Nahin Sanjh Nahin Bhor #2

First thing: no concept is close to the truth. A concept, as such, stands apart from truth.

Truth is such that it cannot be contained by any concept; if it could fit inside a concept, it would no longer be truth. A concept is a small courtyard—truth is the vast sky. It fits neither in “this” courtyard nor in “that” courtyard. It is not that it won’t fit in a hut’s courtyard but will fit in a palace’s courtyard; it won’t fit in any courtyard at all. What can be contained isn’t the sky; what cannot be contained—that is the sky.

So first understand: no concept is close to truth. All concepts are pointers toward truth. Like I point to the moon with my finger; someone else uses another way to indicate the moon; a third person still another. All methods, however, stand apart from the moon. No method is the moon. My finger is not the moon—and the one who grabs the finger will miss the moon.

Be careful with words. Concepts live in words; truth lives in silence. Their journeys are opposite.

Words can define, but how can that be adequate for what is known only in silence? When the very knowing occurs by dropping words, how will you pour that into words? That is why neither the Hindu, nor the Muslim, nor the Christian, nor the Jain—none of their concepts are truth. Concepts are never truth.

You ask, “Which concept is closer?”

That implies that some things can be a little nearer to truth and some a little farther. That would mean one falsehood could be closer to truth than another. Then falsehoods would differ. But falsehoods don’t differ; falsehood is falsehood.

Either something is truth, or it is not. There is no “near” to truth. The closest “near” will still be untrue. And truth is never partial; whenever it is, it is whole.

Truth has no fragments. You cannot say, “I have half the truth,” or “a quarter,” or “an ounce!” Truth is indivisible, unfragmented, undivided.

So to call one concept “near” and another “far” would imply one contains a little more truth and the other a little less—dividing truth into parts. Truth has no parts.

Either there is truth—or there is not.

All concepts are untrue; useful, yes—but untrue. Even the untrue has its use. And if one is wise, one can even use untruth as a device to move toward truth.

There is a Sufi story: A man returned home from the market, tired, and saw his house on fire. Flames were spreading along the courtyard walls; his children were playing inside. Naturally he shouted, “Children, come out! The house is on fire!” But they were lost in their games; they ignored their father. He could not go in—too dangerous; he might not come out again. He could only shout from outside.

What to do? He remembered: the children had asked him to bring a toy cart from the market. So he cried out, “You little crazies, what are you doing? I brought the toy cart!” As soon as they heard this, the children rushed out. He hadn’t brought any toy cart. The statement was pure falsehood. But that false toy cart saved them from the flames.

Such are all concepts.

Those who saw your house aflame—while you are absorbed in your games, blind to the tongues of fire—those who wanted to call you and save you, they spoke of toys. They spoke of the toys that attract you, because only through those will you come out.

Truth cannot be said. And even if it is said, you won’t understand. Where you stand, your hold is only on falsehood; the language you understand is the language of falsehood. One has to speak to you in falsehood.

Out of compassion, all true masters have told you many “untrue” things—just as that father said, “I’ve brought the toy cart.”

Then you, in your foolishness, start arguing instead of coming out of the burning house! Buddha said one thing, Mahavira another, Charandas a third—each spoke differently, for each spoke to different children who understood different languages.

And you don’t come out—neither by listening to Buddha, nor to Mahavira, nor to Charandas. Instead you invent a new game: Which of them is right? Whose concept is correct?

No one’s concept is correct. Concepts are not correct by nature. “Correctness” and “concept” don’t meet. Concepts call you, address you, pull you out of the burning house. Once outside, you will see the real issue wasn’t whether the concept was true; the real issue was you were burning and needed to be called out.

Suppose you have never seen a rose, never seen a lotus in bloom—born in a world with no flowers. You’ve seen only gems; your language is of jewels. I want to call you out: the lotus has blossomed on the lake; the sun is up; morning’s fresh breeze; trees singing; birds bursting with joy; peacocks dancing; a lotus—rarely blooming so. But you won’t understand the word “lotus.” You’ve never known it.

I can shout “lotus” all day; you’ll hear it but no meaning will reach you. Only my foolishness will be revealed; no revolution within you will occur. If I must bring you out, I must speak your language: “Look, a diamond lies here!”—though there is no diamond. The call, however, is to bring you out to see the lotus, to bloom like it, to carry its fragrance, to dance beneath the open sun, to let birdsong enter your life, to let beauty, music, and nature’s ecstasy flow into you—while you sit counting silver coins, guarding your safe.

To call you out, I must speak your language. Though once you come out, you will understand it was only a device—there is a lotus. Then you won’t be angry: “Why did you lie?” You will feel grateful.

When the disciple truly knows, he knows that what the master spoke was a device, a method, a concept; it contained no truth in itself. But the master spoke out of compassion. That compassion was true; his intent to save you was true. But he was forced—your language was different, and truth won’t fit that language. Thus concepts arise.

So first: no concept is nearer or farther from truth. Concepts and truth have no direct relation. They are pointers. Understand the pointing and get out. Don’t get entangled in which door is “right.” Take any door you can pass through. The right thing is to get out—what matters whose door it is?

When the house is on fire, go out the front door, or the back, or jump from a window, or from the roof, or put up a ladder, or lower a rope—anything. Whatever is at hand, do it. If the Quran is at hand, go out by it. If the Vedas are near, go out by them. Whoever is available—Charandas, Nanak, Kabir, Meera—do not miss the chance. Make that your doorway. Outside you will discover one sun, one breeze, one sky. Buddha’s sky, Mahavira’s, Krishna’s, Christ’s—the sky is not different, even though their calls and languages differ.

Second point: These two doctrines have prevailed in India, giving rise here to two cultures: the Brahmin and the Shraman.

The Brahmin culture holds that Brahman descends; the Divine comes down—Krishna descended, Rama descended. “Avatar” means descent—coming down from above. This is a significant doctrine, because above and below are connected, not cut off. What is above is what is below; what is below is what is above.

The Divine is united with the world; it beats in the world’s heart; the breath in your breath; not far, nearer than near. When you call—and when your call is true and authentic—it descends. This is the Brahmin view.

The Shraman culture—Jain and Buddhist—holds that the Divine does not come down; rather, human consciousness climbs up. There is ascent, not descent. Tirthankaras are not avatars. Mahavira is not God come down from above; he rose from below, grew, evolved, moved upward, blossomed. This movement from below to above defines the Shraman view.

The meaning in both is the same: above and below are not different. If “above” can come down, what is “below” can go up. They’re joined—one staircase. You go up by the same stairs by which you come down; you don’t need two separate staircases.

If the Divine can descend, man can ascend. The Divine comes down to take man up. Man goes up because without going up and meeting the Divine there is no fulfillment.

It’s the same staircase. This debate is like arguing over a half-filled glass: “Is it half empty or half full?” Both statements point to the same thing. Saying “half empty” is to say “half full,” and saying “half full” is to say “half empty.” Where is the quarrel?

Above and below are not two. Still, I tell you: doctrines are doctrines. Reality does not fit inside them. Let me try a third way—my own “doctrine.”

My view is: the journey is half-and-half. Man must go up halfway; the Divine comes down halfway; then there is meeting. It is not a one-way journey. One-way does not appeal to me.

The Hindu view—that the Divine comes down—ends up insulting man: as if man cannot go up; he is only a beggar, a supplicant—just keep praying and calling! Man’s dignity is lost; his glory extinguished; his beauty denied.

The Jains and Buddhists preserved man’s dignity; they enthroned it—but the Divine’s glory was lost. They said: man can go up; it is his potential; the seed is within—man can become the Divine. This is Mahavira’s proclamation: the soul can become the Supreme Soul. There is no other God elsewhere—no other, no alien. “Appa so paramappa”—the Self within you, if it flowers, is the Supreme Self. God is not other; not different.

The seed is within you; when it sprouts, becomes a tree, blooms—this is God. God is your most fully developed form, your ultimate expression. There is nowhere to go—only to blossom, to unfold, to flower.

So Jain and Buddhist thought gave immense dignity to man—even the status of God. But by losing the Divine, man’s possibility of celebration was lost. Chandidas said, “Above all, the highest truth is man; above that, nothing.” Beautiful—but the Divine’s majesty vanished.

You may go from below to above, but the journey becomes solitary. No compassion of existence showers upon you; no support from the whole. Your journey turns lonely, deserted; companionship is gone; the possibility of devotion disappears.

Hence the Jain and Buddhist paths are devoid of bhakti. Where devotion is absent, color fades; all becomes gray. There are no songs, no mrdangas, no cymbals ringing, no ankle-bells tied. Beauty withdraws.

If there is no Divine, and man must evolve alone, whom is there to meet? Hence love drains away. Jain or Buddhist monks will feel dry—no humming in the heart—empty, vacant, like a cremation ground.

Thus a religion like Jainism dried up; it did not spread—how could it? There is no way to hold a festival. Without union, what festival? However much Jains try, they cannot enact the rasa; Krishna cannot dance with the gopis—there is no Krishna.

Someone asked Ramakrishna: the jnani says man becomes God; then why do devotees insist, “O Lord, keep us near, but let us remain separate”?

Do you know what Ramakrishna said? “Becoming sugar is good, but tasting sugar is better. If you become sugar, you cannot taste it.” The devotee says, “We will taste the sweetness; we do not want to become God. We will hold God’s feet and taste the sweetness.”

Devotion has the possibility of taste. Knowledge is tasteless. Jain scriptures became tasteless: the mathematics is perfect, the grammar very clear—but no poetry. Where there is no poetry, life loses its sap; the stream of rasa does not flow.

So man was given great dignity, but with the loss of God, the possibility of celebration was lost. Meera can dance; Mahavira stands naked—he cannot dance. For what? There is no basis. Mahavira remains solitary, alone.

It is no accident that Mahavira named the ultimate state “kaivalya”—absolute aloneness—utterly alone, forever alone. How can melodies rise there? How can song awaken?

Man was dignified, but left dry.

The Hindus did not grant man such dignity—but they granted God’s dignity. Man was slighted—that is unfortunate—but the Divine descends, comes to fetch you, to seek you out. You are not abandoned in darkness; there is a shepherd who searches for you. You need not depend only on yourself; you can trust in That. There is a way called faith. There is hope.

However sinful you may be, He will still come. The more lost you are, the sooner He comes. Thus Krishna in the Gita says: when dharma declines, when dark night prevails everywhere, then I come—“sambhavami yuge yuge”—I will come age after age. Whenever it is hard, I will come. You are not alone; My hand will reach you and find you.

Like a small child—that is man. He knows Mother is somewhere nearby; if he calls and cries, she will run. He is not utterly alone; not helpless.

So, though man did not receive the same dignity as in Jainism, he received the Divine’s shelter; there remained trust. You are not left alone. You are not the only one seeking the Divine; the Divine is also seeking you. The fire burns from both sides. Not only your heart longs for Him; His heart longs for you. It is not just the child calling the mother; the mother too remembers the child unceasingly. Even in deepest sleep her remembrance of the child remains. Storms may rage, thunder crash, lightning flash—the mother may sleep on. But let the child just stir and her sleep breaks! A continuous remembrance.

If remembrance were one-sided, it would be incomplete; that love would lack its savor.

So the doctrine of avatar may not grant man the same dignity, but it grants celebration to life.

As I see it, both can be together—why remain half-and-half? One says “the glass is half empty,” another “half full.” I say, “It is both—half empty and half full.”

Man seeks; without seeking the Divine is not found. And when man finds, he becomes the Divine—this too is true. But the source from which we are born is also seeking us. You take one step; the Divine takes one toward you.

The Divine descends within you only when you have earned receptivity; when you have become a vessel.

So I say: until you become a vessel, walk with the support of the Shraman culture. Quite right—until you are a vessel. But the day you become a vessel, be a Brahmin. That day the Divine will descend within you. Then dance; beat the rhythm; lift the mrdanga. Do not say, “I am alone.”

You are not alone. The whole existence is with you. To say “God is with you” means this sky, these trees, this moon and sun, these rivers and mountains—are with you. This is our home. We are not strangers here, not uninvited guests. We arise from this very existence and one day dissolve back into it. We are its waves—of this ocean; its rays—of this sun; its flowers—of this tree. The roots may be far and invisible; the flower cannot see them, and even if it sets out to find them, it may not. They are hidden in darkness. Yet whether the flower knows it or not, the roots support it and feed it each moment. Its life is in the roots.

The invisible—that is our life. That invisible is what we call God. “God” does not mean some person sitting above, running the universe. No—this invisible root of life, the unseen source from which all arises and into which all dissolves—we found a loving name for it: God.

I emphasize both—together. I am both Brahmin and Shraman. And these are the only two cultures in the world; all can be grouped under them. Muslims, Christians, Jews—they are Brahmin in this sense: the doctrine of God, of descent.

First you must become a vessel. Until then, strive to rise—that is your work. Now see the dangers.

Jains and Buddhists gave man dignity—but created dangers. First: you must go alone, by your own hands. Hope dims. It is like trying to lift yourself by your own bootstraps. You must go by your own strength!

And you know what your hands have achieved: you sought wealth—didn’t get it; status—didn’t get it; everywhere defeat and disappointment. And now to attain God? What you wanted most has never quite happened—and now this, which has neither clear address nor guarantee—will you seek it? Hard. And alone; with no support; Mahavira says: “asharana-bhava”—do not seek refuge, for there is none. Raise yourself—self-reliance.

But do you have such trust in yourself? When the petty has not been fulfilled, how will you fulfill the vast? That is one danger.

Second: if you happen to be one of the rare stubborn ones who persist—refining life and conduct until the fragrance of sainthood begins to arise—after long struggle, alone, with no guide, no hand from above, none waiting for you—then another danger: ego. That is why you will find Jain monks more full of pride than, say, Muslim fakirs. A great stiffness enters: “I did it myself; I took no one’s help.” Ego is born.

So Mahavira grants dignity, but along come the dangers.

Now the Brahmin side. Its great solace is: there is God. But the danger: you become lazy. “What is there to do? When it is His will, He’ll lift me. Without His will not a leaf stirs; what will my doing accomplish?”

“The python does no service; the bird does no work. Says the servant Maluka: the giver of all is Ram.”

Thus the Brahmin danger: lethargy. India did not become lazy by accident; the Hindu mind helped. Hindus did not remain poor by accident; the shadow of Hindu thought lies over it.

It is no accident that Jains became wealthy, and Hindus remained poor. The same grip: if even God is to be attained, one must attain Him oneself—and wealth too must be earned oneself. Hence in the race for wealth the Jain outpaced the Hindu. Trust no one; neither fate nor destiny.

The Hindu says: when even God is received by grace, then all else too will be received by grace. So for wealth he goes to a sadhu for blessings, consults astrologers, shows his palm, reads his horoscope—he does not engage in effort.

A great boon was the shelter of the Divine—but beware the dangers. First, laziness. And second: whenever anything goes wrong, you hold God responsible. If nothing happens without His will, then the bad also is His will. Evil goes on and the Hindu mind refuses to change it: “It is God’s doing—what can we do? Illness? Fine. Death? Fine. Children keep being born, numbers soar—what can we do? It is God’s will!”

War? Fine. Whatever happens is fine—and the responsibility is God’s. A sense of irresponsibility arises. First defect: laziness. Second: the loss of responsibility. “What can we do?”

A man came to me: “Please arrange something for me. You have so many devotees—say a word to anyone and I’ll be fixed. What can I do—there are twelve children!”

Who told you to have twelve children? These people didn’t ask you to. Why not thirteen?

He said, “The thirteenth is on the way. I am utterly poor, dying.”

But not a trace of feeling that he is responsible. “What can I do? It is God’s will. When God gives, what can I do?”

If He is the Giver, then all responsibility is His; you can live totally irresponsibly.

You saw recently: Indira Gandhi’s defeat was, in essence, due to nothing but sterilization. Everything else is chatter. The real cause was that the Hindu mind, and the Muslim mind, were deeply hurt: children must be controlled—children whom God sends! Children who have never been stopped—now to be stopped?

Irony: in thirty years, if the state did one thing right, it was family planning. And for that she fell. You may be surprised: she was defeated for trying to do something right, for daring to do something right.

Now understand: for thirty or forty years no one will dare to try to do the right thing. Those who have come to power are deeply, essentially Hindu, Jan Sanghis—men of the Sangh. The election did not express a revolt against authoritarianism; people don’t care about such things. They were hurt on one point: a millennia-old notion—that God provides and cares—was wounded.

And the amusing thing: by family planning there was a chance for poverty to ease. That chance has ended. Those now in power cannot dare it—the very mistake that brought them power cannot be repeated; they took advantage of it. The country will pay dearly; one day it will repent.

Sometimes public opinion clings so hard to a wrong that, in trying to change it, leaders are punished. Now power is in the hands of reactionaries; nothing can be expected. They cannot even conceive of doing anything.

This Brahmin doctrine—that all responsibility is God’s—first makes you lazy; second, irresponsible. That is its danger.

My view—and remember, it is still only a doctrine; don’t take it as truth—my pointing is this: you must spend half the journey in becoming a vessel. The Divine does descend—but into the worthy. Not into everyone. It descends into a Rama, into a Krishna; not into all and sundry. It does not descend indiscriminately.

Think of rain falling while you keep your pot upside down. Let it rain; let God pour—the pot will not fill. At least set it upright. And even then, if it is full of cracks, the water will leak. And if it is upright and without cracks, but dirty, the pure water will be fouled.

So you must fulfill certain conditions: the pot upright—your receptivity open. That is the meaning of discipleship: your pot is upright; receptivity is open; your doors and windows are not shut; you are not clogged with prejudice; your consciousness is quiet; you are ready to receive—womb-like; then life enters.

Second: no cracks. Those thousand tiny cracks of mind—its thousand flights in all directions—must be abandoned. When the mind becomes thoughtless, the cracks disappear. Then what comes will remain, rest, abide—will not drain away.

Third: you have understood your desires; by seeing and understanding, they have dissolved. Otherwise the grime of craving fills the pot.

Often this happens here. People are startled. A friend said, “Whenever I meditate there is great joy, great energy arises—but along with it sexual desire rises sharply.”

This is to be understood. Their unease is understandable. They have repressed sexuality. Normally it lies pressed down; they sit upon it. But in meditation, as they relax—as control is dropped—as one is absorbed in dance—and as a little divine energy begins to descend, a light vibration comes; its natural outcome should be one thing, but instead an unnatural outcome occurs: sex flares up. The desire was lying inside; the pot had black dye in it. The rain that fell was crystal clear. You saw it fall, enter the pot—and turn black! “What happened? The water was pure!” But was your pot pure?

Often meditation will turn into desire within you; you will be startled and uneasy. You meant to be free of desire and it seems to increase. Where did you miss? If you sit on desires by repression, the dye remains in the pot.

Many have told me: since I started meditation my anger has increased. They are startled, for they thought meditation would lessen anger. But if anger is suppressed, what will meditation do? Meditation only gives energy, power. What form that power takes depends on your inner state. If you had filled your pot with black dye, the water will become black; with red dye, red; with blue, blue. Only in the pot that had nothing hidden inside will the water remain colorless. Hence I am against repression. Do not suppress. Live—live consciously.

If there is sexual desire, live it—don’t repress; enter it with awareness. Go into it as a witness, so that you gradually see its futility—nothing but ash. The day it becomes your lived experience that it is only ash, nothing remains to suppress. Desire seen and known dissolves. So with anger, hatred, attachment, pride, envy—know them; by knowing, let them be released. Then the pot becomes clean, without cracks, upright.

Discipleship is needed; a thought-free state is needed; freedom from accumulated craving is needed. With these three qualifications, the Divine will descend into you.

Half the journey you do; half the Divine does. You become the vessel; the Divine fills it.

In my reckoning, when you become a tirthankara—one who has made the crossing—the avatar descends within you.

Both doctrines are valuable. Take them together and you will be saved from their dangers. That is why I unite them.

If half the journey is yours, you cannot sit idle in laziness. You must do something. When you do your part, the Divine does His. The condition is yours to fulfill. God does not descend unconditionally. When you have earned the qualification, He descends. So laziness cannot come. And you cannot shift responsibility onto God until you are purified. After purification there is no need to “leave it”—He comes of Himself. There is not even a moment’s delay—no blink of an eye.

And if you have to journey only halfway, your ego will not sprout—as it does in the Jain monk. For you will say, “My capacity goes only halfway. The real completion happens by His grace.” We merely clean the pot. Cleaning a pot does not produce water. We only clean—the ordinary part. The real event happens by grace.

By effort the pot is cleansed—that is half. After cleansing we sit—what is there to be proud of? The rain of compassion fills the pot—the thirst is quenched—the throat is satisfied.

Where the sense of grace remains, ego does not arise. And when the event happens, celebration is born. Then you can hum, dance, be ecstatic—hand in hand with the Divine, embrace Him—the union happens.

Then your final moment—the fruition of life—will not be dry or drab. Flowers will bloom—a thousand upon thousand.

So I say: half the journey like a tirthankara, half like an avatar. The vessel is half empty and half full. You are half; the Divine is half. Together, you become whole. Where the soul and the Supreme Soul meet, there wholeness happens.

Rather than trying to know it, live it—because true knowing will come from living it. Trust that something auspicious is happening. Have faith that something beautiful is unfolding. Don’t be alarmed; alarm will arise—because whenever something unprecedented happens, fear comes.

You were sitting perfectly fine; a single word fell into the ear: ‘anahat’—and something began! Then fear arises: how can a single word make me tremble, make me sway, bring tears to my eyes, make some inner sound ring in my ears? Am I going crazy? Such fear arises. Don’t bring in this fear.

The nāda, the inner sound, is already resounding within; it is resounding continuously. Only our ears are so filled with outer noises that we cannot hear it.

It is auspicious that in certain moments you turn inward and the inner sound begins to be heard. The nāda is sweet; it is of nectar. Listen to it. And when you listen, you will sway a lot; a great trembling will come—because all the energy begins to dance within. That too brings fear, because we have been taught a way of life in which there is no dance. We have been taught to become like a dead, inert person: always in control, never stepping outside control—dry like a stick of wood.

So when, for the first time, trembling arises, and in your corpse-like body life begins to flow again, fear will arise: what is happening! Life is arriving, yet fear will arise: what is happening.

Do not be afraid. This is what it means to be near me: that I can support you, give you trust, reassure you when you begin to panic.

Listen to this nāda; dive into it; be absorbed in it. Dive so deeply that only the sound remains—you do not.

And tears will also flow; don’t fear that either. We have been taught wrongly about tears. A notion has taken hold in our minds that tears come only when something wrong is happening—when a person is sad, troubled, anxious; someone has died; a great calamity has struck; a mountain has fallen upon one—then a person cries. This is a wrong notion.

Tears are not necessarily related to sorrow. There are tears of joy as well. There are tears of love. Tears can come on seeing the beautiful moon rise. Tears can flow on hearing a bird’s song. Tears can come at the sound of a child’s laughter. There are tears of sorrow and tears of happiness. Tears come in anger too. Sometimes tears come in a peaceful state. And tears come in bliss.

So there are many kinds of tears; tears differ from tears. One thing to understand: tears come whenever any state of feeling becomes so dense that you cannot contain it. Whether sorrow, anger, love, beauty, happiness, bliss—when anything becomes so much that it no longer fits in your heart, it begins to overflow; a flood comes—and that flood flows as tears.

Someone dies—some beloved has died; the sorrow is so much you cannot hold it; the eyes carry it away. After tears you will feel light. After two or four days of crying you will become healthy. Don’t hold back; don’t hold back even the tears of sorrow. If you hold them back, wounds will remain; they will fester. Those very festers sometimes turn into cancer.

When tears flow on seeing beauty, don’t stop those either. This is the spontaneous poetry arising within you. This is life’s great epic. And when a moment of happiness becomes so dense that you cannot contain it—don’t try to contain that either, otherwise it too will become heavy. Let it flow.

And the final kind of tears come when inner bliss happens; when God feels near; when His footfall begins to be heard. Then you cannot even believe that so much bliss could happen to me—to one so unworthy! to a nothing! to a sinner like me? Could such unprecedented bliss happen to me? It may happen to saints, to Buddhas and Mahaviras. Could it happen to me! Belief does not come easily. The thrill becomes so intense that it overflows from every side. Tears will come even in that moment.

So there are distinctions among tears. Therefore don’t always think that if tears are coming, something is wrong, some mistake or lapse. And slowly you will begin to recognize that the taste of tears differs. You will know when tears flowed from peace, when from sorrow, when from happiness, when from bliss.

The tears that have flowed in you are tears of bliss; flow with them; let them flow. They will purify and refine you. They will bathe you; they will wash your heart. Through those very tears, slowly all your impurity, all your blemish will be washed away. They will carry away all the dust. You will become pristine. In that pristine state God descends. In that pristine state you become a tirthankara—you rise to the highest a human being can rise. You have done what a human being can do. You have staked your all; held nothing back.

Remember: as long as you keep something in reserve and do not stake it, the descent does not happen. When you have staked everything and nothing is left, in that very instant the descent happens. Where human effort is complete, from there the rain of grace begins.

All the veils of logic turn to the finest Dhaka muslin. I keep rising and sitting, staring fixedly, I feel like walking up to the door. All the veils of logic turn to the finest Dhaka muslin. Within, the flock of inner birds utter indistinct calls, some meaningless tremors are stirred. The mind’s lost kind of clamor surged up, spreading commotion. Remembrances awoke, the strings quivered, the bonds of restraint opened of themselves. Body and mind restless, a fevered day— life’s ice drips, melting, melting.

Let these tears flow.

Remembrances awoke, the strings quivered— do not stop, do not control; otherwise an unprecedented, priceless opportunity will be missed just as it is arriving, lost at the very touch of the hand.

Remembrances awoke, the strings quivered, the bonds of restraint opened of themselves. Body and mind restless, a fevered day— life’s ice drips, melting, melting.

Let it flow. These tears of yours are coming from the melting of the ice of your life. This life-ice is melting and dripping. There is no offering more beautiful than this. There are no flowers more beautiful to lay at the feet of the Lord than these. The flowers that gather in your eyes—those are the most beautiful. Offer them.

The devotee has attained by weeping. But there is no sorrow in this weeping. In this weeping there is great prayer, great worship. In the devotee’s tears there is a great fragrance, a deep invitation, a calling, a waiting.

Listen—to the inner sound that is rising. Ponder—over the inner sound that is rising. Drown in it.

Remembrances awoke, the strings quivered, the bonds of restraint opened of themselves.

When remembrances begin to awaken… this is the long-asleep remembrance. It is the memory of one’s own home; the remembrance of one’s long-separated lover; the memory of the Supreme Beloved. This nāda that you hear within—these are the ankle-bells tied to His feet.

In the hope that perhaps a diamond lies buried in the ashes; in the hope that if millions are searching in these ashes, then surely there must be something there. Everyone thinks this way.

You have heard the story: an emperor had a great cistern built at his gate and commanded that every person in the capital bring one pitcher of milk and pour it into the cistern. But the next morning, when they looked, the cistern was filled with water! Thousands of pitchers of milk should have come—there wasn’t even one. He asked his vizier what had happened. The vizier said, “Man’s logic is simple: each person thought, ‘In so many thousands of pitchers of milk, who will notice my one pitcher of water?’ But everyone thought the same way. So no milk came—only water.”

The vizier added, “Now what should I hide from you? I myself poured a pitcher of water!”

The emperor said, “Since you have confessed—what should I hide? I too poured a pitcher of water!”

Such are man’s rationalizations. A child is born. He sees everyone sitting on their own heap of ashes, scratching and digging—father, mother, loved ones, relatives, society, the whole world—each perched on a pile of ashes, rummaging in it. From whom will the child learn if not from you? He will imitate you—are you not his teachers? Seeing you all sitting on your heaps, he too sits down. He begins his search. And he also thinks that when millions upon millions are searching in these heaps of ashes, wealth must indeed be buried here. How could so many be mistaken!

The crowd looks formidable. So many cannot be wrong—can they?

Usually the truth is the opposite. We should ask: how could so many be right? If so many were right, then truth would belong to all. But the crowd can never be true. Truth comes only to the rare, the one-in-a-million. The crowd is always wrong.

Yet the crowd is everywhere. It infects you—its thoughts are contagious. Schools, colleges, universities—all teach that in this heap of ashes gold is buried, diamonds lie, the Kohinoor is hidden. Search! Everywhere ambition is taught. Everywhere greed is taught. Everywhere the worship and prestige of the ego are taught.

Parents are teaching it, teachers are teaching it. Your so‑called gurus, pundits, priests, politicians are teaching it. There is a single chorus. The real wonder is that once in a while some rare individual—some Kabir, some Nanak, some Charandas—slips out and escapes. That is the miracle.

I am not surprised, seeing you, that billions lie on heaps of ashes. I am astonished that Charandas managed to escape! At the age of nineteen—how was it possible? How did he save himself from so many influences, so many ill effects? How did he slip out of this prison, where there seems to be no exit at all?

“To the one who blesses me with life— I cannot help but laugh at your simplicity.”

One day you too will feel this. Elders bless you: “Live a hundred years.” No one bothers to ask why they are giving such a blessing. Live a hundred years, live a thousand years—for what? To keep scratching at the same heap of ashes? What will you do?

Is that any blessing? What meaning is there in a long life? A blessing should be: Live in such a way that you know the truth. Whether you live two days or one day—what difference does it make? A hundred years digging into a pile of ashes—what will that yield?

Live one moment—but live it in God.

“To the one who blesses me with life— I cannot help but laugh at your simplicity.”

But those who bless you with life are themselves entangled in the attachment to life. An old man says, “Son, live a hundred years.” In truth he is saying, “We too want to live a hundred years. We could not; our elders’ blessings didn’t work. Perhaps ours will!” Whether it works or not, at least they pass along their good wishes.

But what will life in itself do? Life is not valuable in and of itself. What is attained in life? Where does life lead? What is its essence and extract? Only if the divine is found does anything come of it. If the divine is not found, live as long as you like—you go on living, merely being thrashed about. From one stone to another you fall, getting bruised and bloodied as you pass through. This is how life has been going on.

Then, digging in the ashes, when you find nothing—because there is nothing to find there—you go from one heap to another. You think: “Not in this heap. That’s straightforward logic. If there’s nothing here, let’s try another heap.”

One person seeks wealth; one day he gets wealth and discovers he has gained nothing. Then he stakes all his wealth to contest an election—“Let me become prime minister; let me try another heap!” The man who becomes prime minister finds, as prime minister, that nothing is gained. He thinks, “Well then, for the two or three years or however long I have, let me make as much money as I can.” He pulls in ten or fifty crores by hook or crook and sits on it.

You see this—it happens every day. People spend money to get power; once in power they start amassing money! It’s astonishing. If money was all you wanted, you already had it—why spend it? But he already dug that heap and found nothing there. So he stakes everything—perhaps the office holds something! Then he gets the office, looks, finds nothing; in panic he quickly hoards money. Or he tries something else—somewhere, somehow, he keeps searching. People keep changing sides, changing angles, turning from one flank to another. But every heap surrounding you is a heap of ashes.

Eventually it even happens that a person has tried position, wealth, prestige, name, fame—everything—and found nothing anywhere. Then he says, “Let me get liberation, let me attain heaven.” But peek into his longing for heaven—he is asking for the very same things he wanted here. In heaven too he wants palaces of gold; in heaven too he wants beautiful apsaras, houris and ghilman; and in heaven too rivers of wine to flow!

Can you fathom man’s madness? The things that yielded nothing here are exactly what he asks for there. Once again he clutches a heap! Now the heap bears the name of religion—temple, mosque, priest, pundit. But even here nothing will happen, because you are still searching for the same. No understanding has dawned.

To the one in whom understanding dawns, the outward search ends. Not only in the world but even in heaven—searching outside becomes futile. When understanding comes, one turns within. He says, “First let me know who I am. I am trying to satisfy a being whose nature I do not know. First let me recognize my nature.” And the beauty is this: the very recognizing of that nature becomes fulfillment.

The diamond you are searching for is within you; you yourself are the diamond you have gone out to find.

“In the small nook of solitude, I keep offering consolation upon consolation— the restless heart consoles me, and I console the restless heart.”

Here you do nothing but dole out consolations. If you don’t find it in one place, you console yourself it will be found in another. Not in this house? Then in the next.

One night a thief entered Mulla Nasruddin’s house. Mulla quickly lit a lantern and followed him. The thief was startled. He had stolen in many houses; sometimes the owner had woken up—a dangerous moment. But that the owner would actually take a lantern and accompany him, pointing things out! He was rattled. He said, “Nasruddin, are you in your senses? I am a thief, and you are showing me light! At least call the police.” Mulla said, “What is the point of calling the police? I have got a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I’ve been searching this house for thirty years and found nothing. Perhaps something will turn up for you. We’ll split it half and half. That’s why I’m walking with you carrying the lantern. You search. A warm welcome. You came—good you came. Do keep coming.”

You keep on searching and find nothing. Then what do you do? You console yourself: You’ll get it in heaven—if not here. Perhaps not in this village, but in the next. Perhaps not in this work, but in another. Perhaps not in this wife, but in the next. Perhaps not in this child, but in another. But somewhere it will be found; it will be found outside.

The meaning of the world is this delusion: it will be found outside.

It’s all ashes—outside it is only ashes. The diamond is within. The diamond is you. The diamond is your consciousness. The diamond is your witnessing.

And the sooner you awaken the better, because many times it happens that life slips from your hands and you never awaken. Death stands at the door, and you go on scratching in the ashes!

Right now we will become uninteresting, right now you will say that the pretext of conversation is useless, right now I will say that the business of the world is futile. Right now, upon your tongue, you will begin in a few moments to taste burning sand; right now, upon my tongue, I will not be able to bring into these solitudes the beautiful, angelic names. Right now all minds will fall ill, right now all dreams will be helpless, hands stretched up to the sky will all become useless. For better or worse, at least for now, we are intact; right now the cataclysm is about to break. If the wish for the death of feeling remains the final value, right now, in the desert of a lifeless past, we will be lost; right now we will become uninteresting.

Death can seize you at any moment, and all the color and melody of your life will fade. Right now you are very interesting. Just now life is flavorful. Just now you are richly colored. Just now, with great eagerness, you are engaged in your search—to get this, to get that.

Right now we will become uninteresting. This will not continue for long. Death will come, and you will become utterly uninteresting. Those who loved you will carry you to the cremation ground. Those who adorned you will place you on the bier. Those who loved you, who tied to you a thousand loves—they will not hesitate to lift you onto the funeral pyre.

Right now we will become uninteresting, right now you will say that the pretext of conversation is useless, right now I will say that the business of the world is futile.

But if understanding dawns only when death comes, it is too late. Then you will have to come again—return to this school to take the lesson once more. You will be born again; again you will fall into the prison of the womb; again those nine months of the womb’s filth—its hell. Then you will grow; again ambition; again you will find people sitting on heaps of ashes; again the same schooling; again the same race. What hope is there that you will awaken then—if you do not awaken now? Because the longer you remain asleep, the stronger the habit of not-awakening becomes. With each passing moment your possibility diminishes, because habits harden—wrong habits become strong.

Right now, upon your tongue, you will begin in a few moments to taste burning sand— it will not take long. Soon you will find that the ashes I speak of— “It’s all ashes”—will be on your lips, will be upon your tongue. Very soon—

Right now, upon your tongue, you will begin in a few moments to taste burning sand.

There are only a few moments in your hands; soon your mouth will be filled with ash. The taste of burning sand will quickly spread through your being.

Right now, upon my tongue, I will not be able to bring into these solitudes the beautiful, angelic names—

and those beautiful pictures that are visible now, all around—the beautiful women, the handsome men—this dream of the world’s beauty—when you fall to the ground and the breath stops, you will not even be able to utter a word about this beauty. But then it will be too late.

Right now all minds will fall ill— death arrived the very day you were born. From that day it began to walk with you—death is your shadow.

Right now all minds will fall ill— these hearts and minds will soon be sick.

Right now all dreams will be helpless— all these ambitions and dreams—“I will become this, I will do that”—soon they will collapse.

Right now all dreams will be helpless. Hands stretched up to the sky will all become useless— these little hands you stretch up to the heavens to grasp the moon and stars—

hands stretched up to the sky will all become useless.

For better or worse, at least for now, we are intact. As you are now—at least you are. Use this being. Do not let this hour slip by as it is. Do not wait for tomorrow. Tomorrow is death; today is life—now is life.

For better or worse, at least for now, we are intact. Right now the cataclysm is about to break.

But death will break upon you; dissolution will happen.

If the wish for the death of feeling remains the final value— if the last value you lay your hands on in this life is death, then what value has this life? That is why I tell you: it’s all ashes.

Where in the end only death arrives, there can be nothing but ashes. The final proof is death. Death is the conclusion of life. All the running and rushing only ends in death.

If the wish for the death of feeling remains the final value, right now, in the desert of a lifeless past, we will be lost— it won’t take long. Now we are, and soon we’ll be past.

Right now, in the desert of a lifeless past, we will be lost— our stories, our life tales will be lost in the wasteland of the past.

How many people have lived on this earth! Not even traces remain. Footprints drawn on the sands of time begin to be erased the moment they are made. Nothing remains.

Where you are sitting, how many have not sat there across endless ages! No memory of them, no trace. Today you sit as if you have always sat here—as if you will sit here forever! In the houses you live, how many have not lived before! Every plot of ground has become a grave a thousand times. Settlements have arisen and become cremation grounds; cremation grounds have been resettled and become towns again.

There was a Sufi fakir, Ibrahim. He was a king at first, but a small event happened and he descended from the throne.

One day a fakir stood at his gate to beg. He asked for an odd alms: he told the doorkeeper he wanted food and also lodging for the night, to let him stay in this inn. The doorkeeper said, “This is no inn, sir! Come to your senses—this is the king’s palace. If the king hears, you’ll be in trouble. He is a dangerous man; to call his palace an inn is an insult.”

But the beggar said, “Go on, go. You won’t be able to fool me. An inn is an inn.”

The emperor heard this. He was intrigued by the man. He said, “Bring him in.” He was also angry. “You call this an inn? A dharmashala? This is my residence! This is the royal palace! Can’t you see? Are you blind? Blind in the eyes?”

But the fakir was a different sort. He met Ibrahim’s gaze and said, “You call me blind? It is you who are blind, for I have come here before and saw, on this very throne and with the same arrogance, another man sitting.” Ibrahim said, “He was my father.” The fakir said, “I came even before that and saw a third man sitting here—with the same swagger, the same blindness, speaking the same nonsense.” Ibrahim said, “He was my grandfather.” The fakir asked, “Where are they now?”

Ibrahim was pierced to the heart. The matter became clear—two men were here and are here no more. The fakir said, “And when I come again tomorrow—or some other day—will I find you? That is why I call this an inn. Why be angry? Here people stop over and then go. What else is the meaning of an inn? Your grandfather lived—he thought it was his house. Your father lived—he thought it was his house. Now you live—you think it is yours. Tomorrow your son will say the same, and his sons after him. How long will this go on? Who is blind—you or I?”

The blow struck home. Ibrahim must have been an extraordinary man; he descended from the throne. He said, “You stay in the inn—I am going. If it is an inn, it is not right to remain.”

The fakir stayed, and the emperor left the palace. He went to live outside the town beneath a tree. He had been the king of Balkh; he lived outside the village of Balkh. And often it would happen that travelers and caravans would ask him for directions, because two roads diverged near the tree under which he sat.

People would ask, “Which road goes to the town?” He would say, “Go left. Don’t by mistake go right—the right-hand road goes to the cremation ground. The left road goes to the settlement.” And within an hour or two people would return angrily from the left—because it led to the cremation ground. Sometimes they would be ready to beat him. “You look simple and straight—why trouble us strangers?” But Ibrahim would say, “Then it seems our languages differ. What you call a settlement, I left because there people do nothing but die. It is a cremation ground. Everyone is lined up to die. How can I call it a settlement? No one is settled there, no one will ever be settled there.”

“My master awakened me in exactly this way. He told me, ‘What you call your home is an inn.’ That very day I understood that what people call a settlement is not a settlement but a cremation ground. Every person is to die! People stand in a queue. The queue keeps moving forward. One dies—then you shift a little closer; another dies—you shift a little closer. You are drawing near death. How can I call it a settlement? No one has ever been settled there. And I call the cremation ground a settlement because whoever becomes absorbed there, becomes absorbed. He is settled—settled forever. I have never seen anyone return after merging there. So there is some confusion between your tongue and mine. Forgive me.”

Keep in mind what this Ibrahim is saying. Today is in your hands.

Right now we will become uninteresting— it will not take long. Wake up before that. Understand before that.

If you can be alert, be alert. In that very alertness is transformation.

First thing: do not be filled with greed. Do not bring greed into meditation, otherwise meditation will be ruined; even the momentary glimpse you are getting will be lost. If you want to lose even that which comes for a moment, then bring in greed.

I see this here every day. When the happening of meditation begins, naturally greed is aroused. Greed is already lying within. Greed is not only about money; there is greed for meditation too. Greed is greed; what it is for is irrelevant.

Greed means: more. If there is money—more. If there is position—more. If there is prestige—more. Whatever there is, more. This greed is lodged in you. Send this greed out. Otherwise, when meditation arrives, this greed will immediately say, “More.” What can a moment do! The eternal is needed.

Now understand a little. At any time, you only ever get a single moment. Two moments never come together. If you have learned to be silent in one moment, what more is needed? Your whole life will be silent. If you have learned to be silent in a single moment, you have learned the art. But greed will say, “What use is a single moment of silence!”

One completes a journey of a thousand miles step by step. No one can walk a thousand steps at once. Not even two steps can be taken simultaneously. You walk only when you take one step.

You get one moment at a time. When one slips from your hand, then the next comes. If you have learned the art of coloring a single moment with meditation, blessed you are. Do not then awaken greed, or greed will destroy even this moment.

Now you say, “Momentary detachment is dreamlike.”

That is your greed speaking. Your demand has begun to arise.

When the event of meditation begins, at first it will happen only in a moment; the door of the moment will open; at first you will peep through the little window of the moment.

Now when the window of the moment opens, two possibilities exist. One is that you give thanks to the Divine: “O Lord, I was not even worthy of this much; You opened the window for a moment—this itself is much. My receptivity was not even this. It must have happened by Your grace; it must be Your compassion, because You are Rahim, You are Rahman. You are compassionate; therefore it happened. Nothing happens by my worthiness.” This is one attitude. This is the attitude of the devotee.

The devotee says, “No, no, I cannot even trust that You will give me more glimpses of meditation! I am a sinner; I am poor and lowly; the worst of the worst. What good is there in me! When I go looking for what is bad, I find none worse than me; when I look for what is good, I find all better than me. And yet Your grace upon me! Upon this last one? It must be Your love, Your compassion. Without cause You shower upon me.”

If this feeling remains, meditation will grow. It will deepen, because there is no greed in it. There is humility; there is desirelessness. There is gratitude for whatever has been received. Is even that not enough! Do not call it dreamlike.

Even a moment’s meditation is not a dream. And a hundred years of life are a dream. Meditation is truth—whether it comes for a moment or eternally. And life is a dream—whether it lasts a moment or forever; it makes no difference.

Truth and untruth have nothing to do with the quantity of time.

Awaken gratitude; bid farewell to greed.

And the other arrangement, the other device, is this: the moment meditation comes, you say, “I want more; what will this much do!”

A gentleman came to me—educated, a politician, a minister in some state. He said to me, “I cannot sleep. I have come only so you will give me some method by which sleep will come. I am tired of medicines. They work a day or two, then I have to increase the dose. If I take more, I feel sluggish all day. Then I have to take a drug to remove the sluggishness! If I take more to remove the sluggishness, then I cannot sleep at night. I have fallen into a cycle and cannot get out. What shall I do?”

He said, “I have no curiosity about God, nor am I seeking meditation. I only want to sleep, that’s all—please do just that much.”

I asked him, “Are you sure you won’t ask for anything else? Only sleep?” He said, “Absolutely—I can even give it to you in writing.” He did not even know that there was a tape recorder in the room and everything was being recorded. He swore that he needed nothing beyond sleep.

I gave him a few meditative experiments and told him, “Come after a month and tell me.”

He came after a month. I asked, “How are you?” He was gloomy. “All right; I have begun to sleep; nothing else has happened!” I said, “Do you remember what you said a month ago?” He said, “What did I say?”

I had the tape brought. He listened; at first he could not believe he had said it. Then he remembered: “Yes, I did say that. I apologize—but what will only sleep do?”

Look how the mind is! What is not obtained appears meaningful; the moment it is obtained, it becomes meaningless—instantly meaningless. This is the mind’s trick. The mind always asks for what is absent.

Now meditation has begun to descend in you for a moment—you are blessed. How many on this earth even get a moment? Where is meditation to be found! Emperors don’t get it; the wealthy don’t get it; your so-called renunciates, sadhus and monks don’t get it. Countless sadhus and mahatmas have told me that meditation does not happen!

They have renounced all; they fast; they torment the body in every way, perform austerities—and meditation does not happen. And you have it for a moment! And you say, “It is dreamlike.” Give thanks; live in awe. The moment will lengthen; it will grow by itself.

But if you say, “I want more—what will this much do! What is there in this? If it comes only for a moment—what is the use?”...

I understand your difficulty: when it comes for a moment, naturally the desire to get more arises. I am not saying it is unnatural. But it is dangerous—natural, yet dangerous. Perfectly natural. One who has tasted will ask.

You were thirsty; water had never been found. You knew only thirst. Then one drop touched your throat. A little satiation descended. For a moment, satisfaction rippled in the throat. Now naturally you say, “What will one drop do? What will this much do? At least let the throat be full! Let thirst be quenched.” This much only stirs the thirst more!

I understand. It is natural.

Sometimes you have seen it: at night you are walking along a road in darkness. It is dark, yet you still see something; after a while, your eyes begin to see even in the dark. Then a car with bright headlights passes. Its pulsing light strikes your eyes—and the car goes on. After that, you stumble. Now you can see nothing. Because that flash of light fell on your eyes for a moment, the darkness now looks even darker.

So I know: when meditation descends for a moment, it is entirely natural that the world then seems utterly futile. You had been gathering pebbles and stones all along; then a small diamond fell into your hand. But the moment the diamond is in your hand, trouble begins: there will be no taste left in gathering pebbles and stones. Now you will want only diamonds. This is natural.

Then once again it is the same night, the same desolation of the heart, and I am alone: If you had not met me and then left, it would have been much easier— To pass along life’s unfamiliar roads. Had you not changed the measure of my gaze, It would not have been hard to be amused by the world. Where shall I bring today the pain of my loneliness from? To whom shall I plead? From whom shall I ask a remedy? Even in forgetfulness I cannot forget the one I wish to forget. O my heart’s wildness, tell me what I should seek. How long shall I search in the colors of cheeks, in tulips and roses? How long shall I, taking flames for your lips, keep kissing fire? Lost in the feel of a marble body, How long shall I wander aimlessly in moonlit nights? A heart perfumed by the fragrance of your breath— How will it be soothed by tulips and roses? One who until yesterday saw your blossoming lips— How will mere buds bursting console him today? A flash that leapt once in my eyes— After that I saw nothing but darkness. A star that once fell in my nights— No miracle did my eyes ever show me again. Once again it is the same night, the desolation of the heart, and I am alone.

When a moment of love enters your experience, it becomes difficult. Then what to say of a moment of prayer—how much more difficult it will become!

One who has not known love has a certain convenience in life. He faces fewer obstacles. That is why, for centuries, the “prudent,” the so‑called wise, removed love from human life and arranged marriage. To know love becomes dangerous. Marriage is a mild affair, no blaze. Marriage is an arrangement, not a lightning flash. There is convenience in marriage.

The West has taken the risk—love marriage. Love marriage is dangerous. Dangerous because in love such heights are seen that one no longer wishes to descend. And a person cannot remain on those heights for long. The mind is so restless that, having seen two or four days of love’s height, it wants the same height every day. It demands that such a height be always available. Having seen a little glimpse of beauty—the honeymoon, the first bridal night, the ecstasy—now it demands that every night be a bridal night. Not every night can be. Then the mind becomes very restless.

If love comes, marriage goes—therefore marriage is disappearing in the West. One third divorce. Marriage is taking leave. Those who do not divorce have found backdoor arrangements. But marriage is finished. No future.

When love arrives, marriage goes. What danger does love bring? Love gives you a glimpse of the sky; then walking on the earth becomes difficult. Then you begin to demand: more sky, greater height, deeper experience. When it is not found, you seek elsewhere—in another woman, another man.

Keep this song in mind: Once again it is the same night, the desolation of the heart, and I am alone. If you had not met me and then left, it would have been much easier To pass along life’s unfamiliar roads.

It would have been easy... If you had not met me and then left, it would have been much easier To pass along life’s unfamiliar roads.

You changed the measure of my gaze— Had you not, there would have been no difficulty In letting the world amuse me. I would have amused myself—with wealth, position, prestige. But love has made it difficult. Now I feel: if only that old loneliness would return, it would be good.

Where shall I bring today the pain of my solitude? That was good; that sorrow was good—when there was no recognition of joy. The world was good when there was no glimpse of sannyas. At least we were settled. Then we became uprooted. Here there is nothing of substance, and where there is substance, the condition is this: do not demand—walk with gratitude.

To whom shall I plead? From whom shall I seek a remedy? Now whom shall I complain to? To whom shall I pray? Who will treat me? From whom shall I ask a cure?

Even in forgetfulness I cannot forget the one I wish to forget. Once it has happened, even forgetting is no longer possible.

I understand your difficulty. That momentary descent of meditation—you will not be able to forget it now. Now that alone is most valuable in your life. That peak, like a lighthouse, will illumine you. Its memory will not go.

Even in forgetfulness I cannot forget the one I wish to forget. O my heart’s wildness, tell me what I should seek. The color of cheeks, tulips and roses—how long shall I search there? Having seen the Beloved, even flowers seem pale. Having glimpsed the Beloved, roses and lotuses no longer compare; moon and stars no longer seem luminous.

The color of cheeks... Having once seen your face... How long shall I search in tulips and roses?

Taking flames as your lips—how long shall I kiss fire? Having known your lips, how can I now place my lips on embers?

Lost in the feel of a marble body... Having seen your body, marble-smooth, having known your body—

Lost in the feel of a marble body, How long shall I wander without cause in moonlit nights? I wander much in the moonlight now, but even moonlight no longer fills the heart.

A heart perfumed by the fragrance of your breath— Your breath’s fragrance has filled it.

A heart perfumed by the fragrance of your breath— How will tulips and roses amuse it now? Granted that flowers bloom—many flowers—but they can no longer console.

One who until yesterday saw your blossoming lips— Who saw the flowers of your lips—

How will the bursting of buds console him today? A flash that once leapt in my eyes— A lightning of love.

A flash that once leapt in my eyes— After that I saw nothing but darkness. A star that once fell in my nights— After that, no miracle did my eyes behold, nor did they show me any. Everything remained stuck on that one memory.

Once again it is the same night, the desolation of the heart, and I am alone— And the desolation will be greater than before; the night darker than before.

Therefore I want to say to you—your question is important; it concerns everyone. One who has known even a moment of meditation, even momentarily, I understand his difficulty.

So I am not saying your demand is unnatural. It is natural. But remember: that very demand will become the obstacle. You must rise above natural demand.

Meditation is the very name of rising above nature. The natural mind will say: more, more. If you want “more, more,” even what has come will be lost. A faint memory will remain—a thorn stuck in your being—but meditation will be gone. For meditation and greed do not meet. Desire and meditation do not meet.

Do not ask. Give thanks for what has come. Be grateful for what has been given; dance, celebrate. That is why the final step of each of my methods of meditation is gratitude, the feeling of grace, a sense of “ah!”

Celebrate; make it a festival; dance in thankfulness. What has come is already more than your worthiness; there is grace in it.

And you will be amazed—day by day your prasad will increase. As your sense of gratitude deepens, so will the showers of grace upon you.

The Divine is not found by asking; He comes by thanksgiving. The very name of desire—at its arrival—you go astray. And you ask me to show you a way by which you may desire!

“Whenever desire arises, you go wrong.” Do not bind the Divine in desire. Whatever you bind in desire will bring you sorrow. Desire brings suffering.

Do not bind the Divine in desire; free the Divine in gratitude. Do not spread the nets of wanting. Give the freedom of thankfulness. Say only this: “You have given so much—this is plenty. What more can I ask! What more can I desire!” And you will be astonished tomorrow: more has come. Then too, be mindful.

Gradually you will understand the secret: some things do not come by asking. Some things are lost by asking. The day you understand this, the key is in your hand. With that key the final door of the Divine also opens.

That is all for today.