Mrityoma Amritam Gamaya #7

Surendranath! The search for God is a sweet malady; only the one who is stricken knows it. It is a taste—and tastes cannot be expressed in words. It is an inner longing for which no reason can be given. If it arises, it arises; if it doesn’t, it doesn’t. Hence the sages have said: only those seek God whom God seeks. Before you can long for Him, He must first call you—only then can the longing be born.

And your question is apt. One who has never burned with thirst—how could he understand the plight of a man parched in the desert? The one who is there, writhing like a fish for a drop of water, whose every pore cries only for one thing—“just a sip!”—how will his state be understood by someone who has never been thirsty in the desert? He will laugh; he will think it is theater, performance, madness.

The search for God becomes possible only when all other love-objects fail. You loved wealth and found nothing. You loved position and found nothing. You loved dear ones—friends, family, husband-wife, brothers—poured love everywhere, and your hands remained empty; the pitcher was never filled. When every other dimension of love proves futile, the longing for God arises within. It is love’s final challenge, love’s last call. God is love’s ultimate vessel. Therefore those for whom other loves are still important, who still nurse hopes—who still feel assured that the world will give something, today or tomorrow—will not understand the search for God. Only those understand it whose every other search has failed—utterly, absolutely. Those who have probed in all directions and found emptiness. In whose hands came diamonds that turned to ash, gold that proved to be dust; relationships formed and broke and turned out to be bubbles on water. Much passion, much attachment—but all turned to dream, like lines drawn on water: hardly drawn before erased. Those who have tested life from every side and found it vain—such people set out in search of God.

Surendranath, do not worry about God yet. Nor about those who are filled with the longing for God. For now, see what your love is asking for—wealth, status, prestige, beloved ones? Examine your love. At present your love is probably asking for small things, moving in narrow directions. Your love is not yet defeated by the world; it is not yet grief-saturated. The yoga of holy melancholy has not arisen within you. You have not yet made intimate acquaintance with the utter futility of love as it moves outward. The lamp of hope is still lit, the flame still flickers. Your hopes and dreams still lean toward tomorrow.

So you will be surprised; you will be astonished. Your astonishment does not astonish me. It is natural. You are a thinking person. It does not make sense to you why people are searching for God. What is “God” anyway? For you, the word “God” still has no meaning—just an empty sound, a bare word without content.

God is not a person. Nor is God some force outside you. God is your own love returning to its source. Try to understand this a little.

Ordinarily love is outward-flowing, like the Ganga flowing toward the sea. From the mountains she descends, running toward the lowlands. In this context let me explain a word. The old scriptures describe Krishna surrounded by dancing gopis and cowherds, a rasa—divine dance—unfolding. On a full-moon night in the groves of Vrindavan, the flute plays, Krishna wears anklets and the peacock plume; a fair of beauties gathers around him—like stars adorning the sky, like a bridal procession of constellations, like a festival of lights. In those same scriptures there is mention of a beloved who walks behind Krishna like a shadow; her name is not given. The gopis are named, but this one remains unnamed. Later—thousands of years later—saints called her Radha. No woman named Radha is mentioned in the oldest scriptures; this name was given much later, and it carries profound meaning.

The Ganga flows from Gangotri in the Himalayas toward the sea—downward. That state of the river is called dhara, “the current.” If the Ganga were to reverse—flowing from the ocean back up to Gangotri, from the plains back to the mountains—that reversed current would be called radha. Radha is dhara reversed.

The saints who named that shadow-like, nameless beloved “Radha” did something wondrous, rich with depth. Ordinarily love flows outward like the Ganga toward the ocean. When love turns inward, when the current becomes Radha—when love no longer runs outward toward wealth, status, prestige, husband or wife, but the inner journey begins; when love frees itself from all its outer entanglements and returns to Gangotri—then, when love becomes Radha, union with Krishna happens. To meet oneself is to meet Krishna. To be joined to the innermost center of one’s own attraction is to meet Krishna.

The word Krishna means “that which attracts.” In English: magnetism. Krishna is the magnetic one, who draws you as a magnet draws iron filings. A certain mystery is hidden within you; when all the rays of your love—rays you have for lifetimes poured outward in countless directions—turn and begin to move homeward toward that mystery, then the rasa, the dance, is born within. The center of your consciousness is Krishna; the returning energies of your love are the gopis, the sakhis. Within you, a dance and a festival arise.

Surendranath, the search for God is the search for oneself. Those whom you see “seeking God” may not be seeking God at all; someone looks for Rama in a temple, someone for Allah in a mosque—still a search outside. The label has changed, the search is the same. Before you searched for money; now you search for Rama. But earlier it was outside; now too it is outside. You took journeys for wealth; now you go to Kashi or to the Kaaba. The same pilgrimages; not a hair’s breadth of difference, not a grain of revolution.

The day you stop going out on a search and let the entire search shrink back into yourself; the moment you fold your wings and dive within and sit there—that moment the search for God begins. When you see someone absorbed in meditation, know: this is the search for God. If you see someone blissfully intoxicated, lost in themselves, know: this is the search for God. Someone sets off for the Hajj—don’t assume that is a search for God.

The Muslim mystic Bayazid said: “The first time I went to the Kaaba, I saw the stone of the Kaaba. The second time I went, I saw the Lord of the Kaaba. The third time I went, there was neither the stone nor the Lord—only I remained. I saw myself.” The Hajj happened the third time. If you ask me, I’ll say Bayazid’s first two journeys did not help; the third did. And for that third journey there was no need to go to the Kaaba at all—wherever he had closed his eyes, he would have seen himself.

The search for love is the search for God. And the source of love is within you.

The thirsty heart keeps brimming over at the corners of these eyes—
In whose tender veil’s hem shall I tie up my tears?
What is this sacred thirst, dressed like a woman ascetic,
Roving through the unseen foreign land of a restless mind?
For whose cord of compassion do my life-breaths ache to be bound?
In whose bewitching, maiden flame have I burned age after age?
Mad dreams wander in the sky and in the netherworld;
Whose gusts of separation lift and drop beauty’s veil?
At whose inspired rhythm and melody do my sighs begin to coo?
At whose remembrance do the heart’s life-breaths strike the hand-cymbals?
In whose wave of love does pain turn into a rosary?
The thirsty heart keeps brimming over at the corners of these eyes—
In whose tender veil’s hem shall I tie up my tears?

An extraordinary energy of love abides within you, an inexhaustible treasure. Into whose lap will you pour it? Every lap proves small. To whom will you give it? Every vessel is too tiny; within you there is love like the sky, and such love needs a vessel as vast as the sky. The name of that vessel is God.

God is only a symbol. Do not grip this symbol too tightly—that is where the mistake begins. Then God becomes an idol in a temple; you cease to be religious, you become an infidel. The moment you give God a shape and color—kufr, a sin—because God is formless. All colors are his, yet none is his own; all modes are his, yet none exclusively his; all notes are his, yet he ends in none. He is in all notes and beyond all notes; in all colors and beyond all colors. He is the nearest and the farthest. In clay, he; in consciousness, he. The search for God is the search for existence, for the self. And the first step in that search must be taken within. One who has not known oneself—what else can one truly know?

Surendranath, do not be merely astonished. Let it not become your vanity, your ego. Do not suppose that seekers of God are fools—mindless, irrational, devoid of thought. Do not, by misfortune, start feeling, “I am so brilliant; that is why talk of God does not appeal to me. I am keenly intelligent; I doubt; blind faith cannot touch me.” Beware of that misfortune, or you will be deprived of yourself. Those at whom you laugh will lose nothing; you will be the loser. It will be self-sabotage.

If people are seeking God—and men like Jesus are seeking! Buddha is seeking! Lao Tzu is seeking! Zarathustra, Nanak, Kabir, Farid—such wondrous beings are seeking! Surendranath, hesitate a little, pause a little. Do not conclude that your doubts are signs of great intelligence. Otherwise you will fall into a delusion from which it is hard to emerge—lifetimes can pass.

You asked: “What is this search for God?”
Your own search! Drop the word “God” if you like; do not get stuck on it. There are reasons for the blockage. For centuries the word “God” has been exploited by pundits, priests, clergy; the word has been wrung, abused, until any thoughtful person, on hearing it, becomes guarded. The word itself seems to signal danger; one clutches one’s pocket, suspecting a priest lurking behind it.

Leave the word “God.” Once it was sweet, but it fell into the wrong hands. It means the supreme self, the purest fragrance of the soul, the immaculate state of consciousness—like the perfume that rises from the flower of the soul, the light that streams from the lamp of the spirit. Beautiful—but in wrong hands, even the best things go bad. In unclean hands, even the loveliest flower becomes soiled.

Never mind; we can do without the word. I say to you: seek love. Forget God. Do waves of feeling rise in you or not? When rain pours from the sky in torrents, does a rhythm awaken in your heart? When you see the green of leaves, the crimson of flowers, does a blush spread within? When the sun rises, are you transported? At dusk, when the last rays weave colored patterns on white clouds, does the incessant stream of thought pause for a moment?

If yes, you too are in the search for God. Call God “love,” call him “beauty,” call him “truth.” If the word “God” has become shabby, what does the name matter? Are we here to eat the mangoes or to count the pits?

A flower
swayed for two moments
and withered—
yet its form
went and dwelt in the eyes,
and its fragrance
has pierced the heart.
I know
form is not enduring,
and this fragrance, too,
comes and goes—
and yet
its memory,
so intoxicating, so heady,
has settled in the mind
in such a way
that even after an age,
when I look
in the mirror of my mind,
it seems
forever new.

Does beauty touch you or not? When the night sky is studded with stars, do wonder and rapture arise within? When the full moon sails, do tides rise in your consciousness as in the sea? If, on seeing the stars, the strings within still vibrate; if the moon makes you want to lift a flute and play; if a distant cuckoo’s call evokes an answering song in your heart; if the papihā’s cry “pi kahan?” stirs nothing—Surendranath, surely something does stir! No one is so impoverished that nothing in existence moves or delights him. A child’s gurgling laugh, someone’s smile, two tears in someone’s eyes—do they touch you or not? If anything still thrills you, I say you are a religious person.

And surely you are; otherwise why would you be here? You have come in this intoxicating moment, this rain-washed morning when the earth, bathed by fresh showers, is releasing her fragrance. Who knows how far you traveled to be here! I say, you too are a seeker; it is only the word “God” that obstructs you. Drop the word. Choose whatever name pleases you.

Buddha called it nirvana, because even he was not content with the word “God.” Enough of sacrifices and oblations! So much killing went on in the name of sacred rites: gomédha (cow sacrifice), ashvamedha (horse sacrifice). Until a king performed the ashvamedha, he was not a universal monarch. Rama too performed an ashvamedha. The Vedas even speak of naramedha—human offerings. Buddha opposed this twenty-five centuries ago; so did Mahavira. So much blood was shed in God’s name that Buddha said, “No, this word is no longer useful; we will find a new word.” He chose “nirvana.”

So take whatever name delights you—nirvana, samadhi, the self. If even these smell of “religion” to you, because they now carry millennia of history, then call it truth. But if you accept my suggestion, call it love—because “truth” carries a faint odor of intellect, like a logical conclusion, like mathematics, like an inference won by thought. Love is of the heart, of experience. Seek love, and you will find God. Seek love, and God will seek you. Forget God altogether.

Kabir said, “I wandered seeking God—didn’t find him, didn’t find him. One day I dropped the seeking; I even dropped the worry. And since then the whole thing has reversed: now God follows me, crying, ‘Kabir! Kabir!’”

Surendranath, you are not seeking life’s supreme truth alone—supreme truth too is stretching its hand toward you. If you do not shrink into yourself, if you do not close up, if you remain open, willing, eager, thirsty, courageous enough to open your doors—so that fragrance can enter, so that wind can enter, so that sunlight can enter—you will find God, surely. Name him as you wish; I have no taste for names.

That is why even an atheist comes to me and asks, “Can I take sannyas?” I say, certainly! For the atheist too is in search of truth. If he were not, how could he be an atheist? Atheism simply says: “I have searched for truth and have not yet found it. How can I believe before I know? Until I find, I will not believe.” This is honesty. Where is atheism in that? Where is the sin, the irreligion? It is integrity, a reverence for truth. I say to the atheist: come, sannyas is yours. If you don’t take sannyas, who will?

Someone says, “I have no interest in religion—can I still meditate?” I say, that much interest is enough—the very fact that you ask is enough.

You asked; you came this far to ask—that is proof enough. Your obstacle is only with the word.

You ask: “What is the search for God?”
The search for love—my answer.
The search for truth—my answer.
The search for your own nature—my answer.

And you say: “When I see people engaged in this search I am astonished.”
You are astonished because you have not yet peered within to recognize that the same search is stirring in you. It is still unconscious; you have not made it conscious. And when the search becomes conscious, Surendranath, you will be an extraordinary sannyasin.

So long as the search is unconscious, it gropes in the dark; when it becomes conscious, you light a lamp to search. That lamp is called meditation. And the background in which that lamp is lit—is sannyas.

And you ask: “I myself do not find any such longing or thirst within me.”
Within you there is longing and thirst; otherwise you would not be here. Who brought you? How did you come? You would not even have asked this question! The question itself is the indicator. Yes, it is true that you do not feel a “search for God” within—but what has that to do with God? The search is surely there.

Do you not want to know what this life is? Do you not want to know who you are? Do you not want to know whose vastness this is? Do you not want to know what is the beginning and the end? Do you not want to know the goal, the destiny of life?

There is no human being in whom the search for truth is absent. The very definition of man is: one in whom the search for truth has arisen. The difference between animal and man is just this.

Sudas Bharati! God is supreme fulfillment itself. God is not to be satisfied; you are to be fulfilled. But I understand what you mean: you are asking, “How should I be so that God becomes satisfied with me?” God is already satisfied with you, just as you are. He has not the slightest difficulty with you. You can keep your back turned to him—he is fulfilled. You can worship him—he is fulfilled. You can throw stones at him—he is fulfilled. You can offer flowers, you can sing songs, you can hurl abuses. You can believe in him, or you can refuse to believe in him. For lifetimes you may not remember him at all; or you may remember him day and night. God is fulfilled; there is no way for him to be unfulfilled. Even if he wanted to, he could not be unfulfilled.

Understand this: the very name of God is supreme fulfillment. That is why we have called supremely fulfilled beings “Bhagwan”—Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna. These are people of utter fulfillment. In their lives there is not a single note of discontent. On their veena only one raga rises—the raga of supreme fulfillment, of satisfaction, of contentment. Play it this way or that—you cannot draw a note of discontent from their flute.

One of Buddha’s disciples, Purna Kashyap, attained knowledge—ultimate knowledge. He placed his head at Buddha’s feet and said, “Give me your permission to go and share with others what you have given me.” Buddha said, “My blessings. But I want to know: where will you go—what direction, what land, among what people?”

Purna said, “I will go to a province named Sukha—a part of Bihar—because no monk has gone there yet.”

Buddha said, “It would be good if you dropped this plan. That alone should tell you why no monk has gone there so far. The people of that region are very hard, stone-hearted: murderers, thieves, dishonest, bandits, swindlers, thugs. To spread religion among them is impossible. They will not even listen to you; on the contrary, they will persecute you. They are of very wicked nature. Do not go there. The country is vast; there are many worthy vessels waiting—go there. Why go among the unfit?”

But Purna said, “No, Bhagwan! Let me go there. They need it too. If no one goes there, will they remain deprived of your message? And if I speak to a hundred, at least one will understand. If ten understand, at least one will set out. If ten set out, at least one will arrive. Is even that too little?”

Purna would not agree, so Buddha said, “Before you go, answer three questions. First: if the people there abuse you, what will arise in your mind?”

Purna began to laugh. He said, “You know well. For now my mind and your mind are no longer separate. What happens to you will happen to me. Still, since you ask, I submit: if people abuse me, I will feel how good they are—that they only abuse me and do not beat me!”
Buddha said, “And Purna, the second question: if people beat and thrash you, then what will happen to you?”
Purna said, “Only this: how kind these people are; they only beat me, they don’t kill me!”
And Buddha said, “Purna, the final and third question: if they actually kill you, then as you take your last breath, with what feeling will you take leave?”
Purna said, “This very feeling will resonate in every breath, in every pore: what good people they are; they have freed me from that life in which some mistake could still happen, where my foot might slip somewhere. Now there will be no mistakes. Now the possibility of slipping is gone. I will depart, thankful and blessed.”

Buddha said, “Then you may go. Then you can go wherever you wish. Now there is no restriction upon you. Do not ask me anymore. There is no need to ask now; for you have become utterly fulfilled. And utter fulfillment is the hallmark of Buddhahood.”

You ask, Sudas: “How shall I satisfy God?”
God is satisfied. Fulfillment itself is His fragrance, His color, His very form.
But what you really mean is: how shall I make, shape, and craft myself so that God may be pleased with me and His blessings may shower upon me?

The mind won’t settle—how am I to make it settle?
Helplessness has taken over,
a kind of sleep has come;
The body won’t awaken—how shall I awaken it?
The mind won’t settle—how am I to make it settle?

Night—black as ink;
and the thought of you has arisen.
Day won’t dawn—how am I to bring it up?
The mind won’t settle—how am I to make it settle?

I should not speak to these winds,
nor lift the veil from my pain.
Vows won’t hold—how am I to make them hold?
The mind won’t settle—how am I to make it settle?

You have spoken of your helplessness. You are saying that you cannot yet accept yourself—how, then, will God accept you?
But let me remind you, whether you accept yourself or not, He has already accepted you. Otherwise who breathes within you? Who beats in your heart?
Even the greatest sinner is as much embraced by Him as the saint. He is as present in Ravana as in Rama. In that supreme state there is no distinction. In that state no one is higher and no one lower.
But this does not mean I am saying you should not transform yourself. If thorns are pricking you, you must pull them out. If there is melancholy in your life, you must shake it off. If dust has gathered on the mirror of your consciousness, you must wipe it clean.

Come, tune your voice; I shall pluck the mind’s string,
so this mute night may pass.
The night is senseless—stupefied from drinking poison;
the earth’s body lies sheathed in the gale’s cast-off skin.
Come, give me your veil, I will light the lamp—
let the lifespan of darkness be shortened.

Each ray is imprisoned, the sun itself a captive;
right before the eyes the path is blocked by night.
Come, take my arm, I will tear this screen—
let the cover of defilement fall away.

Every breath is anxious, each inhalation blunted;
hopes are shy, faith is cowering.
Come, pour feeling into me, I will loose the arrow of words—
let this cloud of fear be scattered.

Come, tune your voice; I shall pluck the mind’s string,
so this mute night may pass.

If there is night in your life, then bring the morning. Not to satisfy God, but so that you do not miss the joy and celebration of the morning! If there is stench in your life, why suffer it? For God, stench and fragrance are the same; there is equanimity there. But when you can be filled with fragrance—of bel, of rose, of jasmine, of champa—why live in stink? Cut the stench away. But cut it for your own sake—not for God. Because when you do it for God’s sake, the thing becomes a little shallow, a little petty—as if someone is dressing up for someone else, but has no self-sense of beauty.

To the temple you go: you bathe, put on a garland, apply sandal-tilak. And at home you sit like ghosts—unbathed, unwashed. The day you don’t go to the temple, there is no need to bathe at all. This means the joy of bathing has not come into your experience. Bathing has not yet become part of your way of life. It is borrowed. It is show. Display. Exhibition. You do not yet have an innate sense of beauty.

Women, when they step outside, adorn themselves—hair combed, the parting filled, perfume applied, a beautiful sari, ornaments. Outside they dress so exquisitely that even their own husbands, if they met them there, would fall in love again. But watch these same goddesses at home—sitting like the goddess of battle—so that not only their own husbands, even someone else’s husband, on seeing them, would run away!
An inner sense of beauty is another matter. Then whether anyone sees or not is not the question. Beauty has its own savor. Health has its own joy. Cleanliness has its own dignity.

I say to you, Sudas, do not “die” for the sake of pleasing God—saying, “I will speak the truth because God will be pleased by truth.” That would mean you have not yet formed any living bond with truth. If God were pleased by untruth, then what would you do? You would lie! But one who is bonded with truth will not speak untruth, even for God. He will say, “Let God mind His own; if He does not relish truth, let Him change His taste. But to me truth is dear. Truth is my joy. I will speak the truth. If because of truth I must go to hell, I am willing; but by speaking lies I cannot go to heaven.”

If you are only eager to reach heaven, what does it matter how you get there? One who becomes obsessed with the goal devalues the means. He gives no thought to the means. If a bribe to the gatekeeper buys entrance to heaven, who will hold court about it? We’ll give the bribe. If massaging the gatekeeper’s feet, flattering him, gains entry into heaven—we’ll do that too!
Your prayers are often sycophancy. What are your hymns but flattery? As you would praise a king or a prince, so you praise God. You exaggerate—say as much untruth as you can—you know you are lying. Because your way of living does not bear witness to your prayer. Your style of life does not support your prayer.

No—do not worry about God, Sudas. He is fulfilled. And even if you remain as you are, He is fulfilled. He has not the slightest restlessness. But if, as you are, you are restless, then change your restlessness. If you are disturbed, change your disturbance.
Change—for the sake of change. Revolution—for the sake of revolution. Revolution is itself the end, not a means. And when you use revolution as an end—not as a means—then a certain majesty enters it; a certain glory; a dignity. Then the difference between means and end disappears. And I call that person religious in whose life there is no split between means and end—for whom the means are the end; just as the means are the end, so the end is the means. Means and end are two faces of the same coin.

How can I leave this worn-out world? My songs are still unfinished, friend!
I hear the footfalls—the Guest will arrive on the heart’s chariot, friend!

In the golden temples of public praise
they turned Him into an idol, into stone, a god—
helpless, I could not lose my humanity;
between us stand thick differences.

Let Him become human if He will; but I cannot become stone, friend!
I hear the footfalls—the Guest will arrive on the heart’s chariot, friend!

I never conceded, though the world insisted—
Beloved comes only in dreams;
I remain awake; I will behold Him
in wakefulness within myself.
If I close my eyes, and His touch comes—may it touch the very core of my life, friend!
I hear the footfalls—the Guest will arrive on the heart’s chariot, friend!

Let Him become human if He will! Those who have known love will say to God: if You want to become human, then become human.
Let Him become human if He will; but I will not become stone, friend!
I will not become stone.
Stone idols sit in the temples; from worshiping them, the so‑called devotees too have turned to stone. Their hearts have become worse than stones. No sensitivity arises within them. It is right:
Let Him become human if He will; but I will not become stone, friend!
I hear the footfalls—the Guest will arrive on the heart’s chariot, friend!

You are not to become stone. You are not to become anything by obeying the so‑called pundits and priests. Do not forcefully purify your conduct. Do not force yourself into sainthood. Become simple—joyous, blossoming, enchanted—so in love with life that you can dance and sing. Then there is no difficulty. Then surely you will hear the footfalls.
I hear the footfalls—the Guest will arrive on the heart’s chariot, friend!
There is no golden chariot on which God will come. That Guest comes riding the chariot of your own consciousness.

How can I leave this worn-out world? My songs are still unfinished, friend!
I hear the footfalls—the Guest will arrive on the heart’s chariot, friend!
If I close my eyes, and His touch comes—may it touch the very core of my life, friend!
I hear the footfalls—the Guest will arrive on the heart’s chariot, friend!

Your consciousness itself is heaven, the gate of heaven. The supreme purity of your consciousness is God. So which God are you talking of satisfying, Sudas! If you are fulfilled, then God is fulfilled.
You are unfulfilled—that is the hitch. It is your dissatisfaction that is the issue. You are sick; the whole existence is healthy. You have fallen out of rhythm. You have become off‑beat. You have lost the note; you have gone out of tune. Otherwise the whole existence is bound in melody, immersed in music. You too, attune yourself. This attunement I call prayer, I call worship, I call meditation.
How does one become attuned, Sudas? If you remain in the past, the notes will be torn. If you remain in the future, the notes will be torn. Live in the present—the notes will be set.
Let this very moment of the present be your all. Live each moment. And live with fullness, with totality. Dive so utterly that you are completely immersed. And moment by moment you will find: the Guest is coming nearer—and nearer—and nearer. And one day that unprecedented event happens when there remains no distinction between guest and host. The Guest arrives as the Host. Suddenly, one day, you find that you are That. Tat tvam asi, Shvetaketu!

Pratibha! Pratibha is the state of thought-free consciousness. When within you only radiance remains—no shadow anywhere in that radiance, no darkness left in any nook and cranny of the mind. When everything inside is illumined, that state is called Pratibha. When prajna, awakened wisdom, arises within you, Pratibha is born.

The meaning of Pratibha is not merely what is commonly taken. Generally it is taken to mean: a very intelligent person, a thinker, logical, rational. In truth, Pratibha is exactly the opposite. Where is thinking there? Where is logic there? Where is cleverness there? Pratibha is not cleverness—it is simplicity, it is innocence. Pratibha is not logic; it is a state beyond logic. Pratibha is not thinking; it is a state beyond thought.

But the dictionary gives this meaning: a thinker, a smart fellow, clever. That is the one we point to and say, “Look, what talent!” Skilled in argument, adept at debate, able to find a way out in every situation; however tangled the riddle, he can solve it.

The dictionary says one thing, but existence defines otherwise. Dictionaries do not necessarily give reliable information about existence, because language does not know existence at all.

I have heard: once Mulla Nasruddin was traveling by train at night. In that compartment there was only one couple besides him; the rest of the coach was empty. Mulla was lying on the upper berth. The couple sat on the lower seat opposite. After a while the husband said to his wife, “Lallu’s mother, today I feel like pulling the emergency chain. And you can see there is no one else in the compartment.”

The wife tried to reason with him: “Don’t you know there is a provision of a two-hundred-and-fifty-rupee fine or six months in jail for pulling the chain without cause? Why are you being stubborn?” The husband said, “What can I do, Lallu’s mother? I’ve tried hard to suppress the urge, but it’s getting stronger! As for the fine, you’ve got a hundred and fifty rupees and I’ve a hundred in my pocket—together it’s two-fifty. If it’s more, we’ll pay. But today I’m certainly going to pull the chain. In fact it’s a lifelong desire—how long should I keep putting it off!”

Seeing no other way, the wife said, “All right. If you won’t listen, then pull it. But look, there’s a man asleep on the opposite berth. We’ll put it on him—we’ll say he pulled the chain. And we are two; he won’t get any witness.”

The husband went ahead and pulled the chain. The train stopped. The guard came with his lantern and asked, “What’s the matter? Who pulled the chain?” The couple immediately pointed toward Mulla. The guard went to Nasruddin, shook him, and said, “What’s the matter, old man—why did you pull the chain?”

Mulla shouted, “Guard sahib, these two rogues have stolen my money. It was exactly two hundred and fifty rupees. If you don’t believe me, search them. The wife has a hundred and fifty and the husband a hundred.”

They were searched. Mulla’s words proved true. The guard returned the money to Mulla and handed the couple over to the police.

In the world, this sort of situation is called talent. But Pratibha, I have not given you that kind of name. Such ‘talent’ is a cheap talent; with a little calculating capacity it comes easily. And such talent often proves deadly. The earth has been filled with this so-called talent. Our schools and universities are producing just this kind of “talented” person. To be exact, they are producing tricksters and clever operators. Simplicity and innocence are disappearing from the world. People are becoming dishonest. It has become difficult to find an educated person who is not dishonest. An uneducated man, a simple villager, may still be honest—he still is! But as soon as someone gets educated, as soon as he returns with degrees from the university, he turns sly, he turns dishonest. Picking pockets and cutting throats—that becomes his way of life.

Those who promoted universal education thought that once everyone was educated there would be great honesty and great truth. But the opposite happened. The more people were educated, the more truth was lost and dishonesty increased. A simple man cannot even manage to be dishonest—he’s afraid he’ll be caught! The educated man can invent a thousand tricks for dishonesty.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin was passing by a grave with a friend. The tomb was beautiful, made of marble, with something written in gold letters. Mulla said, “Wait. Let’s read whose grave it is.” On the tomb it was written: Here lie a statesman and a saint. Mulla said, “This is difficult! How could two men fit into such a small grave—a statesman and a saint?”

Mulla could not even think that both statements referred to the same man. No one can think it. A politician and a saint? Either he can be a saint or a politician. Either a politician or a saint. The two together are impossible! Either a man can be a lawyer or he can be honest. Either honest or a lawyer. Either he is educated—in which case don’t expect honesty. Or if he is honest, he’ll have to set education aside.

We have created a very topsy-turvy world. Here what we call talent is standing on its head—doing a headstand. And what is the total skill of those we call talented? Inference! What we call logic is also the science of inference. It never brings a direct encounter with truth; it only spins conjectures! And conjecture is not truth. A conjecture is only a conjecture.

Mulla Nasruddin, Chandulal, and Dhabbuji were gossiping one day. Dhabbuji said, “Believe it or not, but films definitely affect pregnant women. Take my wife, for example. Last week she saw the movie Ram and Shyam, and the very next day in the hospital she gave birth to twins!”

Chandulal chimed in, “Yes indeed, brother! You are absolutely right. My wife saw the film Trimurti the day before yesterday, and just last evening she gave birth to three children at once!”

Hearing this, Mulla Nasruddin suddenly panicked and began to cry. Alarmed, they asked, “What’s the matter, Nasruddin? Why are you so frightened by what we said? If anyone should cry, it’s us—let Dhabbuji cry! Why are you crying? What’s happened to you?”

Weeping, Nasruddin said, “Brothers, I was just thinking—if what you say is true, what will become of my pregnant wife, Guljaan, who has today returned from seeing the film Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves!”

Conjecture! But the so-called talented person you admire only keeps conjecturing—shooting arrows in the dark: if it hits, it’s an arrow; if it misses, it’s a fluke.

I do not give that meaning to Pratibha. Pratibha is the pure state of meditation—no conjecture, no logic, no thought. All the mind’s imaginings have gone; the inner wavering has gone; all the ripples of consciousness have fallen asleep. The lake of awareness has become utterly still—without a single wave. Not the slightest ripple. The lake no longer quivers; it has become a mirror. When the lake of consciousness is perfectly still like a mirror—unshaking, unwavering, unmoving—all the moon and stars descend into it. Their reflections are formed in it.

In just this way, when meditation takes away all the waves of the mind and the lake of your consciousness becomes a void, then into it descend all the beauties of life, all the truths. Love descends; the Divine descends. Reflections are formed within you. You become a mirror. The art of becoming a mirror—where existence appears exactly as it is—that is what I call Pratibha.

Pratibha, it is in this sense that I have given you the name. It is a pointing toward meditation. I do not give names casually. A name carries an indication, a message. I give the name so that you keep remembering what you have to do. Let the name remind you. Whenever anyone calls you—“Pratibha!”—take care, remember, bring awareness: to be free of the mind; to be free of the mind’s waves. If this remembrance continues, continues, continues, then if not today, then tomorrow; if not tomorrow, then the day after—one day that incomparable moment arrives when the mind becomes utterly quiet. Then there will be the experience of Pratibha.

And where Pratibha is, there is God. Because the reflection of existence that forms in Pratibha—that very reflection is what is called God.

Dharmendra! There is danger in desire. Desire obstructs attainment. The harder you desire, the more difficult attainment becomes. Because the mind that desires cannot be quiet—and quietness is the first condition for receiving. The desiring mind is tense. It is not in the present; it lives in the future. Desire means: today is not valuable; tomorrow is valuable. Desire means: my eyes are fixed on tomorrow. Today is being missed while my eyes stay glued to tomorrow. And has tomorrow ever come? Tomorrow never comes; that which never comes is what we call “tomorrow.”

Mulla Nasruddin told a fakir, “I am in great trouble. I have a betel shop, and people keep buying on credit upon credit. They never pay back. And if I stop giving them more credit, then the old credit is lost! Out of that fear I have to keep lending. What am I to do?”
The fakir said, “Do one thing. Hang up a board—Today cash, tomorrow credit.”
Nasruddin said, “That won’t help. I know my customers. They are sly, real tricksters. They’ll say, ‘Fine, Nasruddin! We won’t buy today; we’ll come tomorrow.’”
The fakir said, “Don’t worry. When they come tomorrow, show them the board again—Today cash, tomorrow credit. Let them keep coming ‘tomorrow’; whenever they come, show them the board. Has tomorrow ever come, you fool? However crafty your customers, tomorrow never comes.”

Tomorrow cannot come. And desire keeps you entangled in tomorrow. Then what you desire—wealth, position, wife—makes no difference. The very nature of desire is the future. Meditation is the opposite—now, here.

Now you ask: will the same nuisance happen in relation to God? It will. What difference does God make? You have merely changed the object of desire—money replaced by meditation, lust replaced by Rama. But you remain the same. Your way of desiring remains the same; your gait is the same—awkward as before! Nothing will change. What does it matter which direction you go? The mistake is in your feet, in the very way you walk. Whatever the direction, you are bound to err.

Having desired so many times and seen that precisely what you wanted did not come, that what you wanted became impossible—learn something at least! Learn this much: whatever you truly wish to have now, do not desire it. This is simple arithmetic: do not put desire in between.

That is why Buddha said that even one who desires God will not find him. Hence Buddha said, “There is no God”—drop the very worry. Meditate.

What is meditation? Non-desire. Become free of wanting. Become a zero. Let there be no craving within. Then, if God has to come, he will come—he will seek you out. The moment you are empty, truth flows toward you.

You say, “It becomes impossible to get the very thing I desire!”
There is no fault of yours in this, Dharmendra. This is the eternal law—eso dhammo sanantano. The timeless rule is: if you desire—you will not get. If you run—you will miss. If you stop—you will receive. Be still.

Desire makes you run. And in running no one can find, because that which is to be found is not far. What is to be found is already present.

Let me put it this way: it may happen that the desirer gets money—though he will never be rich. You may even get the woman you want, though the moment you get her she will no longer be the same woman she was before you had her. Properly understood, the one you “got” is not the same; she is someone else. Until you had not got her, she had a certain form, a certain charm—she was a celestial nymph. Once possessed—everything turns to dust.

Majnu was very fortunate—he never got Laila. Had he got her, he would have had to become a sannyasin. Master Majnu Bharati! And except for me, no one could have initiated him into sannyas. And poor Laila—what could she have done? Once Majnu becomes a swami, what is she to do! They were fortunate that they never met. They kept calling, crying, searching. Drums sound sweet from afar; all the charm is in the distance. As you come close to things, their futility starts being exposed.

When you did not understand the language of my songs,
what if the world attached a hundred meanings?
Call it my weakness or compulsion of the heart—
I chose only you.
To you I offered, effortlessly, in this life,
all that was lost and gained, all my weeping and my song.
If you could not echo my songs, my love,
what if the whole world were to sing them!
The creation of the songs was only a pretext—
to carry my pain to your heart.
What I could not otherwise say, what you could not otherwise hear—
there was some secret I had to make you understand.
When my sorrow could not touch your heart,
what if it could melt a heart of stone!
Everyone else comes together, only the one does not—
the one you desire; such is the rule of the world.
All notes tune, save the very one that is dear to the heart—
life is a raga like that.
If you could not accept my offering,
what if the whole world were to embrace it?

But such poetry, such songs are born in the hearts of poets who have burned with longing and never obtained their beloved. If the beloved is found, suddenly the eyes open. For what you had thought was your imagination, your projection—an overlay you had imposed.

What Majnu sees in Laila is not in Laila; it is in Majnu’s eyes. He projects it onto Laila through his own eyes. If Laila is not found, it is alright—Majnu will keep weeping. But even in weeping there is a certain joy, a certain flavor; in Majnu’s tears there is a sweetness. There is melancholy, but not despair. There is anxiety, there is pain, but not dullness, not disillusionment.

But look at a Buddha—Gautam Buddha—who had the most beautiful woman, the very woman he wanted; and yet at twenty-nine he left home.

Arnold has written a wonderful book on Buddha: The Light of Asia. The description there of Buddha leaving home at night is very beautiful. The drinking and merriment went on late; there was dancing and singing, music through the night. Then Buddha slept. But at midnight he suddenly awoke. The dancers who had been performing, tired, had left their instruments lying there and fallen asleep on the floor. It was a full-moon night; the moon had entered through the windows and doors. In that moonlight Buddha looked closely at the women he had thought so beautiful. From someone’s mouth saliva was dripping in sleep; another had sleep-grit crusting her eyes; someone’s face had turned ugly; someone was babbling in sleep. The very one whose melodious voice he had heard at dusk was babbling like a madwoman. Seeing this ugliness of all those beautiful women, a realization dawned: what I have believed is my imagination; reality is this. If not today, tomorrow the body will turn to dust; if not today, tomorrow it will be laid on the funeral pyre. How long will I go on running after bodies? How long will I remain entangled in these bodies?

The shock was so deep that the same night he left home. Twenty-nine—what age is that! He was still young. But the reality of life had become visible. Life is hollow; life is a mere skeleton. Skin, flesh, marrow on the outside; inside, a skeleton.

He fled as far as he could. The old charioteer who took him away on the golden chariot tried to persuade him: “What are you doing? Where are you going? Remember the palace—where will you find such beauty? Remember Yashodhara—where will you find such a woman? Such a sweet kingdom, such comforts, such luxury—leaving this heaven, where are you going?”
Buddha looked back. In the full-moon night his marble palace shone like a dream; lamps lit upon it like stars twinkling in the sky. But he said to the charioteer, “I must go. I have to go. What you call a palace, I see nothing there but flames. I see anxieties burning. If not today, soon, very soon, all will be ash. Before all turns to ash, before this body falls, I must know That which is eternal. If there is something eternal, I must come to recognize it. I must become acquainted with truth—realize truth.”

Dharmendra, you say: whatever I desired, I could not obtain.
Who has obtained? Those who did, found upon attaining that it was futile. Those who did not, kept deluding themselves and wandering. It is good that you have understood there is a basic error in desire—that when you desire, attainment becomes difficult. And your fear is meaningful: that if you start desiring God, might it not happen that you fail to find him too!

You will be surprised. Had you asked the so-called saints and seers, you would not have received the answer you are getting from me. They would say: desire God—desire with your whole being; desire with one-pointed mind—and you will surely find. But I tell you: even if you desire God, you will miss. Desire makes you miss. Drop desire. Let desire go. The method of finding God is to be free of desire.

For a little while each day—at least take out some time in twenty-four hours—when you desire nothing. That is what I call meditation. For an hour, two hours—day or night, morning or evening, whenever—find a time. Close the doors and sit silently. Want nothing; no demand, no desire. Be like a void—as if you are not; as if you have died, as if death has happened.
Meditation is death—death invited voluntarily. Yes, the breath will go on, so keep watching it. The chest will beat, so keep listening. But nothing else—breath moving, chest beating, and you sitting silently.

In the beginning it will be hard. For lifetimes a procession of thoughts has been running; it will not stop all at once. They are queued up. In truth, seeing such an opportunity—you're sitting alone, no one around—all the thoughts will pounce on you. Such a favorable moment rarely comes. Usually you are entangled—work, chores, a thousand worldly occupations—so thoughts wait for a chance to attack. When you sit in silence, in meditation, they will get their chance. All thoughts will rush at you as if enemies have launched an assault. Kurukshetra will begin. All kinds of thoughts, relevant and irrelevant, foolish thoughts—all at once they will charge. The attack will come from all sides. Keep watching that too. Do not fight, do not quarrel, do not try to push thoughts away. Sit quietly, as if you have nothing to do with them—neutral, impartial, unattached. Like a traveler who, tired, sits in the shade beside the road and watches the people passing by—sometimes a car passes, sometimes a bus, sometimes a truck; people pass by; what has he to do with them? One goes this way, another goes that; each goes where he has to go, does what he has to do. What concern is it of the resting traveler whether a sinner passes or a saint, whether someone in white clothes or in black, woman or man? Let whoever is going, go. The road keeps on. What has the weary traveler resting by the roadside to do with it?

In the same way, sit down by the roadside of your mind and watch. No judgments. No for-or-against. Make no choices. Do not think: I will hold this thought and drop that one; let this come and be mine; let that never come. Do not let such feelings arise. Slowly, gently, a day will come when the road begins to empty. At times there will be no one on the road. There will be silence. Intervals will appear. In those intervals, for the first time, you will have a glimpse of the divine—because there is no desire, no imagination, no thought. The glimpse will not come from outside; he is seated within you. When the fog of thoughts lifts, he becomes visible.

What you have learned from the experience of love, make use of it. What you have learned so far from your love for the world, do not forget that lesson. By desiring you have seen that you always lost—that is a great asset. If you use that lesson, you will not have to fail in relation to God.

Do not desire—and God can be found. Lao Tzu has a famous saying: Do not seek—and you find. Do not ask—and you receive. Nowhere to go, nothing to search for. That supreme treasure is within you; it is your very nature.
Enough for today.