Nam Sumir Man Bavre #10
Available in:
Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Questions in this Discourse
First question:
Osho, I dance and I weep. Meditation brings me great bliss, yet sometimes a question wrings my heart: after all, what need is there for sadhana, for meditation, for God-realization?
Osho, I dance and I weep. Meditation brings me great bliss, yet sometimes a question wrings my heart: after all, what need is there for sadhana, for meditation, for God-realization?
Rajkishore! Life is not only need; it is something more than need. And one whose life is merely an addition of needs has not known life at all. He was born in vain and lived in vain. Need means business. Beyond need lies the poetry of life.
What need is there for a rose? Wheat is necessary; the rose is not. But a life with only wheat and no roses—can you not see its futility? If life is only shops upon shops and no temple, the rose is missed. Then you get up in the morning, go to the office, earn, return in the evening, eat and drink, and go to sleep.
This is all right. It is necessary; it must be done. To live, livelihood is needed; bread is needed, income is needed. But from where will fragrance enter into this whole life? How will beauty be born? Let there be something in life that lies outside the circle of need—something that need not be done, and yet we do it. From just there, precisely there, the connection with the Divine begins.
God is not a need at all. Without God, things go on perfectly well—truthfully speaking, without God things seem to go on even more smoothly, more conveniently. Then if you cheat there is no hindrance; if you steal there is no hindrance; if you lie there is no hindrance.
God’s presence only creates hindrances—what gain is there? Dishonesty becomes difficult. The conscience will pinch. As the connection with God grows, you will find many things that were easy yesterday become impossible. You lied so effortlessly that no one noticed. The tongue had become habituated to lying. If your relation with God deepens, someone will pull your tongue back from within. You will go to lie and your tongue will stop. Even if you want to speak, you will not be able to. In spite of yourself, something will draw you back. You will go to steal and won’t be able to. You will try to deceive and it will become impossible. It will feel easier to be deceived than to deceive.
So there is no “need” for God. But then reflect a little on your life. What will it be? There will be no flowers—there will be money, a safe, a bank account. But from where will the poetry enter your life? How will you dance? How will you hum a song? “With anklets on her feet, Meera danced”—how will you ever say such a thing?
Do you think there was any need when Meera tied anklets to her feet and danced? Could life not have gone on without it? So many people—hundreds of thousands—lived quite well without tying anklets. Yet the fragrance in Meera’s life, the ecstasy, the festival—others did not have it. The radiance on Meera’s face, the depth in her eyes, the hue of her heart—where lamps are ever lit, where it is forever Diwali; where colored powder is ever being tossed, where it is forever Holi—that kind of heart others do not have.
Yes, life can go on without Diwali and Holi—what hindrance is there? But a life without Holi and Diwali is life only in name. We call a dry, barren bush a “tree” too—though no leaves ever come, no flowers ever bloom, no fruit ever ripens. So barren will be such a life.
And for you there is a further snag. You say, “I dance, I weep. Meditation brings great bliss.” Now you want to turn even bliss into a need? To mint bliss into coins? To lock it away in a safe? To use bliss as a vehicle for status and prestige?
Bliss cannot be used for any purpose. And only that is truly valuable which cannot be used. Tomorrow the sun will rise, the east will blush crimson, birds will sing—what use will you make of this supreme beauty? It will neither still hunger nor quench thirst. Hence many have stopped even looking at the beauty of morning. What need is there? They only see beauty in currency notes.
At night the sky is filled with stars, and countless people do not lift their eyes to look. The same question stands before them: what is the need? They keep their gaze fixed on the ground, hunting for some shard or trinket that might be useful, rummaging on heaps of refuse for something “of use.” Yet when the sky is star-filled and you, too, open your eyes to it, the sky within you also fills with stars.
So there is no “need” for any of this. Life could have gone on without it. But without it, there is no meaning, no dignity, no glory, no flavor. Then you are a machine. If your life is completed within need alone, you are a machine. A machine could do your work—and do it better than you.
When does the difference between man and machine begin? A car, too, “needs” things—fuel, water, oil, petrol, maintenance. If your life is only this much... A car cannot dance; it cannot sing. The sky may be filled with stars, but it cannot relate to them. Whether or not the sun rises tomorrow, the car will not notice.
Many have decided to live just like that—living as machines. Where are the human beings? There are machines. And in your life, the human has already begun, the sprout has broken ground.
You say, “I dance, I weep. Meditation brings great bliss, yet sometimes a question wrings my heart.”
From where is this question coming? From your intellect. The intellect is afraid of meditation; it is afraid of bliss. The intellect always thinks in the language of profit: what is the gain?
People come to me and ask, “If we meditate, what will be the benefit?” As if the benefit could be quoted in rupees: you will get a hundred thousand, a million. I tell them: you will be able to dance; you will be filled with delight. A festival will descend into your life. You will know who you are. They say, “All that is fine—but what is the benefit?”
A life that ends at utility is irreligious. Religion is purposeless; it is ecstasy. That is why in this land we have called the religious life Leela—divine play. Leela means: that in which there is no purpose.
Why is Krishna playing the flute? Will there be a shower of banknotes? Why is Krishna enacting the Rasa? This dance of the gopis beneath the stars, in their shade! These songs of Krishna! What is the cash value of it? Could you take it to the market and encash it? The night is going “wasted,” going “useless.”
Bertrand Russell wrote in his memoirs that once he went to see a tribal community. Russell was the greatest thinker of this century, a great mathematician. If you want accounts done, you could ask Russell. The most significant book on mathematics in this century was written by him: Principia Mathematica. They say barely a few people can understand it.
A mathematician, thinker, Nobel laureate, world-renowned philosopher—and he was enchanted watching the tribespeople dance under the canopy of stars; his eyes filled with tears. He wrote that day he felt his life had nothing in it. “Take everything from me, but let me dance like that under the trees—with the same exuberance, the same simplicity, the same innocence—and I will have gained all. Take all of mine and give me back that dance.”
But such a dance is not regained by mere saying. We have piled so many stones around our feet that dancing has become difficult. We have gathered so many rocks around the heart that the spring has ceased to flow.
It will not happen by words alone. The rocks must be removed. That is precisely what we are doing here. The experiment here is to remove the rocks from your heart; to unbind the stones tied to your feet, so that you may become light. To lighten the burden on your head—so that you can dance again. So you can again see the greenery of trees, again hear the birds’ songs. So that when the cuckoo calls, your very life coos in response; when you behold a river, a current begins to flow within you.
There is no benefit in it—let me warn you beforehand. No benefit at all. You will not reach Delhi; you will not become prime minister. Nor will you gain resources to fatten your ego.
And I am not saying, “Abandon the work of life.” Work has its necessity, but sometimes also listen to music. Labor in its time, music in its time. Wealth in its place, meditation in its place. Do not mix the two.
And let me remind you again and again: I am not an opponent of wealth. I hold no reverence for poverty. In this country for centuries the poor have been honored, therefore the country is poor. And it will remain poor so long as poverty is honored. I have no respect for poverty; poverty has no value for me.
So I am not telling you to become poor, to beg; nor am I saying, “What will come of earning money? What will come of running a shop?” I say: much comes of running a shop. But the shop is a means, not an end. Money is a means, not an end. The end is meditation. With money you can meditate more easily; without money it becomes very difficult.
“Bhukhe bhajan na hoye, Gopala!” On an empty stomach, how will a person worship? When there is only hunger, how will prayer arise? When there are only worries upon worries, how will you sit in prayer? The child is crying, the wife is ill, the rains have come and the thatch is collapsing—and you will pray? Impossible. To expect this of you is inhuman. And in this country, inhuman expectations have been placed upon you: that you should pray, that you should meditate.
I am not a supporter of poverty. Poverty is a disease, a great disease; it must be eradicated. Yet I am not in agreement with the communists that once poverty is removed, everything is accomplished.
To understand my position requires very subtle reflection. I do not agree with your so-called spiritualists who say a man should remain naked, hungry, thirsty, fasting, drying up, wasting away—and keep meditating. This is a sickly desire, a derangement. It is to demand the impossible of man.
Nor do I agree with the communists who say: let poverty disappear, let money, food, housing, cars, radios, televisions be available—and that’s the end! What more is needed? I agree with both and disagree with both. Each has only half.
In my view, wealth should be, must be. Put in your full effort to earn it. But wealth is not the end of wealth. When wealth comes, you have convenience. Now seek music, seek literature, seek religion. Now wealth has given you the arrangement that you can build a prayer room in your home; that you can sit quietly for an hour; you can dance for an hour. Now dance! Now sing! And you will be amazed that your wealth, too, has become meaningful because of your meditation. Even your money has found purpose.
In this world, whatever we can acquire outside is all means; the end is within. And remember: never ask, “What is the end for?” The very meaning of “end” is that it is final—an end in itself, not a means to something else.
God is the ultimate. Therefore you cannot make God a means to something else. Everything else must be made a means to That—body, wealth, life, mind, heart. Thoughts and feelings, all must be offered there. But do not make the mistake of asking, “What is the use of That?” For That is the final end. The ultimate end we call God—for whom all is done, and in whom we dive into bliss.
Have you ever asked, “What is the essence of bliss?” The essence of bliss is bliss. What is the essence of love? The essence of love is love. But the essence of money is not money. Its value lies in what you do with it. Otherwise, whether you had money or not is the same.
Hence the miser is the most pitiable person in the world. He possesses money, yet has no essence. The miser has wealth but does not know how to use it. He coils over his money like a snake. Stories rightly say that when a miser dies, he becomes a snake coiled on his safe, a ghost. He was a ghost while living. After death he does not need to become one—he never lived; he was already dead.
I have heard of a man who had buried gold bricks in his garden. His daily task—call it worship, prayer, adoration—was to dig up the pit, look at the bricks, then fill it again. His heart would be greatly gratified. Thus his life passed. He grew old.
A fakir had watched this many times. One night the fakir took away the gold bricks and put bricks of stone in their place. The old man dug, saw the stone bricks, and at once beat his chest, screaming, “I am robbed! I am ruined!”
The fakir stood in the crowd and said, “Ruined, robbed—what’s the point? Why scream? What have you lost? If all you do is dig the pit and look daily, what difference does it make whether the bricks are gold or stone? Continue your worship. Since you won’t use them, what difference is there? Tell me the difference! If you can tell me the difference, I will have your gold returned. Isn’t this all you do—open it daily, uncover it daily, see it daily, then close it? You have done this for years; you will die doing the same. These stone bricks will serve just as well. The gold bricks have come into my hands; we will put them to use. If you want to use them, I will return them.”
The fakir is right. Money has no value in itself. Meditation has value in itself. Meditation’s worth is intrinsic—hidden in it. Money’s worth is external—you must do something with it. If you just sit over it, whether it was there or not becomes the same.
Understand this distinction.
There are two kinds of things in the world: means and ends. A means has no value in itself. An end has no value outside itself. Meditation is an end.
And you are tasting it, Rajkishore!
You say, “Great bliss comes, yet still a question arises.”
The mind keeps raising questions because the mind, the intellect, gets scared of things that are ends in themselves.
Understand the reason. The intellect itself is a means. Therefore, in amassing means, the intellect feels no danger—that is its own expansion. The intellect is a means; it, too, must be used to reach somewhere. If it is not used to reach, the intellect becomes deranged—spinning within itself, becoming sick.
Most people’s intellect spins within itself. It has no goal—directionless, bewildered. That is the condition of the deranged: he thinks a lot, but there is no gain, no result, no goal. He goes on thinking and thinking until he goes mad.
The intellect is a means. It must be dedicated to something, committed to something—surrendered to a great task, a goal larger than itself. Then the intellect begins to be meaningful. But the intellect fears this, because then it becomes number two, second. Wherever a great goal appears, the intellect becomes number two. Hidden in the intellect is our ego, which wants to remain number one, not number two.
So the question that arises in you—“What is the need for sadhana, meditation, God-realization?”—is being raised by your intellect. The intellect is asking, “What is the profit?”
And you are receiving bliss. Is bliss not enough? Must bliss yield some further profit? Is bliss not a profit in itself? Must the tears that flow in bliss be a means to something? Are the tears of bliss not roses, not lotuses floating upon a lake, not the sun risen at dawn? In that sway of ecstasy, do all the cuckoos’ calls not resound?
What is the center of the whole universe? To become absorbed in bliss. That is why we have defined God as Sachchidananda—truth, consciousness, bliss. Beyond that there is nothing.
Do not listen to the intellect, Rajkishore, or the bliss will be lost. The intellect, apart from suffering, has never given anyone anything. It has nothing to give. The intellect is barren. Put it in someone’s service, and it becomes meaningful.
The intellect is like a dictionary. You have a dictionary; all the words are in it—every word used by Kalidasa, by Bhavabhuti, by Rabindranath. The most beautiful words. You can sit with the dictionary at your side for a lifetime—do you think Kalidasa will be born within you, or a song by Rabindranath will arise? You have all the words; it is not that you lack anything. The dictionary is with you.
But words in themselves have no use. Arrange them; draw a tune from them; give them rhythm; shape them into poetry—then they will speak, then they will dance, then glory will descend upon them.
Life is the same. You have all the means. The Sufi fakirs say life is like a man sitting in his kitchen with a cookbook open—everything written on how to cook. There is flour, lentils, salt, water, ghee, and the stove is lit; but he just sits. The stove burns and burns and goes out—for how long can it burn? The flour grows stale—how long can it lie there? The water, kept standing, becomes foul. And do you think reading the cookbook will allay hunger?
The Sufis say: this man must do something. Mix water with the flour, add the salt, make chapatis, prepare some food. The fire is burning. All the means are given; the end you must discover. Whoever bakes the bread will be filled with supreme joy. The art of baking this bread is what we call religion.
Some people just keep reading the Gita—they are reading the cookbook. They think if they read the Gita every morning, the work is done. They parrot it. They have memorized it. Ask from anywhere, they will answer. But it has been of no use in their lives.
God has sent you into life with all the means. He has given the energy that can become meditation. He has placed the lamp which, when lit, becomes the light of Buddhahood. The lamp is there, the flame is there, everything is present—but the conjunction is missing. The veena is there; its strings must be plucked.
And your strings have begun to be plucked—that is why the intellect raises doubt. The intellect raises doubt when it sees its kingdom slipping away; when it sees that the Vast is now approaching through something other than itself; soon it will fade; soon it will have no use.
The intellect is very useful in the market, in the shop. What use is it in the temple? It is very useful in politics; what use is it in religion? Gradually it becomes clear: to enter the realm of religion, you must use the steps of intellect—and then go beyond intellect.
And beyond intellect—what profit, what loss! Those were all notions of the intellect. But there lies the supreme profit, the supreme state, the supreme treasure.
What need is there for a rose? Wheat is necessary; the rose is not. But a life with only wheat and no roses—can you not see its futility? If life is only shops upon shops and no temple, the rose is missed. Then you get up in the morning, go to the office, earn, return in the evening, eat and drink, and go to sleep.
This is all right. It is necessary; it must be done. To live, livelihood is needed; bread is needed, income is needed. But from where will fragrance enter into this whole life? How will beauty be born? Let there be something in life that lies outside the circle of need—something that need not be done, and yet we do it. From just there, precisely there, the connection with the Divine begins.
God is not a need at all. Without God, things go on perfectly well—truthfully speaking, without God things seem to go on even more smoothly, more conveniently. Then if you cheat there is no hindrance; if you steal there is no hindrance; if you lie there is no hindrance.
God’s presence only creates hindrances—what gain is there? Dishonesty becomes difficult. The conscience will pinch. As the connection with God grows, you will find many things that were easy yesterday become impossible. You lied so effortlessly that no one noticed. The tongue had become habituated to lying. If your relation with God deepens, someone will pull your tongue back from within. You will go to lie and your tongue will stop. Even if you want to speak, you will not be able to. In spite of yourself, something will draw you back. You will go to steal and won’t be able to. You will try to deceive and it will become impossible. It will feel easier to be deceived than to deceive.
So there is no “need” for God. But then reflect a little on your life. What will it be? There will be no flowers—there will be money, a safe, a bank account. But from where will the poetry enter your life? How will you dance? How will you hum a song? “With anklets on her feet, Meera danced”—how will you ever say such a thing?
Do you think there was any need when Meera tied anklets to her feet and danced? Could life not have gone on without it? So many people—hundreds of thousands—lived quite well without tying anklets. Yet the fragrance in Meera’s life, the ecstasy, the festival—others did not have it. The radiance on Meera’s face, the depth in her eyes, the hue of her heart—where lamps are ever lit, where it is forever Diwali; where colored powder is ever being tossed, where it is forever Holi—that kind of heart others do not have.
Yes, life can go on without Diwali and Holi—what hindrance is there? But a life without Holi and Diwali is life only in name. We call a dry, barren bush a “tree” too—though no leaves ever come, no flowers ever bloom, no fruit ever ripens. So barren will be such a life.
And for you there is a further snag. You say, “I dance, I weep. Meditation brings great bliss.” Now you want to turn even bliss into a need? To mint bliss into coins? To lock it away in a safe? To use bliss as a vehicle for status and prestige?
Bliss cannot be used for any purpose. And only that is truly valuable which cannot be used. Tomorrow the sun will rise, the east will blush crimson, birds will sing—what use will you make of this supreme beauty? It will neither still hunger nor quench thirst. Hence many have stopped even looking at the beauty of morning. What need is there? They only see beauty in currency notes.
At night the sky is filled with stars, and countless people do not lift their eyes to look. The same question stands before them: what is the need? They keep their gaze fixed on the ground, hunting for some shard or trinket that might be useful, rummaging on heaps of refuse for something “of use.” Yet when the sky is star-filled and you, too, open your eyes to it, the sky within you also fills with stars.
So there is no “need” for any of this. Life could have gone on without it. But without it, there is no meaning, no dignity, no glory, no flavor. Then you are a machine. If your life is completed within need alone, you are a machine. A machine could do your work—and do it better than you.
When does the difference between man and machine begin? A car, too, “needs” things—fuel, water, oil, petrol, maintenance. If your life is only this much... A car cannot dance; it cannot sing. The sky may be filled with stars, but it cannot relate to them. Whether or not the sun rises tomorrow, the car will not notice.
Many have decided to live just like that—living as machines. Where are the human beings? There are machines. And in your life, the human has already begun, the sprout has broken ground.
You say, “I dance, I weep. Meditation brings great bliss, yet sometimes a question wrings my heart.”
From where is this question coming? From your intellect. The intellect is afraid of meditation; it is afraid of bliss. The intellect always thinks in the language of profit: what is the gain?
People come to me and ask, “If we meditate, what will be the benefit?” As if the benefit could be quoted in rupees: you will get a hundred thousand, a million. I tell them: you will be able to dance; you will be filled with delight. A festival will descend into your life. You will know who you are. They say, “All that is fine—but what is the benefit?”
A life that ends at utility is irreligious. Religion is purposeless; it is ecstasy. That is why in this land we have called the religious life Leela—divine play. Leela means: that in which there is no purpose.
Why is Krishna playing the flute? Will there be a shower of banknotes? Why is Krishna enacting the Rasa? This dance of the gopis beneath the stars, in their shade! These songs of Krishna! What is the cash value of it? Could you take it to the market and encash it? The night is going “wasted,” going “useless.”
Bertrand Russell wrote in his memoirs that once he went to see a tribal community. Russell was the greatest thinker of this century, a great mathematician. If you want accounts done, you could ask Russell. The most significant book on mathematics in this century was written by him: Principia Mathematica. They say barely a few people can understand it.
A mathematician, thinker, Nobel laureate, world-renowned philosopher—and he was enchanted watching the tribespeople dance under the canopy of stars; his eyes filled with tears. He wrote that day he felt his life had nothing in it. “Take everything from me, but let me dance like that under the trees—with the same exuberance, the same simplicity, the same innocence—and I will have gained all. Take all of mine and give me back that dance.”
But such a dance is not regained by mere saying. We have piled so many stones around our feet that dancing has become difficult. We have gathered so many rocks around the heart that the spring has ceased to flow.
It will not happen by words alone. The rocks must be removed. That is precisely what we are doing here. The experiment here is to remove the rocks from your heart; to unbind the stones tied to your feet, so that you may become light. To lighten the burden on your head—so that you can dance again. So you can again see the greenery of trees, again hear the birds’ songs. So that when the cuckoo calls, your very life coos in response; when you behold a river, a current begins to flow within you.
There is no benefit in it—let me warn you beforehand. No benefit at all. You will not reach Delhi; you will not become prime minister. Nor will you gain resources to fatten your ego.
And I am not saying, “Abandon the work of life.” Work has its necessity, but sometimes also listen to music. Labor in its time, music in its time. Wealth in its place, meditation in its place. Do not mix the two.
And let me remind you again and again: I am not an opponent of wealth. I hold no reverence for poverty. In this country for centuries the poor have been honored, therefore the country is poor. And it will remain poor so long as poverty is honored. I have no respect for poverty; poverty has no value for me.
So I am not telling you to become poor, to beg; nor am I saying, “What will come of earning money? What will come of running a shop?” I say: much comes of running a shop. But the shop is a means, not an end. Money is a means, not an end. The end is meditation. With money you can meditate more easily; without money it becomes very difficult.
“Bhukhe bhajan na hoye, Gopala!” On an empty stomach, how will a person worship? When there is only hunger, how will prayer arise? When there are only worries upon worries, how will you sit in prayer? The child is crying, the wife is ill, the rains have come and the thatch is collapsing—and you will pray? Impossible. To expect this of you is inhuman. And in this country, inhuman expectations have been placed upon you: that you should pray, that you should meditate.
I am not a supporter of poverty. Poverty is a disease, a great disease; it must be eradicated. Yet I am not in agreement with the communists that once poverty is removed, everything is accomplished.
To understand my position requires very subtle reflection. I do not agree with your so-called spiritualists who say a man should remain naked, hungry, thirsty, fasting, drying up, wasting away—and keep meditating. This is a sickly desire, a derangement. It is to demand the impossible of man.
Nor do I agree with the communists who say: let poverty disappear, let money, food, housing, cars, radios, televisions be available—and that’s the end! What more is needed? I agree with both and disagree with both. Each has only half.
In my view, wealth should be, must be. Put in your full effort to earn it. But wealth is not the end of wealth. When wealth comes, you have convenience. Now seek music, seek literature, seek religion. Now wealth has given you the arrangement that you can build a prayer room in your home; that you can sit quietly for an hour; you can dance for an hour. Now dance! Now sing! And you will be amazed that your wealth, too, has become meaningful because of your meditation. Even your money has found purpose.
In this world, whatever we can acquire outside is all means; the end is within. And remember: never ask, “What is the end for?” The very meaning of “end” is that it is final—an end in itself, not a means to something else.
God is the ultimate. Therefore you cannot make God a means to something else. Everything else must be made a means to That—body, wealth, life, mind, heart. Thoughts and feelings, all must be offered there. But do not make the mistake of asking, “What is the use of That?” For That is the final end. The ultimate end we call God—for whom all is done, and in whom we dive into bliss.
Have you ever asked, “What is the essence of bliss?” The essence of bliss is bliss. What is the essence of love? The essence of love is love. But the essence of money is not money. Its value lies in what you do with it. Otherwise, whether you had money or not is the same.
Hence the miser is the most pitiable person in the world. He possesses money, yet has no essence. The miser has wealth but does not know how to use it. He coils over his money like a snake. Stories rightly say that when a miser dies, he becomes a snake coiled on his safe, a ghost. He was a ghost while living. After death he does not need to become one—he never lived; he was already dead.
I have heard of a man who had buried gold bricks in his garden. His daily task—call it worship, prayer, adoration—was to dig up the pit, look at the bricks, then fill it again. His heart would be greatly gratified. Thus his life passed. He grew old.
A fakir had watched this many times. One night the fakir took away the gold bricks and put bricks of stone in their place. The old man dug, saw the stone bricks, and at once beat his chest, screaming, “I am robbed! I am ruined!”
The fakir stood in the crowd and said, “Ruined, robbed—what’s the point? Why scream? What have you lost? If all you do is dig the pit and look daily, what difference does it make whether the bricks are gold or stone? Continue your worship. Since you won’t use them, what difference is there? Tell me the difference! If you can tell me the difference, I will have your gold returned. Isn’t this all you do—open it daily, uncover it daily, see it daily, then close it? You have done this for years; you will die doing the same. These stone bricks will serve just as well. The gold bricks have come into my hands; we will put them to use. If you want to use them, I will return them.”
The fakir is right. Money has no value in itself. Meditation has value in itself. Meditation’s worth is intrinsic—hidden in it. Money’s worth is external—you must do something with it. If you just sit over it, whether it was there or not becomes the same.
Understand this distinction.
There are two kinds of things in the world: means and ends. A means has no value in itself. An end has no value outside itself. Meditation is an end.
And you are tasting it, Rajkishore!
You say, “Great bliss comes, yet still a question arises.”
The mind keeps raising questions because the mind, the intellect, gets scared of things that are ends in themselves.
Understand the reason. The intellect itself is a means. Therefore, in amassing means, the intellect feels no danger—that is its own expansion. The intellect is a means; it, too, must be used to reach somewhere. If it is not used to reach, the intellect becomes deranged—spinning within itself, becoming sick.
Most people’s intellect spins within itself. It has no goal—directionless, bewildered. That is the condition of the deranged: he thinks a lot, but there is no gain, no result, no goal. He goes on thinking and thinking until he goes mad.
The intellect is a means. It must be dedicated to something, committed to something—surrendered to a great task, a goal larger than itself. Then the intellect begins to be meaningful. But the intellect fears this, because then it becomes number two, second. Wherever a great goal appears, the intellect becomes number two. Hidden in the intellect is our ego, which wants to remain number one, not number two.
So the question that arises in you—“What is the need for sadhana, meditation, God-realization?”—is being raised by your intellect. The intellect is asking, “What is the profit?”
And you are receiving bliss. Is bliss not enough? Must bliss yield some further profit? Is bliss not a profit in itself? Must the tears that flow in bliss be a means to something? Are the tears of bliss not roses, not lotuses floating upon a lake, not the sun risen at dawn? In that sway of ecstasy, do all the cuckoos’ calls not resound?
What is the center of the whole universe? To become absorbed in bliss. That is why we have defined God as Sachchidananda—truth, consciousness, bliss. Beyond that there is nothing.
Do not listen to the intellect, Rajkishore, or the bliss will be lost. The intellect, apart from suffering, has never given anyone anything. It has nothing to give. The intellect is barren. Put it in someone’s service, and it becomes meaningful.
The intellect is like a dictionary. You have a dictionary; all the words are in it—every word used by Kalidasa, by Bhavabhuti, by Rabindranath. The most beautiful words. You can sit with the dictionary at your side for a lifetime—do you think Kalidasa will be born within you, or a song by Rabindranath will arise? You have all the words; it is not that you lack anything. The dictionary is with you.
But words in themselves have no use. Arrange them; draw a tune from them; give them rhythm; shape them into poetry—then they will speak, then they will dance, then glory will descend upon them.
Life is the same. You have all the means. The Sufi fakirs say life is like a man sitting in his kitchen with a cookbook open—everything written on how to cook. There is flour, lentils, salt, water, ghee, and the stove is lit; but he just sits. The stove burns and burns and goes out—for how long can it burn? The flour grows stale—how long can it lie there? The water, kept standing, becomes foul. And do you think reading the cookbook will allay hunger?
The Sufis say: this man must do something. Mix water with the flour, add the salt, make chapatis, prepare some food. The fire is burning. All the means are given; the end you must discover. Whoever bakes the bread will be filled with supreme joy. The art of baking this bread is what we call religion.
Some people just keep reading the Gita—they are reading the cookbook. They think if they read the Gita every morning, the work is done. They parrot it. They have memorized it. Ask from anywhere, they will answer. But it has been of no use in their lives.
God has sent you into life with all the means. He has given the energy that can become meditation. He has placed the lamp which, when lit, becomes the light of Buddhahood. The lamp is there, the flame is there, everything is present—but the conjunction is missing. The veena is there; its strings must be plucked.
And your strings have begun to be plucked—that is why the intellect raises doubt. The intellect raises doubt when it sees its kingdom slipping away; when it sees that the Vast is now approaching through something other than itself; soon it will fade; soon it will have no use.
The intellect is very useful in the market, in the shop. What use is it in the temple? It is very useful in politics; what use is it in religion? Gradually it becomes clear: to enter the realm of religion, you must use the steps of intellect—and then go beyond intellect.
And beyond intellect—what profit, what loss! Those were all notions of the intellect. But there lies the supreme profit, the supreme state, the supreme treasure.
Second question:
Osho, I pray—I’ve been doing so all my life—but nothing bears fruit. Will the Lord hear my cry or not? Isn’t this the Divine being unjust to me?
Osho’s Answer:
You say you pray; prayer has not happened yet. The very doing is where you are missing. Prayer is not a deed; it is a state of feeling, of being. Prayer is not to be done; it is to be. No one “does” prayer; one becomes prayerful. Understand this difference.
But man habitually speaks of being in the language of doing. You say, “I am breathing.” What on earth do you mean, “I am breathing”? If breath did not come, could you take it? Breath is happening, sir—you are not taking it. You have turned even this into a “doing”: “I am taking breath.” If you are taking it, then when you sleep at night, who takes it? Not only sleep—if you fall into a coma, breath still goes on; who takes it then? Lie unconscious, be given chloroform, even then breath continues. You know nothing, not even your own body. They could cut off a limb, the doctor could remove your appendix, open your stomach and you would not know. Still, breath keeps moving; it will go on.
What on earth do you mean, “I am breathing”? You made even that into a deed. “I am taking breath.” Breath is happening.
You say, “I love.” Is love ever “done”? Either it happens, or it doesn’t. But you turn even love into a doing.
See the difference:
Deeds feed the ego: “I did it.” Every doing becomes food for the ego.
Prayer is not done. Prayer is like love: it happens; it descends. Prayer is a state of feeling, not a state of action. Here exactly is the mistake.
If you think, “I prayed,” then already it is false. Whatever is done turns false. It should well up, happen, ripen within you, blossom forth.
I have heard: The great Urdu poet Dagh was offering namaz when someone came to meet him, saw him absorbed in prayer, and turned back. A little later, when Dagh rose from the prayer rug, his servant told him about the visitor. Dagh said, “Run and call him back.” When the man returned, Dagh asked, “Why did you turn back as soon as you came?” The man said, “Because you were saying your namaz.” Dagh said, “My friend, I was only saying namaz—I wasn’t composing a ghazal!”
Do you see the point?
Dagh says: I was only saying my prayers, I wasn’t composing a ghazal. When Dagh composes a ghazal, that is a state of being. Then he isn’t there—the ghazal is. When he prays in that formal way, it is just a deed. Nothing special. A formal act. One ought to do it, so he was doing it. A Muslim ought to do it five times, so he was. By chance, he was born in a Muslim home. Taught from childhood, conditioned—so he was doing it. What was there to leave for? And even if you had interrupted me, what would have been lost or gained? Life has gone by doing it, and nothing comes of it anyway—so what could be lost?
But he said something significant: “I wasn’t composing a ghazal!” Yes—if I am composing a ghazal, do not stop me then. If I am composing a ghazal, I won’t even know whether you came or went. I was saying namaz; that’s why I noticed someone came, someone went. Perhaps I even finished early, thinking who knows—he may have come on urgent business. That’s why I sent the servant running. If I had been composing a ghazal, that would have been different.
When Dagh composes a ghazal, that is prayer. When he says namaz, it is a futile affair; not doing it would be fine. A waste of time.
Your “prayer” is still namaz, not a ghazal. Not yet the song of your very life-breath. It is a deed, a formality. You were born in a Hindu home; you were taught: recite like this, worship like this, pour water like this, offer flowers like this, bring bel leaves like this, ring the bell. But all this is doing; it is not a state of feeling. You do it as duty. There is no upsurge of love within.
In Ramakrishna’s life it is mentioned: A Vaishnava devotee stayed as a guest at his temple. Vivekananda began to argue with him, for the man was madly devoted. He carried a little image of Bal Gopal, the child Krishna. His worship was strange—strange precisely because it was worship. Instead of bringing water from the Ganga, he would take Gopal to the Ganges and dip him in! He would bathe himself, bathe Him well, scrub Him clean, and all the while say, “Well, my dear, how are you? Enjoying this?” He would float Him along as he swam. Not only that—after bathing, feeding, he would take Him to the nearby fields. They would play together. He would feed Gopal: “Come, have some fresh air, enjoy under this tree. Shall we climb the tree?” They would converse.
Vivekananda was astonished: What kind of worship is this! When Ramakrishna heard, he said, “Don’t disturb that man. This is worship.”
He didn’t ring bells, he didn’t offer formal food. His way was different. He would cook, seat Gopal beside him and ask, “Tell me, Gopalji, what will you eat today? What are you in the mood for?” He would taste and have Gopal taste.
Ramakrishna said: Do not interfere. This is the true form of prayer. This man has no formality; he has a living relationship. And he told Vivekananda, “Someday hide yourself where he takes Gopal to play. Sit quietly behind some bush. Watch silently what happens. If you have eyes to see, you will be amazed—you will find Gopal is also playing. The man is not speaking alone. This is no monologue; it is a dialogue.”
When someone calls with such feeling, such totality, such concentration, such absorption—life itself enters stone. The idol becomes alive.
You have “done” prayer—that is why it has become a problem, that is why this question arises.
You ask: “I pray; I have been doing it my whole life.”
See—you are tired. This cannot be an act of joy. Who ever gets tired of joy? You are doing it as duty; you are carrying a load on your head. You are tired. You want to put the load down. And nothing has come into your hands yet.
Behind this doing hides greed, desire. You want something out of it. Prayer is the supreme value. Nothing “comes” from prayer. If prayer itself has come to you, everything has come. What else remains? In prayer itself God is in your hands. What else remains? What more could you want?
Surely behind your prayer some demand lurks—money, position. “Look, all the dishonest have reached the top, and I, honest, have been left only with prayer. What an injustice God is doing!”
People come to me and say: “Crooked scoundrels have gained prestige, and we spent life praying. What did we get?”
They want the same thing the dishonest have got. They, at least, took the risk of life. Dishonesty is never cheap. If caught, it’s a mess. Go to steal—you may get money; if not, there is jail. The possibility of prison is always there. But these have not even risked that. They sit at home shaking the bell and think, “Let me get what the thief gets,” and if not, “God is unjust.”
The thief at least took a risk! He showed some courage! I often see that your so-called religious are religious only out of fear. If they were certain that nothing happens through prayer, that the sky is deaf, that no one is listening, their prayer would stop that very moment. If they knew there is no hell, that theft and dishonesty bear no bad consequence, they would at once start planning thefts and frauds. They would think, “So much life wasted for nothing!” If they came to know that these thieves and rogues are not only cheating here but bribing their way into heaven too, then there would be trouble—they would also join the race. They are ready, taut like a bow—but they are afraid of hell, of losing heaven.
Even here they are afraid of losing reputation, of being caught. So they “pray” while hoping for the same things that the thieves are getting.
Your very hope has made prayer false. When prayer truly happens there is no asking in it at all. Prayer bears only the feeling of surrender: “O Beloved, take me; take me to your feet; allow me to dissolve at your feet. I have no demand. Let me not remain; let only You remain. Wipe me out, erase me.”
But you say, “Nothing has come into my hands. Will the Lord hear my cry or not?”
You neither know the Lord, nor do you trust. In your life there is no shraddha—only a secondhand belief, borrowed. Someone told you there is God; you accepted. You were so insincere you did not even raise honest questions; you accepted. You never searched, never inquired. You never set out on the journey. Others said it and you said, “If you say so, it must be right. Why take the trouble? Why go searching? We’ll accept without seeking.”
Borrowed belief will not serve. That is why you keep doubting, “Will the Lord hear my cry or not?” In fact, your real doubt is: Is there a Lord at all? Dig a little within and you will find this suspicion sitting there. Beneath your thin faith there is nothing but doubt. And the louder you say, “My faith is deep,” the more you proclaim how deep your doubt is. To suppress that deep doubt you have planted this deep “faith” on its chest. But inside, doubt is present.
I have seen in the greatest theist as much doubt as in any atheist. The atheist is at least honest; the theist is dishonest. Neither the atheist is religious nor the theist. The religious is a different phenomenon altogether—there, what atheism, what theism! In the religious person’s life there is the ray of his own experience. He searches for the Divine; he does not proceed by assumptions. If you accept God beforehand, what is left to seek?
You have been told till now, “Believe, then one day you will know.” I say to you: Know, and faith will arise. How will you believe without knowing? The blind man has not seen light; how will he believe there is light? The deaf man has not heard music; how will he believe there is sound? How? What way? Yes, he can “accept”—so many say so, they must be right. But inside, the fire of doubt will keep burning; its smoke will keep rising and it will keep shaking and breaking your belief again and again.
This belief is raw, superficial. Otherwise, this question would not arise: “Will He hear my call or not?”
First, in prayer there is no demand; there is surrender. And second, the insistence is not “He should hear my call,” but “May I hear His call.” Understand the difference.
He is calling. The devotee’s feeling is: When will I hear Him? “I am deaf.” For how long He has been calling—since beginningless time—and I have not heard. He has called through Krishna, through Christ, through Kabir, and I have not heard. When will I hear?
The devotee asks, “When will I listen?” You ask, “When will He listen?” The devotee says, “I am deaf.” You say, “God is deaf.” In truth, you do not trust God at all.
“I myself may fall, yet I will not let the wine spill;
I will take upon my own head the blame of the cup.”
If you love God, you could never even imagine that He is deaf.
“I myself may fall, yet I will not let the wine spill;
I will take upon my own head the blame of the cup.”
Love always takes every complaint upon itself. Love says: If You are not visible, then my eyes must be closed. If I do not hear You, my ears must be shut. If I do not experience You, the springs of my experience must have dried up. Love takes all the complaints upon itself. Greed throws all the complaints on the other.
There is greed in your prayer. Somehow you are “doing” it. There is no rejoicing. You do it daily and think, “Another day passed, another round of prayer done—still nothing has happened.”
There is nothing to happen outside of prayer. What is to happen is within prayer, not outside it.
“Life’s road was to be passed with courtesy:
We walked when we woke, when weary we slept.”
This is how you pray—as a way to pass time. “Life’s road has to be somehow gotten through. One should do prayer too—who knows!”
I had a teacher, a philosopher, professor of philosophy. He never believed in God. Once he fell gravely ill. I went to see him; I was surprised—high fever, 105 degrees, delirious—he was muttering “Ram, Ram.” I shook his head hard and said, “Come to your senses! What are you doing? There is no God.” He said, “Be quiet now. Don’t remind me right now. At the moment of death—who knows, He might be!”
A lifelong atheist wavered at death. Lifelong theists also waver at death. Whatever is false, superficial, will waver.
Later his fever subsided. When he would talk atheism with me, I would say, “Stop the nonsense. You are not an atheist. Remember that day when the fever was high and death was near.” He would say, “Yes, that day I got frightened. I thought, who knows—God might be. What’s the harm? I’m lying here anyway; no work to do. What harm in saying ‘Ram, Ram’? At least if I meet Him after death and He stands before me, I can say, ‘I did call you—alright, at the last moment, but I did. And You always hear at the last moment, don’t You? You even freed Ajamila—and he was calling his son Narayan; I was calling You!’ And if nothing happens, what have I lost?” You see—pure bookkeeping: “If nothing happens, what do I lose? If something happens, what do I gain! Recite the Name—only profit, no loss.”
And I see the same fear beneath your theists who worship in temples and “pray.” It must be done. Who knows—He might be! What’s the harm! Life is going anyway; what harm in wasting half an hour on this! It’s like making a deal.
Like buying a lottery ticket: “Who knows—it might win! Someone wins; who knows, this time it may be me.” It never was all life, but, “Who knows—this time it may be.” One more try.
This is how you pray—like a lottery ticket. This is not the devotee’s state. The devotee’s state is of another order. The lover says, as a lover would:
“I understand she must have had difficulty in coming, O messenger—
but tell me, in what manner did she refuse?”
The lover sends a messenger to his beloved. The messenger returns and says the beloved will not come. But what does the lover ask? “I understand it was hard for her to come—but tell me, what was the style of her refusal?” Because in the style, there may be love; in the manner of refusal there may be tenderness. There may be helplessness, compulsion, difficulties—that is another matter. The lover does not accept refusal so quickly.
“Even if not an ocean of grace was bestowed—let that be remembered;
O cupbearer, we depart—may your assembly remain ever radiant.”
Whether I meet or not, even if I don’t get a single cup, the lover has no complaint.
“Even if not an ocean of grace was bestowed—let that be remembered.”
We came to your tavern, and not even a cup was given.
“O cupbearer, we depart—may your assembly remain ever radiant.”
We leave empty-handed, we go thirsty, yet we bless your gathering, offer goodwill. There is no question of complaint.
You say, “Is this not God’s injustice to me?”
God has given you so much—you never thanked Him—but for what you did not get you are quick to accuse Him of injustice. Have you ever counted how much you have been given? And were you entitled? Did you have any worthiness?
Look closely and you will see: even to take a single breath in this existence is such a great fortune. And you did not earn it. It is His gift, a gift of love. It came.
You did not earn life. What did you do to obtain life? Do you remember anything you did to get life? Yet you live.
Your eyes see the colors of flowers, rainbows. Your ears hear the call of the pied cuckoo. You have a sense of beauty. Music enters your heart and creates resonance. You are alive—such a magnificent fortune was given you. Have you ever given thanks?
Let me tell you a Sufi story. A man was going to kill himself. A fakir caught him and asked, “What’s the matter? Why are you going to die?” He was about to jump off a hill. He said, “Don’t stop me. My life is worthless. God has been unjust to me. Whatever I asked for, I did not get. There is no one poorer or more miserable on earth than I. I don’t have a penny. My pockets are empty, my stomach is hungry. I want to end this life. I want to return this gift to Him—Here, take your life back; I don’t want it.”
The fakir said, “Do this: you are going to die anyway. Before that, if I can gain a little benefit, would you mind?” He said, “Why would I? Gain your benefit.” “Then wait twenty-four hours. Just one day—eat with me, sleep with me. After twenty-four hours, die if you wish. In the meantime, I’ll arrange my benefit.” He asked, “What do you mean ‘benefit’?” “I’ll tell you tomorrow morning.”
Next morning he took him to the emperor. The emperor was the fakir’s disciple. He had sent word in advance. He said to the emperor, “Would you like to buy this man’s eyes?” The emperor said, “Good—what price?” “One hundred thousand rupees per eye,” said the emperor.
The man who was going to kill himself forgot all about dying. “What nonsense! Do you think I’d sell my eyes? A hundred thousand! Even if you give a million for one eye, eyes are not for sale! Are you in your senses? You may be an emperor, but be reasonable.”
He was furious. The fakir said, “Brother, be quiet. You promised twenty-four hours. We have to sell his ears too, his nose as well. Whatever parts you want, buy.” The man flared up, “Are you a murderer? What are you saying? For even millions, no one can buy my hands, legs, nose, eyes, ears. These are not for sale at any price.”
The fakir said, “Good man, what are you saying? Yesterday you were about to jump into a river from the cliff—everything would have gone just like that. That’s why I said, wait twenty-four hours, let me earn something. You think yourself worthless, but I know the value here. Had you ever thought your eyes might be worth hundreds of thousands? Even for that you wouldn’t sell. Have you ever thanked God for them?”
The man was jolted, awakened. It was true. He had never thanked God for anything. He had complained about petty wishes unmet, but for this vast bounty he had never given thanks.
You say, “Is God not unjust to me?”
God has shown you so much compassion! He is Rahim, Rahman. His grace is showering every moment.
And many times what you think is not grace is also grace. Often one learns through difficulties. Often, behind crosses, thrones are hidden. Often a boon comes disguised as a curse.
A Sufi fakir used to thank God every day in his prayer: “Ah, You are wondrous! To a nothing like me You give so much—how shall I thank You? With what tongue shall I thank You?” A naked fakir—he owned nothing—yet every day, gratitude. His disciples were tired of hearing this. Then one day it so happened that for three days they got no food. They were on pilgrimage—no food, no lodging for three days. People were against the fakir, as people always are. They said, “He spreads mischief; a rebel. His words do not match the Quran, they go against Muhammad. He says among his disciples, ‘Anal Haq—I am the Truth.’ This is not right. This is heresy.”
They would not let him stay in three villages. No food, no shelter. In the desert, exhausted, on the third evening they rested under a tree. The fakir again spread his prayer mat, folded his hands. The disciples sat watching, “Let’s see what he says today!” Hungry for three days, worn out, dust-covered, unbathed, nowhere to stay. Still the same—his eyes shone with joy, his face aglow; again the prayer: “O Lord! Great is Your grace. You always send me whatever I need.”
A disciple burst out, “Enough! This is too much. ‘Whatever you need, He sends’? For three days we’ve been with you, and what we needed we did not get—no bread, no water, no shelter. What else is there? What did we get these three days?”
The fakir said, “Do not interrupt. For three days this is exactly what I needed. He cares for my need. To keep me hungry three days, to let me remain hungry—this was good for me. After eating the bread of hunger and the bread of insult for three days, if I can still pray—that was my need. He gave me the chance. To give thanks when you get comfort is easy, you fools! To give thanks when you get sorrow—the capacity to do that lives only in prayer’s heart.”
“He gave me an opportunity. And I understood why He was giving it. He thought, let’s see. One day I gave him nothing, kept him hungry—still he prayed. The second day too—‘Alright, you managed one day, what about the second?’ That day also passed. Now came the third—again He gave a chance: ‘Now you are completely hungry, worn and torn, falling down. Will you give thanks now or not? Now you will stop, won’t you? Now you will quit prayer.’ But I said, ‘You will not defeat me. I will go on giving thanks. Till the last breath I will go on thanking. As long as breath is there, gratitude will arise. If there is no breath, that is another matter. Till the dying moment there will be gratitude on my lips. If You give death, that too must be my need; otherwise, why would You give it?’”
This is called shraddha. This is prayer. Prayer is not done; it blossoms from a deep experience.
You are here in this satsang. Bathe in this lake of communion; dive deep. Let go your old notions. By ringing bells or pouring water, no prayer happens.
I am giving you the true scripture of prayer. But you will have to begin at the beginning. Your theism is false. Your belief in God is false, borrowed. Let the borrowed go. As soon as the borrowed drops you will be astonished. The borrowed idea of God has veiled your eyes. That is why God—who is all around—in this very air that just stirred the leaves, in these yellow leaves that fell fluttering from the tree, in you, in me—this very moment the whole existence is filled with Him. Always filled with Him.
“That smile returns to the eyes when lightning flashes;
when the bud burst, I remembered her face.”
When the bud blooms you will see His face. Then know that some recognition of the Divine has dawned.
“That smile returns to the eyes when lightning flashes”—and when lightning flashes in the sky, with dark clouds in the backdrop, may you see His smile.
“When the bud burst, I remembered her face”—and when a bud bursts into flower, may you see the Divine Face. Then know. Those idols you keep in your homes are your toys; what has God to do with them? God is all-pervasive, present everywhere. Every moment you are surrounded by Him. You are alive only because you are linked with His life. He is moving in your breath, speaking in your heart—and where have you gone to search? What prayer are you “doing”?
Learn to bow. Stand before a tree laden with flowers and bow down. Sometimes stretch both hands and lie on the earth as a small child lies upon his mother’s breast. Forget everything. Just lie on the earth. Sometimes dance with the stars of the sky. And you will begin to understand:
“Day and night the seven skies revolve—
Something or other will keep happening; why be afraid?”
He who turns the vastness, who keeps the seven skies in motion, who makes moon and stars rise and set—
“Day and night the seven skies revolve—
Something or other will keep happening; why be afraid?”
If He tends such immensity, runs such a vast play, will He not care for one like you? Will He do injustice—especially to you? Will He not take your care?
No—this is a foolish idea. You are giving yourself too much importance. Your shraddha is false. Your prayer is a formal act. Turn it into a ghazal—right now it is only a namaz.
Osho, I pray—I’ve been doing so all my life—but nothing bears fruit. Will the Lord hear my cry or not? Isn’t this the Divine being unjust to me?
Osho’s Answer:
You say you pray; prayer has not happened yet. The very doing is where you are missing. Prayer is not a deed; it is a state of feeling, of being. Prayer is not to be done; it is to be. No one “does” prayer; one becomes prayerful. Understand this difference.
But man habitually speaks of being in the language of doing. You say, “I am breathing.” What on earth do you mean, “I am breathing”? If breath did not come, could you take it? Breath is happening, sir—you are not taking it. You have turned even this into a “doing”: “I am taking breath.” If you are taking it, then when you sleep at night, who takes it? Not only sleep—if you fall into a coma, breath still goes on; who takes it then? Lie unconscious, be given chloroform, even then breath continues. You know nothing, not even your own body. They could cut off a limb, the doctor could remove your appendix, open your stomach and you would not know. Still, breath keeps moving; it will go on.
What on earth do you mean, “I am breathing”? You made even that into a deed. “I am taking breath.” Breath is happening.
You say, “I love.” Is love ever “done”? Either it happens, or it doesn’t. But you turn even love into a doing.
See the difference:
Deeds feed the ego: “I did it.” Every doing becomes food for the ego.
Prayer is not done. Prayer is like love: it happens; it descends. Prayer is a state of feeling, not a state of action. Here exactly is the mistake.
If you think, “I prayed,” then already it is false. Whatever is done turns false. It should well up, happen, ripen within you, blossom forth.
I have heard: The great Urdu poet Dagh was offering namaz when someone came to meet him, saw him absorbed in prayer, and turned back. A little later, when Dagh rose from the prayer rug, his servant told him about the visitor. Dagh said, “Run and call him back.” When the man returned, Dagh asked, “Why did you turn back as soon as you came?” The man said, “Because you were saying your namaz.” Dagh said, “My friend, I was only saying namaz—I wasn’t composing a ghazal!”
Do you see the point?
Dagh says: I was only saying my prayers, I wasn’t composing a ghazal. When Dagh composes a ghazal, that is a state of being. Then he isn’t there—the ghazal is. When he prays in that formal way, it is just a deed. Nothing special. A formal act. One ought to do it, so he was doing it. A Muslim ought to do it five times, so he was. By chance, he was born in a Muslim home. Taught from childhood, conditioned—so he was doing it. What was there to leave for? And even if you had interrupted me, what would have been lost or gained? Life has gone by doing it, and nothing comes of it anyway—so what could be lost?
But he said something significant: “I wasn’t composing a ghazal!” Yes—if I am composing a ghazal, do not stop me then. If I am composing a ghazal, I won’t even know whether you came or went. I was saying namaz; that’s why I noticed someone came, someone went. Perhaps I even finished early, thinking who knows—he may have come on urgent business. That’s why I sent the servant running. If I had been composing a ghazal, that would have been different.
When Dagh composes a ghazal, that is prayer. When he says namaz, it is a futile affair; not doing it would be fine. A waste of time.
Your “prayer” is still namaz, not a ghazal. Not yet the song of your very life-breath. It is a deed, a formality. You were born in a Hindu home; you were taught: recite like this, worship like this, pour water like this, offer flowers like this, bring bel leaves like this, ring the bell. But all this is doing; it is not a state of feeling. You do it as duty. There is no upsurge of love within.
In Ramakrishna’s life it is mentioned: A Vaishnava devotee stayed as a guest at his temple. Vivekananda began to argue with him, for the man was madly devoted. He carried a little image of Bal Gopal, the child Krishna. His worship was strange—strange precisely because it was worship. Instead of bringing water from the Ganga, he would take Gopal to the Ganges and dip him in! He would bathe himself, bathe Him well, scrub Him clean, and all the while say, “Well, my dear, how are you? Enjoying this?” He would float Him along as he swam. Not only that—after bathing, feeding, he would take Him to the nearby fields. They would play together. He would feed Gopal: “Come, have some fresh air, enjoy under this tree. Shall we climb the tree?” They would converse.
Vivekananda was astonished: What kind of worship is this! When Ramakrishna heard, he said, “Don’t disturb that man. This is worship.”
He didn’t ring bells, he didn’t offer formal food. His way was different. He would cook, seat Gopal beside him and ask, “Tell me, Gopalji, what will you eat today? What are you in the mood for?” He would taste and have Gopal taste.
Ramakrishna said: Do not interfere. This is the true form of prayer. This man has no formality; he has a living relationship. And he told Vivekananda, “Someday hide yourself where he takes Gopal to play. Sit quietly behind some bush. Watch silently what happens. If you have eyes to see, you will be amazed—you will find Gopal is also playing. The man is not speaking alone. This is no monologue; it is a dialogue.”
When someone calls with such feeling, such totality, such concentration, such absorption—life itself enters stone. The idol becomes alive.
You have “done” prayer—that is why it has become a problem, that is why this question arises.
You ask: “I pray; I have been doing it my whole life.”
See—you are tired. This cannot be an act of joy. Who ever gets tired of joy? You are doing it as duty; you are carrying a load on your head. You are tired. You want to put the load down. And nothing has come into your hands yet.
Behind this doing hides greed, desire. You want something out of it. Prayer is the supreme value. Nothing “comes” from prayer. If prayer itself has come to you, everything has come. What else remains? In prayer itself God is in your hands. What else remains? What more could you want?
Surely behind your prayer some demand lurks—money, position. “Look, all the dishonest have reached the top, and I, honest, have been left only with prayer. What an injustice God is doing!”
People come to me and say: “Crooked scoundrels have gained prestige, and we spent life praying. What did we get?”
They want the same thing the dishonest have got. They, at least, took the risk of life. Dishonesty is never cheap. If caught, it’s a mess. Go to steal—you may get money; if not, there is jail. The possibility of prison is always there. But these have not even risked that. They sit at home shaking the bell and think, “Let me get what the thief gets,” and if not, “God is unjust.”
The thief at least took a risk! He showed some courage! I often see that your so-called religious are religious only out of fear. If they were certain that nothing happens through prayer, that the sky is deaf, that no one is listening, their prayer would stop that very moment. If they knew there is no hell, that theft and dishonesty bear no bad consequence, they would at once start planning thefts and frauds. They would think, “So much life wasted for nothing!” If they came to know that these thieves and rogues are not only cheating here but bribing their way into heaven too, then there would be trouble—they would also join the race. They are ready, taut like a bow—but they are afraid of hell, of losing heaven.
Even here they are afraid of losing reputation, of being caught. So they “pray” while hoping for the same things that the thieves are getting.
Your very hope has made prayer false. When prayer truly happens there is no asking in it at all. Prayer bears only the feeling of surrender: “O Beloved, take me; take me to your feet; allow me to dissolve at your feet. I have no demand. Let me not remain; let only You remain. Wipe me out, erase me.”
But you say, “Nothing has come into my hands. Will the Lord hear my cry or not?”
You neither know the Lord, nor do you trust. In your life there is no shraddha—only a secondhand belief, borrowed. Someone told you there is God; you accepted. You were so insincere you did not even raise honest questions; you accepted. You never searched, never inquired. You never set out on the journey. Others said it and you said, “If you say so, it must be right. Why take the trouble? Why go searching? We’ll accept without seeking.”
Borrowed belief will not serve. That is why you keep doubting, “Will the Lord hear my cry or not?” In fact, your real doubt is: Is there a Lord at all? Dig a little within and you will find this suspicion sitting there. Beneath your thin faith there is nothing but doubt. And the louder you say, “My faith is deep,” the more you proclaim how deep your doubt is. To suppress that deep doubt you have planted this deep “faith” on its chest. But inside, doubt is present.
I have seen in the greatest theist as much doubt as in any atheist. The atheist is at least honest; the theist is dishonest. Neither the atheist is religious nor the theist. The religious is a different phenomenon altogether—there, what atheism, what theism! In the religious person’s life there is the ray of his own experience. He searches for the Divine; he does not proceed by assumptions. If you accept God beforehand, what is left to seek?
You have been told till now, “Believe, then one day you will know.” I say to you: Know, and faith will arise. How will you believe without knowing? The blind man has not seen light; how will he believe there is light? The deaf man has not heard music; how will he believe there is sound? How? What way? Yes, he can “accept”—so many say so, they must be right. But inside, the fire of doubt will keep burning; its smoke will keep rising and it will keep shaking and breaking your belief again and again.
This belief is raw, superficial. Otherwise, this question would not arise: “Will He hear my call or not?”
First, in prayer there is no demand; there is surrender. And second, the insistence is not “He should hear my call,” but “May I hear His call.” Understand the difference.
He is calling. The devotee’s feeling is: When will I hear Him? “I am deaf.” For how long He has been calling—since beginningless time—and I have not heard. He has called through Krishna, through Christ, through Kabir, and I have not heard. When will I hear?
The devotee asks, “When will I listen?” You ask, “When will He listen?” The devotee says, “I am deaf.” You say, “God is deaf.” In truth, you do not trust God at all.
“I myself may fall, yet I will not let the wine spill;
I will take upon my own head the blame of the cup.”
If you love God, you could never even imagine that He is deaf.
“I myself may fall, yet I will not let the wine spill;
I will take upon my own head the blame of the cup.”
Love always takes every complaint upon itself. Love says: If You are not visible, then my eyes must be closed. If I do not hear You, my ears must be shut. If I do not experience You, the springs of my experience must have dried up. Love takes all the complaints upon itself. Greed throws all the complaints on the other.
There is greed in your prayer. Somehow you are “doing” it. There is no rejoicing. You do it daily and think, “Another day passed, another round of prayer done—still nothing has happened.”
There is nothing to happen outside of prayer. What is to happen is within prayer, not outside it.
“Life’s road was to be passed with courtesy:
We walked when we woke, when weary we slept.”
This is how you pray—as a way to pass time. “Life’s road has to be somehow gotten through. One should do prayer too—who knows!”
I had a teacher, a philosopher, professor of philosophy. He never believed in God. Once he fell gravely ill. I went to see him; I was surprised—high fever, 105 degrees, delirious—he was muttering “Ram, Ram.” I shook his head hard and said, “Come to your senses! What are you doing? There is no God.” He said, “Be quiet now. Don’t remind me right now. At the moment of death—who knows, He might be!”
A lifelong atheist wavered at death. Lifelong theists also waver at death. Whatever is false, superficial, will waver.
Later his fever subsided. When he would talk atheism with me, I would say, “Stop the nonsense. You are not an atheist. Remember that day when the fever was high and death was near.” He would say, “Yes, that day I got frightened. I thought, who knows—God might be. What’s the harm? I’m lying here anyway; no work to do. What harm in saying ‘Ram, Ram’? At least if I meet Him after death and He stands before me, I can say, ‘I did call you—alright, at the last moment, but I did. And You always hear at the last moment, don’t You? You even freed Ajamila—and he was calling his son Narayan; I was calling You!’ And if nothing happens, what have I lost?” You see—pure bookkeeping: “If nothing happens, what do I lose? If something happens, what do I gain! Recite the Name—only profit, no loss.”
And I see the same fear beneath your theists who worship in temples and “pray.” It must be done. Who knows—He might be! What’s the harm! Life is going anyway; what harm in wasting half an hour on this! It’s like making a deal.
Like buying a lottery ticket: “Who knows—it might win! Someone wins; who knows, this time it may be me.” It never was all life, but, “Who knows—this time it may be.” One more try.
This is how you pray—like a lottery ticket. This is not the devotee’s state. The devotee’s state is of another order. The lover says, as a lover would:
“I understand she must have had difficulty in coming, O messenger—
but tell me, in what manner did she refuse?”
The lover sends a messenger to his beloved. The messenger returns and says the beloved will not come. But what does the lover ask? “I understand it was hard for her to come—but tell me, what was the style of her refusal?” Because in the style, there may be love; in the manner of refusal there may be tenderness. There may be helplessness, compulsion, difficulties—that is another matter. The lover does not accept refusal so quickly.
“Even if not an ocean of grace was bestowed—let that be remembered;
O cupbearer, we depart—may your assembly remain ever radiant.”
Whether I meet or not, even if I don’t get a single cup, the lover has no complaint.
“Even if not an ocean of grace was bestowed—let that be remembered.”
We came to your tavern, and not even a cup was given.
“O cupbearer, we depart—may your assembly remain ever radiant.”
We leave empty-handed, we go thirsty, yet we bless your gathering, offer goodwill. There is no question of complaint.
You say, “Is this not God’s injustice to me?”
God has given you so much—you never thanked Him—but for what you did not get you are quick to accuse Him of injustice. Have you ever counted how much you have been given? And were you entitled? Did you have any worthiness?
Look closely and you will see: even to take a single breath in this existence is such a great fortune. And you did not earn it. It is His gift, a gift of love. It came.
You did not earn life. What did you do to obtain life? Do you remember anything you did to get life? Yet you live.
Your eyes see the colors of flowers, rainbows. Your ears hear the call of the pied cuckoo. You have a sense of beauty. Music enters your heart and creates resonance. You are alive—such a magnificent fortune was given you. Have you ever given thanks?
Let me tell you a Sufi story. A man was going to kill himself. A fakir caught him and asked, “What’s the matter? Why are you going to die?” He was about to jump off a hill. He said, “Don’t stop me. My life is worthless. God has been unjust to me. Whatever I asked for, I did not get. There is no one poorer or more miserable on earth than I. I don’t have a penny. My pockets are empty, my stomach is hungry. I want to end this life. I want to return this gift to Him—Here, take your life back; I don’t want it.”
The fakir said, “Do this: you are going to die anyway. Before that, if I can gain a little benefit, would you mind?” He said, “Why would I? Gain your benefit.” “Then wait twenty-four hours. Just one day—eat with me, sleep with me. After twenty-four hours, die if you wish. In the meantime, I’ll arrange my benefit.” He asked, “What do you mean ‘benefit’?” “I’ll tell you tomorrow morning.”
Next morning he took him to the emperor. The emperor was the fakir’s disciple. He had sent word in advance. He said to the emperor, “Would you like to buy this man’s eyes?” The emperor said, “Good—what price?” “One hundred thousand rupees per eye,” said the emperor.
The man who was going to kill himself forgot all about dying. “What nonsense! Do you think I’d sell my eyes? A hundred thousand! Even if you give a million for one eye, eyes are not for sale! Are you in your senses? You may be an emperor, but be reasonable.”
He was furious. The fakir said, “Brother, be quiet. You promised twenty-four hours. We have to sell his ears too, his nose as well. Whatever parts you want, buy.” The man flared up, “Are you a murderer? What are you saying? For even millions, no one can buy my hands, legs, nose, eyes, ears. These are not for sale at any price.”
The fakir said, “Good man, what are you saying? Yesterday you were about to jump into a river from the cliff—everything would have gone just like that. That’s why I said, wait twenty-four hours, let me earn something. You think yourself worthless, but I know the value here. Had you ever thought your eyes might be worth hundreds of thousands? Even for that you wouldn’t sell. Have you ever thanked God for them?”
The man was jolted, awakened. It was true. He had never thanked God for anything. He had complained about petty wishes unmet, but for this vast bounty he had never given thanks.
You say, “Is God not unjust to me?”
God has shown you so much compassion! He is Rahim, Rahman. His grace is showering every moment.
And many times what you think is not grace is also grace. Often one learns through difficulties. Often, behind crosses, thrones are hidden. Often a boon comes disguised as a curse.
A Sufi fakir used to thank God every day in his prayer: “Ah, You are wondrous! To a nothing like me You give so much—how shall I thank You? With what tongue shall I thank You?” A naked fakir—he owned nothing—yet every day, gratitude. His disciples were tired of hearing this. Then one day it so happened that for three days they got no food. They were on pilgrimage—no food, no lodging for three days. People were against the fakir, as people always are. They said, “He spreads mischief; a rebel. His words do not match the Quran, they go against Muhammad. He says among his disciples, ‘Anal Haq—I am the Truth.’ This is not right. This is heresy.”
They would not let him stay in three villages. No food, no shelter. In the desert, exhausted, on the third evening they rested under a tree. The fakir again spread his prayer mat, folded his hands. The disciples sat watching, “Let’s see what he says today!” Hungry for three days, worn out, dust-covered, unbathed, nowhere to stay. Still the same—his eyes shone with joy, his face aglow; again the prayer: “O Lord! Great is Your grace. You always send me whatever I need.”
A disciple burst out, “Enough! This is too much. ‘Whatever you need, He sends’? For three days we’ve been with you, and what we needed we did not get—no bread, no water, no shelter. What else is there? What did we get these three days?”
The fakir said, “Do not interrupt. For three days this is exactly what I needed. He cares for my need. To keep me hungry three days, to let me remain hungry—this was good for me. After eating the bread of hunger and the bread of insult for three days, if I can still pray—that was my need. He gave me the chance. To give thanks when you get comfort is easy, you fools! To give thanks when you get sorrow—the capacity to do that lives only in prayer’s heart.”
“He gave me an opportunity. And I understood why He was giving it. He thought, let’s see. One day I gave him nothing, kept him hungry—still he prayed. The second day too—‘Alright, you managed one day, what about the second?’ That day also passed. Now came the third—again He gave a chance: ‘Now you are completely hungry, worn and torn, falling down. Will you give thanks now or not? Now you will stop, won’t you? Now you will quit prayer.’ But I said, ‘You will not defeat me. I will go on giving thanks. Till the last breath I will go on thanking. As long as breath is there, gratitude will arise. If there is no breath, that is another matter. Till the dying moment there will be gratitude on my lips. If You give death, that too must be my need; otherwise, why would You give it?’”
This is called shraddha. This is prayer. Prayer is not done; it blossoms from a deep experience.
You are here in this satsang. Bathe in this lake of communion; dive deep. Let go your old notions. By ringing bells or pouring water, no prayer happens.
I am giving you the true scripture of prayer. But you will have to begin at the beginning. Your theism is false. Your belief in God is false, borrowed. Let the borrowed go. As soon as the borrowed drops you will be astonished. The borrowed idea of God has veiled your eyes. That is why God—who is all around—in this very air that just stirred the leaves, in these yellow leaves that fell fluttering from the tree, in you, in me—this very moment the whole existence is filled with Him. Always filled with Him.
“That smile returns to the eyes when lightning flashes;
when the bud burst, I remembered her face.”
When the bud blooms you will see His face. Then know that some recognition of the Divine has dawned.
“That smile returns to the eyes when lightning flashes”—and when lightning flashes in the sky, with dark clouds in the backdrop, may you see His smile.
“When the bud burst, I remembered her face”—and when a bud bursts into flower, may you see the Divine Face. Then know. Those idols you keep in your homes are your toys; what has God to do with them? God is all-pervasive, present everywhere. Every moment you are surrounded by Him. You are alive only because you are linked with His life. He is moving in your breath, speaking in your heart—and where have you gone to search? What prayer are you “doing”?
Learn to bow. Stand before a tree laden with flowers and bow down. Sometimes stretch both hands and lie on the earth as a small child lies upon his mother’s breast. Forget everything. Just lie on the earth. Sometimes dance with the stars of the sky. And you will begin to understand:
“Day and night the seven skies revolve—
Something or other will keep happening; why be afraid?”
He who turns the vastness, who keeps the seven skies in motion, who makes moon and stars rise and set—
“Day and night the seven skies revolve—
Something or other will keep happening; why be afraid?”
If He tends such immensity, runs such a vast play, will He not care for one like you? Will He do injustice—especially to you? Will He not take your care?
No—this is a foolish idea. You are giving yourself too much importance. Your shraddha is false. Your prayer is a formal act. Turn it into a ghazal—right now it is only a namaz.
You “pray,” but prayer has not yet happened. The mistake lies in the very idea of doing. Prayer is not an act; it is a state of feeling. Prayer is not something to do; it is something to be. No one “does” prayer; one becomes prayerful. Understand this difference.
But people habitually speak of being in the language of doing. You say, “I am breathing.” What on earth do you mean you are breathing! If breath didn’t come on its own, would you “take” it? Breath is flowing, sir—you are not taking it. Yet you turned even this into a deed: “I am breathing.” If you are the one who takes it, then when you sleep at night, who takes it? Not only sleep—if you fall into a coma, breath still goes on. Under chloroform, unconscious, with no awareness even of your own body, a surgeon can cut, remove your appendix, open your belly, and you won’t know. Still the breath flows on.
What nonsense that you are “taking” breath! You have made it an act. You keep saying, “I am breathing.” Breath is going on.
You say, “I love.” Is love ever “done”? Either it happens or it does not happen. Yet you turn love also into an act.
Grasp the difference. The moment you make something a doing, the ego grabs it—“I did it.” Every act becomes food for the ego.
Prayer is not done. Prayer is like love: it happens, it descends. Prayer is a state of feeling, not a state of doing. Here is where the mistake is.
If you say, “I prayed,” then to begin with that prayer has already become false. Whatever is “done” turns false. It should well up, happen, blossom from within you; it should reveal itself.
I have heard: the great Urdu poet Dagh was saying his namaz when someone came to meet him. Seeing Dagh absorbed in namaz, the man left. A little later, when Dagh rose from the prayer mat, his servant told him who had come. Dagh said, “Run and call him back.” When the man returned, Dagh asked, “Why did you leave as soon as you came?” The man said, “Because you were praying.” Dagh said, “My good sir, I was only saying namaz—I wasn’t composing a ghazal!”
Now do you see the point?
What Dagh is saying—“I was saying namaz, not a ghazal”—is this: when Dagh composes a ghazal, it is a state of being. Then Dagh is no more; the ghazal remains. He said, “I was only doing namaz. Was I doing anything special?”
It was an act, a formality. It is prescribed to do it; I was doing it. A Muslim must say it five times—I was doing it. By chance I was born in a Muslim home; from childhood I was taught; it’s a conditioning, so I was doing it. Why make a big deal of it? And had you interrupted me in between, what would really have been lost? I’ve done it all my life; nothing comes of it anyway. What was there to lose?
Yet he said something vital: “I wasn’t composing a ghazal!” Yes, if I were composing a ghazal, don’t interrupt me. Then I wouldn’t even know whether you came or went. I was saying namaz; that’s why I knew someone had come, someone had gone. Perhaps that’s why I finished quickly—who knows, maybe he had come for something urgent. Hence I sent the servant after him. If I were composing a ghazal, that would be different.
When Dagh composes a ghazal, that is prayer. When he performs namaz, it’s a futile task; it could be skipped—time wasted.
Your prayer, too, is still namaz, not ghazal. It has not become the song of your very life-breath. It is an act, a formality. Born in a Hindu home, you were taught: read like this, worship like this, pour water like this, offer flowers like this, pick bel leaves like this, ring the bell like this. But all these are acts; they are not a state of your heart. You do them as a duty. Love has not surged within you.
Ramakrishna’s life mentions this: a Vaishnava devotee was a guest at Ramakrishna’s temple. Vivekananda began arguing with him, for the man was a mad lover. He had a little image of Baby Krishna. His worship was strange because it was worship as a living relationship. Vivekananda was astonished: instead of bringing Ganga water to offer, the man would take Gopal to the river and dunk him. He would bathe himself and bathe Gopal—scrubbing Gopal thoroughly—and keep saying, “So, how are you today? Enjoying yourself?”
He would float Gopal along, swim with him out into midstream. Then, after bathing and feeding, he went to a nearby field. There they played together. He’d say, “Gopalji, take some fresh air, enjoy under this tree. Come, let’s climb it.” There was a running conversation.
Vivekananda was amazed: what kind of worship is this! When Ramakrishna heard, he said, “Don’t disturb that man. This is worship.”
He rang no bell, made no formal offering. His way was different. He would cook and seat Gopal beside him: “Tell me, Gopalji, what would you like to eat today? What are you in the mood for?” He would cook, taste it, and have Gopal taste it too.
Ramakrishna said, “Don’t interfere. This is the true form of prayer. This man has no formality; he has a real relationship.” And Ramakrishna told Vivekananda, “If you ever can, hide yourself near where he takes Gopal to play. Sit silently behind a bush and watch what happens. If you have eyes to see, you will be astonished: you will find that Gopal plays too. This man is not speaking alone. This is not a monologue; it is a dialogue.”
When someone calls with such feeling, such absorption, such single-pointedness! With that intensity, life is poured into stone; the image comes alive.
You have “done” prayer; hence the stumbling. Hence the question arises.
You say, “I pray; I’ve been doing it all my life.”
You see—you’re tired! This cannot be an act of joy. Does anyone ever get tired of joy? You’ve been doing it as a duty, carrying a load on your head. You are worn out. You want to lay the burden down. And nothing has come of it.
Behind this doing lurk greed and desire: “Something should come of it.” Prayer is the supreme value; prayer does not bring something in hand. If prayer itself comes into your hands, everything has come. What remains? In prayer, God himself is in your hands—what remains then? What more do you want?
Surely behind your “prayer” there is some hidden demand—money, position: “Look, all the dishonest people have reached high posts, and I, honest, am left praying. God is being unjust.”
People come to me and say: the world’s cheats and rascals are honored, and we have spent our lives praying—what did we get?
Their desire is the same as the cheaters’. They too want what the dishonest got. The dishonest risked life and took chances. These upright ones risked nothing; and dishonesty does not come cheap. If you get caught, it is a great mess. You might gain money through theft, but there is always the possibility of jail. These people didn’t even take that risk. They sat at home ringing bells, hoping to get what thieves get, and if they don’t, then “God is unjust.”
At least the thief took a risk! There was some courage. Often I see your so-called religious people are religious only out of fear. If they were convinced that prayer yields nothing—that the sky is deaf, no one is listening—their prayer would stop immediately. If they knew there is no hell, that theft or dishonesty has no bad consequence, they would be quick to scheme theft and fraud, lamenting, “So much life wasted!” If they heard that these thieves and rascals don’t just cheat here, they even bribe their way into heaven—
Then it would be real trouble. They are already poised to run, only fear holds them back: fear of hell, fear of losing heaven. And here they fear losing reputation, getting caught, ending up in trouble. So they pray while hoping to get the same rewards as the dishonest.
In that very hope your prayer becomes false. When prayer truly happens, there is no demand in it. Prayer carries the feeling of giving oneself: “O Divine, take me. Take me into your feet. Let me dissolve at your feet. I have no demand. Let not I remain—let only You remain. Erase me, efface me.”
But you say, “Nothing has come into my hands. Will the Lord hear my cry or not?”
You know neither the Lord nor do you trust him. There is no true trust in your life—only a secondhand belief: borrowed. Others told you there is a God, and you agreed. You are so dishonest that you didn’t even raise honest questions, and you believed. You did not search, did not inquire, did not journey. Others said, and you thought: “If you say so, it must be right. Why take the trouble! Why go searching! We’ll accept without searching.”
This borrowed belief will not help you. That’s why doubt keeps arising: “Is God hearing me?” In truth your doubt is: “Does God even exist?” Dig within and you’ll see this doubt sitting there. Beneath your hollow “faith” there is nothing but doubt. And the louder you assert, “My faith is profound,” the more you reveal how profound your doubt is. You’ve seated this “profound faith” on the chest of a profound doubt, to smother it; but the doubt remains within.
I have seen in the greatest “theists” a doubt as deep as in any atheist. The atheist is at least honest; the theist is dishonest. Neither the atheist nor the theist is religious. Religion is a different happening altogether—beyond theist and atheist. In a religious life there is the light of one’s own experience. He seeks God; he does not presume. He does not accept beforehand that God is. If you have already accepted, what is there to seek?
You were told till now, “Believe, and one day you will know.” I say to you: know, and faith will arise. How will you believe without knowing? How will the blind man believe in light, having never seen it? How will the deaf man believe in music, having never heard it? Yes, he can “accept”—so many say it. But within, the fire of doubt will burn, its smoke keep rising, and it will continually rock and break your belief.
Such belief is unbaked, superficial. Otherwise, this question—“Will he hear me?”—could not arise.
First, in true prayer there is no demand; there is surrender. And second, it is not, “May he hear my call”; it is, “May I hear his call.” Understand this shift.
He is calling—when will I hear? This is the devotee’s feeling: I am deaf. He has called since the beginningless beginning; I have not heard. He called through Krishna, through Christ, through Kabir—and I did not hear. When will I hear?
The devotee asks, “When will I hear?” You ask, “When will he hear?” The devotee says, “I am deaf.” You say, “God is deaf.” In truth, you don’t trust God.
He himself fell but would not let the wine spill; he took upon his own head the misfortunes meant for the cup.
If you loved God, the thought that he is deaf could never even arise.
He himself stumbled, yet the wine did not spill; he took upon his own head the calamities of the goblet.
Love always takes every complaint upon itself. Love says: if you are not visible, I must have closed my eyes. If you are not audible, my ears must be shut. If you are not being experienced, my sources of experience must have dried up. Love takes all complaint upon itself; greed throws all complaint on the other.
Your “prayer” has greed in it. You are somehow praying, without joy. You do it daily and think, “Another day gone, one more round of prayer, and still nothing.”
There is nothing to happen outside of prayer; only within prayer does something happen.
To get through life was the way: when awake we walked, when tired we slept.
This is how you are praying: somehow to “get through” life. Let’s do prayer too—who knows!
One of my teachers, a professor of philosophy, never believed in God. Once he fell very ill. I went to see him and was shocked: high fever, 105 degrees, almost delirious—and he was chanting “Ram, Ram.” I shook his head and said, “Come to your senses! What are you doing? God isn’t.” He said, “Quiet—don’t remind me now. This is the hour of death… who knows, he just might be!”
A lifelong atheist wavered at death. Lifelong theists also waver at death. Anything false—anything merely on the surface—wavers.
He recovered. Later if he talked atheism with me, I would say, “Stop the nonsense. You are not an atheist. Remember that day—high fever, death near.”
He would say, “Yes, that day I was afraid. I thought, who knows—God might be. What’s the harm? I’m lying here anyway; there’s nothing to do. What harm in saying ‘Ram, Ram’? At least I could say later, if after death I meet him face to face: ‘I did call you—at the end, true, but I did.’ And you always hear the last call, they say. You even liberated Ajamil—and he was calling his son Narayan. I was calling you.”
“And if nothing happens—what do I lose? It’s just good bookkeeping: if nothing comes, nothing lost; if something comes, all gain. Taking the Name can only profit, there’s no loss.”
And I see that your temple-going theists, your ritualists, beneath their theism there is just such fear. “May as well do it; who knows, he may exist! What harm in it! Life is going anyway; what’s the harm in wasting a few minutes here too?” This is also like buying a lottery ticket.
People buy lottery tickets thinking, “Who knows, we might win! Someone wins; maybe it’s me.” You haven’t won all your life, but who knows—this time. “One more ticket.”
This is how you pray: like a lottery ticket. This is not the devotee’s state. The devotee’s state is far different. The lover says:
Delay in her coming was understandable, O messenger,
But tell me—what was the manner of her refusal?
The lover sends a messenger to his beloved. The messenger returns saying the beloved won’t come. But what does the lover ask? “I can understand there were difficulties in her coming; but tell me, what was the style of her saying no?” Because even in the “no” there can be love. In the way of refusal there can be tenderness. There could be helplessness, compulsion, obstacles—that is another matter. The lover does not so quickly accept no.
Even an ocean of favor was not granted—let that be remembered.
Cupbearer, we depart; may your assembly remain ever alive.
Whether we meet again or not—even if not a single cup is given—the lover harbors no complaint.
Even an ocean of grace was not bestowed—let that be remembered.
We came to your tavern and did not receive even a single cup;
Cupbearer, we depart—may your gathering remain flourishing.
We leave empty, we leave thirsty, yet we bless your assembly. Where is the question of complaint?
You ask, “Isn’t this God’s injustice toward me?”
For what he has already given you, you have not offered thanks; but for what he has not given, you complain of injustice. Have you ever tallied how much you have been given? And were you worthy of receiving it? What qualification did you possess?
Look closely: to be able to draw even a single breath in this existence is such a great blessing. And we did nothing to earn it. It is a gift—love’s gift. It was given.
You did not earn life. What did you do to get life? Do you remember doing anything for which life was given? Yet you live.
Your eyes see the colors of flowers, rainbows in the sky. Your ears hear the call of the cuckoo. You have a sense for beauty. Music enters your heart and causes resonance. You are alive—this supreme good fortune called life has been given. Have you offered thanks?
Let me tell you a Sufi tale. A man was going to kill himself—about to leap from a cliff—when a fakir caught him and asked, “What’s the matter? Why are you going to die?” The man said, “Don’t stop me. My life is useless. God has been unjust to me. Whatever I asked, I never got. There is no one as poor and miserable as I am. I have not a coin; my pockets are empty, my belly hungry. I want to end this life. I want to return this gift—‘Take back your life, I don’t want it.’”
The fakir said, “Since you’re going to die anyway, would you mind if I make a little profit first?” The man said, “What do I care? Go ahead.” The fakir said, “Wait just twenty-four hours. Eat with me, sleep with me. Tomorrow you can die. Meanwhile I’ll do my business.” “What business?” “I’ll tell you in the morning.”
In the morning he took the man to the emperor, who was the fakir’s disciple. He had sent word ahead. He asked the emperor, “Would you like to buy this man’s eyes?” The emperor said, “Fine—what’s the price?” “A hundred thousand rupees for each eye.”
The suicidal man forgot all about dying. “What nonsense! Do you think I’d sell my eyes? Not for a hundred thousand—offer ten times that and I won’t sell. Are you in your senses? You may be an emperor, but be sensible!”
The fakir then said, “We’ll sell his ears too, and his nose. Whatever parts you want, buy.” The man grew furious: “Are you a murderer? What are you saying? Not for millions will I sell my hands, feet, nose, eyes, ears. These cannot be sold at any price.”
The fakir said, “Good man, what are you saying? Yesterday you were about to throw all this away into the river of death. It would all have been lost for nothing. That’s why I asked for twenty-four hours—to make some profit. You consider them worthless, but I know their value. Had you ever thought your eyes could be worth hundreds of thousands? Even if offered millions you won’t sell. Did you ever thank God for them?”
The man was startled, awakened. The fakir spoke truth. He had never thanked God for anything. For petty wishes not fulfilled, he had always complained; for the vast gifts given, never a word of gratitude.
You say, “Is God not being unjust to me?”
God has poured such compassion on you! He is Rahim, he is Rahman. His grace rains every moment.
And many times what looks like lack of grace is also grace. Sometimes we learn only through difficulties. Many times, behind the crosses, thrones are hidden. Many times blessings come in the form of curses.
A Sufi fakir would daily thank God in his prayer: “Ah, how wonderful you are! You give so much to a nothing like me—how can I thank you, with what tongue?”
Naked fakir—he had nothing. Yet every day, gratitude. His disciples grew tired of hearing it. Then one day it happened that for three days no food came. They were on a pilgrimage—no food, no shelter. People were hostile, as they often are to fakirs: “He is subversive, a rebel; his words don’t match the Quran; he opposes Muhammad. Among his disciples he says, ‘Ana’l-Haqq’—I am the Truth, I am God. This is blasphemy.”
For three days in three villages they were denied lodging and food. Exhausted in the desert, on the third evening they stopped under a tree. The fakir spread his prayer mat and sat. The disciples watched: let’s see what he says today. Hungry for three days, weary, dust-covered. Yet his eyes shone with joy, the same radiance on his face, and he prayed, “O Lord, great is your kindness. You always send me exactly what I need.”
A disciple burst out, “Enough! This is too much. ‘Exactly what we need’? For three days we’ve been with you, and what we needed we did not get—no bread, no water, no shelter. What did we get these three days?”
The fakir said, “Don’t interrupt. For three days, this is exactly what I needed. He takes care of my need. Three days of hunger and humiliation have benefited me. To be able to pray even after three days of hunger—that was my need. He gave me the chance. When joy is given, it is easy to say thanks, you fools! Only the breast of prayer can give thanks when sorrow comes.
“He gave me an opportunity. And I understood why: to see whether I would stop. One day he gave nothing; I still prayed. The second day he seemed to say, ‘Fine, you managed one day—now the second?’ The second passed; now the third arrived; again he gave the chance: ‘Now you are utterly hungry, worn out, falling—will you still give thanks? Surely you’ll stop now, you’ll abandon prayer.’ But I said, ‘You cannot defeat me. I will keep thanking. Till the last breath, gratitude will rise. If breath itself is not there, that’s another matter. But till dying, there will be thanksgiving on my lips. Even if you give death, it must be because I need it—why else would you give it?’”
This is called trust. This is prayer. Prayer is not done; it blossoms from deep experience.
You are here in this satsang. Bathe in this lake; dive. Drop your old notions. Ringing bells and pouring water are not prayer.
I am giving you the real scripture of prayer. But you must begin at the beginning. Your theism itself is false; your “belief in God” is borrowed. Let the borrowed go. When the borrowed drops, you will be amazed. The borrowed idea of God has put a veil over your eyes. That is why God—who is present everywhere, in this air that just stirred the leaves, in these yellow leaves falling from the tree, in you, in me—this very moment the whole existence is filled with him, always filled with him.
That smile came back to the eyes when the lightning flashed;
When the bud burst, I remembered her face.
When lightning flashes in the sky, a backdrop of dark clouds—may you see his smile. When the bud opens into a flower—may the face of the Divine be seen. Then know that there has been some recognition.
That smile returned to the eyes when lightning flashed;
When the bud burst, I remembered her face.
And the little idols you sit with at home are your toys. What has God to do with them! God is present everywhere, all-pervading. Every moment you are surrounded by him. You are alive because you are linked to his very life. He moves in your breath, speaks in your heart—and where are you going to search? What “prayer” are you doing?
Learn to bow. Stand under a flowering tree and bow down. Sometimes stretch both hands and lie upon the earth like a small child on its mother’s breast. Forget everything; just lie upon the earth. Sometimes dance with the stars of the sky. Then you will begin to understand:
Night and day the seven heavens revolve;
Something or other will happen—why be afraid?
He who runs such immensity—the seven skies turning, moon and stars rising and setting—
Night and day the seven heavens revolve;
Something or other will happen—why be afraid?
If he cares for such vastness, will he not care for a small thing like you? Will he be unjust—especially to you? Will he not take care of you?
No—such talk is pointless. You are giving yourself too much importance. Your “faith” is false. Your prayer is a formality. Turn it into a ghazal; right now it is only namaz.
But people habitually speak of being in the language of doing. You say, “I am breathing.” What on earth do you mean you are breathing! If breath didn’t come on its own, would you “take” it? Breath is flowing, sir—you are not taking it. Yet you turned even this into a deed: “I am breathing.” If you are the one who takes it, then when you sleep at night, who takes it? Not only sleep—if you fall into a coma, breath still goes on. Under chloroform, unconscious, with no awareness even of your own body, a surgeon can cut, remove your appendix, open your belly, and you won’t know. Still the breath flows on.
What nonsense that you are “taking” breath! You have made it an act. You keep saying, “I am breathing.” Breath is going on.
You say, “I love.” Is love ever “done”? Either it happens or it does not happen. Yet you turn love also into an act.
Grasp the difference. The moment you make something a doing, the ego grabs it—“I did it.” Every act becomes food for the ego.
Prayer is not done. Prayer is like love: it happens, it descends. Prayer is a state of feeling, not a state of doing. Here is where the mistake is.
If you say, “I prayed,” then to begin with that prayer has already become false. Whatever is “done” turns false. It should well up, happen, blossom from within you; it should reveal itself.
I have heard: the great Urdu poet Dagh was saying his namaz when someone came to meet him. Seeing Dagh absorbed in namaz, the man left. A little later, when Dagh rose from the prayer mat, his servant told him who had come. Dagh said, “Run and call him back.” When the man returned, Dagh asked, “Why did you leave as soon as you came?” The man said, “Because you were praying.” Dagh said, “My good sir, I was only saying namaz—I wasn’t composing a ghazal!”
Now do you see the point?
What Dagh is saying—“I was saying namaz, not a ghazal”—is this: when Dagh composes a ghazal, it is a state of being. Then Dagh is no more; the ghazal remains. He said, “I was only doing namaz. Was I doing anything special?”
It was an act, a formality. It is prescribed to do it; I was doing it. A Muslim must say it five times—I was doing it. By chance I was born in a Muslim home; from childhood I was taught; it’s a conditioning, so I was doing it. Why make a big deal of it? And had you interrupted me in between, what would really have been lost? I’ve done it all my life; nothing comes of it anyway. What was there to lose?
Yet he said something vital: “I wasn’t composing a ghazal!” Yes, if I were composing a ghazal, don’t interrupt me. Then I wouldn’t even know whether you came or went. I was saying namaz; that’s why I knew someone had come, someone had gone. Perhaps that’s why I finished quickly—who knows, maybe he had come for something urgent. Hence I sent the servant after him. If I were composing a ghazal, that would be different.
When Dagh composes a ghazal, that is prayer. When he performs namaz, it’s a futile task; it could be skipped—time wasted.
Your prayer, too, is still namaz, not ghazal. It has not become the song of your very life-breath. It is an act, a formality. Born in a Hindu home, you were taught: read like this, worship like this, pour water like this, offer flowers like this, pick bel leaves like this, ring the bell like this. But all these are acts; they are not a state of your heart. You do them as a duty. Love has not surged within you.
Ramakrishna’s life mentions this: a Vaishnava devotee was a guest at Ramakrishna’s temple. Vivekananda began arguing with him, for the man was a mad lover. He had a little image of Baby Krishna. His worship was strange because it was worship as a living relationship. Vivekananda was astonished: instead of bringing Ganga water to offer, the man would take Gopal to the river and dunk him. He would bathe himself and bathe Gopal—scrubbing Gopal thoroughly—and keep saying, “So, how are you today? Enjoying yourself?”
He would float Gopal along, swim with him out into midstream. Then, after bathing and feeding, he went to a nearby field. There they played together. He’d say, “Gopalji, take some fresh air, enjoy under this tree. Come, let’s climb it.” There was a running conversation.
Vivekananda was amazed: what kind of worship is this! When Ramakrishna heard, he said, “Don’t disturb that man. This is worship.”
He rang no bell, made no formal offering. His way was different. He would cook and seat Gopal beside him: “Tell me, Gopalji, what would you like to eat today? What are you in the mood for?” He would cook, taste it, and have Gopal taste it too.
Ramakrishna said, “Don’t interfere. This is the true form of prayer. This man has no formality; he has a real relationship.” And Ramakrishna told Vivekananda, “If you ever can, hide yourself near where he takes Gopal to play. Sit silently behind a bush and watch what happens. If you have eyes to see, you will be astonished: you will find that Gopal plays too. This man is not speaking alone. This is not a monologue; it is a dialogue.”
When someone calls with such feeling, such absorption, such single-pointedness! With that intensity, life is poured into stone; the image comes alive.
You have “done” prayer; hence the stumbling. Hence the question arises.
You say, “I pray; I’ve been doing it all my life.”
You see—you’re tired! This cannot be an act of joy. Does anyone ever get tired of joy? You’ve been doing it as a duty, carrying a load on your head. You are worn out. You want to lay the burden down. And nothing has come of it.
Behind this doing lurk greed and desire: “Something should come of it.” Prayer is the supreme value; prayer does not bring something in hand. If prayer itself comes into your hands, everything has come. What remains? In prayer, God himself is in your hands—what remains then? What more do you want?
Surely behind your “prayer” there is some hidden demand—money, position: “Look, all the dishonest people have reached high posts, and I, honest, am left praying. God is being unjust.”
People come to me and say: the world’s cheats and rascals are honored, and we have spent our lives praying—what did we get?
Their desire is the same as the cheaters’. They too want what the dishonest got. The dishonest risked life and took chances. These upright ones risked nothing; and dishonesty does not come cheap. If you get caught, it is a great mess. You might gain money through theft, but there is always the possibility of jail. These people didn’t even take that risk. They sat at home ringing bells, hoping to get what thieves get, and if they don’t, then “God is unjust.”
At least the thief took a risk! There was some courage. Often I see your so-called religious people are religious only out of fear. If they were convinced that prayer yields nothing—that the sky is deaf, no one is listening—their prayer would stop immediately. If they knew there is no hell, that theft or dishonesty has no bad consequence, they would be quick to scheme theft and fraud, lamenting, “So much life wasted!” If they heard that these thieves and rascals don’t just cheat here, they even bribe their way into heaven—
Then it would be real trouble. They are already poised to run, only fear holds them back: fear of hell, fear of losing heaven. And here they fear losing reputation, getting caught, ending up in trouble. So they pray while hoping to get the same rewards as the dishonest.
In that very hope your prayer becomes false. When prayer truly happens, there is no demand in it. Prayer carries the feeling of giving oneself: “O Divine, take me. Take me into your feet. Let me dissolve at your feet. I have no demand. Let not I remain—let only You remain. Erase me, efface me.”
But you say, “Nothing has come into my hands. Will the Lord hear my cry or not?”
You know neither the Lord nor do you trust him. There is no true trust in your life—only a secondhand belief: borrowed. Others told you there is a God, and you agreed. You are so dishonest that you didn’t even raise honest questions, and you believed. You did not search, did not inquire, did not journey. Others said, and you thought: “If you say so, it must be right. Why take the trouble! Why go searching! We’ll accept without searching.”
This borrowed belief will not help you. That’s why doubt keeps arising: “Is God hearing me?” In truth your doubt is: “Does God even exist?” Dig within and you’ll see this doubt sitting there. Beneath your hollow “faith” there is nothing but doubt. And the louder you assert, “My faith is profound,” the more you reveal how profound your doubt is. You’ve seated this “profound faith” on the chest of a profound doubt, to smother it; but the doubt remains within.
I have seen in the greatest “theists” a doubt as deep as in any atheist. The atheist is at least honest; the theist is dishonest. Neither the atheist nor the theist is religious. Religion is a different happening altogether—beyond theist and atheist. In a religious life there is the light of one’s own experience. He seeks God; he does not presume. He does not accept beforehand that God is. If you have already accepted, what is there to seek?
You were told till now, “Believe, and one day you will know.” I say to you: know, and faith will arise. How will you believe without knowing? How will the blind man believe in light, having never seen it? How will the deaf man believe in music, having never heard it? Yes, he can “accept”—so many say it. But within, the fire of doubt will burn, its smoke keep rising, and it will continually rock and break your belief.
Such belief is unbaked, superficial. Otherwise, this question—“Will he hear me?”—could not arise.
First, in true prayer there is no demand; there is surrender. And second, it is not, “May he hear my call”; it is, “May I hear his call.” Understand this shift.
He is calling—when will I hear? This is the devotee’s feeling: I am deaf. He has called since the beginningless beginning; I have not heard. He called through Krishna, through Christ, through Kabir—and I did not hear. When will I hear?
The devotee asks, “When will I hear?” You ask, “When will he hear?” The devotee says, “I am deaf.” You say, “God is deaf.” In truth, you don’t trust God.
He himself fell but would not let the wine spill; he took upon his own head the misfortunes meant for the cup.
If you loved God, the thought that he is deaf could never even arise.
He himself stumbled, yet the wine did not spill; he took upon his own head the calamities of the goblet.
Love always takes every complaint upon itself. Love says: if you are not visible, I must have closed my eyes. If you are not audible, my ears must be shut. If you are not being experienced, my sources of experience must have dried up. Love takes all complaint upon itself; greed throws all complaint on the other.
Your “prayer” has greed in it. You are somehow praying, without joy. You do it daily and think, “Another day gone, one more round of prayer, and still nothing.”
There is nothing to happen outside of prayer; only within prayer does something happen.
To get through life was the way: when awake we walked, when tired we slept.
This is how you are praying: somehow to “get through” life. Let’s do prayer too—who knows!
One of my teachers, a professor of philosophy, never believed in God. Once he fell very ill. I went to see him and was shocked: high fever, 105 degrees, almost delirious—and he was chanting “Ram, Ram.” I shook his head and said, “Come to your senses! What are you doing? God isn’t.” He said, “Quiet—don’t remind me now. This is the hour of death… who knows, he just might be!”
A lifelong atheist wavered at death. Lifelong theists also waver at death. Anything false—anything merely on the surface—wavers.
He recovered. Later if he talked atheism with me, I would say, “Stop the nonsense. You are not an atheist. Remember that day—high fever, death near.”
He would say, “Yes, that day I was afraid. I thought, who knows—God might be. What’s the harm? I’m lying here anyway; there’s nothing to do. What harm in saying ‘Ram, Ram’? At least I could say later, if after death I meet him face to face: ‘I did call you—at the end, true, but I did.’ And you always hear the last call, they say. You even liberated Ajamil—and he was calling his son Narayan. I was calling you.”
“And if nothing happens—what do I lose? It’s just good bookkeeping: if nothing comes, nothing lost; if something comes, all gain. Taking the Name can only profit, there’s no loss.”
And I see that your temple-going theists, your ritualists, beneath their theism there is just such fear. “May as well do it; who knows, he may exist! What harm in it! Life is going anyway; what’s the harm in wasting a few minutes here too?” This is also like buying a lottery ticket.
People buy lottery tickets thinking, “Who knows, we might win! Someone wins; maybe it’s me.” You haven’t won all your life, but who knows—this time. “One more ticket.”
This is how you pray: like a lottery ticket. This is not the devotee’s state. The devotee’s state is far different. The lover says:
Delay in her coming was understandable, O messenger,
But tell me—what was the manner of her refusal?
The lover sends a messenger to his beloved. The messenger returns saying the beloved won’t come. But what does the lover ask? “I can understand there were difficulties in her coming; but tell me, what was the style of her saying no?” Because even in the “no” there can be love. In the way of refusal there can be tenderness. There could be helplessness, compulsion, obstacles—that is another matter. The lover does not so quickly accept no.
Even an ocean of favor was not granted—let that be remembered.
Cupbearer, we depart; may your assembly remain ever alive.
Whether we meet again or not—even if not a single cup is given—the lover harbors no complaint.
Even an ocean of grace was not bestowed—let that be remembered.
We came to your tavern and did not receive even a single cup;
Cupbearer, we depart—may your gathering remain flourishing.
We leave empty, we leave thirsty, yet we bless your assembly. Where is the question of complaint?
You ask, “Isn’t this God’s injustice toward me?”
For what he has already given you, you have not offered thanks; but for what he has not given, you complain of injustice. Have you ever tallied how much you have been given? And were you worthy of receiving it? What qualification did you possess?
Look closely: to be able to draw even a single breath in this existence is such a great blessing. And we did nothing to earn it. It is a gift—love’s gift. It was given.
You did not earn life. What did you do to get life? Do you remember doing anything for which life was given? Yet you live.
Your eyes see the colors of flowers, rainbows in the sky. Your ears hear the call of the cuckoo. You have a sense for beauty. Music enters your heart and causes resonance. You are alive—this supreme good fortune called life has been given. Have you offered thanks?
Let me tell you a Sufi tale. A man was going to kill himself—about to leap from a cliff—when a fakir caught him and asked, “What’s the matter? Why are you going to die?” The man said, “Don’t stop me. My life is useless. God has been unjust to me. Whatever I asked, I never got. There is no one as poor and miserable as I am. I have not a coin; my pockets are empty, my belly hungry. I want to end this life. I want to return this gift—‘Take back your life, I don’t want it.’”
The fakir said, “Since you’re going to die anyway, would you mind if I make a little profit first?” The man said, “What do I care? Go ahead.” The fakir said, “Wait just twenty-four hours. Eat with me, sleep with me. Tomorrow you can die. Meanwhile I’ll do my business.” “What business?” “I’ll tell you in the morning.”
In the morning he took the man to the emperor, who was the fakir’s disciple. He had sent word ahead. He asked the emperor, “Would you like to buy this man’s eyes?” The emperor said, “Fine—what’s the price?” “A hundred thousand rupees for each eye.”
The suicidal man forgot all about dying. “What nonsense! Do you think I’d sell my eyes? Not for a hundred thousand—offer ten times that and I won’t sell. Are you in your senses? You may be an emperor, but be sensible!”
The fakir then said, “We’ll sell his ears too, and his nose. Whatever parts you want, buy.” The man grew furious: “Are you a murderer? What are you saying? Not for millions will I sell my hands, feet, nose, eyes, ears. These cannot be sold at any price.”
The fakir said, “Good man, what are you saying? Yesterday you were about to throw all this away into the river of death. It would all have been lost for nothing. That’s why I asked for twenty-four hours—to make some profit. You consider them worthless, but I know their value. Had you ever thought your eyes could be worth hundreds of thousands? Even if offered millions you won’t sell. Did you ever thank God for them?”
The man was startled, awakened. The fakir spoke truth. He had never thanked God for anything. For petty wishes not fulfilled, he had always complained; for the vast gifts given, never a word of gratitude.
You say, “Is God not being unjust to me?”
God has poured such compassion on you! He is Rahim, he is Rahman. His grace rains every moment.
And many times what looks like lack of grace is also grace. Sometimes we learn only through difficulties. Many times, behind the crosses, thrones are hidden. Many times blessings come in the form of curses.
A Sufi fakir would daily thank God in his prayer: “Ah, how wonderful you are! You give so much to a nothing like me—how can I thank you, with what tongue?”
Naked fakir—he had nothing. Yet every day, gratitude. His disciples grew tired of hearing it. Then one day it happened that for three days no food came. They were on a pilgrimage—no food, no shelter. People were hostile, as they often are to fakirs: “He is subversive, a rebel; his words don’t match the Quran; he opposes Muhammad. Among his disciples he says, ‘Ana’l-Haqq’—I am the Truth, I am God. This is blasphemy.”
For three days in three villages they were denied lodging and food. Exhausted in the desert, on the third evening they stopped under a tree. The fakir spread his prayer mat and sat. The disciples watched: let’s see what he says today. Hungry for three days, weary, dust-covered. Yet his eyes shone with joy, the same radiance on his face, and he prayed, “O Lord, great is your kindness. You always send me exactly what I need.”
A disciple burst out, “Enough! This is too much. ‘Exactly what we need’? For three days we’ve been with you, and what we needed we did not get—no bread, no water, no shelter. What did we get these three days?”
The fakir said, “Don’t interrupt. For three days, this is exactly what I needed. He takes care of my need. Three days of hunger and humiliation have benefited me. To be able to pray even after three days of hunger—that was my need. He gave me the chance. When joy is given, it is easy to say thanks, you fools! Only the breast of prayer can give thanks when sorrow comes.
“He gave me an opportunity. And I understood why: to see whether I would stop. One day he gave nothing; I still prayed. The second day he seemed to say, ‘Fine, you managed one day—now the second?’ The second passed; now the third arrived; again he gave the chance: ‘Now you are utterly hungry, worn out, falling—will you still give thanks? Surely you’ll stop now, you’ll abandon prayer.’ But I said, ‘You cannot defeat me. I will keep thanking. Till the last breath, gratitude will rise. If breath itself is not there, that’s another matter. But till dying, there will be thanksgiving on my lips. Even if you give death, it must be because I need it—why else would you give it?’”
This is called trust. This is prayer. Prayer is not done; it blossoms from deep experience.
You are here in this satsang. Bathe in this lake; dive. Drop your old notions. Ringing bells and pouring water are not prayer.
I am giving you the real scripture of prayer. But you must begin at the beginning. Your theism itself is false; your “belief in God” is borrowed. Let the borrowed go. When the borrowed drops, you will be amazed. The borrowed idea of God has put a veil over your eyes. That is why God—who is present everywhere, in this air that just stirred the leaves, in these yellow leaves falling from the tree, in you, in me—this very moment the whole existence is filled with him, always filled with him.
That smile came back to the eyes when the lightning flashed;
When the bud burst, I remembered her face.
When lightning flashes in the sky, a backdrop of dark clouds—may you see his smile. When the bud opens into a flower—may the face of the Divine be seen. Then know that there has been some recognition.
That smile returned to the eyes when lightning flashed;
When the bud burst, I remembered her face.
And the little idols you sit with at home are your toys. What has God to do with them! God is present everywhere, all-pervading. Every moment you are surrounded by him. You are alive because you are linked to his very life. He moves in your breath, speaks in your heart—and where are you going to search? What “prayer” are you doing?
Learn to bow. Stand under a flowering tree and bow down. Sometimes stretch both hands and lie upon the earth like a small child on its mother’s breast. Forget everything; just lie upon the earth. Sometimes dance with the stars of the sky. Then you will begin to understand:
Night and day the seven heavens revolve;
Something or other will happen—why be afraid?
He who runs such immensity—the seven skies turning, moon and stars rising and setting—
Night and day the seven heavens revolve;
Something or other will happen—why be afraid?
If he cares for such vastness, will he not care for a small thing like you? Will he be unjust—especially to you? Will he not take care of you?
No—such talk is pointless. You are giving yourself too much importance. Your “faith” is false. Your prayer is a formality. Turn it into a ghazal; right now it is only namaz.
Third question:
Osho, yesterday I had a strange dream: I had gone to speak at some gathering on the subject of sannyas. You were present right in front of me. At first I felt afraid—how could I speak in your presence? But as soon as I realized I only had to speak from experience, all fear vanished and I began to speak without hesitation. You kept nodding, which steadied me. But suddenly I saw you were no longer in the hall, and at once my speech stopped. I left the assembly and went to look for you. I found you far away in a garden. I asked what had happened. I said that the moment you left, my speech stopped. You returned with me to the venue, climbed the stage, and began to speak. But then I felt that I wasn’t there. I was listening, yet I also knew I wasn’t there. An unprecedented bliss—but along with it a strange fear! And in that, I woke up. Is there any instruction here for me?
Osho, yesterday I had a strange dream: I had gone to speak at some gathering on the subject of sannyas. You were present right in front of me. At first I felt afraid—how could I speak in your presence? But as soon as I realized I only had to speak from experience, all fear vanished and I began to speak without hesitation. You kept nodding, which steadied me. But suddenly I saw you were no longer in the hall, and at once my speech stopped. I left the assembly and went to look for you. I found you far away in a garden. I asked what had happened. I said that the moment you left, my speech stopped. You returned with me to the venue, climbed the stage, and began to speak. But then I felt that I wasn’t there. I was listening, yet I also knew I wasn’t there. An unprecedented bliss—but along with it a strange fear! And in that, I woke up. Is there any instruction here for me?
Ajit! The indication is absolutely clear. Every one of my sannyasins has to speak for me. Every one of my sannyasins has to become my voice. Give me your voice. Give me your hands as well. For what I want to say will reach only if it is spoken through thousands of voices. And what I want to do will happen only if thousands upon thousands of hands do it. Your hands should be my hands. And your voice my voice.
But for this it is necessary that you step out of the way. If you remain, I cannot be. If I am to be, you will have to step aside. And the joy is that only by stepping aside will you discover that, for the first time, you are. Do not become an obstacle in between.
The indications are very clear. The dream is lovely. Only a sannyasin can see such a dream. The worldly man’s truth is worth two pennies; a sannyasin’s dreams begin to have value. Meaning starts revealing itself even in a sannyasin’s dreams; the dream ceases to be only a dream. As meditation deepens, dreams too become merely a source, a vehicle, for messages arising from your innermost core.
A beautiful dream. And if you are to speak from experience, there is no need to be afraid. Where there is experience, there is no fear. Say only as much as you have experienced. If you say more, fear will arise—and rightly so. The one who speaks beyond his experience becomes a pandit.
A pandit is one who has no experience and yet keeps talking. He has been dishonest with himself and with the listener. The result of the pandits’ dishonesty is that so much irreligion has spread on the earth. Irreligion is not because of atheists; it is because of pandits. What can the poor atheist do! The atheist has no argument that can disprove God. Neither can anyone prove God, nor can anyone disprove him. The matter is beyond logic. But the pandit has spoiled everything.
The pandit began to speak of things beyond experience, of which he had no experience. And when you say anything for which you have no experience, you break the relationship of trust between yourself and the Divine. Say only as much as is your experience. Stop right there, even if it is only half a sentence. Say only as much as you know; then there is no fear. For with Truth, what fear can there be! Truth is fearless.
And if you say only what you have experienced, I will certainly nod, I will certainly agree. I will withdraw that very moment—my assent will stop at the very point—you say even a little more than experience.
Ajit, you have not remembered the dream accurately; you must surely have said something beyond experience. In enthusiasm one says things. Enthusiasm has its own ways. You don’t even remember; you did not intend to say it. But when one sits to speak and gets carried away, the matter goes too far.
Mulla Nasruddin was praising a sannyasin. He was saying the things one says in praise: “You are a supreme celibate. There is no celibate like you.” And the sannyasin was getting delighted. He was of the old school, not mine. He became very pleased when Mulla added, “You are a celibate from childhood.” Seeing his delight, Mulla got even more fired up. So fired up that he said, “Not only you—even your father was a celibate from birth.” Now it had gone a bit too far. But this often happens.
When you set out to say something, every word has its own process. You utter one word, and that word within you sets off a chain of the next word. A chain is created. Then you no longer know where your experience ends—at what point it is complete. The fervor of language, the grip of words, the poetry of words pulls you along.
People don’t exaggerate knowingly; it happens. Because awareness is not total, it happens. So surely, Ajit, somewhere an exaggeration occurred; that is why you found me absent from the dream.
And the dream is very sweet. Your speech stopped. This is exactly how it should be. The very moment I am not speaking within you, your speech should stop. So long as I speak, it is fine; when you start speaking, speech should stop, should falter. It is good that you stopped speaking and went in search of me.
And the second experience is beautiful too: you sat to listen, I began to speak, and then you felt that you were not there. You both are and are not—this is what you realized.
This realization is precious. This very realization is happening to you every day; it is happening even while awake. While listening you both are and are not; you are not, and yet you are. A paradox occurs. A mysterious state arises. That is the state of the satsangi. The ego goes, so you can no longer say, “I am.” But with the ego gone, your being becomes more intense; therefore you cannot say, “I am not,” either.
Thus a paradoxical situation arises. On one side you vanish; on the other side you come into being. The drop falls into the ocean—disappears as a drop, appears as the ocean. The small goes; the vast arrives.
Therefore there was an extraordinary bliss. This very experience is the taste of bliss: where emptiness arises from the standpoint of the ego, and where the arrival of the Whole takes place. That is the vision of bliss, that is the state of bliss—where the void within you meets and embraces the fullness of the Divine. The union of the Void and the Whole—that alone is bliss.
“An unprecedented bliss”—it will happen even in a dream. “But along with it a strange fear”—fear will be there, because it is also the Great Death. The Great Life, and the Great Death as well. Then fear arises: will I be able to return or not? Will I be able to survive or not? The bliss will be so immense that it will carry me away in its flood. The shore will slip away. The familiar, the known—everything will slip away.
Therefore, on the brink of samadhi, great fear seizes one. The thrill of great bliss comes, and great fear seizes one too. Both happen together. Fear because the past is dropping; bliss because the future is arriving.
“And in that, I woke up.” It is in just such a tussle that sleep is bound to break. Rocking between bliss and fear like this, even actual sleep breaks. This sleep did break—the bodily sleep in the dream broke. Sitting thus, standing and sitting, listening, dissolving, becoming; tasting bliss, trembling with fear—one day the spiritual sleep will also break. This stupor, which you have taken for wakefulness till now, it too will break.
And the day this stupor breaks, that very day the lamp of enlightenment is lit. That very day you have come home, found your original source. Call it moksha, call it kaivalya, call it nirvana.
But for this it is necessary that you step out of the way. If you remain, I cannot be. If I am to be, you will have to step aside. And the joy is that only by stepping aside will you discover that, for the first time, you are. Do not become an obstacle in between.
The indications are very clear. The dream is lovely. Only a sannyasin can see such a dream. The worldly man’s truth is worth two pennies; a sannyasin’s dreams begin to have value. Meaning starts revealing itself even in a sannyasin’s dreams; the dream ceases to be only a dream. As meditation deepens, dreams too become merely a source, a vehicle, for messages arising from your innermost core.
A beautiful dream. And if you are to speak from experience, there is no need to be afraid. Where there is experience, there is no fear. Say only as much as you have experienced. If you say more, fear will arise—and rightly so. The one who speaks beyond his experience becomes a pandit.
A pandit is one who has no experience and yet keeps talking. He has been dishonest with himself and with the listener. The result of the pandits’ dishonesty is that so much irreligion has spread on the earth. Irreligion is not because of atheists; it is because of pandits. What can the poor atheist do! The atheist has no argument that can disprove God. Neither can anyone prove God, nor can anyone disprove him. The matter is beyond logic. But the pandit has spoiled everything.
The pandit began to speak of things beyond experience, of which he had no experience. And when you say anything for which you have no experience, you break the relationship of trust between yourself and the Divine. Say only as much as is your experience. Stop right there, even if it is only half a sentence. Say only as much as you know; then there is no fear. For with Truth, what fear can there be! Truth is fearless.
And if you say only what you have experienced, I will certainly nod, I will certainly agree. I will withdraw that very moment—my assent will stop at the very point—you say even a little more than experience.
Ajit, you have not remembered the dream accurately; you must surely have said something beyond experience. In enthusiasm one says things. Enthusiasm has its own ways. You don’t even remember; you did not intend to say it. But when one sits to speak and gets carried away, the matter goes too far.
Mulla Nasruddin was praising a sannyasin. He was saying the things one says in praise: “You are a supreme celibate. There is no celibate like you.” And the sannyasin was getting delighted. He was of the old school, not mine. He became very pleased when Mulla added, “You are a celibate from childhood.” Seeing his delight, Mulla got even more fired up. So fired up that he said, “Not only you—even your father was a celibate from birth.” Now it had gone a bit too far. But this often happens.
When you set out to say something, every word has its own process. You utter one word, and that word within you sets off a chain of the next word. A chain is created. Then you no longer know where your experience ends—at what point it is complete. The fervor of language, the grip of words, the poetry of words pulls you along.
People don’t exaggerate knowingly; it happens. Because awareness is not total, it happens. So surely, Ajit, somewhere an exaggeration occurred; that is why you found me absent from the dream.
And the dream is very sweet. Your speech stopped. This is exactly how it should be. The very moment I am not speaking within you, your speech should stop. So long as I speak, it is fine; when you start speaking, speech should stop, should falter. It is good that you stopped speaking and went in search of me.
And the second experience is beautiful too: you sat to listen, I began to speak, and then you felt that you were not there. You both are and are not—this is what you realized.
This realization is precious. This very realization is happening to you every day; it is happening even while awake. While listening you both are and are not; you are not, and yet you are. A paradox occurs. A mysterious state arises. That is the state of the satsangi. The ego goes, so you can no longer say, “I am.” But with the ego gone, your being becomes more intense; therefore you cannot say, “I am not,” either.
Thus a paradoxical situation arises. On one side you vanish; on the other side you come into being. The drop falls into the ocean—disappears as a drop, appears as the ocean. The small goes; the vast arrives.
Therefore there was an extraordinary bliss. This very experience is the taste of bliss: where emptiness arises from the standpoint of the ego, and where the arrival of the Whole takes place. That is the vision of bliss, that is the state of bliss—where the void within you meets and embraces the fullness of the Divine. The union of the Void and the Whole—that alone is bliss.
“An unprecedented bliss”—it will happen even in a dream. “But along with it a strange fear”—fear will be there, because it is also the Great Death. The Great Life, and the Great Death as well. Then fear arises: will I be able to return or not? Will I be able to survive or not? The bliss will be so immense that it will carry me away in its flood. The shore will slip away. The familiar, the known—everything will slip away.
Therefore, on the brink of samadhi, great fear seizes one. The thrill of great bliss comes, and great fear seizes one too. Both happen together. Fear because the past is dropping; bliss because the future is arriving.
“And in that, I woke up.” It is in just such a tussle that sleep is bound to break. Rocking between bliss and fear like this, even actual sleep breaks. This sleep did break—the bodily sleep in the dream broke. Sitting thus, standing and sitting, listening, dissolving, becoming; tasting bliss, trembling with fear—one day the spiritual sleep will also break. This stupor, which you have taken for wakefulness till now, it too will break.
And the day this stupor breaks, that very day the lamp of enlightenment is lit. That very day you have come home, found your original source. Call it moksha, call it kaivalya, call it nirvana.
Fourth question:
Osho, I want to walk in your footsteps. I seek your blessing.
Osho, I want to walk in your footsteps. I seek your blessing.
You have not understood me. Do not walk in footsteps. If you walk in footsteps, you will be borrowed, you will be fake, you will become a carbon copy. Listen to me, understand me, look at me, recognize me—but do not imitate me. Hear my call and awaken; but when you awaken, you will be yourself. You will not be a copy of anyone, not an imitation. And the path you walk will be your own. No one has ever walked it in that exact way before, and no one will ever walk it that way again.
The true paths of life are made by walking; they are not pre-made. Life’s roads are not cement highways. They are like trails through the mountains. And even those trails are not for you to tread simply because someone else has walked them. Existence does not grant even that much secondhandness. Existence loves the original and wants you to attain your own original nature. Therefore, if you walk on Buddha’s footprints and arrive, you will arrive as a fool, not as a Buddha. You will have missed. You must leave your own footprints. Yes, understand from the Buddhas, learn from them. Assimilate their teaching, their love, their compassion. Bathe in the wave of their meditation so that your own wave can arise. But the moment your own wave arises, follow that.
Do not ask for the blessing to walk in my footprints. Ask me only for this: that you may find your own path. Ask for such a blessing.
My sannyasin is not part of any crowd. Each of my sannyasins is unique, incomparable, their own, like themselves. I do not want to make you part of a crowd. That would be an insult to the God hidden within you. I want to give you your own privacy, your own personhood.
Leaving footprints as I come,
even if they remain, they are of no use.
What remains for me now
is this: I am not a traveler
who will return by the road I came.
I used to press my thumb
upon the marks of my heels;
there was once a temptation
to turn and look back.
That temptation is very natural,
but now darkness is falling behind,
and if there is any strength left
in my eyes to pierce the night,
they must be employed ahead.
Even ahead the light is thinning,
twilight comes and goes,
stars quiver into birth,
and I have not yet reached the goal.
I must not stop even in the night.
Breath and feet are locked in a race;
my feet are so accustomed to walking now
that the eyes’ guidance is no longer needed.
What obstacles can arise
that have not already arisen,
have not already been endured?
And those unborn who come behind—
what am I to do about that!
They are not to walk
on the roads I have walked.
Seeing my footprints—
this journey is such that every traveler
makes a new path with his own steps.
He leaves only one message upon it:
lions, poets, and the true-born walk their paths;
they do not set their feet by another’s trace.
Do not become a slave to a single line.
This journey is such that every traveler
makes a new path with his own steps.
The way of truth is like the sky, not like the earth. Birds fly in the sky and leave no footprints. The way of truth is like the sky.
Buddhas walk, but no footprints are left. So if you sit clinging to someone’s footprints to guide you, you will rot sitting there; you will never walk. Fly! Trust your own feet. From seeing Buddhas walk, remember only this: you too have feet. From seeing Buddhas fly, gain only this trust: you too have wings—flutter them! Perhaps centuries, births upon births, have passed and you have not taken heed of your wings. Seeing a Buddha fly, spread your wings, open your pinions. Seeing a Buddha fly, take a few flights yourself.
At first there will be nervousness, fear, dread: “What am I doing?” Very soon trust will come—just like learning to swim.
What is the art of swimming? What does a teacher teach the learner? No one has ever really been able to say what the art of swimming is! If you ask a swimmer, “What is your art? How do you hold yourself in the water?” he will shrug his shoulders: “How can I tell you?”
Ask a cyclist, “How do you balance yourself? What is your trick? What’s the secret? You glide on two wheels—unbelievable! When I try to mount, I fall immediately. What is your secret?” The cyclist cannot tell you either. Such little secrets cannot be told—just see! And people set out to ask for the secret of God. And if it’s not told to them, they say, “Then we won’t believe.”
The cyclist will say: “Brother, I can do this much: I’ll hold your bicycle. You get on; I’ll run along holding it a little, then I’ll let go. Then you’ll see. You’ll fall once or twice; falling and falling, you’ll catch on. You’ll learn by falling and regaining balance. And once you understand how this inner balance holds—you’ve understood.”
So too a swimmer cannot really say how he holds himself in water. Yes, he can teach you. But seeing a swimmer, at least this much trust arises: a man is swimming—flesh, bones, marrow—just like me; then I too can swim. This is the sowing of faith.
Learn only this from me: that you too can swim; that you too can fly. Do not walk in my footprints.
This journey is such that every traveler
makes a new path with his own steps.
He leaves only one message upon it:
lions, poets, and the true-born walk their paths;
they do not set their feet by another’s trace.
Sheep move in herds—perhaps that’s why they are called sheep. Don’t be a sheep; be a lion. Lions have no herds. There are no crowds of lions. A lion walks alone. But even a lion sometimes forgets that he is a lion. It happened once.
A lioness gave birth to a cub. She was leaping from a cliff when, mid-leap, the cub was born. She leapt away; the cub fell among a flock of sheep passing below. He grew up among them, taller than the sheep. He was a lion, but he grazed on grass and shoots. A vegetarian! A pure vegetarian! He bleated like the sheep, cried like them. He became like those he lived among. Born in a Hindu home—you become Hindu; in a Muslim home—you become Muslim. What could the lion cub do? He fell into a sheep household, learned their religion, read their book, learned their language. He learned their fear too. When a lion’s roar was heard, the sheep fled; he fled too, ran for his life. It never occurred to him that he was a lion. How would it? He had never met a lion.
One day an impasse came. An old lion attacked the sheep. He was startled when he saw a lion slipping and scrambling away among the sheep, bleating and whimpering. The old lion forgot his hunger. He let the sheep go. He was stunned: What is happening? The sheep were scurrying past him, not even afraid. The young one stood out, taller—the lion is a lion.
The old lion ran and, with difficulty, caught the young lion. The young lion cried and whimpered, begged: “Let me go. Let me return to my companions.”
But the old one insisted. Dragging him to the riverbank, he said, “Look! See both faces.” They both bent over; in one instant a revolution happened. The young lion saw: I am a lion! My face is just like the old lion’s. The same form, the same mode. In an instant a roar burst forth. The mountains trembled. It was the roar of a lifetime suppressed; it came out with deep power. The old lion said, “Now you know. My work is done.”
This is exactly the work of a master, no more: to bend you down and show you, “As you are, so am I; as I am, so are you. In essence, we are not different.” You are a lion; if your roar is born, the work is finished. Then you will walk your own road. Then with your own feet you will make your own path.
Existence loves the original. Do not become an imitation. Imitations are not honored.
Buddha was dying. Ananda began to weep: “What will become of me now? For forty years I have walked in your footprints, yet I have not arrived. My enlightenment has not ripened. My buddhahood has not awakened—and you are leaving! What will happen to me? While you were here I did not attain; what now?”
Do you know what Buddha said? He said, “Ananda, perhaps it is precisely because I have been here that you did not attain. You kept trying to be my shadow. You kept placing your foot on my footprint. And I have told you a thousand times: Appa deepo bhava—be a light unto yourself. Seeing my lamp lit, understand that the lamp is within you too, and it can be lit. One day there was darkness in me; today there is light. Today there is darkness in you; tomorrow there can be light. But instead of understanding this, you tried to walk in my footprints.”
When Buddha rose, Ananda rose. When Buddha sat, Ananda sat. What Buddha ate, Ananda ate. What Buddha wore, Ananda wore. As Buddha spoke, Ananda spoke—the same manner, the same gesture—everything imitation.
Buddha said, “Now perhaps my going will do it for you. While I am here, it cannot happen. For forty years I have tired of saying: don’t be an imitator; but you do not listen.”
I understand, and you will too. Ananda’s difficulty is ours. When someone as lovable as Buddha is near, who would not want to imitate? When such music is arising, who would worry about one’s own original music? One has never heard one’s own. One knows nothing of it. And such an incomparable music is here—why not learn this music? Why not sing these songs? Why not dance this dance?
One knows nothing of one’s own dance, hence cannot compare or even imagine. It has not yet been danced. One’s own song has not yet been born. But the most beautiful song in the world is being sung here, around Buddha. Let us repeat these verses.
It is perfectly natural. Because of this, truly significant ones like Buddha have always said: beware of imitation! They have had to say it precisely because those around them fall into imitation.
And so it happened: within twenty-four hours of Buddha’s death, Ananda attained buddhahood. In just twenty-four hours! The shock of Buddha’s passing struck: “What will happen to me now? On whose footprints shall I walk? Now all is darkness.” The blow of his going was so intense that Ananda neither ate nor drank. He just sat in meditation. He said, “I shall rise only when I awaken. Otherwise what is the point even of rising? And now what is there worth seeing in life? What was worth seeing, I have seen. What was worth attaining, I have lived near. I have experienced the most beautiful. I have witnessed the descent of the glorified divine. What else is there to see? Even if I die, I lose nothing. What is the point of living now?”
He closed his eyes and sat—and within twenty-four hours it happened. When it happened, he understood that it was precisely walking in Buddha’s footprints that had been the obstacle. Buddha was right.
Then, in gratitude, he bowed at the Master’s feet—feet now unknown, for the body had been burned to ashes. He bowed to the unknown feet. He wept Ananda’s tears: “How many times you told me, and I did not listen. Had I listened once, I could have attained while you were still here. Now it has happened! You were right: my attachment to you was such that as long as you were present, I would perhaps not come to myself. My eyes were fixed on you.”
Do not imitate. Do not walk in my footprints—else you will miss. Listen to me, ponder me, drink me in—but do not become my imitation. Each of my sannyasins must be original, must be oneself.
And then, the divine changes every moment, as nature changes every moment. The path Buddha walked is no longer there. The person Buddha was is no longer. The methods he used are no longer of use. Here everything changes every day. The seasons shift moment to moment. The divine is a flow, a continual current—like the Ganges, ever moving.
If you cling to old lines, you will keep missing the divine, because the divine is never old. The divine is forever new. To be in relationship with it, you too must learn the alchemy and the art of being new.
Your hem is many-colored; each hue carries a fresh fragrance.
The hope in my heart is old; the thirst upon your body is new.
Be the butterfly of the garden, swinging from flower to flower,
deepening love with each bud, forgetting the griefs of each season.
One and the same enchantment holds you—be it monsoon or mustard bloom.
Your youth is a riddle; your longing is newly fresh.
Your hem is many-colored; each hue carries a fresh fragrance.
In face and form you flaunt a frank, playful charm;
beauty poised upon every limb.
Alongside it, the sheen of unseen dreams waves.
At every turn of life your longing weaves a new romance.
Your hem is many-colored; each hue carries a fresh fragrance.
You tire of one flight, yet weigh yourself again and again;
one gait does not please you—you sway at every step.
Even so, my foolish heart sings only your praise.
An old shadow walks with me; a new body is with you.
Your hem is many-colored; each hue carries a fresh fragrance.
Just look at nature! Nature is the symbol of the divine. Here, everything becomes new. The same sun does not rise twice. The same moon does not ascend the sky again. The same clouds do not gather once more. Where are the same birds? Where do the same flowers bloom again? They are similar, but each time new. Everything is new. Nothing is repetitious here. Everything is so fresh, moment to moment, that whatever is even slightly old and stale will fall behind. Its connection with the divine will be broken.
That is why I say: tradition is not religion. Tradition is beating an old line; religion is ever-new. Religion is rebellion, revolt, revolution. Tradition is inert, centuries old. Every tradition boasts of its antiquity—“older than others,” as if the older, the more valuable.
But the divine is new at every moment. You are entangled in the Vedas, while he comes and sings new Vedas and goes. You do not hear. Your eyes are fixed on the Upanishads, while he composes new Upanishads. He composes new Upanishads every day. You keep repeating the verses of the Quran. You are stuck in Mohammed; he has sent other messengers, composed other verses.
The divine has not been exhausted by anyone—neither by Mahavira, nor by Buddha, nor by Mohammed, nor by Krishna, nor by Christ. The divine will never be exhausted. If it could be exhausted, it would not be divine. That is why we say: it is infinite, eternal. Even if you take the whole out of the whole, the whole remains. We cannot exhaust it. Out of it new Upanishads will be born, new songs will arise.
Only if you remain new will your relationship with the divine be alive. Therefore I tell you: let the past go; live in the present. Whoever lives in the present lives in the divine.
You tire of one flight, yet weigh yourself again and again;
one gait does not please you—you sway at every step.
Even so, my foolish heart sings only your praise.
An old shadow walks with me; a new body is with you.
Your hem is many-colored; each hue carries a fresh fragrance.
No, do not ask me for such a blessing. I cannot give you such a blessing, for it would not be a blessing at all—it would be a curse.
You are not to walk in my footprints. You are not to walk in anyone’s footprints. You must discover your own way. With your own footprints you must make a little trail to the temple of the divine. Only then is there joy in the search, delight, an adventure.
That is all for today.
The true paths of life are made by walking; they are not pre-made. Life’s roads are not cement highways. They are like trails through the mountains. And even those trails are not for you to tread simply because someone else has walked them. Existence does not grant even that much secondhandness. Existence loves the original and wants you to attain your own original nature. Therefore, if you walk on Buddha’s footprints and arrive, you will arrive as a fool, not as a Buddha. You will have missed. You must leave your own footprints. Yes, understand from the Buddhas, learn from them. Assimilate their teaching, their love, their compassion. Bathe in the wave of their meditation so that your own wave can arise. But the moment your own wave arises, follow that.
Do not ask for the blessing to walk in my footprints. Ask me only for this: that you may find your own path. Ask for such a blessing.
My sannyasin is not part of any crowd. Each of my sannyasins is unique, incomparable, their own, like themselves. I do not want to make you part of a crowd. That would be an insult to the God hidden within you. I want to give you your own privacy, your own personhood.
Leaving footprints as I come,
even if they remain, they are of no use.
What remains for me now
is this: I am not a traveler
who will return by the road I came.
I used to press my thumb
upon the marks of my heels;
there was once a temptation
to turn and look back.
That temptation is very natural,
but now darkness is falling behind,
and if there is any strength left
in my eyes to pierce the night,
they must be employed ahead.
Even ahead the light is thinning,
twilight comes and goes,
stars quiver into birth,
and I have not yet reached the goal.
I must not stop even in the night.
Breath and feet are locked in a race;
my feet are so accustomed to walking now
that the eyes’ guidance is no longer needed.
What obstacles can arise
that have not already arisen,
have not already been endured?
And those unborn who come behind—
what am I to do about that!
They are not to walk
on the roads I have walked.
Seeing my footprints—
this journey is such that every traveler
makes a new path with his own steps.
He leaves only one message upon it:
lions, poets, and the true-born walk their paths;
they do not set their feet by another’s trace.
Do not become a slave to a single line.
This journey is such that every traveler
makes a new path with his own steps.
The way of truth is like the sky, not like the earth. Birds fly in the sky and leave no footprints. The way of truth is like the sky.
Buddhas walk, but no footprints are left. So if you sit clinging to someone’s footprints to guide you, you will rot sitting there; you will never walk. Fly! Trust your own feet. From seeing Buddhas walk, remember only this: you too have feet. From seeing Buddhas fly, gain only this trust: you too have wings—flutter them! Perhaps centuries, births upon births, have passed and you have not taken heed of your wings. Seeing a Buddha fly, spread your wings, open your pinions. Seeing a Buddha fly, take a few flights yourself.
At first there will be nervousness, fear, dread: “What am I doing?” Very soon trust will come—just like learning to swim.
What is the art of swimming? What does a teacher teach the learner? No one has ever really been able to say what the art of swimming is! If you ask a swimmer, “What is your art? How do you hold yourself in the water?” he will shrug his shoulders: “How can I tell you?”
Ask a cyclist, “How do you balance yourself? What is your trick? What’s the secret? You glide on two wheels—unbelievable! When I try to mount, I fall immediately. What is your secret?” The cyclist cannot tell you either. Such little secrets cannot be told—just see! And people set out to ask for the secret of God. And if it’s not told to them, they say, “Then we won’t believe.”
The cyclist will say: “Brother, I can do this much: I’ll hold your bicycle. You get on; I’ll run along holding it a little, then I’ll let go. Then you’ll see. You’ll fall once or twice; falling and falling, you’ll catch on. You’ll learn by falling and regaining balance. And once you understand how this inner balance holds—you’ve understood.”
So too a swimmer cannot really say how he holds himself in water. Yes, he can teach you. But seeing a swimmer, at least this much trust arises: a man is swimming—flesh, bones, marrow—just like me; then I too can swim. This is the sowing of faith.
Learn only this from me: that you too can swim; that you too can fly. Do not walk in my footprints.
This journey is such that every traveler
makes a new path with his own steps.
He leaves only one message upon it:
lions, poets, and the true-born walk their paths;
they do not set their feet by another’s trace.
Sheep move in herds—perhaps that’s why they are called sheep. Don’t be a sheep; be a lion. Lions have no herds. There are no crowds of lions. A lion walks alone. But even a lion sometimes forgets that he is a lion. It happened once.
A lioness gave birth to a cub. She was leaping from a cliff when, mid-leap, the cub was born. She leapt away; the cub fell among a flock of sheep passing below. He grew up among them, taller than the sheep. He was a lion, but he grazed on grass and shoots. A vegetarian! A pure vegetarian! He bleated like the sheep, cried like them. He became like those he lived among. Born in a Hindu home—you become Hindu; in a Muslim home—you become Muslim. What could the lion cub do? He fell into a sheep household, learned their religion, read their book, learned their language. He learned their fear too. When a lion’s roar was heard, the sheep fled; he fled too, ran for his life. It never occurred to him that he was a lion. How would it? He had never met a lion.
One day an impasse came. An old lion attacked the sheep. He was startled when he saw a lion slipping and scrambling away among the sheep, bleating and whimpering. The old lion forgot his hunger. He let the sheep go. He was stunned: What is happening? The sheep were scurrying past him, not even afraid. The young one stood out, taller—the lion is a lion.
The old lion ran and, with difficulty, caught the young lion. The young lion cried and whimpered, begged: “Let me go. Let me return to my companions.”
But the old one insisted. Dragging him to the riverbank, he said, “Look! See both faces.” They both bent over; in one instant a revolution happened. The young lion saw: I am a lion! My face is just like the old lion’s. The same form, the same mode. In an instant a roar burst forth. The mountains trembled. It was the roar of a lifetime suppressed; it came out with deep power. The old lion said, “Now you know. My work is done.”
This is exactly the work of a master, no more: to bend you down and show you, “As you are, so am I; as I am, so are you. In essence, we are not different.” You are a lion; if your roar is born, the work is finished. Then you will walk your own road. Then with your own feet you will make your own path.
Existence loves the original. Do not become an imitation. Imitations are not honored.
Buddha was dying. Ananda began to weep: “What will become of me now? For forty years I have walked in your footprints, yet I have not arrived. My enlightenment has not ripened. My buddhahood has not awakened—and you are leaving! What will happen to me? While you were here I did not attain; what now?”
Do you know what Buddha said? He said, “Ananda, perhaps it is precisely because I have been here that you did not attain. You kept trying to be my shadow. You kept placing your foot on my footprint. And I have told you a thousand times: Appa deepo bhava—be a light unto yourself. Seeing my lamp lit, understand that the lamp is within you too, and it can be lit. One day there was darkness in me; today there is light. Today there is darkness in you; tomorrow there can be light. But instead of understanding this, you tried to walk in my footprints.”
When Buddha rose, Ananda rose. When Buddha sat, Ananda sat. What Buddha ate, Ananda ate. What Buddha wore, Ananda wore. As Buddha spoke, Ananda spoke—the same manner, the same gesture—everything imitation.
Buddha said, “Now perhaps my going will do it for you. While I am here, it cannot happen. For forty years I have tired of saying: don’t be an imitator; but you do not listen.”
I understand, and you will too. Ananda’s difficulty is ours. When someone as lovable as Buddha is near, who would not want to imitate? When such music is arising, who would worry about one’s own original music? One has never heard one’s own. One knows nothing of it. And such an incomparable music is here—why not learn this music? Why not sing these songs? Why not dance this dance?
One knows nothing of one’s own dance, hence cannot compare or even imagine. It has not yet been danced. One’s own song has not yet been born. But the most beautiful song in the world is being sung here, around Buddha. Let us repeat these verses.
It is perfectly natural. Because of this, truly significant ones like Buddha have always said: beware of imitation! They have had to say it precisely because those around them fall into imitation.
And so it happened: within twenty-four hours of Buddha’s death, Ananda attained buddhahood. In just twenty-four hours! The shock of Buddha’s passing struck: “What will happen to me now? On whose footprints shall I walk? Now all is darkness.” The blow of his going was so intense that Ananda neither ate nor drank. He just sat in meditation. He said, “I shall rise only when I awaken. Otherwise what is the point even of rising? And now what is there worth seeing in life? What was worth seeing, I have seen. What was worth attaining, I have lived near. I have experienced the most beautiful. I have witnessed the descent of the glorified divine. What else is there to see? Even if I die, I lose nothing. What is the point of living now?”
He closed his eyes and sat—and within twenty-four hours it happened. When it happened, he understood that it was precisely walking in Buddha’s footprints that had been the obstacle. Buddha was right.
Then, in gratitude, he bowed at the Master’s feet—feet now unknown, for the body had been burned to ashes. He bowed to the unknown feet. He wept Ananda’s tears: “How many times you told me, and I did not listen. Had I listened once, I could have attained while you were still here. Now it has happened! You were right: my attachment to you was such that as long as you were present, I would perhaps not come to myself. My eyes were fixed on you.”
Do not imitate. Do not walk in my footprints—else you will miss. Listen to me, ponder me, drink me in—but do not become my imitation. Each of my sannyasins must be original, must be oneself.
And then, the divine changes every moment, as nature changes every moment. The path Buddha walked is no longer there. The person Buddha was is no longer. The methods he used are no longer of use. Here everything changes every day. The seasons shift moment to moment. The divine is a flow, a continual current—like the Ganges, ever moving.
If you cling to old lines, you will keep missing the divine, because the divine is never old. The divine is forever new. To be in relationship with it, you too must learn the alchemy and the art of being new.
Your hem is many-colored; each hue carries a fresh fragrance.
The hope in my heart is old; the thirst upon your body is new.
Be the butterfly of the garden, swinging from flower to flower,
deepening love with each bud, forgetting the griefs of each season.
One and the same enchantment holds you—be it monsoon or mustard bloom.
Your youth is a riddle; your longing is newly fresh.
Your hem is many-colored; each hue carries a fresh fragrance.
In face and form you flaunt a frank, playful charm;
beauty poised upon every limb.
Alongside it, the sheen of unseen dreams waves.
At every turn of life your longing weaves a new romance.
Your hem is many-colored; each hue carries a fresh fragrance.
You tire of one flight, yet weigh yourself again and again;
one gait does not please you—you sway at every step.
Even so, my foolish heart sings only your praise.
An old shadow walks with me; a new body is with you.
Your hem is many-colored; each hue carries a fresh fragrance.
Just look at nature! Nature is the symbol of the divine. Here, everything becomes new. The same sun does not rise twice. The same moon does not ascend the sky again. The same clouds do not gather once more. Where are the same birds? Where do the same flowers bloom again? They are similar, but each time new. Everything is new. Nothing is repetitious here. Everything is so fresh, moment to moment, that whatever is even slightly old and stale will fall behind. Its connection with the divine will be broken.
That is why I say: tradition is not religion. Tradition is beating an old line; religion is ever-new. Religion is rebellion, revolt, revolution. Tradition is inert, centuries old. Every tradition boasts of its antiquity—“older than others,” as if the older, the more valuable.
But the divine is new at every moment. You are entangled in the Vedas, while he comes and sings new Vedas and goes. You do not hear. Your eyes are fixed on the Upanishads, while he composes new Upanishads. He composes new Upanishads every day. You keep repeating the verses of the Quran. You are stuck in Mohammed; he has sent other messengers, composed other verses.
The divine has not been exhausted by anyone—neither by Mahavira, nor by Buddha, nor by Mohammed, nor by Krishna, nor by Christ. The divine will never be exhausted. If it could be exhausted, it would not be divine. That is why we say: it is infinite, eternal. Even if you take the whole out of the whole, the whole remains. We cannot exhaust it. Out of it new Upanishads will be born, new songs will arise.
Only if you remain new will your relationship with the divine be alive. Therefore I tell you: let the past go; live in the present. Whoever lives in the present lives in the divine.
You tire of one flight, yet weigh yourself again and again;
one gait does not please you—you sway at every step.
Even so, my foolish heart sings only your praise.
An old shadow walks with me; a new body is with you.
Your hem is many-colored; each hue carries a fresh fragrance.
No, do not ask me for such a blessing. I cannot give you such a blessing, for it would not be a blessing at all—it would be a curse.
You are not to walk in my footprints. You are not to walk in anyone’s footprints. You must discover your own way. With your own footprints you must make a little trail to the temple of the divine. Only then is there joy in the search, delight, an adventure.
That is all for today.