keep accounts.

Some guests came to Mulla Nasruddin’s house. Sweets were made, parathas too. The friend said again and again, Enough, Nasruddin! Enough! But he said it in such a way—“Enough, Nasruddin”—that it sounded like, “More, Nasruddin!”

There are ways of saying things. If you want to learn, learn from priests. I have seen them: when you place another paratha on their plate, the ordinary man who doesn’t want it pushes with both hands—no, no. The priest spreads both hands wide—no, no—leaving space in the middle to drop the paratha.

At last the friend said, Enough, enough, Nasruddin! I’ve already had seven parathas; no more.
Nasruddin said, Not seven—you’ve had seventeen. But who’s counting!

The counting goes on—and he says, “Who’s counting!” You’ve had seventeen, but who’s counting!

Drop the counting. This world is not arithmetic, it is poetry. That’s why you were named Kavya. You were named Prem Kavya—poetry of love. Where is arithmetic here! Where the ledger! Drink and serve! Dance and sing!

I want your entry into a dancing religion. The world is tired of gloomy religions. The world is burdened with monks and ascetics with drooping faces. We need freedom from these corpses. Let these graveyard faces stay in graves; temples and mosques should be free of them. In the temples let Krishna’s flute sound again. In the mosques let songs rise again from the Quran. In the gurudwaras let Mardana strike up the saaj and Nanak sing.

We need a festival, a great festival.
I teach you maharaga, not renunciation. In my vision, maharaga itself is renunciation. I teach you poetry, not arithmetic. In my vision, poetry itself is religion; arithmetic is not.

Ramteerth! First, wake up yourself! What harm has the world done to you? Why do you want to chase people?

These are the mind’s tricks. One doesn’t want to awaken oneself, so one thinks, “Let me awaken others!” This keeps a sweet illusion alive that one is engaged in the great work of awakening—waking others up!

People are busy serving others; they have not yet managed to serve themselves. People are busy loving others; love has not yet been kindled even for themselves. People rush to distribute, but the inner wealth has not yet been born. There is a desire to hum a song, but has so much nectar welled up within that a song can happen? Do play the flute—by all means!—but from where will you bring the notes? Borrowed notes can’t help to awaken anyone.

Ramteerth, you are a brand-new sannyasin; it hasn’t even been four days. Four days ago you were asleep; you were asking how you could wake up. And now you’ve started thinking of awakening the world! Beware of the mind’s stratagems. The mind is a great trickster, a great hypocrite. The mind is a consummate politician. The mind is Chanakya; the mind is Machiavelli. It is so skilled at deception that you won’t even realize when it has picked your pocket. There won’t be a whisper in your ears; it will deceive you, and you won’t know.

For now, you have to awaken. Yes, when you do awaken, you won’t need to ask how to awaken others. The very method by which you awaken, share that with people. You ask now because you haven’t awakened yourself. You are still fast asleep. If I listen closely, I can hear the snoring of your sleep!

Once, I was traveling by train. For fifteen-twenty years I traveled constantly across the country. But such an occasion came only once—an extraordinary occasion. There were just four of us in an air-conditioned compartment. But what a coincidence! The man on the lower berth opposite me snored. Yet that was nothing. The one on the berth above him answered in such a way that the first one seemed as if he were sleeping quietly. And the one on the berth above me—he outdid both. They were in such rhythm and beat—call-and-response!—like qawwals in a qawwali. I alone was in distress.

When nothing else occurred to me, I began to snore very loudly—while wide awake—until all three woke up. They said to me, “Brother, what are you doing?”

I said, “What else can I do? The three of you won’t let me sleep. I will not let sleepers win. This is my business now. You may not let me sleep, but I won’t let you sleep either. And I’ve got the trick: I’ll snore too. Either you stop snoring, or get ready for an all-nighter. Naturally, you snore in sleep, so you have a limit. I will snore awake—so I have no limit. I won’t just wake you up; I’ll wake the people in the adjoining compartments as well.”

If you look closely at people, even walking along the road they are snoring. Even while working they are snoring. Sleep is stuck to them, constantly. What if the eyes are open! With eyes wide open, people are asleep.

Psychologists have discovered that the greatest number of car, truck, and bus accidents happen between two and four at night. And the finding from research is astonishing: in those accidents, it isn’t that the driver closes his eyes and dozes because it’s late. No—his eyes remain open, and sleep sets in. The eyes remain open—completely open—but they glaze over. Nothing is seen through them.

Because the eyes are open, the driver doesn’t even suspect he’s fallen asleep. So he keeps driving—and he sees nothing. Most accidents happen for this reason. If the driver knew his eyes had closed, he would stop the vehicle. But the eyes are open—by habit, the eyes are open—while inside the sleep has grown so deep that it overcasts even open eyes.

In the spiritual sense, saints have always known that you all are asleep even while awake. Krishna has spoken the famous line—remember its opposite as well; it is just as true. Krishna said: “Yā niśā sarva-bhūtānāṁ, tasyāṁ jāgarti saṁyamī”—that which is night to all beings, therein the disciplined one is awake. That is half the statement. The yogi is awake even while asleep; his eyes are closed, yet within there is wakefulness. The non-yogi is asleep even while awake. This is the second half, which Krishna did not say. But I want you to remember it. It is more useful to you. The first will make sense when you become a yogi. For now, remember the second: with eyes open, you are asleep.

Ramteerth, don’t ask yet about awakening the world. This too is ego—a new journey of the ego: “I will awaken the world.” First you might have wanted to become prime minister. Then you saw that prime ministers get badly thrashed. You’ve just seen what became of Morarjibhai! It turns into a sorry affair. And how long Charan Singh will escape a beating—hard to say. If he lasts a month without a thrashing, that will be plenty!

So perhaps you thought, “Let me take sannyas!” Even Morarjibhai is considering taking sannyas now. A Pune newspaper even suggested he open an ashram right here in front of the Rajneesh Ashram! The idea appealed to me too. Let him open it right here in Koregaon Park; it would be a great blessing.

You must have thought there’s no substance in Delhi. Ramteerth lives in Delhi. Watching Delhi’s drama and circus, you must have been shaken. You thought, “Let me go to Poona!” You took sannyas. But your old delusions are still riding on your head. Now you want to awaken the whole world! To awaken the world!

Let the one who wants to sleep, sleep. You—awaken now. Pour all your consciousness and all your energy into your own awakening. Yes, when your intelligence becomes alert, you will find a way—certainly you will. All who have awakened have found ways to awaken others—but after awakening. Then it is no longer an ego’s proclamation; it becomes a movement of love, an expression of love.

In the South there are many stories about Tenaliram; as in the North we have Birbal, in the South they have Tenaliram. Thieves entered old Tenaliram’s house. What could that poor old man do? He could neither fight nor shout—for the thieves might kill him. But Tenaliram was very intelligent. There are delightful stories of his wit in the South. He did something marvelously clever. He called out loudly, woke his wife, kissed her, and said, “Beloved, if we had a son, what would we name him?”

Startled, the old woman said, “Have you gone senile? Waking me in the middle of the night to ask such a question! At this age, a son? Life has gone by without a son, and now in old age you’re thinking of one. Are you in your senses or dreaming?”

Tenaliram said, “No, no—no joke. I would name him Dhabbuji.”

The thieves heard the old couple’s sweet talk and were greatly amused. “Dhabbuji! As a boy’s name!” They hid and listened even more intently.

Tenaliram then took his wife in his arms again and said, “Darling, if we had another boy, what would you name him?”

His wife said, “Amazing—what are you talking about at this age! Haven’t you been drinking? Come to your senses. We never had one, and you’re thinking of the second!”

The old man said, “I would name him Chandulal.”

The thieves were savoring this romance. Tenaliram named the third boy Nasruddin and the fourth Matkanath.

His wife said, “You’re delirious. Stop this nonsense. Go to sleep now. And don’t you start about the fifth!” But he wouldn’t stop. He said to his wife, “Suppose thieves were to enter our house—do you know what I would do? Look: like this, I’d stick my head out of the window and shout.” Tenaliram actually stuck his head out of the window and shouted at the top of his voice, “Dhabbuji! Chandulal! Nasruddin! Matkanath! Run, run! Thieves have entered the house!”

All Tenaliram’s neighbors came running with sticks. They gave the thieves a good thrashing. Those were the neighbors’ names!

Some way or other, a device will come. You—just awaken. For centuries upon centuries, the buddhas have discovered many devices to awaken people—different devices, different methods. You will discover them too. But first let your buddhahood ripen. Before that, don’t get lost in these futile talks. Before that, such talk is delirium—of no value.

Awaken! Out of your awakening, the sutras will arise by which you can become a help to others. Your awakening itself will become the foundation for awakening others. The breeze of your awakening will begin to awaken others too—like the fresh morning air that breaks sleep; like a ray of the morning sun entering your room, touching your face with its warmth—and your sleep breaks. The ways will be found. But if you worry about the world now, you will only fall deeper asleep.

I do not want to make you a social worker. Nor do I want to make you a social reformer. Nor do I want you to launch a grand campaign to bring revolution to the world. I am giving you a small task—but it is the greatest of all: engage in self-revolution.

Self-revolution is the only fundamental revolution, and upon its foundation alone can any other revolution in the world happen. Until self-revolution happens, all revolutions fail.

Beloved Meenakshi! In love there is pain, and in love there is bliss. This is love’s paradox. There is pain in love as there are thorns on a rosebush; and there is bliss in love as there are flowers on that same bush.

But the pain of love is very sweet. The pain of love is dear; only the blessed come to know it. The ache of love is not only ache, it is also medicine. Unfortunate are those who have never known love’s pain, in whom the thirst has never arisen—the inner thirst.

You say: “My eyes are Sawan-Bhado, yet my heart is thirsty!”

This thirst is not of the outside. This thirst is of the within. And these tears that are raining from your eyes, this ache that has turned your eyes into Sawan-Bhado—this is awe, this is gratitude.

There is an old Egyptian saying: before you choose God, God has already chosen you. Before you choose the master, the master has already chosen you.

His soft, soft footfall has begun to be heard by you. And when that footfall is heard—as when the fragrance of delicious food drifts from the kitchen and touches the nostrils, hunger arises; even if you were not hungry, hunger arises—just so, when his footfall begins to be heard, when the nearness of the master begins to be felt, a deep hunger comes, a deep thirst is born. A thirst that nothing in this world can quench. There is no way to quench it outside. The spring that will quench it will burst forth within you. The cascade that will satisfy will break open within you.

But this is an auspicious hour; welcome it. Do not get entangled in trying to understand it. No one has ever understood it. Who has ever understood love! Who has ever understood love’s thirst!

The moon’s to be married; the nights are of silver,
Words hover on my lips to tell you something—
These are the nights of Fagun, of spring.

The twinkling stars are like crackling fireworks,
Clouds in bright attire like palanquin-bearers—
In the sky’s sedan chair they carry the bridegroom-moon,
As they pass, the earth delights—
These are the nights of Fagun, of spring.

Rivers, like coy brides, jingle their anklets,
Wheat-ears blush like bashful in-laws,
The tree-clans are gathered like crowds of onlookers,
Swaying, singing, raising a glad clamor—
These are the nights of Fagun, of spring.

Jasmine and bela, perfumer’s daughters,
Roam alone with youth’s own fragrance,
At the marigold garlands on the boys in the wedding party,
They cast sidelong, ambushing glances—
These are the nights of Fagun, of spring.

In the fields the stubble flares like torches,
Winter’s gusts walk by like maidens,
Hearing the peepal leaves beat like kettle-drums,
Countless unwed hearts ache and ache—
These are the nights of Fagun, of spring.

The auspicious hour has come; the night of Fagun has come. The moment has come to wed Rama. Therefore the thirst has awakened; therefore your eyes have become Sawan-Bhado.

But these tears are more precious than pearls. Welcome these tears. Do not go to understand them! For analysis makes everything small. Thought only touches the surface; the depths are not available to thought.

Don’t go to a chemist with these tears, Meenakshi, asking what they are. In the chemist’s shop, whether tears are of love or anger or sorrow or joy—they are all the same. A benighted marketplace! There, nothing differs in price: a coin a seer of greens, a coin a seer of sweets—a dark kingdom, an uncomprehending king. In the realm of thought, the weights are all alike; there is no separate measure.

It will be decided only on a very subtle scale that tears differ. Tears of joy are different from tears of grief—not in scientific terms, but in religious, in mystical terms. In the tears of joy there is poetry, there is rasa. They are not mere tears; they are pearls—more precious than pearls!

Prepare for what lies ahead. Do not fall into thinking and brooding about what is happening. Let what is happening, happen! Here, much of the impossible is going to happen. That is why I am, why you are, why this satsang is, why this tavern is, why this gathering of drinkers is. What does not happen elsewhere is to happen here. That for which there is no “reason” is to happen. That for which no method can be devised is to happen. An uncaused happening. The night of Fagun has arrived. The moments of the wedding procession are upon us.

Without seeing, such a longing has arisen—
What will happen when the vision comes!
I hear she is proud of her beauty,
Her feet do not touch the earth;
Drunk with her own being,
Her eyes do not turn to others—
When, at her hour of adornment,
A mirror stands before her—what will happen!

I hear her lashes are kohl-dark
Without a trace of collyrium,
Her eyes so blue,
As if they have drunk the ocean’s depth—
When kohl is laid upon those great eyes,
What will happen!

I hear her lips so shapely
Teach the flowers how to smile,
For boons from her voice
The notes of the scale grow greedy—
When a love-filled song
Rests upon those lips—what will happen!

If some desire should arise in me,
Better I do not take her darshan;
If worshiping her I should die,
So much the better—
When the form of ego melts
And I am offered up—what will happen!

This is only the beginning. These are the first steps of love.

Leave thinking, Meenakshi! Move into no-thought. Move into the realm of feeling. For the realm of feeling alone is his door.

Without seeing, such a longing has arisen—
What will happen when the vision comes!

As yet there has been no experience of that ultimate. From far away—through me—you have heard his echo. The flute itself you have not heard; its after-resonance in the hills and the lakes—that you have heard. The moon itself you have not seen; you have seen its reflection in the waters.

Without seeing, such a longing has arisen—
What will happen when the vision comes!

Prepare yourself. Something great is very near.

Enough for today.