Nahin Sanjh Nahin Bhor #6

Yes and no. Ultimately, human effort is futile. In the ultimate sense only grace is meaningful—not effort. Because in the final moment the ego too has to be dropped; and the very feeling of effort belongs to the ego. “I am doing something”—this is the shadow of the “I.”

The journey begins with effort and ends in grace. But the beginning, the first step, has to be effort. In that sense, human effort is meaningful.

Or understand it this way; you ask: “If one attains God only by God’s grace, then is human effort for God-realization in vain?” God’s grace is obtained by human effort; God is attained by God’s grace. But even His grace has to be invited. Grace is not free; some price must be paid. Otherwise, everyone would have it.

If God could be attained without effort, then everyone should attain Him. Why only Charandas, Nanak, and Kabir? Why only Meera, Sahajo, and Daya? Everyone should.

If God were attained only by grace, then a great injustice would be happening. Some receive it, others not. So those who receive—does God have some favoritism for them, some politics? And with those who do not receive—some displeasure? Then grace would be tainted. At least do not taint God’s grace. Do not lay that charge upon it.

His grace is available to all, like rain falling. But if you have kept your pot upside down and it stays empty, you say: There was no grace for me.

Grace was there. Grace showers as much on the upside-down pot as on the upright one. But the upright pot fills; the inverted pot remains empty.

Make at least that much effort—to turn the pot upright. Though merely setting it upright will not fill it.

Hence I say: yes and no. It will fill only when there is rain. You may sit with the pot perfectly upright, but without rain it will not fill.

Human effort is necessary, absolutely necessary—to set the pot upright. Then God’s grace showers; that is grace.

So I would put it this way: By human effort you do not attain God; by human effort you attain God’s grace. And by God’s grace you attain God.

You are always eager to choose just one of the two, because logic prefers a single line. The Jains have chosen effort; therefore Jain culture is called the shramana culture—the way of effort. “It will happen by effort; what grace? Whose grace? There is no storehouse of grace; there is no gracious One. Man’s effort is everything.” This is half the truth. You may keep your pot upright and wait for births upon births; it will not fill. And when it does fill, don’t fall into the illusion that it filled only because you kept it upright. Something else descended; there was a descent from the sky. A ray of the eternal entered you.

Yes, your effort did this much: it kept the door open; it did not obstruct the ray; it did not stop it at the threshold. You allowed it to enter. You did only this much—you did not block it. You did not create hindrance.

This is the most human effort can do: that when God comes, you do not obstruct Him. Let the heart be open. This is what I mean by “the pot being upright.”

Be ready to welcome. Be so clean that God may find you worthy to enter. A guest is to come; you decorate the house. If you are to invite God, will you not even adorn the heart a little? A little fragrance. A little music. In your heart there should be the capacity, the worthiness, to receive Him.

Very often God comes and you remain deprived. He comes every day, and you remain deprived. Because you have not learned His language. You have made no preparation to recognize His face. You even hear His footsteps and pass them by as if unheard. Your ears are filled with useless noise. You are an upside-down pot.

So effort is necessary—at least that much. Half the journey happens through effort. After half the journey an extraordinary event occurs: you do nothing, and something starts happening.

You have cultivated meditation. This much means the pot is upright. In this poised state of meditation, the Infinite rains; you begin to fill; contentment begins to descend.

Thus, on one side are the Jains who say: everything will happen through effort. I agree with them for half the distance. Beyond that, their journey will not be able to proceed.

On the other side are the devotees—some Hindu streams—which hold that it will happen only by His prasada, His grace. That is also only half the truth. And if you must choose between these two halves, I will tell you: choose the Jain view. Because it is the first part of the journey. At least half the journey will happen.

The Hindu view speaks of the final stretch; if you choose it at the start, the journey will not happen. You will never turn your pot upright; the rain may go on falling.

So if someone tells me you must choose one of the two, I would say: choose the Jain process; choose the yogic process; choose effort.

Because you must complete your part. The remaining half of the journey is God’s work.

Believe it or not, if the pot is upright, God comes. God is not going to say: “Your pot is upright, but your belief is that everything happens by effort; because of your belief I will not come.” God does not care for your beliefs. He cares for your capacity to receive.

Whatever your belief—if you sow mango seeds, yet believe they are neem, what changes? Mango seeds sown will produce a mango tree. Your belief will not turn mango seeds into neem blossoms. And when the tree bears fruit, it will not be neem; it will be mango. You may have knocked your head and believed otherwise—it changes nothing.

That is why I say: if you must choose between Hindu and Jain, choose the Jain. Though it is as wrong as the Hindu view, and as right as the Hindu view. Fifty percent right and fifty percent wrong, both.

But the Jain position has one advantage: even if you mistake mango for neem, you are still sowing mango. You are still cleansing the heart. The pot is still being set upright. The day it is upright, the day the alignment happens, the rain will fall. Your belief will not be able to hinder it.

But the Hindu position can be dangerous—because it belongs to the final phase of the journey, and you have not reached there yet. You sit with your pot upside down and think, “Grace will do it!” Are you worthy of grace? Qualified? Have you done anything to be ready for grace? You have not even stirred a hand or foot.

Yet I am not saying you must choose one of the two. I say: choose both together. If forced to choose, the Jain approach is more workable, because from where you stand it connects to your present.

But there is no need to choose. Accept both conjointly.

Walk a little way yourself, and let God walk a little way. Go as far as you can. Do the part that is yours to do.

Gurdjieff used to tell his disciples: until you have done all that you can do, no help will come from anywhere. Yes, when you have reached the very limit of what you can do—when you have used all your strength, held nothing back, poured yourself out completely—at that very moment a hand appears; at that very moment your life-energy takes a new turn; a new phase begins. In that moment you discover: now I am no longer the doer; now God is the doer.

If you can practice both together, it is best.

As I said, the Jain view has the advantage that it covers the first half of the journey—at least it takes you to setting the pot upright. But it has a danger too: the danger of ego. Therefore you will find the Jain monk more disciplined than the Hindu monk; more moral, more bound to rules; more pure, more refined in every way. But amidst all that purity, an ego sits enthroned. You will find the Jain monk extremely egoistic. He may not even fold his hands to greet you. How can he? He is a monk, and you a mere householder, a worldly person. Fold his hands to you? Impossible.

The Jain scriptures do not instruct the monk to fold hands in greeting. He can only bless you—not greet you. But a blessing from one who cannot bow is worth two pennies. Without that much humility, his blessing will not work; it will go in vain. His blessing is barren; no flowers can bloom from it.

The Jain monk is a monk—but with great pride in being a monk. The Hindu monk is not a monk—but there is one advantage there: no ego.

Choose half, and there is both benefit and danger. The Jain monk grows more and more stiff. The more he fasts, the more vows he takes, the more austerities he performs, the deeper the rigidity; the thicker the sense of “I.”

This “I” has to be dropped one day. If you fatten it too much, how will you drop it? It is not a friend; it is an enemy—the very thing you are nurturing. You are watering the roots of poison. It has to be dropped one day—remember this from the outset. And you can drop it only if there are some feet at which to place it—some sense of God, some trust in His grace. Otherwise, how will you drop yourself?

Ramakrishna used to say: “In vain you lift the oars. Why don’t you unfurl the sail? When His winds are fully ready to take you across, why do you labor with the oars?” That is the difference.

Effort is the oar. You will have to row the boat yourself, laboring with the oars.

The sail is surrender; He will carry you. His wind is ready to take you across. Unfurl the sail; keep the oars at hand—perhaps not needed. The wind is ready to carry you—without your labor.

In my view, if you can combine the two, it is fragrance added to gold.

Begin your sadhana as if everything depends on your effort. And let there run within you an undercurrent: What can my doing do? At most something small. How great is my capacity? How vast my competence? How far can my hands reach? What I do can only be small. So I will do what I can—but I will not become puffed up. I will keep knowing that I do all this so that Your grace may descend. For the real event happens by Your grace.

Human effort is an auspicious beginning, but not an auspicious end. So start with effort, with endeavor, with practice—with sadhana; and arrive at grace.

Let your pot be upright, and know that the rain is already falling. The rain does not stop for a single moment. It is not that God “sometimes” showers. That you receive Him sometimes is another matter. He rains always.

Understand this: When Charandas lived, God was raining. Charandas’ pot filled; yours did not. You were sitting with it upside down. When Buddha was, God rained. Buddha’s pot filled. You missed. Even had you sat beside Buddha, you would have missed. The rain was falling—otherwise how would Buddha’s pot have filled? But you did not notice your pot was upside down.

So such preparation is needed: set the pot upright. Clean it a bit too; let there not be filth inside, or the pure water will become foul. Be sure there are no holes; mend them. Otherwise even as the pure water pours in and seems to be filling, you will not be able to use it. It enters on one side and runs out the other. It comes into your hands—and is lost.

All these things happen. Some people are like upside-down pots; it keeps raining on them and they never fill. They do not even notice. People call them “slippery pots.” Others have their pot upright, but riddled with holes. It seems to fill, it appears to be filling, but whenever you check—empty. The thirst is never quenched; it remains. And the difficulty grows.

If water were not available and thirst remained, you would understand. But here water comes, it seems to fill, yet thirst does not go.

And some are such that there are no holes. The pot is upright, but packed with filth—thousands of useless desires, diseases and ailments, worms of many kinds, the rubbish of impressions gathered over births. All of it stuffed inside.

The pot is upright, without holes—but full to the brim. There is no way for water to enter; the pot is already full. There is no space for more.

Or some are such that the pot is not full, but so much grime clings to the walls that the water enters and even fills—but as it fills, it becomes impure.

You have heard it said about the snake: if you feed it milk, it becomes poison. The same milk, a child drinks and it becomes life. The same milk, a snake drinks and it turns to venom.

We all take in the same food. Notice: in an angry person, food becomes anger. In a loving person, it becomes love. In the wise, it becomes wisdom. In the devotee, devotion.

We all eat the same food. Charandas did not eat some other food than you do. Yet in him it emerged as supreme devotion. In someone else, the same food turns into a murderer; becomes bloodthirsty.

So we take in similar things, but within they are transformed. The inner condition transforms them.

A vessel that has long held poison—even if empty now, with the walls soaked in poison—whatever water enters becomes poison.

What goes in does not prove anything. What comes out proves.

Jesus has a famous saying: it is not what goes into you that defiles; what comes out is the proof and the defilement.

Everyone breathes in pure air, but when it comes out—someone’s life gives off fragrance, another stench, another foul odor. Within you, transformation happens.

Even the Divine enters you—and often appears as the devil.

Life is one. Everything depends on what you do with it.

If you will listen to me, I will say: God-realization happens—by His grace. But His grace comes—by your effort.

In the initial stages of sadhana, be a shramana. In the final stages, become a brahmin. And you will not miss.

If in the first stages of sadhana you become a brahmin—you miss. And if in the last stages you insist on remaining a Jain, a shramana—you also miss.

This harmony is what I call the complete religion.

Right now life
is a more-and-less of meter,
a more-and-less of breaths,
by some rule the rising and falling,
a more-and-less of the chest—and yet the beating goes on,
even with eyes closed there is burning, and in dreams, wave upon wave,
thoughts fly,
hands and feet move,
for now everything is a meter of more-and-less.
I know life will become music
when it slips free of the body,
like a note released from the throat.
Heartbeats will change into a lingering tone,
breaths will become rhythm.
In the river of dissolution
the bones cast in will raise ripples,
and with the rustling forest on the bank
I will resound in the rain, in the storm.
Right now life is meter—
I know
freed from the body, it will become music.

As long as you are bound to yourself, the meter is bound. Think of music tied up inside a veena: no one has yet released it. As long as you are surrounded by “I,” the music lies asleep in the strings. You remain a closed meter. Then someone plucks the strings; some skillful fingers wrestle, play with them—a love-play begins. What lay in the string as a sleeping meter awakens and is set free. The meter grows wings. Meter becomes music, spreading through the sky.

Right now your God is like a spring pressed under the stones of “I.” Ego dams it up. The moment ego drops, the moment the sense of “I” goes, you will find: meter is freed, unbound. Then it has no limits. The finite becomes infinite. The petty becomes vast. Matter becomes God.

Right now life is meter—
I know
freed from the body, it will become music.

Through effort you will remain confined within yourself. Yes, you will be purified. By grace the prison will break. The walls of the cell will collapse; the prisoner will be free. And then meter will be music; then there will be no boundary. And without the boundless, there is no peace. Peace is only in the Infinite.

Many times you suspect that Dindayal is deaf—stone-deaf. It isn’t so.
First thing: you don’t say anything worth hearing. What you say isn’t fit to be heard. What is it that you actually say?

When you rattle off “Ram Ram,” what have you to do with Ram? You are after something else entirely. Ram is only a pretext. Someone wants to win a court case; someone to win an election; someone wants an enemy destroyed; someone wants to ensnare a woman in love; someone is mad after money; someone sits hoping for the lottery.
You chant the name of Ram, but hollowly; your meaning is something else. Let the lottery come through; let a job be secured; let the case be won; the wife is ill—let her get well. These are your purposes. These very purposes block the way.

The Divine is not deaf. There’s no need to shout either. Even if you remember him in silence, he will still hear. It will reach, because it is linked to your heart. If something truly arises in your heart, it will surely reach. But these things you send are not even worth sending.
You add so much rubbish to your prayer that the prayer cannot reach the Divine. It becomes too heavy. To fly, one needs weightlessness. When you climb a mountain, you must shed weight; the higher you go, the more you have to let go.

When Edmund Hillary reached Everest, he had nothing left. In the last moments he even took off his coat a few feet before the summit. He left his camera. He kept dropping things little by little, because as the altitude increased, even a small load became heavy. He reached Gaurishankar—Everest—only by being weightless. He set down even his camera a few moments before; that too had become a burden. The journey of prayer is just like that.

If prayer contains even a little desire, it is a burden. If there is no desire, it is weightless. Desireless prayer reaches instantly; it doesn’t take even a moment.

You, the Mighty—
fill my mind with pure joy, if you wish.
You, the Pure—
fill my mind with intense sorrow, if you wish.
If you want me fluid, then pour fluidity;
if you want me simple, then grant simplicity.
Consider my true need,
and give what you will.
Do not lend an ear
to my foolish demands.
An army of foolish demands
stands with arrows drawn,
O Radiant One!

Those who know will say:
Consider my true need,
and give what you will.
And do not lend an ear
to my foolish demands.
An army of foolish demands
stands with arrows drawn,
O Radiant One!

Prayer is fulfilled when you become alert to this: do not pay attention to my demands. My demands will be wrong, because I am wrong.
How will I know what to ask rightly? I am not right yet. How will something right arise from a heart filled with confusion and ignorance? So, O Lord, give only what you wish to give. Pay no attention to my foolish demands, because I will go on asking for the wrong things.

A small child keeps asking for anything at all. You don’t heed every demand. The child is sick, his throat is blocked—diphtheria—and he asks for ice cream. You don’t pay heed. You placate him: Not now, not at night—where will we get ice cream now? Wait till morning. Tomorrow afternoon we’ll arrange it. We’ll bring the best ice cream. A thousand excuses you make.
You cannot grant every demand of a child. A child can ask for anything.

A mother is talking to her son. A new baby is due; nine months are complete. The mother is preparing the boy for the new guest in the house—this is necessary. The little boy… she tells him: You should be very happy. Your new brother is coming. From God’s house, your new brother is coming!
But the child looks a little sad and a bit upset. The mother asks: What is it? Why are you upset and sad? Aren’t you happy that your new brother is coming? He says, No—because every day I pray to God that this time I should not get a brother. Send a little horse. It seems my prayer was not heard. Now no brother and such—I don’t want that. I want a horse. And he says to his mother, If it’s not too much trouble for you, then a horse… even now if something can be done, please try.

Children’s demands are children’s demands. Our demands are no more important than a child’s. And children’s demands are innocent. Ours are not even innocent. They are quite devious, quite cunning… It is because of these demands that prayer does not reach. Dindayal is not deaf.

Free prayer from asking.
Look: the very word “prayer” has come to mean asking. The one who asks we call a “supplicant,” because we have forgotten that prayer which is without asking; all our demands crowd into prayer. All our prayers are merely pretexts for asking. We do not pray at all when there is nothing to ask for.

A small boy was asked by his pastor, Do you pray before sleeping at night? He said, Yes. And he asked, And do you pray in the morning on waking? He said, No.
The pastor asked, Why? If you pray at night, why not in the morning? The boy said, At night I’m afraid in the dark. In the morning, in the light, I’m not afraid at all. Why pray without reason? The darkness of night scares me.

A little boy asked another, Do you pray before meals or not? In our house we do. The other boy said, No; my mother cooks well. There’s no need to pray. Prayer before meals can only mean one thing: O Lord, save us…! But my mother cooks well. So far we haven’t needed to pray.

What are your prayers? They are complaints—this should have happened, so why did this happen?
Emerson has a famous saying: “I have listened to and examined thousands of men’s prayers and I found one thing—that every man prays the same prayer: ‘O Lord, why are two and two four?’” A strange conclusion. Emerson says that people pray to God: O Lord, why are two and two four?

You abused someone and he insulted you. That’s the two-and-two-make-four affair. And you pray, Why did he insult me? You don’t see that you abused him. You don’t see that you hurt someone. You see only the hurt that returned. And you say, Why did two and two make four! Why did I get this blow? I did nothing wrong; why do I suffer? But has anyone ever suffered without having done wrong?

People come to me and say, We have not committed any sin. Why are we suffering? I tell them, This is not even a question, because I don’t know the story of your sins. I can only say this: if you are suffering, then search—surely something has been done. Because two and two do make four. Yes, it is possible you didn’t consider it a sin. What does your considering or not considering matter? It may be that you did it thinking it was virtue. Even that is possible. But what does your opinion matter? Life’s arithmetic flows by its own current.

Where you find pain, know that sin has been committed. Suffering is the proof—of sin. Where you find happiness, know that virtue has been done. Happiness is the proof—of virtue. Two and two make four.
But we are not content with two and two being four. We say, Let me sin as much as I like, but I should still get happiness.

Notice how people keep one logic for themselves and another for others.
Mulla Nasruddin was explaining to his son. Some talk was going on. The son asked, Father, so-and-so left the Congress and joined the Janata Party (Mulla himself had joined Janata). What do you say to that? Mulla said, What to say? That man has understood; intelligence has dawned. He is a wise man. He has come to his senses. And his son said, And the day before yesterday, a man left Janata and joined Congress—what did you say then, father? Mulla said, Yes, he is a traitor.
When someone leaves the other’s party and comes to ours, he has understood; and when someone leaves ours and goes to the other, he is a traitor! Our logic is different for ourselves and for others.

If a Hindu becomes a Christian, you say: Traitor. If a Christian becomes a Hindu, the Arya Samaj takes out a procession: Look, what an extraordinary event! In both cases the same thing happened.
A Hindu becomes Christian, and the missionary says, Now you are on the right path. A Christian becomes Hindu, and he says, You have become corrupt, fallen from religion. You will wander, rot in hell. Our rules are different.

If you succeed, you say you are worthy. If another succeeds, he is cunning.
A woman used to come to me with her son. She said, The school teachers are after this boy. Every year they fail him. Then by coincidence one year he passed. She didn’t come then, so I had to go to her house.
I asked, What happened? Your son passed again? She said, Why wouldn’t he? I said, Did you bribe someone? She said, What are you saying! A boy like mine is hard to find. He is talented. No need to bribe.
Before this she always used to tell me, So-and-so’s son passed—he bribed. So-and-so’s son passed—he is the teacher’s relative.
So I asked, Any relatives among the teachers? She said, What are you saying! My son is intelligent.
When others’ sons pass, it’s bribery. When someone else gets a job, you suspect there is something fishy. When you get the job, then this was bound to happen. The truth is, even now you haven’t been given a post worthy of you.

Such is the arrangement of our minds. And our prayers are built on this mind.
Emerson is right: I heard thousands of prayers and reached one conclusion—people tell God, O Lord, why are two and two four? They wanted to make two and two five; or two and two three. They wanted something else, and it did not happen. This is what often happens in your mind.
If you become rich, you say, The fruit of merit. If another becomes rich—dishonest, thief, rogue, black-marketeer, smuggler, politician—something or other crooked is in it.
When you become rich, this is the fruit of virtue, the earnings of your forefathers. You are receiving exactly what you were supposed to receive.
A man lives by this basis. And as long as this basis remains yours, your voice will not reach the Divine.

For your voice to reach, you have to change your basis. The moment the basis changes, you get tuned. As when you tune a radio—until it is exactly set, the sound does not come clear. When desirelessness happens within you, when prayer becomes empty of desire, then the needle is on the exact spot, on the exact wave. From there your connection with the Divine is made. Before that it cannot be made, nor is it right that it be made.

Let prayer be free of asking. Let prayer not be for show. You even pray for display. If many people have come to the temple, your arati goes on and on. If no one has come, the prayer is finished in minutes, in a hurry.
Let prayer be in solitude, not for showing off, not for exhibition. Let it be such that only the Divine hears; no one else should hear. No one else needs to. This is a conversation between the Divine and you.
Do it so quietly that not even a whisper is heard. But no; people put up loudspeakers. They say: We are doing an akhand path! Or the Satyanarayan katha! Do it, but why the loudspeaker? Why have you arranged to harass the neighborhood? They don’t need to hear the name of Ram. Why trouble them? Let them sleep. No—but people distribute religion for free. Pray yourself. The Divine is not deaf. There is no need for a loudspeaker. Kabir said—seeing a Muslim giving the adhan loudly—Has your God become deaf? Is the Almighty deaf?
But Kabir didn’t know—things have gotten worse. Now loudspeakers are available. If God is anywhere, he must be going crazy, being driven mad.

I have heard: once a man died, a great “devotee.” As devotees are—such a devotee. He kept chanting Ram Ram. He kept turning his rosary. He wore the blanket of Ram’s name.
When he died, the angels started taking him to hell. He said, What are you doing? A few days earlier a man had died right in front of his house. He never went to the temple; never took the name of Ram. In fact, when this man would chant Ram Ram loudly, that neighbor would come and object: Brother, let us sleep; don’t chant so loudly. So this man thought, He is a sinner.
He asked: You’re taking me to hell? What happened to the man who died in front of me? You must have taken him to hell. Where is he? They said: He is in heaven.
Now he was very troubled. He said, Then I must complain to God. Injustice is happening. I used to think injustice happens only on earth; it’s happening here too! This is the limit. There must have been an error. Some mistake in the office. I must be brought to heaven; you took him. And he must be taken to hell.
He went before the Lord and asked, What is this? He was very angry: I chanted Ram Ram my whole life—waking, sleeping, standing, sitting, continuously. Many times I even used a microphone. I used to distribute religion to the neighbors as well. And this man was always against religion; he used to hinder me; he even complained to the police. He should be in heaven?
God said: Precisely because you tormented me a lot. You didn’t let me sleep either. Even at midnight: Ram Ram, Ram Ram! Are you the only one who has to sleep? I also have to sleep. You ate away my head. That’s why hell for you. That man is decent. He neither used a mic, nor did he perform uninterrupted chants. He neither bothered others nor me. I have no complaint against him. I didn’t even get to know he existed. He lived quietly.
I find this story meaningful. Prayer to the Divine should be quiet. No need to raise a racket.

There is a cloud of pollen—
your aloneness.
If it pours with your whole heart,
a fragrance will rise
like the parched earth of high summer
when the monsoon of Ashadh breaks.
Remain absorbed in prayer,
so that this pollen-cloud of aloneness
strikes in a downpour
the parched expanse of your mind—
green bursts forth,
rivers swell.
There is a cloud of pollen—
your aloneness.

This aloneness of yours is a cloud filled with fragrance.
There is a cloud of pollen—
your aloneness.
Let prayer resound in this very aloneness. In this solitary silence there is no need even of words. Prayer is a feeling—the feeling of being bowed; of lying at his feet.
There is no need even of words. What has the Divine to do with words? Will he even understand your language?
What do you think? If you speak Sanskrit, will he understand? Or Arabic? Latin? Greek? In which language will you speak to him that he will understand?
There are three hundred languages on earth. Which one is his? Though every language’s adherents think, Mine is his.
The Sanskrit pundits say: Sanskrit is the language of the gods. The same is what Arabic followers say; otherwise why would the Quran descend in Arabic? The same say the followers of Hebrew; otherwise why would the words of Jesus descend in Hebrew? The speakers of all languages think the same way.

I’ve heard: a German and an English general were talking after the Second World War was lost. The German said to the Englishman, We don’t understand. We had better resources than you. Germany had greater mechanical skill. We had stronger soldiers than you. We had more zeal than you. We had a greater leader than you, a magician of a leader; he had charisma. Yet we lost?
The English general laughed. He said, There are reasons. Whenever we went to war, we prayed first. That was our secret. We never went to war without prayer.
The German said, What are you saying? We also prayed! The Englishman laughed: You may have. But does God even understand German?
The English think there is no language in the world except English. You may have prayed, we grant it. But who has ever heard that God speaks German? That’s where you missed.
The truth is, God speaks no language.
Language is man’s invention; it’s utilitarian. Language has nothing to do with Existence.
Prayer is not in language, it is in feeling. Prayer is a state of your heart—of surrender, of bowing, of humility. Language is not the issue.
What is there to say? In truth the great pray-ers have said: In prayer the devotee does not speak; God speaks; the devotee listens.
What will you say? Let him speak. You keep silence; cultivate silence. Become utterly quiet, so that if he even whispers, you can hear.

There is a cloud of pollen—
your aloneness.
It is a cloud of fragrance—if given a chance,
your life will be filled with scent.

If it pours with your whole heart,
a fragrance will rise
like the parched earth of high summer
when the monsoon of Ashadh breaks.
Remain absorbed in prayer,
so that this pollen-cloud of aloneness
strikes in a downpour
the parched expanse of your mind—
green bursts forth,
rivers swell.
There is a cloud of pollen—
your aloneness.

You ask: “In devotion, the remembrance of the Name has great glory.”
Certainly it has great glory—but in the phrase “name-remembrance,” do not emphasize “name”; emphasize “remembrance.” Emphasis has been put on “name” and people have forgotten remembrance altogether.
With rote “Ram Ram” you’ll become a parrot. Emphasize remembrance. Remembrance is another thing entirely. It is deeper than language.
When you love someone, a remembrance of them envelops you—like an aura. As there is coolness around a tree; or fragrance around a flower; or radiance around a lamp. Nothing needs to be done; no effort is needed; you don’t have to drag it in. You don’t have to keep muttering “Ram Ram.” You simply do not forget that the Beloved is.
It’s not about chanting. You don’t forget that the Beloved is. You look into someone’s eyes and you remember the Divine. You peer into a waterfall, and you remember the Divine. You see the first star appearing in the sky, and you remember the Divine.
It’s not that you are doing a rote. Rather, wherever you go, whatever you do, day and night, that feeling of him arises by itself.
You see a beautiful woman; beauty becomes his remembrance. Right now something else happens: seeing a beautiful woman, lust arises—not prayer. What is the difference?
Seeing a beautiful woman, you don’t have to think or remind yourself that she is very beautiful: Arise, my lust, arise. What are you doing lying there—arise. You need not do anything.
You see a beautiful woman and there lust arises. You don’t even notice it arising; it arises upon seeing. You need not do anything. As this beautiful body passes close by, something quivers within you.
Seeing a beautiful woman, prayer can arise in the same way that lust arises. This is what happens to a devotee.
When one filled with lust sees a beautiful woman, he forgets beauty and remembers body. The devotee sees beauty; he forgets the outer and remembers the soul.
Thinking “She is beautiful,” what comes to your mind is only the body, and the body’s lust. To the devotee, seeing “She is beautiful,” the Divine comes to mind. Because all beauty is his.
Satyam Shivam Sundaram: whatever is true—that is he; whatever is auspicious—that is he; whatever is beautiful—that is he.
Seeing this beautiful woman, the gaze does not go to the body; the remembrance of the Supreme Beauty arises. As seeing the moon reflected in the lake, you remember the moon. So too, in this beauty there is a glimmer of that One.

All beauty is his. If there is something ugly, it is man’s. If there is untruth, it is man’s. Have you ever considered this?
If the human race were completely wiped out, removed from the earth, truth would remain exactly as it is; untruth would disappear. Beauty would remain exactly as it is; ugliness would disappear. Virtue would remain as it is; sin would disappear. Birds would sing; flowers would bloom on trees; the moon would rise; the sun would come up—everything just as it is. Extraordinary peace, extraordinary beauty, extraordinary truth would be. Only the ugliness created by man would vanish. The untruth man creates would vanish. Man’s fabricated lies would go. Man is the inventor of falsehood.

The devotee sees beauty—whether in a woman, in a man, in a tree, in a mountain, in a cloud; in the mesh woven by sunrays… Wherever he sees beauty, instantly his heart overflows. Tears roll from the eyes. He remembered; he came to. This is the meaning of remembrance.
So if in name-remembrance you emphasize “name,” you will go wrong. Emphasize “remembrance”—then you won’t go wrong.

The glory of name-remembrance is certain. And this verse too is lovely:
Keep chanting the name of Ram
as long as breath remains in the body.
Someday, in the Compassionate One’s ear,
a whisper will reach.
Let that remembrance of Ram remain—remain. Don’t be upset that you remembered for two or four days and nothing has happened yet! Don’t be impatient. If you become impatient, you will miss. That’s why it says, “as long as breath remains in the body.” As long as you can, as long as the breath comes and goes, let the remembrance remain. Until the last moment, let remembrance remain. Let yourself drown, and yet remain drowned in his remembrance.
Fall asleep at night in his remembrance. On rising in the morning, be in his remembrance. In the day, again and again let windows open onto it. Again and again let his fragrance settle within you.
Living such a life, even in the dying moment—“as long as breath remains in the body”—let his remembrance remain. Here you begin to die, but your grip on remembrance does not loosen; his memory grows more intense. As the body starts to slip away, naturally his remembrance will grow denser—because because of the body everything is hazy; because of the body things are not transparent.

While tied to the body, now and then a glimpse comes. Imagine there is glass with curtain upon curtain over it. Sometimes a ray pierces the curtains—faintly—into your darkness. When the curtains are removed, everything will be illuminated.

If a man dies as a sensualist, he only panics, trembles, cries, screams: Save me! Let me live a little longer. His attachment, his desire remains incomplete. He grips this shore all the more tightly. In that gripping the extraordinary moment of death is missed.
A yogi dies in welcome. He says: The Lord has come to take me. He kept me far till now; now he calls me near. Till now I wandered in a foreign land; now I go to my own home. Till now I lived like a beggar on this shore; now I return to my kingdom—where I am sovereign. Till now I was entangled in matter; now I am freed of matter. Now I become pure.
The yogi rejoices. And the dense remembrance of the Divine wells up. Now even the obstruction of the body is gone. Because of the body, only now and then a glimpse is had.

On a slack path,
on a lightning-speed chariot,
you seemed about to appear—
by the time color could measure you,
the pen, still writing,
you were already gone,
everything had changed.

As the feet touched
the slack, empty path,
the form of colors was spent;
chasing the lightning chariot,
the sunshine of words shuddered.
Nothing incomparable remained
but emptiness—
but an empty mind.

Bound in this body, it is as if a stone were tied over the eyes; now and then the stone slips a little. With great effort the curtain moves a bit and a brief glimpse is had.

On a slack path,
on a lightning-speed chariot—
as if someone riding a bolt of lightning flashed past.
On a lightning-speed chariot,
you seemed about to appear—
you were only just appearing—and you were gone! One can’t even grasp it. It felt as if you were coming—and you were gone! God happens like a lightning flash.

By the time color could measure you,
the pen, still writing—
by the time I lift the pen to bind you in words; by the time I pick up the brush to paint your image, your form—you have already gone.
Before the mind can understand what is happening, everything changes.

As the feet touched
the slack, empty path,
the form of colors was spent;
chasing the lightning chariot,
the sunshine of words shuddered.
Nothing incomparable remained
but emptiness—
but an empty mind.

And whenever such an event happens—like a lightning flash—God will glimmer for a moment, and then a vast emptiness will remain behind.
Nothing incomparable remained
but emptiness—
but an empty mind!
For the first time you will know how empty life is. Before, you were lost; there was no remembrance. You did not know light, so you could not tell that it was dark. Once you have seen a little light—dream-like, it came and went! But once you have seen light, then the darkness will bite deeply. Then it becomes very difficult to live in darkness.
This happens every day. To those who get a glimpse in meditation, then begins a journey of pain. Then they realize that what they had thought life till now wasn’t life at all. And what they had thought was light was darkness. And what they had thought was their own being was just a body of clay—only ash!
Once that little glimpse of light comes, comparison is born in life. Then great pangs arise. This the devotees have called the pain of separation.
Separation will be born only through knowing; through experience alone. Once you have tasted, then separation is bound to be.
One who has drunk filthy drain-water all his life will have no trouble. But once he is given water from Manasarovar—pure water, fresh from the mountains, from the melted snow, just now descended, without even a speck of dust—once he drinks from such a stream, then the trouble begins. Then it becomes hard to drink from the drain. Now he has a basis for comparison. Now he knows how water should be.
One who has had a glimpse of the Lord—even for a moment—a great emptiness will descend. Life will suddenly appear full of thorns. Till yesterday these very thorns were thought of as flowers. Not knowing flowers, there was no difficulty. Now that you know flowers, it is hard to take thorns for flowers.
But with the body, only such glimpses are had.
At the moment of death, when the body is falling away, the whole door opens. Not a ray—the full sun descends within you. But only if you are filled with remembrance will this moment of death become the experience of nectar.
You miss in life, and then you miss in death too. The devotee misses neither in life nor in death. The devotee simply does not miss.
He lives with such art that even here the remembrance of the Lord remains. Everything brings his remembrance. And in the moment of dying, the full shower of the Divine pours.

So the verse is right. Keep remembering, keep recollecting—“as long as breath remains in the body.”
“Someday the Compassionate One will catch the hint in his ear.” And keep patience. Let there be endless waiting—that someday it will be heard. We will keep calling. We will keep humming. We will keep dancing. Sometime it must happen. Sometime the attunement will happen. Sometime there will be such a moment when the very feeling-state from which we call will be related to the Divine.
If we do it a thousand times, at least once the arrow will hit the exact spot. Keep shooting arrows into the dark.
In this world one must grope—but groping, one finds the door. Shooting into the dark, the arrow still can hit. It will hit—the question may only be of sooner or later. Do not sit down in exhaustion. Do not drown in impatience.
So an essential limb of devotion is the capacity to wait.

Remember three words: thirst, prayer, waiting.
Let your relationship with the Divine not be mere verbal talk—let it be thirst. Such that without him you will die. Let there be separation—so intense that it becomes a question of life and death. Then prayer—without demand, without asking. Only an outpouring of delight, the expression of joy, of gratitude, of grace—and then waiting. And waiting is most important, last of all. Because our mind wants to demand quickly.
Our mind says: Let something happen quickly.
People come to me and say, “We will stay three days; will something happen?”
Three days! Great kindness!
“We came to stay for three days. Will something happen?”
What are you saying? What are you thinking? What have you taken the Divine to be? As if you are bestowing a great favor on the Divine—that you will meditate for three days! In such a state of mind, nothing will ever happen.
So I tell such people: Don’t waste three days. Go back. There in the world you can gather a few more shards of silver. Don’t waste three days. If you keep the shop closed, there’ll be a loss, and later you’ll regret: In three days we didn’t find God, and we lost this much. If we had spent that much time on our business, something would have come to hand; some profit would have been made!
This is the road of the mad. This is the lane of gamblers. Here everything is the work of those who stake all—and of those who say: If it happens today, good. If tomorrow, good. If the day after, good. If in this birth, good. If in the next, good. Whenever it happens, good. And even if it never happens, still good. Those who say: There is so much joy in prayer itself—what more is needed? There is so much joy in meditation itself—what more is needed? Is this not already his great grace—that he turned us toward meditation? That we got absorbed in prayer! What more is needed?
For such people it happens quickly. Not even three days are needed. It can happen in three moments; not even three moments—it can happen in the blink of an eye.
If waiting is this deep, it can happen this very moment. This will sound very paradoxical.
The more you hurry, the longer it will take. And the deeper your waiting, the sooner it will be.

Life is dual. Everywhere in life there is duality. If there is love, there is hate. If there is sin, there is virtue. If there is day, there is night. If there is birth, there is death. Everywhere in life there is duality. Life runs on duality; life is dialectical.

Here, life cannot be without death; how could there be evening—without morning? How could there be morning—without evening? How would there be success if there were no failure? And if there were no sorrow, how would there be happiness?

Here everything is tied to its opposite. Therefore, however happy one tries to be here, one never quite is, because sorrow follows right behind; it comes along with it. Sorrow and happiness are twin brothers. And not merely twins—they are conjoined. They share the same body. Perhaps there are two faces, but the body is one.

Here, if you gain fame, infamy comes along. Here, if you gain prestige, disgrace arrives with it. Here, if you gain a throne, soon you will be thrown into dust.

Such is the truth of life. The one who sees this truth with the eyes of witnessing, who does not choose, who becomes without alternatives—nirvikalpa—who says: If sorrow comes, fine; if happiness comes, fine. They are one, they are joined. What is there to choose?...

If sorrow comes and one is not made sorrowful; if happiness comes and one is not made happy—then a one-taste arises in that person’s life. How will you divide him then? He is not sorrowful in sorrow, not elated in happiness. He is not honored in honor, not insulted in insult. This is what is called the state of witnessing.

This witnessing, little by little, stands outside the duality—because it does not get entangled in it. When sorrow comes, it knows this is the other face of happiness. And when happiness comes, it knows this is the other face of sorrow. Here there is nothing to grasp and nothing to reject. Here choosing itself is futile.

Choose—and you are caught. Choose—and you descend into the world. Choice is the world. Therefore, in alternatives is the world, and in choicelessness is samadhi.

Nirvikalpa means: I do not choose anymore; I keep watching.
Morning comes—keep watching. Evening comes—keep watching. What have you to gain or lose? The play of morning and evening goes on—keep watching, watching, watching; one day a moment comes when you become of one taste. The duality within you dissolves.

In that very one-taste is the meeting with the Divine, because the Divine is beyond duality.

This is what Charandas says—and all the knowers say—that the Divine is of one taste.

One-taste means: It is neither born nor will it ever die. One-taste means: There is neither sorrow there nor happiness there. Therefore we forged a new word—ananda, bliss.

Do not, even by mistake, take bliss as a synonym for pleasure. In bliss both pleasure and pain are absent. In bliss there is no excitement. Bliss is the form of peace itself. Everything is quieted. All waves are gone. No wave rises. The mind has become waveless. The moment it is waveless, the mind is no more.

All the running about is gone; all the frenzy is gone. This state of ultimate repose we call the state of God.

God is not a person—sitting somewhere. Remember this. God is the capacity for witnessing hidden within you. You can become one-taste; you can reach a state where there is neither dawn nor dusk—no dusk and no dawn—where time itself is not.

At the time of the French Revolution an extraordinary event occurred that puzzled people. Psychologists kept pondering: Why did this happen? How did it happen? What caused it?

When the revolution broke out, there were many clocks in the city of Paris—on church towers, in schools, colleges, universities. People took up guns and riddled those clocks with bullets. They destroyed the clocks.

Naturally the question arose: Why were people against clocks? After all, what has a clock to do with it? Why were all the clocks in Paris smashed—especially the clocks?

Then a suspicion began to arise in the minds of psychologists: perhaps people were tormented by time. Perhaps it was their suffering from time that led them to smash the clocks. This is significant. People are indeed oppressed by time.

“No dusk, no dawn” means: where there is no time. The clock is broken. Where there is the eternal, the everlasting. Where nothing is born and nothing dies. Where the Infinite abides—beginningless and endless. The name of this state is one-taste.

In truth, to say “God is one-taste” is a slip. If you ask me, I will say: one-taste is the name of God. Or, “God” and “one-taste” are two words pointing to the same state.

Begin to become one-taste and you begin to become divine. Remain in duality—and you are worldly. Begin to be one-taste—and you are a sannyasin.

Therefore I say: a sannyasin need go nowhere. He needs to go within himself. No outer journey is required. In the innermost sanctum of your own being is that place where everything becomes one-taste. Make use of this.

Someone hurls an abuse at you—then calmly accept it as, All right. Someone places a garland around your neck—accept that too calmly as, All right. Give neither much value to the garland nor become intoxicated by it; and do not become greatly agitated by the abuse.

At the beginning there will be obstacles. At first there will be restlessness, because these are old habits—habits of many lives: someone abuses you and, though it is not the abuse that agitates you—if the abuse had been in a language you didn’t understand, you would not be disturbed in the least—

So it is not the abuse that is disturbing you. You are disturbed by the idea: This is an abuse. I have been insulted.

But why do you get upset by “I have been insulted”? Because somewhere the craving for honor is hidden. Otherwise what can insult spoil?

There is an urge for honor, and no one is honoring you; instead of honor, insult is given—then restlessness arises. There is a desire for garlands, and abuse comes—then there is agitation.

Wake up a little; look properly at these dualities. Let them give. The one who abuses has his own mind; if he is enjoying abusing, let him. What do you lose? His lips move in a particular way; certain sounds come out; let them. What of yours is made or unmade by it? Why be such a slave to his lips? Why so enslaved to his words?

Then, someone else is in a playful mood; he has made a garland—he may be a gardener or has found some flowers. He is putting it around your neck. He is enjoying it. Let him enjoy. Watch him too.

And in both, keep the effort that I remain one-taste.

In the beginning there will be obstacles. Even if you tune the strings, they will slip again. An instrument takes time to settle. This happens only by happening, gradually. But slowly you will find: something has started to happen. Now an abuse does not hurt as much, and a garland does not please as much.

Slowly the measure will keep changing and changing, and one day a revolution occurs. One day you suddenly find: someone hurled an abuse—and not a ripple happened within. And someone placed a garland—and your ego did not raise its head. That very day you will know what one-taste is. The first flavor is received. Continuing on this path, you will become the Divine.

One-taste is God-consciousness. Breaking into two—worldliness; becoming one—God. Wandering in the many—world; plunging into the One—God.

As soon as night descends
and the starry sky’s cry goes round,
the undistinguished becomes beautiful.
The magic of form,
upon the hard planks of harsh sunlight,
blows like a breath.
Things turn into something else:
every leaf becomes silver,
every lane topaz.
Leafless branches and trunks
seem made for ornament.
The heart delights
in the multi-cut shapes becoming one shape,
the sky merging into the mountains,
the mountains dissolving into the sky.

Have you ever seen: with just a slight transformation, how much gets transformed! By day the world does not look so beautiful. Night falls; the moon descends; the stars fill the sky—and have you seen how great the difference becomes?

The same rock that looked ordinary by day becomes so beautiful at night. In the full moon, what beauty—beauty solidified! The same puddle of water that in the day seemed just dirty, at night begins to mirror the moon. Moonbeams play upon that dirty puddle. It appears almost celestial.

Ordinary trees are filled with extraordinary grace. Ordinary men and women begin to look like statues in marble.

As soon as night descends
and the starry sky’s cry goes round,
the undistinguished becomes beautiful.
The magic of form,
upon the hard planks of harsh sunlight,
blows like a breath.
Things turn into something else:
every leaf becomes silver,
every lane topaz.
Leafless branches and trunks
seem made for ornament.
The heart delights
in the multi-cut shapes becoming one shape,
the sky merging into the mountains,
the mountains dissolving into the sky.

What is the secret of the beauty that comes with the moon? Its secret is—boundaries melt. Things begin to flow into one another—to become one. A slight glimpse of one-taste descends. The sun divides things into sharply cut shapes, while the moon dissolves those cut shapes into oneness.

But even that is nothing compared to the inner oneness that arrives when the moon of your consciousness rises and the whole world becomes one.

The heart delights
in the multi-cut shapes becoming one shape,
the sky merging into the mountains,
the mountains dissolving into the sky.

When the flood of one-taste rises within you, no boundaries remain. All boundaries dissolve into the boundless. Then know: the first glimpse of the Divine has come. The first ray of truth-beauty has descended.

Call this one-taste samadhi, call it nirvana, call it moksha, call it God—these are differences of names.

All religions speak only of one-taste. All the wise sing only the song of one-taste.

Therefore I will tell you: instead of getting entangled in the words God, moksha, nirvana, set out in search of one-taste.

And this search proceeds through the process of non-choosing. What Krishnamurti keeps calling again and again—choiceless awareness. Do not choose. Just remain awake. This is already present within you; present this very moment. This is your real nature; this is your essence. Duality is outside; the undivided is within.

Clouds arise in the sky, but the sky is not torn by them. Clouds arise in the sky, yet the sky remains indivisible, unbroken, just as it was. Clouds come and go; the sky’s nature does not change. Such is the inner sky of one-taste within you; clouds of thoughts arise, clouds of desires arise, clouds of longings arise; the world, the body, a thousand journeys—but the sky of one-taste within you remains ever as it is, ever stainless, ever virgin; its virginity is never marred.

Does the sky ever become dirty? Though how much dust rises, how many storms! And sometimes such black clouds gather that the sun cannot be seen and the sky is nowhere in sight—yet the sky remains, uninterruptedly, what it is.

There is no way to defile the sky.

The sky itself does not
flow as the wind flows;
rather, the wind flows within it.
So too life itself
does not become death;
death dwells within it
from before,
and then lifts its head
when the time comes—
like the wind lying quiet
within the sky.
The sky itself
does not flow as wind.

The wind moves, clouds fly, dust whirls. Worlds are formed and dissolved—but all this goes on within the sky. And in the sky nothing happens. Such is your inner sky. Birth comes, death comes; all comes, all happens—yet you stand afar, a witness.

Awaken in this witnessing. This witnessing alone will tell you the meaning of one-taste, for meaning without experience is not possible.

If you feel the urge to ask a question, then ask it; do not be afraid of being rebuked! And I rebuke you only when I see that there is some potential within you.
I do not rebuke everyone. I rebuke only the one in whom it appears that, if struck, a spring will begin to flow.
Not all stones are chosen to become statues. And the stone that is chosen for a statue must face the chisel and the hammer; it has to be cut and trimmed.
So I rebuke you only when it seems there is something that can be refined, that can shine.
Therefore, because of a rebuke, be neither frightened nor saddened. Feel it as good fortune that I have rebuked you.
Now you are needlessly afraid, because there is nothing in your question for which you should be rebuked. The question is very clear and straightforward. It is good. It is worth pondering.

I don’t want to give you any framework, because all frameworks become bondage. I don’t want to give you any discipline either, because every discipline ultimately becomes an obstruction in your soul. I want your soul to live in freedom, with awareness, with understanding.

If I say to you that my sannyasin must only be laughing and singing, and then a moment to cry comes, what will you do?

Just the other day it happened. An old, well-known acquaintance of mine—Harikishandas Agarwal—passed away. His brother-in-law is my sannyasin: Chamanlal. There he both wept and danced. People thought he had gone mad. “If you are crying, why are you dancing? Your sister’s husband has died; is this a time to dance? And if you are dancing, why are you crying?”

He came and asked me, “What was I to do? Both were happening together! I was dancing, I was exhilarated, joyful—because you have explained, and I have understood, that in death we lose nothing. That understanding was present in my awareness. And yet tears were flowing from my eyes—because I was seeing my sister: widowed, alone. So tears were coming too!”

He asked me what he should have done, and people were saying, “This is contradictory. If you want to dance and laugh, then dance and laugh. If you want to cry, then cry. Why are you opposing one with the other?”

I told him: What you did was exactly right. Whatever arises—let it happen naturally. Remain awake, watch it, and allow it. If you had stopped the dancing to make it consistent with the weeping, there would have been repression—and repression is bad. If, because you were dancing, you had stopped your tears—because tears don’t seem to go with dancing, don’t look logical—that too would have been repression. Those tears would have remained stuck in your eyes; your eyes would have become misty; your vision would have been impaired. The whole thing would have remained incomplete. You did precisely right: you danced and sang for the soul, and you wept for the body. And you did well not to listen to people.

Listen to your own within. Trust yourself. There is no other judge.

A Zen monk died; his chief disciple began to weep. The chief disciple was very renowned; people thought he had attained Buddhahood. Seeing him weep, they could not believe it. They said, “You—and you are crying? You used to explain to us that the body is nothing, only dust and ashes. And you are crying? You should know that when the master dies, nothing dies. The soul is immortal.”

The monk said, “I know the soul is immortal. But you simpletons, who is crying for the soul? This body was also very dear. This is the body that God had assumed; you will not see such a body again. It was a golden body, a unique phenomenon. The house was dear too. The one who lived in the house was dear as well. The one who lived in the house will remain—he is eternal. But the house is collapsing. I am crying for the house.”

People said, “But people will doubt your Buddhahood! They thought you had attained.” He said, “Forget worrying about people; let them be. Whether they consider me a buddha or not is no concern of mine. I cannot become unnatural because of their ideas of Buddhahood. What is natural...”

So I will say to you: laugh, sing—be natural. Dance—be natural. Cry—be natural. Tears too become symbols of exquisite beauty if they are natural. And sometimes be a little sulky—if it is natural.

Let what happens happen as it happens. Remember only this, and you are my sannyasin: let what happens happen. And stand behind it as a witness; keep watching—this is happening. There is laughter, there are tears. I am dancing; I am weeping. I am a little sulky, and I am standing in the world too. Whatever happens, go on watching it with awareness.

To make this distinction clear you should understand these seven words.

First: Curiosity. Some people are merely curious. They ask, “Is there God or not?”—but they don’t have much at stake in it. They ask just for the sake of asking, like little children. If you don’t answer for two minutes, they forget. If you answer after a minute, they’ll say, “What are you answering? When did I ask?”

Such people come to me. If they start talking about God and I see only curiosity in their eyes, I ask about something else: “How is your wife? How are the children?” They forget—God and all that is dropped—and they begin talking about wife and children. Then they sit for an hour and never bring up God again. They had raised it just to keep the conversation going—out of courtesy, out of curiosity. It has no value.

So the first state is curiosity. If you stop there, it has no value. If you move beyond it, it becomes a step. Because there are even lower states.

There are people in whom not even curiosity arises. They are utterly dull. No question arises in their minds about the meaning of life, what God is, what the soul is, why we are here. If you talk to them about such things, they say, “What nonsense are you talking? Speak of something useful!” Useful means the newspaper. Useful means who in the neighborhood got into a fight; whose wife ran off with whom; who made how much money. Useful means some such futile gossip. Why bring up these things—God, soul!

Better than them is the one in whom curiosity arises—but curiosity is not a very high state. On the basis of curiosity you will not go far, though it is the first rung.

Second: Inquiry. If you go further, inquiry arises. Inquiry means you didn’t just ask idly; a real question has arisen. Inside, a question mark has stood up demanding an answer. This is better than curiosity.

The inquirer becomes a student. The merely curious one doesn’t even become a student; questions come and go in him like gusts of wind. To become a student there must be continuity of the question—something that stays long enough for work to begin.

So through inquiry a person becomes a student. But inquiry too does not take you very far. You will read scriptures, bring home degrees from universities. Only junk will accumulate; wisdom will not arise from it.

Third: Mumuksha. Through mumuksha one becomes a disciple, not just a student. He no longer seeks only information, he does not search only in the scriptures; he seeks a living master. Mumuksha has arisen.

Mumuksha means: the inquiry is no longer mere inquiry—it has become a matter of life and death. There is a readiness to stake something.

With mumuksha the real journey begins. There is readiness to stake one’s life—though it has not yet been staked.

Fourth: Sadhak, sadhana. The one who takes a step beyond mumuksha. The one who now actually puts his life on the line is a sadhak. He has begun to do something.

If you read in a scripture about meditation—that is inquiry. If, just in passing, you ask a few questions about meditation—that is curiosity. If you go to the feet of a living master to understand meditation—that is mumuksha. And when you actually begin meditating—you have become a sadhak; sadhana has begun.

Fifth: Sannyas—sannyasin. When fruits begin to appear in the life of the sadhak; when he feels some experience is happening; then it is no longer right to wager just a little—now it is appropriate to stake the whole.

At first a man wagers little by little. He stakes a ten-rupee note and sees it become twenty; then he stakes twenty and sees it become forty. He tests like this. Then he sees: yes, something can happen—it is happening. He stakes everything—that is sannyas.

Sixth: Siddha. This is the stage after the sadhak and sannyasin. When everything is put at stake, that is sannyas. And when, by staking, one attains—that is siddha. The fruit has set; attainment has happened.

Seventh: Buddha. This is beyond the siddha. It means: what he has received, he now begins to distribute to others.

Even at siddha some people stop. Not all siddhas are Buddhas. They have attained.

As Kabir has said:
“I found the diamond, tied it tight in my knot—why open it again and again?”
Kabir says: The diamond has been found; quickly tie it into your knot and run. Why keep opening it? To show whom? This is the state of the siddha. The Jains have called it the kevali state. Buddha called this the arhat state. One has arrived—the matter is finished.

At siddha the journey is complete. Siddha means: attainment has happened; the journey is done.

But there is yet another state—above even this—the Buddha. He begins to give bodh, awakening. He has awakened himself; now he starts awakening those who sleep. The Jains call this the state of the Tirthankara. Buddha called this the state of the bodhisattva. The Hindus call it the state of the satguru.

Understand these seven words. Start from curiosity and reach buddhahood. Even if you stop at siddha, a slight lack remains. For yourself you are complete; meditation is complete—but compassion has not spread.

The state of the siddha is like a flower that has bloomed but is without fragrance—no perfume in it. The flower has blossomed, but its fragrance has not flown into the sky.

The state of the Buddha means: the flower has bloomed, and its fragrance has mounted the winds and begun its journey. Whoever is ready to receive it through his nostrils—into them it will enter; it will awaken their sleeping souls.

Buddha means: I have arrived; now I will extend my hand to those still groping in the dark.

Start from curiosity and reach the Buddha. These are the way-stations in between. And the sutra of this journey, as I have told you: let whatever is natural happen—and remain a witness. Do not obstruct the natural—and do not forget the key of witnessing. You will certainly arrive; then there is no hindrance.

Enough for today.