Mrityoma Amritam Gamaya #6

Naresh! Prayer and repentance have no connection at all—not even a distant one. Repentance is a process of the ego; the ego busy adorning itself, trying to plaster over the mistakes and slips that have happened. Repentance is past-oriented, while prayer is the name of plunging totally into the present moment. Prayer has neither a past nor a future. Prayer is neither repentance nor a plan. Prayer is not a demand—this should be granted, that should be granted; nor is it a confession that I did this wrong, I did that wrong. Remembering one’s mistakes and asking forgiveness for them—that too is ego.

And by pleading for pardon for one’s mistakes, who has ever become free of them? The more you beg forgiveness, the more you repeat the mistakes. The truth is that repentance is the very process of doing the mistakes again and again. Once it is clear that atonement brings forgiveness, then what obstacle remains in doing wrong? If a dip in the Ganges can wash away sins, then sin to your heart’s content—then go bathe in the Ganges! And if by bowing in the temple, folding your hands, praying to God—“Forgive me; you are purifier of the fallen and I am a lowly creature”—if forgiveness is obtained that way, then you have secured tomorrow’s convenience to sin again. What is there to fear now? Where forgiveness is so cheap, what obstruction is there to sin? Where is the barrier?

So I say to you, Naresh, prayer is not repentance, and repentance is not prayer. Nor is prayer a demand, nor does prayer contain any ambition.

But people know only two kinds of prayer: either atonement for past mistakes—pleading for forgiveness, with the hope that God will forgive because he is infinitely compassionate, Rahim, Rahman—or else prayer stuffed with demands and desires: grant this, grant that. Either yesterday matters, or tomorrow matters. And neither exists! Yesterday—gone; tomorrow—not yet come. Prayer’s connection is with what is—with this moment! Here and now!

Prayer is always the name of being conscious in the pure present. Prayer is wonder and awe, not repentance. Prayer is not complaint; it is gratitude.

But what goes on in temples and mosques, churches and gurdwaras, is like this. That is not prayer; it is a counterfeit of prayer—a deception.

Why do my feet waver on the path of practice?
Why today do the wounds of my heart ache again and again?
Why is there in my breath a tender coaxing of love?
Why today does life feel a burden?

Who says my tale of love is new?
It is not of today or tomorrow—this is ancient, age upon age.
Why even today in the human heart is there a futile cry?
Why today does life feel a burden?

Seeing the inert world’s disparity, when despair closes in,
My heart whispers in my ear: know, no sigh ever goes in vain.
Why then, in the lonely wood, is nature decking herself again?
Why today does life feel a burden?

Life feels a burden today because we are hauling yesterdays. The mountain of days gone by sits upon our chest. And the mountain of days not yet come also sits upon our chest. Between these two millstones a person is crushed, dies; is dragged along, weeps, breaks, is fragmented. Between these two stones no one remains intact. But even between these two stones there is a space, a door to freedom. It is—the tiny moment of the present!

This rain happening now. These droplets. This music of drops on the roof. These trees. The winds humming through the trees. This silence. To become absorbed with all this is called prayer.

To pray it is not necessary to be a Hindu. In truth, if you are a Hindu, how will you pray? It is not necessary to be a Muslim. If you are a Muslim, how will you pray? Then you will merely repeat bound rituals. The Hindu will repeat the Gayatri. The Muslim will recite ayats. The Jain will chant the Namokar Mantra. But prayer has nothing to do with what is learned and memorized.

Prayer is spontaneous. From within you a quiver of joy rises and spreads across worlds and horizons. From within you a feeling of bliss arises and you start dancing. A sense of supreme blessedness—that in this vast mystery, this existence, I too am! I—whose being was never necessary. I—without whom the world would run perfectly well—perhaps even better. I—who have no worthiness. And yet I am! In this incomparable existence, there is a place for me too! I am blessed. I am grateful. One who bows down in such gratitude, as branches laden with fruit bend down—one who is laden with the fruits of gratitude and whose branches have bent, bowed by the weight of blossoms—not because of any set, well-worn prayer, but from his own direct experience—in that bowing a stream of nectar will flow. In that bowing will be the meeting with the divine. In that bowing one’s thirst will be quenched.

Prayer is not repentance; it is acceptance—what is, as it is, is right. Prayer is supreme contentment—with others, and with oneself.

You have been told again and again: forgive others, not yourself. Those who told you this could know nothing of prayer. Because one who cannot forgive himself cannot forgive anyone. One who cannot forgive himself—whom will he forgive!

Mahatma Gandhi repeatedly said: be very generous toward others; be harsh toward yourself.

But I tell you, one who is harsh toward himself cannot be generous toward anyone. Even his generosity will be very harsh. His tolerance will be very intolerant. It will be a pretense, a show. And such pretense and show can be so well argued, so seemingly authentic, that it appears true. But for one who is harsh toward himself, it is impossible to be kind to another. For we are closest to ourselves; it is there we learn life’s lessons. There we learn the art of love. Life’s first alphabet is learned there—the primer, the ABCs.

I say to you: be kind toward others, certainly—because you have no right to be harsh toward others. Who are you? You are not the arbiter. You are not the owner of others. You are not the judge of their actions. Whether they are bad or good, auspicious or inauspicious, moral or immoral—who are you? Who told you to weigh them? Who gave you this right? This authority is not yours.

Jesus said: do not call even another’s evil “evil.” Do not call even another’s sin “sin.” Because you do not know the other. If the shoes on the other’s feet bite, only he knows they bite; you cannot know.

If you cannot even know whether another’s shoes pinch, how will you enter another’s life-breath, being, personhood? Entering even your own self is so difficult; entering another is impossible! You know the other only from the surface. The story within him, the anguish within him—you are unfamiliar with all that. Why did he do a certain act? How did some act surge up from his unconscious—like a whirlwind, like a storm? Why did it arise? What lineage of births, what long journey has a hand in it? Do you know anything? As if one were to read a single line of a poem and want to understand the poem entire, or as if one read a torn, incomplete page of a novel and want to grasp the entire plot—that is how we are “understanding” people. Their whole life is not before us. Tiny fragments, brief glimpses, flashes of lightning in which we saw something—and on that basis you judge? On the basis of actions you judge the actor? On the basis of conduct you judge the soul?

No. One who is prayerful is supremely kind toward others. And toward himself as well. For do we even know ourselves? Have we even met ourselves yet? And what is auspicious, what is inauspicious—others have decided that for us too. What will you repent for, Naresh!

If a Jain drinks water at night, he repents. No one else in the world does! The Jain feels sin has been committed. Because he has been conditioned that drinking water at night is a sin. Eating at night is a sin. If the conditioning is there—if this has been taught since childhood, if a groove has been carved into your mind—then eating at night is a sin.

But elsewhere in the world, no one has any problem drinking water or eating at night. They do not repent. They do not go to the temple to pray, “O Lord, forgive me. I ate at night; I drank water at night. Now this will never happen again!”

There are thousands of societies in the world, all with different conditioning. Each considers its own conditioning the decisive standard of right and wrong. What is moral? What is immoral? Among Christians there is a sect—the Quakers; they consider drinking milk to be a sin. If a Quaker drinks milk, he asks forgiveness in prayer: O Lord, O Protector, O Most Compassionate, forgive me! I drank milk! Or, I drank tea with milk in it.

And here you are, who consider milk the purest of foods—the food of rishis and seers! Repentance aside. I was in Raipur for some time. There is an ashram there; its name is Doodhadhari Ashram—the “milk-abiding” ashram. Its great hallmark is that people live there taking only milk. And one who lives on milk alone is supremely pure. In one sense it seems right that milk is a pure food. For tiny children enter the world by drinking milk. How innocent the little ones! Certainly their food has a hand in that. Milk seems to have a certain sattvic quality. Children are utterly sattvic—clean and pure, like blank sheets of paper.

But the Quakers are not wrong either. There is truth in what they say. Truths are very complex. They say: milk is part of flesh and blood. Milk is animal food. It is produced by the body; it is a bodily secretion. So just as meat-eating is bad, so is milk-drinking. Just as eating eggs is bad, so is drinking milk. Then children can be forgiven, because they drink their mother’s milk—made by nature for them. But adults cannot be forgiven. Because you do not drink your mother’s milk; you drink that of a cow, a buffalo, a goat. That is someone else’s mother. One who drinks cow’s milk is snatching away the calf’s milk!

First, animal food—milk is produced by the body, so it must be grouped with blood and flesh. Second, it was meant for the calf, not for you. Therefore you are an exploiter. You have wronged the cow. Though you call her Gau-mata—Mother Cow! In this country those who call the cow “Mother” should not snatch her milk. Agitations are launched so that Gau-mata not be slaughtered. People like Vinoba Bhave go on fasts! Gau-mata must be saved! From the Shankaracharya of Puri down to petty sadhus and sannyasins—everyone: Gau-mata must be saved! But for what? So you can exploit Gau-mata thoroughly. “Gau-mata must be saved for the calf”—neither the Shankaracharya says this, nor Vinoba Bhave. “Gau-mata must be saved for you!”

What concern are you of Gau-mata? She will be mother to the calf, not to you. The calf will not get the milk; you will.

And you know, those who run the cow-buffalo trade often kill the calves, or sell them off. Because the milk a calf drinks is an expensive loss. They kill the calves, stuff the skins with straw, and set up false mannequins to deceive the cow!

In gaushalas there are fake calves—straw-stuffed, dead things. Only a carcass. The bones removed, straw stuffed inside, a hide stretched over. They stand it beside the cow. Deceiving Gau-mata! She feels the calf is nearby, and her udder lets down milk. And the milk will be drunk by these people who hail Gau-mata!

Third point, the Quakers say: the cow’s milk is produced for the calf, not for you. Therefore it will arouse in you a great sexual craving.

There is truth in this too. For consider—a bull is one thing, and you are another. If you drink cow’s milk and your mind is filled with nothing but lust, it is no surprise. For in cow’s milk there are elements meant to produce the sexual vigor appropriate to a bull. That milk was not made for you; it was made for the bull. So if you find people in the world so beset by sexual obsession, it is not surprising.

Yet in this land it has long been believed that milk is the pure diet of rishis and sages! And it seems that precisely because of this diet the rishis were tormented in their dreams by heavenly nymphs! That very diet must be the cause—that as the rishis sat with closed eyes, Urvashi would “arrive from the sky”! She does not come from the sky; she must come from Gau-mata’s milk. That fever of lust was perhaps arising in them from their food.

Whom will you call right, Naresh? What will you repent? Who will judge? To this day it has not been settled—what is virtue, what is sin.

Lao Tzu became a judge in court for a few days. He served only briefly. The king then dismissed him. He had appointed him chief justice because word had it he was a great wise man. The very first case went wrong! A theft had occurred in a rich man’s house. The thief was caught—red-handed. He confessed as well. Lao Tzu gave the thief six months’ sentence—and six months’ sentence to the rich man.

The rich man said, Are you in your senses! Punishing the thief—fine. But why punish me? My house is robbed—and I am punished!

Lao Tzu said, You have amassed so much wealth that if there were no theft, what else would happen! This man is the second offender; you are the first. The primary crime is yours. Had you not stockpiled such wealth, this theft would not have occurred. I will punish both. And the truth is I am treating you very gently, for I am giving you only six months as I give him. You should get six years; he six months.

When the emperor heard this he was frightened. He said, What kind of justice is this! And it also dawned on him that if the wealthy are worthy of punishment, what will become of me! If I ever end up before such a judge, perhaps he will sentence me to the gallows! Lao Tzu was dismissed at once.

Is Lao Tzu right or wrong—how will you decide?

Not repentance. If you fall into repentance, you will get into great entanglement, great confusion, from which it will be hard to emerge.

Then what is prayer? Prayer is acceptance, contentment, satisfaction. The world as it is, is auspicious. People as they are, are good. Life as it is, is complete. No more complete world than this could be. No people more auspicious than these could be.

Jesus, raised on the cross, said: Forgive them, O Lord—all these people who are crucifying me. Because they know not what they do.

There is no insistence on giving punishment. No desire to send these sinners to hell.

In those scriptures where there is a craving to send sinners to hell, know for certain they were written by those who were very wrathful—men like Durvasa. Would anyone who has attained buddhahood organize hells, with cauldrons of boiling oil? Could such a grotesque desire, such a vile feeling, arise in an awakened one? The very idea of hell cannot arise. It is impossible.

Jesus said, Forgive them. They are not committing a sin; they simply do not know what they are doing. They are people walking in sleep—what is their fault! If someone staggers and falls in sleep, if someone errs in sleep, if in a dream someone steals, or in a dream someone murders—should he be punished for that? A prayerful heart accepts all.

For the one for whom I bore everything,
Who proved to be only a dream,
Who called me “mine”—
Even that one’s cruel conduct
I accept, I accept.

He by whose doing my lips turned honey-sweet,
By whom my speech grew eloquent,
Whose moment of union was immortal—
Even the gift of his separation
I accept, I accept.

By whose support I walked,
By whom my art blossomed,
By whom my heart found joy—
Even the burden of sorrow he gave
I accept, I accept.

And that acceptance is not ordinary; it is not the acceptance of the helpless, the powerless; not the acceptance of weakness, of the defeated. It is acceptance born of joy, of celebration—with the doorway festooned, rows of lamps lit, flowers showered, the aarati waved.

There are two kinds of acceptance. One is that of a dead man, the defeated—“the grapes are sour.” Such acceptance. Since he could not attain. Who does not want to get wealth! But not everyone can. When it is not obtained, then to console one’s ego, an attitude of acceptance: I am a contented man. When did I ever desire it! Even if it had come, I would not have taken it. Thus one somehow saves one’s ego. Human beings have compulsions. Here, not everyone’s ambition can be fulfilled. All cannot be presidents and prime ministers—though all want to be. Then what to do? Otherwise life will become insanity. So, to save oneself from madness, acceptance—No, no, I do not want it. When did I ask? Even if it had come, I would not have taken it. People would have pressed me, yet I would have refused. I am satisfied with little.

People even start saying how blissful poverty is! They begin to call the poor “Narayan”—God himself! They start thinking there is some fundamental flaw in wealth. They have to think so.

No, not such acceptance. There is another acceptance—creative, dancing, in song, elated, brimming with jubilation.

I belonged to someone, I have become yours.
Beloved, ask not of the bygone things,
Ask not of the moist, gentle rains of my eyes;
Do not compel me to narrate the tale,
Do not awaken memories old and sleeping.
I had been the guest of someone’s love,
Life was silent, I a shade absent;
The silent guest one day turned to stone—
Finding you, I became a sweet-flowing stream.
I belonged to someone, I have become yours.

Finding support, I have become a support.
Do not ever come and go back thirsty,
Weeping yourself and making me weep too.
I always walked a lonely road,
Having lost the goal, going against the goal;
Now I do not wish to weep any more,
Now I do not wish to lose myself any more.
As a wave I kept living midstream—
Finding the shore, I have become the shore.
I belonged to someone, I have become yours.
Becoming yours, I have become very dear.

There is another acceptance that comes from being in rhythm with God; that descends into your life-breath when you directly see the beauty of life; that flies toward you on the fragrance of flowers; that comes to dance with you in the sun’s rays; that sings the Megh Malhar in the clouds of the sky. There is another acceptance that is nothing but supreme blessedness.

Just think a little: you did not earn this life. It is God’s gift. Free. You did not acquire it. These eyes that see the beauty of moon and stars are not your creation. And these ears that are filled with life’s ultimate music—the babble of rivers, and the dance of waves rising in the ocean, the winds moving through the trees—these ears that hear music, you did not make them. Which unknown hand fashioned your ears? Which unknown artist shaped your eyes?

Scientists say the eye’s existence is a miracle. Because the eye is made from the very same skin as your hands and feet—skin! And in skin—the capacity to see! Skin—made transparent! Skin—that recognizes beauty! That beholds form! That is filled with color! Rainbows in the sky, the greenness of trees, the innumerable colors of flowers! The ear too is nothing but bone. And yet bone that hears! Whether it is the resonance of the veena, the tune of the flute, or the call of the cuckoo from afar! Bone that hears—what greater wonder! Skin that sees!

And if you ask the scientist: what is this heart? He will say, merely the lungs—a device to purify the blood. And yet somewhere in this heart love appears. From what unknown realm does love arrive as a guest and dwell in the chamber of your heart! From what unknown world does some unknown visitor become your guest! You are stirred to your depths!

With an existence so miraculous—and you will not give thanks! You will do repentance?

No, no! Naresh, do not tie prayer to repentance. Prayer linked to repentance becomes small, petty, sorrow-laden, pierced by thorns. It loses its flight into the sky. Its wings break.

Prayer is wonder, blessedness, the offering of gratitude, thanksgiving. Prayer is the name of saying “thank you” to existence.

As a wave I kept living midstream—
Having found the shore, I have become the shore.
I belonged to someone, I have become yours.
Becoming yours, I have become very dear.

Prayer is becoming God’s own. And one who becomes his own becomes very dear—because one who becomes his, becomes him. One who has known God becomes God. Prayer is the alchemy for becoming the divine.

Balakrishna Bharati! Life is a mystery. It is not a matter of questions and answers. All questions are futile—this you have not understood. All answers are futile—this you have understood. Because the answers were others’; the questions are yours. The ego is a great trickster! The answers were others’—so, all just talk! And the questions? Are questions diamonds and jewels, not talk? But because the questions are yours, they must be diamonds and jewels! Answers belong to others—so they must be pebbles and stones, nonsense!

From one monk to another, from the second to the third—you kept wandering. All their words seemed futile to you, but the questions arising within you did not seem futile? If all answers are futile, did you never consider that perhaps the questions themselves are futile! Only futile answers can come to futile questions.

And now, coming here, as you feel the questions dissolving, panic has arisen. I dissolve questions; I do not give answers. Giving answers is only a device to dissolve questions. In that sense I answer every day. But if you watch, my answers are efforts to break your questions. With an axe I hack at your questions—as a woodcutter chops wood.

Life has no answer. If life had an answer, life would be worth two pennies. Then life would be a child’s riddle. And life is not a riddle; life is a mystery. Understand the difference between a riddle and a mystery. A riddle has an answer; it has to be found. A mystery has no answer whatsoever. Search as much as you like— the more you search, the more it becomes clear that there is no answer.

Now that some alignment is beginning to settle, panic has started. You are afraid your questions might slip away—because you have invested your whole life in your questions. You have tied your entire self-interest to them.

You cannot accept that your questions might be futile. And this is precisely what you will have to accept, to know, to recognize. All your questions are futile. Therefore all the answers were futile. Those who gave them must have been as uncomprehending as you. The uncomprehending ask; by nature there is a law of life, an economic law, that wherever there is demand, there will be supply. Ask for anything, someone will show up to supply it. Even if you demand sheer nonsense, some factory will start making it. People demand, so it must be produced. Whatever you demand, its supply begins. Because you ask nonsensical questions...

You ask: ‘Where did I come from?’
You have already assumed that you came from somewhere. That assumption is built into your question. You have assumed at least this much—that you came from somewhere.
I tell you, you have always been here! You did not come from anywhere; you do not go anywhere.

Raman Maharshi’s last moments; his final breath. A disciple asked, Bhagwan! Now you are going. Where will you go?
Raman opened his eyes. There was intense pain, because he had throat cancer. Speaking had become difficult. A sip of water was hard to swallow. But to answer this person he spoke and said: Where will I go? All my life I explained just this one thing and you still did not understand? Where to go, where to come! I have neither come from anywhere nor will I go anywhere. I was here, and I will remain here.

The body is formed and the body dissolves. You neither come nor go. As a pot is made and a pot is broken. The space inside the pot neither comes nor goes. There was a pot; you smashed it. Do you think you smashed the space within the pot? Clay was there; you fashioned a pot. Do you think you created the space within the pot?

Space can neither be made nor broken. It has no birth and no death. Pots go on being made and unmade. Your body is a pot. It is here today; tomorrow it will not be. But you—you are space. You have always been, eternal, timeless. You have neither a beginning nor an end.

Therefore when you ask: Where did I come from? you have already assumed, prior to asking, that you came from somewhere. Then arises the question—from where did you come? Then will arise—where will I go? And between the two arises—who is it that comes and goes?

You are. But the language of ‘who’ cannot contain the answer. If someone gives an answer, tells you who you are, from the outset his answer is false. You are you. You are no one else. A is A, B is B. To answer ‘who?’ one would have to say A is B—only then would it be an answer. If you tell someone A is A, has anything been answered!

In a village a theft occurred. There was a big investigation. No trace of the thief. Then the people said to the police inspector: In our village there is a ‘Lal Bujhakkad’—a riddle-solver. A great philosopher. Till now we haven’t managed to ask a single question that he could not answer. He alone can help.
Hearing the name Lal Bujhakkad, the inspector was a bit startled. He said: Give me a sample—how has he answered?
The people said: There is no question he hasn’t answered. We’ve asked them all. Once it so happened an elephant passed by the village. An elephant had never come to this village. There are no elephants in this region. It passed in the night, so no one saw it. In the morning the footprints were on the road. Great anxiety arose—an animal with such huge feet, how big must it be! We asked Lal Bujhakkad. He closed his eyes for a moment, stroked his chin, pondered, and said: The matter is clear. With a millstone tied to its leg, a deer must have leapt! The deer must have tied a grinding stone to its leg and leaped—these are the marks! He is such a wonder-worker. Don’t worry. You ask—an answer will come.
Seeing no other way, the inspector said: All right, let’s ask—what’s the harm! What can go wrong!
Lal Bujhakkad said: Fine, I will answer. But in absolute privacy—utter privacy. And it’s a private matter; don’t tell anyone else. I’m a simple man. If I give you the thief’s identity, tomorrow the thief will come for my life!
The inspector grew very curious. He said: Be absolutely carefree. We will protect you. And the matter won’t go outside. Lal Bujhakkad said: Come with me toward the jungle—in absolute privacy, where even animals and birds will not overhear.
He took him far to a cave. He made the inspector, tired and beaten, walk and walk. Many times the inspector said: Brother, no one is to be seen here. Just whisper in my ear—it’s a matter of a second. Speak only the name. He said: It is only a matter of a second—but my life is at stake.
At last he took him into a cave—far—groping in the dark they reached inside. The inspector said: Brother, now at least tell me—will you take me down to the netherworld? What are you doing! He said: Listen—bring your ear closer. He whispered and said: As far as my reckoning goes, the theft was committed by a thief. But don’t tell anyone.
‘The theft was committed by a thief’—is that an answer!

You go and ask people—Who am I? And sitting in your villages are sadhus and sannyasins who say: You are the soul!
It is the same as saying a theft was committed by a thief. Atma in Sanskrit means I, nothing else. They are simply saying: I means I. You are the Self. Or, if they are a bit more seasoned, they will say: You are the Supreme Self. But what has happened even then! Supreme I! The matter hasn’t been resolved; it has become more tangled. The I itself wasn’t getting resolved—now how will the Supreme I be resolved!

You, as an I, do not exist. Therefore no answer will work. You are bare sky—shunya-akash. When you search within in meditation, you will not find a ‘me.’ You will find ‘something.’ I say ‘something.’ But you will not find the I. Atta, atma—no such thing will be found. Something will be found. Those who have found have said: at most we can say this much—you will find the capacity to see, the seer, the witness, one who looks. No object will be found. Nothing will come into your hand. Nothing that you can set before you and look at will be found. But there will certainly be the felt sense that there is a seeing one. Yet even this experience will be mysterious. It will not be bound by mathematics, nor weighed on the scales of science. It will not enter into accounts. In the framework of logic there never was, nor can there be, any way to measure it.

But you are creating your own entanglements, Balakrishna! You say: ‘Becoming empty is no goal for me.’
Already you have created an obstacle. You have already decided what you want to become and what not. Your readiness to seek is small; your prejudices are fixed beforehand. You ask: I want to know who I am. And becoming empty is not my goal.

And without becoming empty, no one has known oneself. What am I to do now! You have set such a condition first that if your condition is kept, your inquiry cannot be fulfilled. If you drop the condition, the inquiry can be fulfilled. What does becoming empty mean? To be silent, thought-free. Let the bustle of the mind subside. Let the incessant waves of thought in the mind become still. Let the mind be without alternatives, without thoughts. Shunya means samadhi. And in samadhi is the solution.

But you say, We want the solution, but attaining samadhi is not our goal! Then how will the solution come? You say, Becoming empty is not our goal. You decided this beforehand? And becoming empty is precisely the process of self-knowing. By the sword of emptiness the self is polished. Emptiness alone will take you to where the seer sits hidden, in that inner cave.

No, Balakrishna—do not set out with such decisions. One who sets out with decisions in advance is not a true seeker. Not fifteen years—even if you wander for fifteen lives—you will gain nothing.

And you are very clever! You say, it is all talk! And have you never once turned back to consider whether your prior prejudices themselves are becoming the obstacle? As if a blind man has decided: I will do everything, but I will not treat my eyes. And I must come to know light—but don’t speak to me of treating the eyes! Or as if someone has decided: I will not open my eyes, and I must behold the sun! Whomever he meets who sings the sun’s praise, sings songs in praise of the sun, all will seem nonsense to him. He will say: What light are you speaking of? What crimson spread across the sky are you discussing? What dawn? What east? What sun? What morning? I will not open my eyes. Opening the eyes is not my goal. Can such a person be made to understand light?

A true seeker is one who sets out without any prior prejudice—who says, I have no fixed notion. Whatever truth is, I am willing to become as truth is. However truth molds me, I am ready to be molded. If truth says East, I will go East. If truth says West, I will go West. I am not Hindu, not Muslim, not Christian, not Jain. I am not proceeding with any scripture or doctrine decided beforehand. A thought-free mind! Only then can there be seeking. Only such a one can be truly inquisitive, truly yearning.

But how have you decided that becoming empty is no goal of yours? Have you ever become empty and seen? Have you ever experienced emptiness? Has emptiness caused you any trouble? Has emptiness tormented you? What enmity do you have with emptiness?

Perhaps the very word ‘emptiness’ frightens you. Perhaps the word reminds you of death. Becoming empty means dying, being erased, being ruined. You are frightened that on becoming empty you will be left hollow. But becoming empty is not erasure; becoming empty is becoming the Ultimate. To become empty is to become sky, to become vast.

And you say: ‘Attaining supreme bliss is no goal for me either.’
You are saying astonishing things, Balakrishna! Are you aware of what you are saying? Is there any creature in this existence for whom attaining happiness is not a goal? You think you are the exception? Leave humans aside—animals and birds too are engaged in the search only for happiness. However blind the search, it is a search for happiness. Plants too are seeking happiness—in their own ways.

Scientists have been astonished to learn that plants, through their roots, search for water—where it is, in which direction. There is a tree; fifty feet to its east the municipal corporation’s pipeline runs. Fifty feet away! It does not spread its roots in other directions; it spreads its roots toward that pipeline alone!
Now how does a tree know of a pipeline buried in the ground fifty feet away? It does not go north, south, or west. Yes, if it spread its roots everywhere and then suddenly hit the pipe, we could think, well, that is coincidence. It spread its roots all around; where there was a pipe it connected; where there was no pipe it did not. But scientists have been amazed to find that the tree spreads its roots straight toward the east. Off it goes—as if it has sensed that fifty feet away there is a water source. Some unconscious search is going on.

Those who search for underground water sources also do it using a twig from a tree. They break off a fresh green twig. They hold the twig in their hands—carefully, not gripping it, lest it interfere—and walk over the ground slowly. They watch where the twig wobbles. Where there is water below, where a well could be dug, the twig wobbles, dips. That slight wobble in the hand tells them there should be water here.

A twig of a tree—perhaps water is a hundred feet below—gives news of that water! It quivers a little—a slight thrill: Here is water! Here is the source of my happiness!

Not only animals and birds; plants too! Plants too grow faster when they hear music. With classical music they grow even faster. Many experiments have been done in Canada. Some plants were played Ravi Shankar’s sitar every day on schedule. Those plants grew at double speed. Their flowers came twice as large. They came before the season. And one charming thing: all the plants bent toward the tape recorder that played Ravi Shankar’s sitar for them, as if they had thrown their arms around it!

In another corner of the same garden, plants of the same kind and age were played pop music—pop meaning racket, like the din of Hindi films! Nothing like music—frenzied dance! Those plants behaved exactly the opposite. They leaned away. They did not bend toward the tape recorder; they bent to the other side, trying to flee—Save us somehow! And their rate of development was half. They grew to half of normal. Their flowers came later than usual. And the flowers that should have been a certain size came half-sized—half-dead.

Plants feel happiness; they also feel sorrow.

Balakrishna, you say: ‘Supreme bliss is no goal of mine.’
Then what will you do by knowing the ‘I’? What will the desire to know the I give you? If a person wants to know the I, it is only for happiness. One wants to know oneself so that happiness can be rightly experienced. Not knowing oneself, mistakes and slips happen; a person fills life with the mesh of suffering. If I know myself, the path will be clear: I will exit by the door and not collide with the wall. If I know myself, I will know what is to be done and what is not to be done.

Why does a person want to know himself? So that supreme bliss may be attained, so that ananda may be achieved—sat-chit-ananda.

But you are full of wrong notions. And these notions will become great obstacles on your path, great rocks; it will be difficult to make steps out of them.

You say: ‘Becoming empty or attaining supreme bliss is no goal of mine. Who am I? My previous births? Where am I to go after death?’
This whole endeavor, if you look closely, is not self-inquiry at all. It seems you are afflicted with ego—Who am I? Where have I come from? Where will I go? This I has gripped you hard. You are carrying this I on your head. And there is nothing more false than the I.

You are—but there is nothing like an I there. You are certain; you exist. But the I has no existence. Your existence is one with the whole of existence—not separate, not distinct, not apart.

I means: I am separate; this whole existence is separate. I am a little island. This whole existence is the ocean; I am isolated from it.

The I has to be lost. And you are chasing this I with a stick. You want to know what this I is! You are not so eager to know you; your eagerness is for the I. And the I is the disease.

But wandering and wandering you have reached the right place. Here we will break your I, shatter it to pieces. It has already begun. It is from this that your question has arisen.

You say: ‘The questions for which I was so thirsty—no answer is coming. But the questions themselves seem to be ending. Why is this?’
This is exactly how it should be. This is what happens in the presence of the true master; this is what happens in satsang. Answers are not obtained; questions die. The mind is not filled with answers; it becomes questionless. And when there is nothing left to ask, then the eyes open; then the happening of knowing occurs.

Now do not be afraid. Do not panic. Let the questions go. So long you have clung to the questions, and no answer came. Now listen to me: let the questions go. And when there are no questions, there is no question of an answer.

Can you not imagine a mind in which there are neither questions nor answers? Where there is stillness, complete silence. No one to ask, nothing to be asked. No one to answer, and no answer. Patanjali has called this state nirvikalpa samadhi. Buddha called it the state of emptiness—shunya-avastha. Mahavira called it samayik. Kabir called it surati. The Zen masters call it meditation. The Sufis call it zikr. The names differ. It is the state where there is ecstasy and silence; where there is fulfillment and no curiosity; where no question mark remains. And the wonder of wonders is: when no questions remain, then all answers are there.

When Buddha was asked after his supreme knowing: What have you attained? Buddha said: I have attained nothing; I have lost much.

The questioner was startled. Because people attain Buddhahood. We are eager to attain. If we are told in advance that in Buddhahood nothing is gotten—on the contrary, it is lost—then who will want Buddhahood? Who will want to become a Buddha? That would not be Buddhahood; it would be foolishness. What was in hand too is gone!

He said: I do not understand!
Buddha said: How will you understand? Even I, when it first happened, did not understand. All the questions were lost. They alone surrounded me. I was caught in their whirlwind. And the answers? No answer came to hand. All the diseases were gone. And the medicine? No medicine came to hand. I myself was lost. The questioner did not remain. Nothing remained to be asked. I have lost everything.

Then the man asked: Why then do you seem so joyous? So blissful? What is this grace on your face? And this peace in your eyes? And this fragrance in the air around you? This light, this aura?
Buddha said: Precisely because now I am not. All the diseases were due to the I. The air around me was poisoned by my I. The knot of poison has been cut. The root of the poison has been cut. Now I am not; there is existence. As when a drop is lost in the ocean—what did the drop gain? Something has indeed been lost—the drop-ness has been lost. What has been gained? The boundaries have been lost. The river has merged into the ocean; the banks are gone. What has been gained?

From one side Buddha is right in saying that everything is lost and nothing is gained. From the other side it can also be said that earlier there was nothing—only webs of imagination, false notions—and they have all gone. Everything has been gained, the whole existence. Either say: the drop is no longer a drop; everything is lost. Or say: the drop has become the ocean. There are only two ways to say it. Buddha preferred to say ‘emptiness.’ That was his way. Kabir preferred to say ‘fullness.’ That was Kabir’s way. I am at ease with both.

You must have heard the saying: a glass is half filled with water. One says: half empty; another says: half full. I am at ease with both. I say: the glass is half empty and half full. It is half empty, therefore it is half full. It is half full, therefore it is half empty.

Where there is emptiness, there is fullness. Where nothing remains, there all is showered.

Krishnadas! I do nothing. The doer is long gone—long ago. There is no doer inside me. I don’t do anything. And this is exactly what I teach you: let the doer go. I am non-doing; you also become non-doing. Here there is a void; you too become a void there. And where there are two voids, two do not remain. Two zeros become one zero. Whether there are two zeros, or three, or a thousand—merged, they are one zero.

Krishnadas, here I am a void, there you are becoming a void; from this, bliss is happening. That is why the waves of what stirs in me have begun to touch your shores. That is why a fine drizzle has begun upon you too. That is why you have consented to let my cloud of emptiness shower upon you.

Buddha gave samadhi a name: cloud-samadhi. He said the true Master is like a rain-laden cloud, and the disciple is like the thirsty earth. The earth’s thirst and the full cloud—if they meet, neither the cloud has to do anything, nor the earth. And yet something certainly happens. Something unique happens.

That unique is happening. But do not think that I have done anything.

We cannot rise beyond the notion of karma, of doing. Our mind keeps insisting: if something happens, how can it be without doing? Our belief in a doer has become so rigid that we search for some cause: “If it happened, it must have happened due to some cause.” We cannot accept that a thing can be without a cause.

And this entire existence is causeless. It simply is. Because we cannot accept that, we manufacture a God. God—meaning the Doer, the Creator. We cannot accept that flowers bloom by themselves; we want a bloomer. We cannot accept that trees grow by themselves; we want a grower.

How much work you assign to God! To pull up every single tree and make it tall! To color every flower! To paint the wings of every butterfly!

We cannot accept that anything can happen without doing. Our ignorance is that deep. “Only if we do will it happen!” So we impose the notion of a doer everywhere. “Someone must have done it. Someone certainly is behind it. How can it be by itself?”

And I am telling you exactly this: In the world there are two kinds of things. Some that happen by doing—they are cheap. Money, position, prestige; the marketplace, politics—those happen by doing. No one will just come and make you a prime minister while you sit around. For seventy or eighty years you will have to run after the public with folded hands. Press their feet. Massage them. And then, pressing feet, pressing feet, one day press the neck. But start with the feet. If you press the neck to begin with, no one will let you put a hand on them. First hold a finger, then grab the arm. Always start pressing from the feet. That is why leaders always begin with “service.” Whoever wants to be a leader must first be a servant. A “social servant!”

Just watch a “social worker” and be alert—somewhere a flag is hidden! In a little while he will pull out the flag. And no flag comes without a staff! And after you’ve had your feet pressed by him so long, when he makes you press his feet, don’t be upset. He will have you press to your heart’s content.

If you want office, it doesn’t drop from the sky. It descends only in old stories—no longer even in modern stories. In the old tales, a king had no son, and the astrologers would say: “Tomorrow morning, whoever first enters the village, make him king.”

Those days are gone. Now there are no astrologers, no kings, and no village gates to know who entered first! And people don’t enter alone anyway; they come in buses and trains. How will you decide—who first, who later! Those are story-things.

And if you want wealth, give up that fancy that “When God gives, He tears open the roof.” Roofs do get torn; as for giving—nothing. Many roofs I have seen torn, but nothing else falls. If your own tiles fall and crack your head, that’s another matter. Drop such talk; it doesn’t happen. Those are only charming tales. Man longs that it be so, so he weaves such stories. He wants that someday he enters a village and they say, “Welcome, your Majesty! Please sit on the throne!” That one day the roof opens and gold coins rain from the sky! Everyone dreams of walking along the roadside and finding a pouch full of gold coins! These are webs of imagination. All such things come only by doing. Behind them a doer is needed, a solid ego is needed.

But there are some things in this world that happen without doing. Those alone are truly valuable. What happens by your doing has a price, not a value. Price and value are not synonyms. Price is price; value is value. Price belongs to what we do. Value belongs to what happens without our doing.

“The python serves no master, the bird does no work.
Servant Maluka has said: the Giver to all is Ram.”

He is not speaking of money and office. If Charan Singh were to take Maluk Das seriously, he would be finished! He would never become “Chair-Singh”! He would remain Charan Singh. Where are feet and where is a chair—just think! To go from charan (feet) to chair! He could not possibly have heeded Servant Maluka. However much Maluka said it, he must not have listened—“O Maluk Das, be quiet. Not now.”

But Servant Maluka is speaking of something else. He is not talking about the world of jobs and trades. He is talking about values—meditation, love, bliss. These happenings descend from the sky, from the unknown. To receive them you don’t have to make active effort; you have to be a passive recipient. For these you must be feminine, not masculine. You have to create a womb within. That womb-creating process is what I call sannyas.

You say: “What have you done?”

I have done nothing. And you are right, because you too have done nothing. So whom will you blame now! You didn’t do anything, and the magic happened—so whom to fault!

My old car was sold; a new car came. Baljeet—the man who brings and takes my cars—sold that car to a couple married fifteen years without children. No sooner had they bought the car than the woman became pregnant! Garlands and sweets and gifts in hand, they arrived at Baljeet’s. Poor Baljeet was alarmed. A simple Sardar! He said, “I had no hand in this!” Then he said, “It must be God’s.” He added, “Brother, if you want the real story, that car belongs to him, it stayed at his door. Offer these gifts to him.”

Now the children have been born. And a complication too. Not one child—two! Then the matter is absolutely clinched—there’s a heavy ‘hand’ behind it! For fourteen-fifteen years not even one, and now the roof splits and two at once! Now Baljeet has informed me they are coming today or tomorrow!

I have no hand in it either. I cannot accept even this ‘fault.’ And what fault could there be of the poor car! No one is guilty here. The event surely happened. But our logic says there must be someone responsible. Until we find the responsible person somewhere, the mind keeps itching: “How did it happen? For fifteen years why not? How suddenly now?”

Exactly such is your condition, Krishnadas. You say: “What have you done?”

Brother, forgive me! I have done nothing. Whether one child or two are born—I have no hand in it.

And you say: “I have never been so blissful!”

Then you are surely speaking rightly. But I know how questions begin to arise: “Then how did it happen? It hadn’t happened till now. Suddenly it happened, it happened here—surely someone must have done it!”

Drop the notion of doing. That it has happened is certain. If you keep the notion of doing, then the same delusion will arise that you mention: “Perhaps this is why people say you hypnotize.” If the idea of doing remains, then surely—“we were hypnotized, we were brought under control; he worked some magic; he stupefied us; he handed us some illusions; he made us mad!”

People even fear this... Someone told me he does not come here. He sent word that he was advised: “Don’t go to the ashram at all. And if ever you do go, don’t eat or drink anything there. Because intoxicants are mixed in the food and drink. Whoever eats and drinks is finished! Don’t even drink the water there, for who knows if it has LSD, or marijuana, or hashish, or opium mixed! Because whoever goes there returns intoxicated. Such ecstasy is seen only in opium-eaters, bhang- and ganja-smokers! Where do you see this kind of rapture in respectable people! They put their foot to step here and it lands over there!”

People’s logic is the same, Krishnadas. They too think something or other must be being done. Otherwise how would so many be drawn—when the whole world is opposing, when I am being abused everywhere—still there are some mad ones who don’t care at all, not even for propriety! Yet they keep coming! So surely some taste has hooked them. Some habit has caught on.

No, Krishnadas—no hypnosis, no opium, no ganja, no bhang. Here I am blissful. If only you can do this much—sit silently near me—you will surely become blissful. Bliss is highly contagious. There is nothing in this world more contagious than bliss. And you must have experienced it many times. You watch a dancer, and don’t your feet begin to tingle? Sitting on the chair, don’t your feet start keeping time? Then what is happening? The dancer didn’t tell you to dance. He is dancing—why did your feet begin to tap? A singer is singing, a drum is being played, a sitar is plucked, a tabla is in rhythm—and your hands too start beating time on the armrest. What has happened to you?

Carl Gustav Jung, a great psychologist of the West, propounded a new principle. Science has a principle: causality—that every thing has a cause; without a cause nothing happens. Jung said some things happen without a cause; for them we should find a new principle. He called it synchronicity—a shared rhythm.

For example, a dancer dances—not everyone’s feet among the audience keep time. If everyone’s feet tapped, that would be the principle of causality: no one could escape; the feet would have to tap. Like heating water to a hundred degrees—it will turn to steam. Whether in Tibet, China, India, or Pakistan. The water can’t say, “This is Pakistan—this is a holy land.” Pakistan means pure land.

You had long been deluded that India is the holy land. Jinnah split it. He said, “What nonsense you have been spouting! Pakistan—the pure land!” He named the country “pure land”—what more will you do! Drop the babble—“O holy, meritorious land, India!” In Pakistan the water will not boil any quicker—at ninety-eight degrees, say. Water won’t honor Quaid-e-Azam Jinnah to that extent. Nor in India—“So many rishis and sages—have a little regard, show some modesty! Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Kabir, Nanak—thousands of luminous ones. Have some consideration! When in Tibet you boil at a hundred, here do it at ninety-five. Show some compassion!” But no—the water boils at a hundred degrees wherever you heat it. Steam forms at a hundred. That is causality. There are no exceptions.

But when the dancer dances, when a kathak unfolds, not everyone’s feet keep time. Some do, some don’t. Some look bored, wondering when to escape! Some think, “What is this nonsense—ta-ta thai-thai, ta-ta thai-thai—what racket is this!”

Jung called this synchronicity. Whoever falls into the shared rhythm becomes bound in a certain attunement—and then something, by some unknown path, is transmitted. From the dancer the dance reaches the viewer. It stirs the viewer’s heart. The singer’s song gives you gooseflesh.

Exactly such a phenomenon occurs in satsang. It is the ultimate song, the ultimate dance, the ultimate music.

If you, Krishnadas, can sit here in silence, that is enough. Neither I will have to do anything, nor you—and yet something will happen. And when something happens without anyone doing it, it has value. It has no price. It cannot be bought or sold. It has no market rate. It is not a commodity. And wherever such a thing happens—neither you did it nor I did it; it happened by itself, spontaneously—know that place to be a temple. Where values shower, there is the temple.

Fagun itself is still amazed—
What devilish whim seized you?
Was this any season for rain—
You poured monsoon into my eyelids.

Somehow, dodging the hurdles of the path,
I reached the temple’s doorway,
But the courtyard rejected me,
At a mere signal from a hostile world.

You have filled life with tumult,
Without a thought—what have you done!
It was sorrow whose feet needed shackles—
Instead you unlocked the bonds of my hands.

I feel like filling the sun’s eyes
With two innocent tears,
My heart longs to touch the moon’s feet,
To set on its brow my heart’s crown.

What kind of web have you woven,
Into what trouble have you thrown me!
You were to pay the world’s debt,
Instead you weighed out my life!

Joy is no rare thing—
Take it whenever you like in exchange for respect.
Give your purity to the world,
Then play with whatever throne you choose.

Life you shook like a storm,
You dipped me in kohl-dark night.
I gave you flowers out of season—
You went and summoned autumn.

You poured monsoon into my eyes.
Fagun itself is still amazed—
What devilish whim seized you?
Was this any season for rain—
You poured monsoon into my eyelids.

Krishnadas, monsoon is descending into your eyelids; flowers are settling upon your lashes. In your goblet, flowers upon flowers will float. But drop the language of doing. Neither you are doing, nor I am doing. Yes, something is surely happening. Happening richly. Happening in abundance. This is the secret of satsang. This is the mystery. No one does anything—and what is ready to happen, happens. Lives change, transfigure, revolutions occur. And only such revolutions have value. The revolution that comes by doing—it is cheap. The one that happens without doing!

If I were to do something, I would have to force you. Then I would have to give you a code of conduct, a discipline, a style of living. Then I would become your owner; you would become my slaves. Then you would be prisoners. I would have to put chains upon your hands, bonds around your neck. I would have to rob you of your freedom.

Perhaps you would become a bit quieter. Perhaps a little less anxious. Perhaps more steady. But that steadiness would be terribly costly. What is obtained at the price of freedom has no worth. And even if a little peace is gained by wearing shackles, that peace is not worthy to be chosen.

I do not give you conduct, because all given codes of conduct turn into bondage. I do not give you discipline, because all handed-down disciplines, through centuries, have produced prisoners; they have killed the human being. I give you freedom. I give you satsang—only that. I invite you to be with me—only that. Walk with me. Look into my eyes. Bathe in my nearness. Drink me. And may your freedom remain untouched—unsullied. May I never give you a style. Let your way of living be born of your own consciousness; let your conduct spring from your own conscience. Let your awareness itself be the compass of your life; let me not give you any direction. Only then will this field be a Buddha-field. Otherwise this too will be a new prison.

There are already plenty of prisons in the world; what need to build another! Those who give conduct, character, vows, fasts—there are many. I do not want to stand in that crowd. I am separate from that crowd. Nor do I want to make you part of any crowd. I want to give you individuality—a person who lives from within, who walks by his own light, who accepts no knowing other than his own knowing.

And I know, I am assured, that when your knowing awakens it will be the same as Krishna’s, the same as Buddha’s, the same as Jesus’, the same as mine. For between awareness and awareness there is no difference. Between lights and lights there is no disparity. Lamps may differ; how can the flame differ!

This is no hypnosis; no magic. And yet it is magic—in the sense that I am not doing anything, you are not doing anything—and something is happening. Try to explain it to someone—you will not be able to. Try to give a commentary—you will not be able to. Something inexpressible is happening. Wherever the inexpressible happens and spreads, there sacred places arise. There is the Kaaba; there is Kashi; there is Kailash.

You are blessed that in a newly forming Kaaba you have a share! In a newly forming Kashi your handprints will be there! In this rising Kailash one rock-face is yours too! Know yourself fortunate. Know yourself blessed. And whatever gratitude you can offer to the Divine for this—consider it too little.

Enough for today.