Nahin Sanjh Nahin Bhor #8

Precisely to bring you news of that which cannot be said. So that you do not take only what can be said as the whole of life and come to an end there. There is the unsaid; there is that which can never be said—and that is the essence.

The small can be said; how to say the vast! Words are so tiny—how can the limitless be contained within the narrow bounds of words! One can point; one cannot fully express.

Saints speak so that you do not end your journey in words alone.

Words are very small. Language does not travel far; the true reach is of silence. Words rise from the throat and reach the ear; there they remain. Silence travels far—into the infinite.

Otherwise, how would you even come to know that truth cannot be spoken! By saying it, at least this much became known. By saying it, you are reminded that there is something more—beyond language, beyond scripture. There is a beauty no painter has ever poured into color. And there is an experience like a mute’s jaggery: it is tasted, its sweetness spreads through the breath, but no words are found to tell it.

The saints know; they themselves keep saying that truth cannot be spoken—and they take a great risk in trying. For in trying to say the unsayable there is danger: the danger of being misunderstood, of being taken to mean what was never intended. Misfortune is possible—and it has happened.

People have seized upon words. It is on the basis of gripping words that you sit divided: some are Hindu, some Muslim, some Christian, some Jain. What are these differences? Differences of holding to words.

Someone has grasped the words of Muhammad and has become a Muslim. Someone else has grasped the words of Mahavira and has become a Jain. In the silence of Muhammad and of Mahavira there is not the slightest difference. The difference is in the words.

If a Muslim could see Muhammad’s silence, if a Jain could see Mahavira’s silence—where would the dispute be? What dispute can there be in silence? Silence is always the same. Whichever flesh and bone it enters, silence is always the same.

On one sheet of paper something is written; on another, something else. But two blank sheets are simply blank.

Had Muslims peered beyond Muhammad’s words, they would not have stopped at being Muslims. Then there would have been no need to fight with Hindus. The Gita and the Quran may differ; Muhammad and Krishna do not.

The Gita and the Quran will indeed differ, because the Gita speaks one language and the Quran another. The Gita was addressed to one kind of people; the Quran was spoken among different people to yet others. Culture, civilization, geography, history—all these affect words.

Krishna could not have spoken Arabic—so how would he speak it! He could speak Sanskrit. Muhammad could not have spoken Sanskrit; he spoke what he could. With the language one can speak, one makes the pointing. And one must use the language of those to whom one speaks; otherwise, what is the meaning of speaking!

But people have caught hold of words. Therefore the saint knowingly takes the risk. Knowing that truth cannot be said, still he will speak. And the risk is great—that people will clutch the word.

People are so blind: you point to the moon, they grab your finger—and then imagine the finger is the moon! They begin to worship the finger. Temples and mosques are built around the finger. Priests and pundits of the finger arise.

Then a great quarrel starts among fingers—which finger is beautiful, which finger is true! Are fingers ever the truth! What has the beautiful or the ugly finger to do with it? The ugliest finger can point to the moon, and the most beautiful finger can point too. Young or old finger, black or white finger, small or large—it makes no difference. The moon is indicated—look at the moon; forget the finger, let the finger go.

Yet the danger remains. If one must speak to the blind about light, there is danger: hearing the words about light, they may clutch those very words. They may keep the word “light” at home and imagine there will be illumination.

The word “light” is not light, and the word “God” is not God.

I knew a Hindu. One day he came to me and said, “I am tired of Hinduism. I have become a Muslim.” I asked, “What has changed? You used to go to the temple; now you go to the mosque—no harm. You read the Gita; now you read the Quran—no harm. But if you clutch the Quran the same way you clutched the Gita, what difference will it make?”

His name was Ramdas; after becoming a Muslim, he became Khudabakhsh. The meaning is one. Whether you say Ramdas or Khudabakhsh—the pointing is the same.

But we seize the pointers so tightly that we forget what they point toward. Like someone sitting down beside a milestone. On the stone it is written: “Delhi—so many miles,” and an arrow points toward Delhi. You clutch the stone and sit there—thinking Delhi has arrived. “Delhi” is written on the stone, and you start worshipping it.

The truly religious person is one who remains always cautious with words.

Saints take the risk knowingly; for if they remain silent, a greater danger arises. You do not understand even words—how will you understand silence!

The thought not yet
fully formed,
the mind not yet
fully trained,
the sorrow not yet
fully thick—
must be said in words,
and said now.
So I begin.
I have taken every risk before;
I take
one more
risk.

The divine never comes wholly into experience. If it came in its entirety, it would become limited. One only gets the taste—the taste keeps deepening. The search begins; the entry happens; there is never an end.

So it never happens that one day the divine has come fully into experience—“now say it.” As it comes into experience, it becomes clear that more remains to come. How to speak now!

And something unique happens: as the divine begins to enter, you begin to depart; you come down from the throne—you start dissolving. As light comes, darkness begins to vanish—so when the divine comes, you begin to disappear.

The day the light of the divine fills you from all sides, you are no more; the one who would speak is not there. The mind that would say—the one who went seeking, who began the journey—is gone.

In such a moment, remaining silent is very simple. But if you remain silent, those who are still groping in darkness will get no news from you that you have arrived. They will receive no indication from you, no support. And support—this must come from one who has arrived. It is part of his compassion; it is proof of his arrival that support begins to flow.

How is it possible that you have seen the light and do not tell those who are still groping in the dark—right around you, searching?

It is impossible that you find the door and do not shout! So Jesus told his disciples: Go, climb to the rooftops and shout, for people are deaf. Perhaps someone will hear. And Buddha told his disciples: Go far and wide. Wherever seekers may be, find them. It is necessary to get the news of what we have found to them. So much reverence for truth is necessary that when it is found, it must be shared.

Therefore saints speak. And it is right that they speak—even knowing truth cannot be spoken. Knowing the risk—that you will seize the word—even so, the risk must be taken. They will speak to a hundred; perhaps one will understand. But is even that little? If among a hundred asleep, one wakes up; among a hundred dead, one becomes alive; among a hundred trees, one blossoms—is even that little! From that one tree, light will rise; from that one tree, fragrance will spread. That tree will awaken another. Another lamp will be kindled. Another current of life will arise. The Sufis call this the silsila—the chain—like one burning lamp lighting an unlit lamp.

Before my lamp goes out, I would like many of your lamps to be lit. And before you depart, distribute the light. You must fade; everyone must fade. But the light can keep burning—from one lamp to another; a chain can be formed.

This word “silsila” is lovely. We have an almost identical word, but it has spoiled—“parampara,” tradition. It has become stale, fixed. Its real meaning is simply that which passes from one to another. One breathed a mantra into another’s ear. One gave his life-breath to another.

Before the knower departs, let him awaken some, ignite some. Before departing, they will awaken others. Thus the chain continues.

The chain that Buddha started—lamps still burn in it. The chain Muhammad started—lamps still burn in it. The light has not been lost. Muhammad is gone, Buddha is gone, Mahavira is gone, Krishna is gone, Kabir is gone, Nanak is gone—the light is not lost.

The Parsis made a symbol to keep this light burning—in their fire temples. But it grew rigid. They do not let the outer flame go out; in their fire altars the flame is guarded. They keep that light burning—but it was never about the outer flame. They seized the word, the sign, and missed the real thing. It is the inner light that must be kept burning. Let not the inner sanctuary go dark. If my lamp is lit, let me light yours. Let the light not be extinguished.

Light is very scarce. Only once in a while does someone blaze. Therefore, whenever someone does light up, let him make every effort to kindle as many lamps around him as possible. The darkness is vast. The darkness is great.

The lamps are very few; they blaze only now and then; in these lamps lies all the possibility.

The anguished tongue of tears
told a tale long past—
else we would have remained silent.
Teaching truth to imagination,
showing becoming to feeling,
setting meter free of measure—
we would neither write nor make others write.
But the heart’s bereft singer
became a stubborn hero,
he did not accept the smoky flames—
else we would have remained silent.

We would have restrained our notes,
hummed to the honey-seeking bees,
become ruthless and clipped
the wings of song-birds.
Who knew the innocent words
tomorrow would betray the meaning;
the gift of speech could not bear it—
else we would have borne our silence.

Tomorrow the word will be distorted. Tomorrow it will be taken to mean something else. Leave tomorrow—today it will be misunderstood; right now it will be misunderstood.

Who knew the innocent words
tomorrow would betray the meaning;
the gift of speech could not bear it—
else we would have borne our silence.

But even so, it must be said. Meaning will be distorted; things will be taken the wrong way; interpretations will go astray—yet it must be said. If ninety-nine out of a hundred misunderstand, but one understands rightly—for that one, it is worth speaking. If nine hundred and ninety-nine out of a thousand misunderstand, and one understands—for that one, it must be said.

Saints know—truth cannot be spoken. Nine hundred and ninety-nine will not understand. But what is the harm? Had nothing been said to these nine hundred and ninety-nine, they still would not have understood; they would have continued to live blind as before. Now too they will live blind. Now they will live as Hindus, Muslims, Christians. What difference does it make; they would have lived as something or other anyway. In some pretext or other they would have collided—violence, wars, quarrels—this was bound to be.

But the one who does understand, who grasps the essence and sets out—he is worth all the risks.

And remember: saints do not speak only through words. Words are only one device. Saints speak in many other ways. But to understand those other ways, you must come to them.

Words can be understood even from afar. Words require no relationship. You listen—you are free. But for a deeper communion, a relationship must be forged.

Words make you a student. For another kind of knowing, another kind of hearing—deeper than words—you must become a disciple. Then merely being curious will not do; you must become a yearning one for liberation. Soon you will find that even yearning is not enough; you must become a practitioner. Then you will descend, slowly, into depth. But the journey begins with words.

You have come to me; for no other reason. A word called you. The first letter reached you through a word.

There are people here who have come from unknown far-off lands. A book fell into their hands; somewhere a word reached them. That word stirred something within; a nectar welled up. Then they traced that word to its source and came—journeying from afar.

Now further bonds can be forged. Beyond language, a bond of love can be made. Now they can look into my eyes, experience my touch, drink my presence. Now, in this presence, other kinds of flowers can bloom. But it was a word that brought them.

Words may not carry you all the way to truth, but they bring you to the saint. Is even that little? Then the saint can take you to truth.

Hot as tears,
two words of his
fell.
Blinking, blinking, thoughts
awoke and took shape
before the mind.
Two words, wet and warm,
deceived me so sweetly
that from then till now
I have been happy—
if only nothing had been carved in me,
but carved
were two words,
hot like tears,
that stood between me and death.

If a living word falls into your hand…

I have been happy—
if only nothing had been carved in me,
but carved.

If once a living word makes a nest within you, finds a dwelling there, the meaning of your life begins to change.

If even a single word of mine enters you, reaches your heart, blends with the heartbeat, you will not remain what you were. That word will begin its work. It will start transforming you; it will give you a new vision. Circumstances will be the same, but your response will begin to change.

Tomorrow someone may hurl an insult—and perhaps a word you heard from me will come in between. You may swallow the insult as you never have before. Tomorrow someone abuses you—and there is no sting in your mind.

I have been happy—
if only nothing had been carved in me,
but carved.

When a surge arises within, life begins to change. And word is the first instrument of man.

There is but one difference between humans and animals: humans have words; animals do not. Word is the means of communion. Yet it depends on you. If you wish, you can quarrel—then the word becomes dispute. If you wish, you can use words to fight, to abuse; and if you wish, you can love with them, pray with them, form a relationship—or break one. It depends on you.

So there are those who, hearing my words, will fall into argument; that is their choice. If they wish to squander life’s opportunity, they are perfectly free. But there are also those who, hearing the word, will dance. In whom an inner veena, long silent, will begin to sound.

Then further things can happen. Then one day you will also understand silence.

Certainly, truth cannot be said by words; only silence can say it. But you will understand silence only when you come very close. Who will bring you close?

You will understand silence when you fall in love. But how will love begin? How will that moment draw near?

So words, too, are allies. They may not take you to truth—this is true. But they will take you to the boat that can carry you to truth.

Many desires—then the world; one desire—then devotion. Wanting wealth, position, respect, dignity, prestige—so many desires—this is the world. A person running after many longings is worldly. And one who has poured all his desires into a single longing—“that I may know That which is truth; that I may recognize the Beloved from whom I have come and into whom I will return, which is my eternal nature”—the name of that one longing is bhakti, devotion.

The devotee has only one aspiration: that the veil of mystery be lifted; that I do not live in such ignorance; that my eyes open and what is hidden within everyone becomes visible to me. Not a superficial acquaintance, but the inner meeting the inner, heart meeting heart. Let me see the fundamental essence of this existence; only on seeing That will I also be able to see myself, to recognize myself. And with that recognition begins bliss.

Today, when in the gathering the cupbearer gave the flagon the slightest tilt—
Don’t even ask; in that instant doom befell Jam’s fabled chalice.

Lift it—yes, lift it! What is this veil between us?
The gaze of the whole universe comes only to strike against the lattice-screen.

“It’s deception, deception,” the breeze told the flower on arriving:
O tender rose, the dew’s love for you is but fleeting.

Let my blood flow—flow from my wounds;
By God, my wounds have no need of balm.

What kind of screen is this, what kind of veil?
My eye discovers you even through the world’s curtains.

They are the cause of my sorrow—and then they ask me:
“Tell us, O ‘Ashk,’ what face is this that grief has made!”

Man has only one sorrow—that he does not know from where he is, why he is, and where he is going. Man has but one sorrow: he has no experience of the Divine. And until this veil is lifted…

Lift it—yes, lift it! What is this veil between us?
The gaze of the whole universe comes only to strike against the lattice-screen.

That little, fine cover… it is only a fine cover. There isn’t some huge Great Wall of China between man and God; it is a very subtle wall, a very thin veil. And the wonder is that even that veil has not been put there by God—we have put it there. In truth it is better to say the veil is not over God; the veil is over our eyes. The sun stands outside, but you sit with the doors shut. Open the door—the sun will come in. Until you open it, the sun will not enter; the sun will not even knock at your door. The sun will not disturb your peace. Open the door—and the sun will come in.

It is just like that. Open your eyes a little, and God will enter within. This veil is over your own eyes. And this veil is of your own self-importance and ego. This veil is of your so‑called hollow knowledge.

It is astonishing: people know nothing—neither themselves nor God—and yet each one behaves as if he knows. Ask someone, “Is there a God?” He is ready with an instant answer. He will either say, “Yes, there is,” or he will say, “No, there is not.” But he will answer in any case. Rarely will you find a person who says, “I don’t know.” And if you meet such a person, understand that someday this one will know; someday he will find out—because at least he is honest.

You do not know God, and you say, “I know; I believe God exists.” You do not know, and you say, “I believe there is no God”—what could be a greater confusion! Be clear—admit at least this much: I do not know. Whether He is or is not—I know nothing. Then the search is born.

Reading books will not give you God. Accepting someone’s statement will not give you God. Belief will not do; experience is needed.

So the devotee has only one aspiration: to experience. “Lift it”—remove this little veil. The devotee has only one thirst. He weeps, he longs, he calls out. But the essence of all his calling, all his prayer is one—“I can bear this veil no longer! I can no longer live without knowing You. Living—without You—has no meaning, no harmony. How long will you keep me wandering? How long will you keep me turning like the bull at the oil‑press? How long will I keep circling like a top—uselessly? I have circled enough; now let me once see from where I am, why I am, and where I am going!” And the moment that descends, life is transformed. Then there is only joy, only celebration.

The devotee’s whole statement is simply this: without knowing You there can be no celebration. In ignorance there will be only sorrow, only hell—not heaven. Therefore, staking everything, I ask for Your light. I am ready to lose all; ready to offer all; ready to surrender all. Take my life—but give me awakening. If I can find Your feet, if I can have Your touch, then no price is too high, then the bargain is not bad.

Omprakash! You seem to be under the illusion that the sign of love and madness are two different things. No. Madness is the sign of love. And love has always been mad—mad in the sense that the logic of the intellect says: What are you doing!
Love cannot be caught in the net of intellect’s logic. Through the intellect’s logic, love cannot be understood; so the intellect says, “This is madness.”

For instance, if while listening to me a wave of ecstasy arises, your intellect will say, “What are you doing? A sensible person like you? Let the mad do such things—you don’t.” If, while listening, tears come to your eyes, you will quickly wipe them away. “Let the mad do it; but you? What if someone sees you—what then?”

The intellect calls it madness because it cannot understand it. The language of the heart is different, the language of the intellect is different; there is no dialogue between them.

Ask the heart, and the heart will say: “What are you doing—accumulating money? Have you gone mad? All this will be left behind.” What is madness to the heart is wisdom to the intellect. What is wisdom to the intellect is madness to the heart. What is wisdom to the heart is madness to the intellect. And both these elements are within you.

And remember, there is a lot of intellect within you, because the heart never got a chance to grow. The heart has always been suppressed.

From childhood you were told: Don’t get entangled with the heart; it leads into danger.

This world educates the intellect and blocks the heart. There are no schools here for the heart, no colleges, no universities—where the heart is encouraged, where the heart is awakened, where the heart’s longings are caressed and supported.

Here there are schools for mathematics; schools for business; schools for exploitation. Schools for how to loot; schools for how to save yourself from being looted and how to become skillful at looting others.

The language of the heart is dangerous. The heart is eager to be looted; it is not eager to loot.

Nanak’s father said to him, “You’re grown up now. Enough of this nonsense—this chanting of Ram-Ram, this playing of the ektara, this shouting all night long the refrain of ‘Beloved, beloved.’ Enough. Now get to some work. Take this money. Go to the nearby village and buy blankets. The cold days are coming; sell them. There’s a fair about to be held. There must be profit—keep that in mind.”

Nanak went. Two or three days later he returned empty-handed, and he came back very delighted, dancing home. The father asked, “Where are the blankets?” Nanak said, “I have earned the profit. You had said—there must be profit. On the way I met some fakirs—naked fakirs—sitting in the forest. I distributed all the blankets to them.

“What greater profit could there be?” said Nanak. “They were intoxicated ones, very loving people. In two days with them there was only joy upon joy. And they were naked, and winter was drawing near. God’s grace will be on you; His grace will be on me; His grace will shower on this house. I have given the blankets to God’s beloveds. And you wanted profit! You said, ‘Profit must be earned’—I have earned it.”

The father smote his head. “This is profit? This is a loss.”

Nanak was put into a job. “He won’t manage a business. There’s danger in business.” He was given a job in the household of the chief of the village, the subedar. There the daily grain ration for the soldiers was weighed out, and Nanak’s task was to weigh. Not much special skill was needed—just weighing all day. But in that weighing an incident happened. In that weighing the Sikh religion was born.

One day he was weighing. He would weigh all day like that, while inside the remembrance of Ram continued; within, the praise of Him went on; within, His melody was playing; outside, he kept weighing. It was a good job—no great fuss, no need of much intellect. Within, the heart resounded; outside, he weighed.

But that day something went awry. The heart entered into the intellect. The heart overwhelmed so strongly that the intellect was pressed down. He was weighing: ten measures, eleven measures, twelve measures—and when he came to thirteen, in Punjabi thirteen is pronounced “tera.” “Tera” arose in his remembrance. “Tera”—meaning “Thine,” God’s.

Then he stopped. He kept on weighing but did not go beyond thirteen. Now “Tera” had come—what more could be beyond that! The final station had arrived. He kept on weighing; evening fell; and “Tera, Tera!”

News reached the subedar that the man has gone mad. He doesn’t move on beyond fourteen; he just keeps weighing and repeating, “Tera, Tera!” The subedar came too. He saw: Nanak is in ecstasy. He said, “Have you gone mad?

“So much ecstasy! Why these tears? And doesn’t the count end at ‘Tera’? What is this ‘Tera, Tera’ you’ve taken up?”

Nanak stood up. He said, “Then you take over. The final station has come. There is nowhere to go beyond this. There is no counting beyond this. I can neither go back nor go ahead. I have come to ‘Thine’; I have become ‘in Thine.’ I am His. Now I go.”

The family was distressed; relatives and dear ones were troubled: “This boy has gone mad.” But from this mad boy was born an unprecedented religion, an unprecedented current began to flow.

In this world, it is only through madmen that the celestial Ganga has descended. In this world only madmen have brought tidings—from the beyond.

So do not ask, “Is this a sign of growing love or is it mere madness?”

It is both at once.

And madness is never “mere”—remember that. “Mere,” “empty,” “bare,” “useless,” “insubstantial”—that is the intellect: only ashes upon ashes.

Madness—and “mere”? Madness is brimming, overflowing. Many flowers blossom in madness.

You are blessed if you become mad in love. There is no greater blessing than this.

The cleverness of the intellect is of no use; ultimately it proves futile. In the end, it is only the heart’s madness that serves.

I am not telling you to renounce the world; nor am I telling you to get stuck at “Tera” either. Fourteen, fifteen—let the counting go on. Outwardly it is fine; formalities are fine. The work of the world is the world’s—let it run as the world runs. But within you, let the stream of “madness” flow. Every day spent without it is wasted. Now get drenched; now hum; now dance.

Let this ecstasy grow. And though the world will not be pleased by it, there is no need to tell the world either. Find a few moments of solitude; close the doors and drown in your own madness.

Prayer does not need to be displayed. If you ever find people as “crazy” as you, sit with them in satsang; but there is no need to tell the clever ones. They will not understand; they will only misunderstand.

Let prayer happen in solitude, in aloneness, in silence. Yes, if you find a gathering of mad lovers like yourself, then do not fear there; do not hold back; let yourself flow.

Where four mad lovers sit together, God’s great grace showers.

Otherwise let prayer move alone, alone. In the night’s solitude, close the doors and weep. Those tears will purify your eyes; they will become crystal clear. With such clear eyes God can be seen.

Eyes on which the dust of intellect has long settled—their mirror is destroyed; nothing can be seen through them; they have turned to stone.

This is both the sign of love and madness. And you are fortunate.

There is such an obstacle. Because the homes we are born into by chance do not necessarily carry conditionings that fit our soul’s work. Sometimes it happens that someone is born in a Jain household, but her inner disposition is closer to Meera than to Mahavira—then the trouble begins. The conditionings come from Mahavira, but inwardly her own feeling-nature is drawn to Meera. She won’t even know it. Because she is Jain, she will not even go to a Krishna temple. Jain scriptures say: by mistake even, do not enter a Hindu temple. Even if a mad elephant confronts you on the road and you could find refuge and be saved by slipping into a Hindu temple, still do not go. It is better to die crushed under the feet of a mad elephant than to take sanctuary in a Hindu temple.
Hindus say exactly the same. There is no difference. Hindu scriptures also say: do not take sanctuary in a Jain temple—better to die under a mad elephant’s feet.

So going is not the point; life gets pressed beneath the weight of conditioning—and you will not even know where your personality’s real inclination was. The reverse also happens. Someone is born in a Hindu home, and it may be that his life-breath connects with Mahavira; but no connection will happen. He won’t even come to know of Mahavira. He will keep going to Krishna’s temple, and with Krishna he may never connect.

Your inner state should be the deciding factor—not conditioning. What is the value of conditioning? Yet conditioning ends up deciding everything.

So often, on coming here, you will face many surprises.
Indira must be experiencing this. Here, everything is together. Here sometimes Mahavira’s current flows, and people bathe in Mahavira. Sometimes Meera’s current flows, and people bathe in Meera.

Here there is no regime of any one conditioning. All the religions are being made available together. So let each take what delights them; whichever stream they are intoxicated by, on that they should move.

So Indira is right when she says: “I was raised in Jain conditioning. I never felt my path was that of the lover.”
How could it feel so? In Jain conditioning there is no provision for love; love is sin. One has to be saved from love, one has to drop love.

The Jain path is the pure path of knowledge. It is the process of meditation—not of prayer. In Jain conditioning even the word “God” carries no meaning. In Jain conditioning one goes inward and becomes utterly alone—so alone that even the notion of another is not there—not even the notion of God.

This is the pure path of meditation. For some people who will arrive through meditation, this is wondrous. But those who cannot reach by meditation—whose hearts are not dry like a desert—they will be in trouble; especially women.

For a man, perhaps, this may fit, because in a man’s life love is not as central as meditation and knowing. But a woman’s whole treasure is love. What relish is there for a woman in knowledge? She does not have that kind of curiosity. Her curiosity is of another order. A woman’s heart is more active than her intellect. So women will often be at a loss. For a woman, Meera and Radha are nearer.

A woman cannot even conceive that there can be bliss in being alone. Try to understand this.
All her joy is for the one she loves. A woman cooks; if she loves someone, cooking becomes her worship. If the one for whom she cooks is loved, then cooking is an offering; the kitchen is her temple. Her lover is coming; she sweeps, she cleans. Her lover is coming; she is eager and filled with joy; her heart is throbbing.

There is a mention in Akbar’s life: Once Akbar went hunting in the forest. Returning, evening fell, and he sat outside a village in Rajasthan to perform the evening namaz. He spread the prayer-mat, knelt, and began to pray. When he was halfway into namaz, a woman—a carefree Rajasthani—came running that way—stepping on his mat, jostling him—he even fell aside. She just ran on. She must have been a Rajputani!

Akbar was in namaz, so he could not say anything at once. What could he speak in the middle of prayer? But he was ablaze with anger—this is the limit—this is insolence beyond limit. She has no sense that someone is praying! And not an ordinary person—the emperor himself is praying.

He quickly finished his namaz and was preparing to catch that woman, when she was already returning. He stopped her and said: Insolent woman, do you not even know who was praying? Even if it were anyone, one remembering God—how can you pass that way?

The woman said: I remember nothing. What are you talking about? Where were you? I was going to meet my lover. My lover was coming after years, so I wanted to catch him on the road itself. I ran out of the village. I had no awareness; forgive me. If your prayer was obstructed because of me, then forgive me—though I am not at fault, because I did not know. I was mad in love.

And she said: But a question arises in my mind—may I ask, if you are not offended?
Akbar asked: What?
She said: I was going to meet my ordinary lover and I did not notice you, and you were going to meet God; you were praying, and you noticed my push? What kind of prayer is this? What kind of devotion? If my push struck you, surely your body must also have brushed me. But I did not feel your touch. I was not in my senses. My lover is coming. What if he arrives and I am not there outside the village to welcome him? He is coming after years. And you were going to meet God, and still this little disturbance upset you! You were in prayer to God. Yet flames were shooting from your eyes? You could not even forgive? You could not be compassionate?

Akbar said: My head bowed. I could not answer that woman. My prayer became worth two pennies. She was right. Her words were true. They remained lodged in my heart like a thorn—that my love of God is no love at all yet. Even a woman’s love for her ordinary lover surpasses mine.

Mahavira says that the supreme state of consciousness is kaivalya—becoming alone—absolutely alone. A woman will not take to this. If a woman becomes utterly alone, for her it is a hellish state. There must be a lover. She will want to become one with the beloved, to merge, to be lost in the beloved. That she will desire. But to be alone…? That is a man’s longing.

So this obstacle arises. In a Jain home the conditioning is masculine; therefore the Digambara Jains say that from the female embodiment there can be no liberation. A woman—how will she attain moksha? Her attachment to the other is so deep that she cannot go to liberation. She will have to be born as a man once, and then she can be liberated. All liberation, they say, is through the male embodiment.

There is meaning in this. It does not mean a woman cannot be liberated. It means that by Mahavira’s path a woman cannot be liberated. Apart from a rare exception or two, do not count them. By Mahavira’s path, a woman cannot go—because that path is not in accord with a woman’s heart.

A woman needs Krishna. A woman wants to adorn—her beloved. Krishna appeals—clad in yellow silk, peacock-feather crown, flute upon the lips—Krishna looks dear.

Mahavira stands nude; where will you place a peacock-feather crown? Put a flute in his hand—it won’t suit. It will seem he has stolen someone’s—or what happened? Where did this flute come from? You won’t be able to trust what he is doing with a flute.
What has song to do with Mahavira? What has music to do with Mahavira? Tie ankle-bells to his feet—it will look like a spectacle! No—the pairing will be wrong. Mahavira’s concern is meditation. He stands in solitude—having left all. He is immersed in the void. In the void now, even music is a disturbance. In the void, even a flute is futile. Now all is futile. That is utter non-attachment.

Krishna’s path is the path of total attachment. And the wonder is that both lead to the goal. Therefore the real question is not: which is right. Both can lead. The real question is: which is right for you.

Do not worry about which is right. That very question is pointless. Always ask: with what does my being find resonance? Whatever attunes with you is right for you. That’s all.

If you want to learn one thing from me, remember this always: whatever harmonizes with you is right for you. Then forget the world. Do not worry whether everyone can be liberated by the same path. Not everyone can go by one path.

There are such different people; such different states of mind. And it is good that there are different paths. The world grows richer—through many paths.

If someone wants to go dancing, there should be no barrier that we will not let a dancing person enter liberation. “Where are you coming, wearing a peacock crown, flute in hand!” Or take the opposite stubbornness: “Until you wear a peacock crown and take a flute in hand, we will not let you enter liberation!” Then, seeing Mahavira, people will shut the door: “Where is this gentleman going—naked! First bring a flute!”

No—do not make such demands! Liberation has no conditions. And if there is any condition, it is only this: that your own feeling-state opens totally. Let your feeling-nature bloom fully—that is liberation. When the jasmine blossoms, the fragrance of jasmine will arise. When the rose opens, the fragrance of rose will arise. When the lotus opens, the fragrance of lotus will arise. The fragrances will differ, but all three flowers have bloomed; blooming is the one thing in common. The joy is in the blooming; what fragrance arises… that fragrance will be yours.

Krishna’s flute sounded, and in Mahavira arose the innocence of nudity. In Buddha something else happened—in Christ something else; in Mohammed something else. And in you too, something else will happen.

Beware of conditioning! Conditioning is dangerous. Conditioning means that others have taught you something. They never cared to see what seedling could be grafted into you. They never cared.

Your parents were Hindus, so they taught you the Hindu religion; if they were Christians, they taught you Christianity. And what is their fault? They too were taught in the same way. They do not know what they are doing… and in the same way, do not teach your children.

In my view, the world would become far better if we did not force our religion on our children. All the doors of religion should be opened. All means should be made available so that children may sometimes go on a Sunday and join a church; see what happens there. Sometimes go to the mosque and see. The colors are different; the ways are different.

A mosque has its own majesty; the church its own. Sometimes go to the gurudwara…

If parents love their children, they will send them everywhere: Go; search everywhere; knock at every door. Then wherever you feel delight, where your resonance happens, where you feel—yes, this place has touched your heart—then stop there; that is your path.

Religion cannot be given by conditioning. Each one must find their own. Then the world will become truly religious.

At present many people seek religion and do not find it, because they search within their conditioning; and if the conditioning does not match them, they become sad. They think: this is not for me.

The Jain process is a process of victory. It is the masculine mood. The path of love is the path of rasa, of surrender. It is the art of losing. There are great differences between them.

After losing, my mind regrets,
for a defeated man
does not appeal to you.
But when have I ever been lax in battle?
Is there any day
I have slept in heedlessness?
With bow and arrow by my pillow,
have I ever dozed in some shade?
Defeat is written in a man’s fate;
victory is only a matter of chance.

I was reading these lines yesterday.
After losing, my mind regrets—
a man’s mind regrets greatly when he loses.
For a defeated man
does not appeal to you—
and a man thinks that a defeated man does not appeal to God either. He must be victorious.

The word “Jin” means: the conqueror; “Jin” means victory, triumph.

After losing, my mind regrets,
for a defeated man
does not appeal to you—
Who told you that a defeated man does not appeal to God? But a man feels: if I lose, so what! A defeated man does not appeal even to himself; how then can he conceive that God will like him?

But when have I ever been lax in battle?
And a man keeps fighting.
Is there any day
I have lost myself in negligence?
With bow and arrow by my pillow,
have I ever slept in some shade?

A man keeps fighting! Fighting and fighting! Struggling against the current. Resolve is the hallmark of the masculine.

Defeat is written in a man’s fate—
and if he loses, he thinks: it was written in fate.
Defeat is written in a man’s fate;
victory is only a matter of chance.
Then he consoles himself that victory is a matter of chance. It did not happen. For whom does it happen? Defeat is written in fate. But no one can blame me that I ever slept in negligence; that I ever put down the bow and arrow…

But when have I ever been lax in battle?
I did fight. If I lost, it is a matter of chance. But no one can say I did not fight.

Jainism is the religion of men. It was born among Kshatriyas. All twenty-four Tirthankaras of the Jains are Kshatriyas. Kshatriya means warrior, fighter. They fought here—and there too they reach by fighting.

The bhakta’s way is the feminine way. Not by conquering… In love, have you seen? In love, the one who loses is the one who wins. The calculus is reversed there. The one who tries to win is the one who loses.

So the devotee surrenders. He says: My victory? That very idea is foolish. Let the victory be yours. In your victory is my joy. Let me lose totally—grant me this grace. Let me not even fight you—grant me this grace. Let this very urge to fight fall away, because the urge to fight is the ego, the I-ness. Let me become the dust of your feet.

You never felt it because the wall of conditioning must have remained; the opportunity never arose.
Now Indira has come here.
"Here, when I go deep in meditation, I often find myself immersed in Krishna’s rasa."
It is through meditation that one comes to know one’s true emotional climate, the bent of one’s personality. So follow whatever reveals itself in meditation.
The Krishna-leela, Krishna’s rasa, is very sweet. Are you intent on counting mangoes or on eating them? Do you need to be concerned with Krishna or with Mahavira? Your aim is to arrive at the ultimate state. If Krishna’s dance carries you, go with it. If Mahavira’s austere struggle carries you, go with that. Don’t insist, “I will go only by this path.” Keep just one insistence: to go. Any path will do—by bullock cart, by train, by airplane; and if you must walk, then walking is fine. Go you must.
Whatever delights your heart; whatever brings your joy, your intoxication; whatever you can move in blissfully; where you don’t have to force yourself; where you are not required to suppress your inner voice—then that alone is your path.
So now Indira should drop her worry, because what is revealing itself in meditation is a deeper voice than your conditioning. Meditation means putting aside conditioning, thoughts, the surface things we were taught—setting them aside so that the heart’s original tone can be heard.
So it is right: for you, Krishna is your Mahavira.
Lose—so that you can win.

Now, what is the point of asking about my past and present?
I have become a tale of plea and reply.
The matter was delicate, but I had no inkling
that the hand of my questioning would shatter my heart.
I still cannot believe it:
people say I have died.
Is this non-being, is it life—what is it?
Whom should I ask: where have I gone?
These are times when there isn’t even a round of wine,
nor is there any other such thing at all.
If the taverns are closed, then even the road to the mosque
we may not be able to traverse.

Understand this.

“These are times when there isn’t even a round of wine”—a moment has arrived when the round of wine is not flowing, the era of intoxication is not running. “Nor is there any other such thing at all”—and nothing else seems to fit either. “The taverns are closed”—the madhushalas are closed. “If the taverns are closed, then even the road to the mosque we may not be able to traverse.” And if the taverns are closed, we will not reach the mosque.
Some people reach the mosque only through the tavern. Madhushala means: the path of love, of devotion, of ecstasy and divine madness. If the taverns are closed, many will never reach the mosque.
Some do not arrive precisely because of the tavern; and some will never arrive without it. There is no one rule that applies to all.
If we split it into two broad laws, we can divide them into “love” and “meditation.”
Try to understand calmly: if something fills your heart with exuberance, makes it blossom—bhajan, kirtan, dance—then the tavern is your path.
Then don’t worry about your conditioning. And if none of this appeals to you... but take care of one thing: try it. Try it and see. Indira too did not know until she tried.
People come to me and say, “Everything else is fine. Your words ring true. But this dancing, this kirtan, this meditation—we don’t like it.”
I tell them: maybe you are right. But try it. Who knows—perhaps it is only your conditioning speaking within, saying, “We don’t like this.”
Try it once. If even after trying it doesn’t feel right, fine. Then your path is of quiet, silent meditation. Then dance does not suit you.
But in my experience the majority will go by dance, a minority by meditation. That is why the numbers of Jains never grew—it was not without cause. They could not have grown.
Buddhists too departed from India—they had to—because their path was pure meditation. They spread in China and Japan because, going there, they changed their whole style. There they included love. From what they experienced in India, they learned. They understood one thing: the majority of people will go by love.
So in India, Buddha’s pure religion perished. In China and Japan what exists is not pure; it is mixed. Buddha would be displeased. If Buddha were to return, he would say, “This is not my religion,” because what Buddha rejected, Buddhist monks had to accept in China.
Buddha had said: there is no God.
If there is no God, then what bhajan, whose prayer? But the monks experienced that because of this the religion got uprooted from India. And you should know: for years Buddha did not initiate women. He did not want to. To him it was clear: my path is not of love. If women come, there will be upheaval. If a woman comes, somewhere she will fetch a flute, bring ankle-bells—she will start some commotion. Then the matter will go out of hand.
It is not only ordinary men who are afraid of women; enlightened men too feel fear!
When pressed greatly, he reluctantly initiated women. But the very day he did so, his words are worth understanding.
When Buddha first initiated women, he said, “You don’t agree...” because the monks too insisted. They said a stain would remain on your name, that you were unjust to women. Even his foremost disciple, Ananda, said, “It troubles us that women suffer so much! Are you making a distinction simply because of a female body? The soul is the same in all—you yourself say so!”
So Buddha said, “Alright.” He gave initiation. And he had to give it also because his mother had died in his infancy. She died seven days after he was born; so the sister of his mother raised him. She was, in truth, his mother. Buddha knew her as his mother. When she asked for initiation, Buddha could not refuse. How could he refuse his mother!
So he said, “Alright, I will initiate. But remember: had women not been initiated, my religion would have lasted at least five thousand years in India. Now if it lasts even five hundred, that is much.”
And this proved true. It did not even last five hundred years; it was uprooted. When Buddhist monks went to China, to Tibet, to Ceylon, to Burma—when they carried Buddhism outside India—they changed everything.
Buddha had left no place for God, for the divine; the monks put Buddha himself in the place of God, opened the way of prayer to Buddha, and said, “By Buddha’s grace everything will happen.” And then it took root.
The majority of the world is emotional; only a minority is without emotion. Therefore you will not know until you experiment. So no one should come and say to me, “It doesn’t appeal to us.” Experience it once. If it still does not appeal, that is fine. But first have a neutral taste of it; only then will you be certain. If it still doesn’t suit you, we have experiments—Vipassana, silent meditation, zazen—by which you can begin the journey.
So far in the world there have been only two kinds of religions—of meditation and of love. And they have remained separate. Hence there has been great controversy between them, because they are opposites. Their very languages are contrary.
The path of meditation is of conquest, struggle, resolve. The path of love is of defeat, surrender, submission. How can they meet?
Therefore no one in the world ever troubled themselves to reconcile the two.
My effort is precisely this: that there is no need for conflict between them. In one temple there can be space for both kinds of people. There should be a path for those who want to go dancing, and a path for those who want to go in silence.
One should seek the way to the divine in accordance with one’s own taste.

The devotee’s state of separation is a unique poetry. It is the sweetest and most lovable experience in this world. There is no state higher than this.

Viraha means that without meeting God one no longer wishes to live even a single moment. If there is to be life, let it be with Him; otherwise life is futile. If there is to be life, let it be in His hands; otherwise life is futile. If any flavor or color remains in life at all, it is sustained by a single hope: that someday there will be union with You.

For the devotee this world becomes only a waiting room. Nothing here retains meaning for him. His meaning is “above,” hidden in the sky. But here he waits: when will Your cloud grow dense and pour down? He sits with his vessel in his hands.

Until that cloud rains, his vessel keeps filling with his own tears. That is all the meaning of the state of separation.

But within this state there are great styles and great colors. Great feelings rise, different waves rise, different happenings occur.

Those clouds have settled over my head—they cannot lift.
The pain that has struck my heart—my heart cannot be rid of it.

The devotee knows this pain is the ultimate. It is a pain for which there is no remedy. It is a pain for which there is no medicine.

They say that when Majnun went utterly mad in Layla’s love, physicians were called. When they took his pulse, he burst out laughing. “Why laugh?” they asked. He said, “This is a pain for which there is no medicine. And this pain is such that I do not wish to give it up. This is my very life-breath; this is my support. This pain is not a curse; it is a blessing.”

Yet sometimes the devotee sulks. He calls and calls, and no answer comes! The sky stays silent; no news comes from anywhere—whether his prayer even reaches or not!

Ramakrishna would often do this: for two or four days he would shut God’s door. He was the temple priest—he would lock it. People would ask, “What are you doing? Sometimes worship stops altogether.” He said, “After all, even patience has a limit. If He keeps doing this, we too will take our revenge. I do this in a little anger.”

In that anger there is prayer; in that anger there is love.

Lovers sulk; after all, there is a limit. Ramakrishna said, “Even excess has a limit. I shout day after day; He doesn’t listen. Now I’ve locked the door. Stay locked! No offerings now, no prayer; no bell will ring, no lamp will be lit. Now You will writhe. Now You will think, ‘Ramakrishna, come—Ramakrishna, come.’ Then I will come.”

I sit in my house of grief today in such a way
as if I no longer have any need for Your coming.

Even with such stiffness, sometimes the devotee sits. But that stiffness too belongs to love—like a lover wanting to be coaxed; like a beloved wanting to be wooed back.

So the devotee’s path is the path of love. And God coaxes.

Perhaps God was not as pleased with Ramakrishna’s worship as He was when Ramakrishna put a lock on the door—for what deep trust it shows! What profound faith in God’s being! One with doubt hidden inside would not dare to lock the door. He would be afraid: “What if He gets angry? What if something goes wrong?” He would remain merely formal. In formality there is not enough courage to lock the door.

Ramakrishna, when he offered food to God, would first taste it himself. This became a complaint against him. People gathered: “This is not right. It is unheard of; no scripture allows it. First offer to God, then to yourself. You first taste it yourself!”

Ramakrishna said, “Then I won’t perform worship. I clearly remember: when my mother cooked, she would taste first and then give me food. She would say, ‘If it isn’t tasty, my son, how can I give it to you?’ So I cannot offer without tasting.”

People said, “But that makes it defiled!” He said, “Defiled or not, I will taste first. Only if it is worthy of my God. Sometimes it isn’t right—then I don’t offer it.”

This is a very informal state. The devotee’s state is informal, inner, intimate, of love.

Behold my simplicity: I crave the hunger of a kiss
from those lips that will not even grant me an insult.

Now the devotee says: See my simplicity; see my innocence. I yearn for Your kiss.

Behold my simplicity: I crave the hunger of a kiss
from those lips that will not even grant me an insult.

From the very lips that never give me even a scolding, I long for a kiss—behold my simplicity.

The devotee is very guileless. It is the fruit of his guilelessness that one day God descends into his very life-breath. It is his simplicity that calls Him—not his austerity—his simplicity, his straightforwardness. Not his penances at all; his innocence, his childlike heart. As a little child clings to his mother’s sari, so the devotee clings to God’s support.

I can bury Your secret deep within my breast;
and if You wish, I can turn it into a tale.

And the devotee says: The mystery that is being revealed to me—I can bury Your secret in my chest! I can keep it hidden within—no one will get wind of it.

And if You wish, I can turn it into a tale—
if it be Your longing, I will hum songs; I will let the world know what has happened within me. I will go to the market and weep; I will go to the market and sing.

And if You wish, I can turn it into a tale—
but Your wish alone is supreme. My wish is nothing; as You wish. If You wish it so, I will die nameless, silently, without saying a word; no one will even know that You had descended into my heart. And if You wish, I will tell the whole world that I have met God. But Your wish…

The crime is not in drinking; the crime is to reel after the drink.
I have not yet understood the etiquette of the tavern.

There are two states of the devotee. Some drink God’s wine, yet you will never see them reel. They remain composed; you will not even notice their intoxication. And some, after drinking, begin to reel—out of them great songs arise, great music rises. Meera is among the reeling ones; Chaitanya too. They drank—and then they reeled.

Some, having drunk, will fall silent. The happening is so immense they are struck dumb, become silent—utter stillness. Some, because the happening is so vast—the very sky has descended into their courtyard—become intoxicated, they dance and hum.

Never fall into imitation. Never copy another by watching him. Understand the feeling in your own heart, and allow that which is within you to happen as it is. The slightest imitation—and you will miss. Imitate someone else even a little—and you will err; it will become hypocrisy.

Another’s tears are flowing; don’t start weeping because of that. Weep only when your tears flow. Another is going mad—don’t start going mad. It happens—man is a great copycat. He copies everything. He even imitates separation; he even imitates union! But imitation has no relationship with the Real. Connection with God belongs only to the one who is authentic, original.

Let your separation be yours. Let your joy be yours. Let your tears be yours. Your stamp, your signature must be on it. Do not imitate another.

Here it happens every day. Someone is dancing, and seeing him, someone in whom no dance is arising thinks perhaps dancing makes something happen—and he starts dancing. Nothing happens from dancing; when something happens, then there is dance. But only when something happens…

He sees someone weeping and thinks, “Perhaps something is happening to him. Let me try too.” He squeezes out tears. Nothing happens from tears; when something happens, then tears come.

Either take me up into Your hands like a goblet of wine,
or walk a little way with me—I am intoxicated.

In the state of separation the devotee says: O God, hold my hand, for I am in a state of intoxication.

Either take me up into Your hands like a goblet of wine,
or walk a little way with me—I am intoxicated.

There are many colors to viraha, many forms. As many devotees, so many colors, so many forms. Your separation will be yours. So do not impose any devotional mood upon yourself.

Let it flow. Let it arise. If it arises—do not stop it.

We make two kinds of mistakes. Some people forcibly try to make things happen. And some, when it does happen, do not let it happen; they suppress it. In both cases, you miss.

Let what happens, happen. Even if you must lose something—lose it. Let what happens, happen. Whatever the world says, do not worry much about it. What have you to do with the world? What value has the world’s opinion?

People will call you good or bad; clever or foolish; wise or naïve—it makes no difference. Their talk has no value. Listen to yourself, be mindful of yourself. Do not let anyone come between you and God. Then you will soon find that you have begun to grow—on the right path.

If you walk listening only to your heart, you will find its voice is soft—but very true. The heart never signals wrongly, because the signals that rise from the heart are raised by God Himself.

In the intellect the world is imprinted; in the heart God is imprinted. In the intellect are conditioning, society, the crowd, family, education—the effect of all these. The heart is outside all this. The heart is still in God’s hands.

Listen to your heart, be mindful of your heart, and you will soon find: the hour for flowers to bloom is drawing near. You will soon find: the moment for the lamp to be lit is approaching.

The world is only ash—true. But amidst this ash, if you are filled with prayer, flowers bloom. Even in this mud, the lotus blooms.

That’s all for today.