Nam Sumir Man Bavre #2

Krishna Bharti! The color of sannyas begins from the outside, but it is fulfilled only when the inside too is dyed. And those who are willing to be colored on the outside have given the invitation, opened the doors. They have signaled that now we are ready to be dyed within as well.

This color of gulal, this saffron glow will gradually spread, deepen. And a moment will come—outside and inside will be of one color. When no difference remains between outside and inside, then know that true sannyas has happened. That moment is drawing near.

And whenever such a moment draws near, people will call you mad. Because people live by logic, by mathematics; they keep accounts. The outside should remain outside, the inside inside. Body, body; soul, soul. Intellect, intellect; heart, heart. They keep everything divided, cut into fragments.

The very meaning of sannyas is totality. You will dip the outside into the inside, and let the inside flow outward. You will not allow the intellect to remain isolated; you will dissolve it into the heart. Feeling and thought will dance together. Between body and soul not a hair’s breadth of difference will remain. Matter and the Divine will become two faces of the same coin. All dualities will dissolve. The birth of the beyond-the-dual will happen. Nonduality will surge.

But nonduality will surely look like madness. Because nonduality means: all the boundaries the intellect drew, you have wiped them away. The intellect had erected distinctions; you have erased them all. Nonduality means: there is only One, and to divide It is illusion. The world and God are not two. Maya and Brahman are not two. “Two” has no existence at all.

Yet the whole conduct of worldly life stands upon the acceptance of two. Therefore whenever the sense of two drops from someone’s life, people will call him mad. They are right from their side; do not take hurt from it; do not be stung by it. They are right in their own way. Do not try to adjust yourself to their words, because that will no longer be possible. Once this dye takes, it does not come off.

Outer lamps do go out. The oil is spent, the wick is spent, the lamp breaks; the inner lamp does not go out—without wick, without oil! There is neither oil there to be spent, nor a wick to be burned, nor a lamp to be broken. Within there is an eternal stream of light. There, each moment is Diwali and each moment Holi. Only those reach there who are not only ready to be mad, but ready to be utterly effaced.

“They say to me: Have you seen the moth?
Look, this is how it burns, this is how it gives up its breath.”

Have you seen the moth burn itself upon the flame? That is the way of sannyas.

“They say to me: Have you seen the moth?
Look, this is how it burns, this is how it gives up its breath.”

When the moth becomes one with the flame, when our small flame is absorbed into the vast Flame, when we are dyed in Its color. Kabir said: “I went to see the Beloved’s redness; I too became red.” Whoever goes to see That becomes like That. In the very seeing, the distinction between the seer and the seen disappears.

This ochre color is a symbol—of many things. Of the rising sun of the morning. When the redness spreads in the east upon the sky, in the same way when the inner light awakens, a dawn-redness spreads upon the inner sky.

That very color is descending. With awe and joy, open both arms and receive what is coming. Do not hesitate even a little. Do not bother about public opinion. Do not feel the least ashamed. Remove all veils. Drop all curtains. One meets the Supreme naked—where no hindrance remains.

And to meet That is to be effaced. Who has met That and yet remained? Therefore the path is of the mad, not of the clever. The clever collect wealth, positions, prestige. The mad move toward God.

“For Fani it is either madness or the yearning for You—
yesterday, taking Your name, I wept like a man possessed.”

Either the mad weep, or His lovers weep.

“For Fani it is either madness or the yearning for You—”
Either that longing awakens, or someone goes mad. In truth the two are two names for the same thing.

I am not speaking of ordinary madness, I am speaking of the extraordinary mad—the masts, the God-intoxicated ones. The ordinary madman is one who has fallen below the intellect. The extraordinary madman is one who has risen above the intellect. In both, the intellect drops. But the one who fell below lost the world too—where will he find God? He lost even what he had in his hands; there is no question of attaining. The one who rises above the intellect also loses the world—but he finds the Master of the world. And the one who has found the Master has found the whole kingdom.

People will laugh as well. They will mock as well. They will call you mad as well. They have always done so. It is their old habit; nothing new.

“From the depths of the heart we could not save it from the fire of separation;
the house burned before our eyes and we could not extinguish it.”

When you see your own house burning, others will of course call you mad: “What are you standing and watching for? Why don’t you put it out?” What do they know—that the drop is dissolving and becoming the ocean. What do they know—that the seed is cracking and the tree is being born. What do they know—that behind the cross there is a throne. The cross above is the bridegroom’s bed. They can only see the cross.

“From the depths of the heart we could not save it from the fire of separation;
the house burned before our eyes and we could not extinguish it.”

These ochre robes are also a symbol of fire. Kabir said: “Kabir stands in the marketplace with a torch in his hand; whoever burns his own house, come with me.”

Which house is to be set on fire? The house of the ego is to be burned. It appears to be a shelter, but it is a prison, a captivity. Let it burn and you will be free. Let it turn to ash and the whole sky will be yours.

But if people call you mad, do not be surprised. For that which they call a house you have set out to burn. And that which they call fame you have valued at two pennies.

“In the end Love kills the one it loves.”
On the path of love, death is a benediction. But those wretches who have never known love know death only as death. Whether it happens on the path of love or on the path of hate, they see no difference. They know only this much: eat, drink, make merry. Death will come; everything will be snatched away. They do not know that there is a kind of death by which nothing is taken away but rather something is received; that there is a death by which the small is taken and the vast is given; a death that is the doorway to the great Life.

But have compassion for them. Do not even be angry with them. Do not argue with them. Because, Krishna, they will not even understand the argument.

It should change. If you take sannyas, it is bound to change.

People come to me and say, “What will changing the color of clothes do? That’s only the outside. Inside we are already your sannyasins.” I look into their eyes and see: they are neither outwardly nor inwardly sannyasins. They raise the matter of the inner only to dodge the outer. I ask them, “Speak honestly—are you a sannyasin within, or are you just talking, looking for an excuse? You don’t yet have the courage even to be a sannyasin outwardly—but man is clever. He drags out lofty talk. Why do the small things! He talks big. And the inner is such a thing that no one can see it, so who will know?”

The one who says, “I am a sannyasin within—what will the outer do?”—when he is thirsty, he drinks water from outside. He doesn’t say, “Why quench inner thirst with outer water? Why satisfy inner hunger with outer food? Why fulfill inner love with an outer lover?” Then outer water, outer food, outer love, outer breath—everything is fine. But when the question of sannyas arises, he says, “What is the need outwardly? Inside I am already a sannyasin.” When you feel cold, you put on a coat; you don’t say, “The cold is inside—what will an outer coat do?”

Where is the gap between outside and inside? What is outside now will become inside in a moment, and what is inside now will be outside in a moment. There is a moment-to-moment exchange between inner and outer. The breath that is going in is now inner; a moment later it is out. And what was outside a moment ago becomes inner. A fruit hangs on a tree—outside; then you eat, digest it; it becomes blood, flesh, marrow—inside. From that your bones will be made, your flesh, your blood. Not only that—from it the fibers of your intelligence will be woven, by which you will think and reflect, do mathematics, research science, write poetry. That fruit which a short while ago hung on a tree will tomorrow surge from within you as a poem, rise as a song. That same fruit will pluck the sitar, awaken music.

And what is within you now—tomorrow you will die, be buried; a tree will grow from your corpse. Your flesh and marrow will become fruit, become manure. What outer, what inner? The outer is a limb of the inner; the inner is a limb of the outer.

Do not entangle yourself in false cleverness, false logic, sophistries.

Krishna, you had the courage. You took sannyas outwardly. Now it is happening inwardly too. Now the fruit has begun to be digested; it is becoming your blood, your flesh, your marrow.

“You feel my hand in your hand.”
This is exactly what sannyas means: I am ready to give my hand—take it.

“Sometimes in meditation the hairs of the whole body stand on end.”
There will be a thrill; when bliss showers, every pore rejoices. Each hair will dance. Vitality will ripple—do not suppress it. We have been taught to suppress. The style of life so far has been: live under pressure. Do not laugh openly, do not cry openly, do not dance openly. Your body has forgotten certain languages; your mind has let certain things slip into oblivion. You have neither cried, nor danced, nor laughed. You have become crippled. And to move toward the divine, this is an essential step.

So when your hairs stand, when there is thrill, be enraptured. Prayer is near. The divine is close—that is why the hairs stand. You see the leaves of trees tremble; it means the winds have arrived. When there is thrill, know that God is passing very near. His magnet is close; in that magnetic attraction your hairs have risen, thrill has happened. Consider it good fortune.

“The body begins to take flight.”
It will. It should. As your inner life refines and is dyed, as the festival of Holi happens within and the lamps of Diwali are lit, you will grow weightless—as if the earth’s gravity can no longer hold you. You will spread your wings. Your pinions will get ready to measure the sky.

“The body begins to take flight; a shower of tears comes.”
These are tears of supreme bliss. Do not stop them; do not wipe them; do not manage them. If your feet begin to wobble, know the temple is very near. Who has reached His temple steady? People reach it staggering.

Something is happening. Something deep is happening.

“O friend, look at the beating of my chest—
Is it not that thing we call love?
It is that very thing!”
The heart is pounding hard. There is thrill. The eyes, like pitchers, pour tears. The body longs to take flight.

There will also be fear. Because we have always been told that tears are a sign of sorrow. That is a hundred percent false. Tears have nothing necessarily to do with sorrow. They are signs of overflow—neither of sorrow nor of joy, neither of love nor of anger nor of hate—signs of excess. Whenever any feeling becomes excessive and hard to contain, tears begin to carry it out. In people’s minds, tears have become synonymous with grief because the only thing they have known to excess is sorrow. They have known nothing else in excess. Hence sorrow and tears have become associated. When you know excess in bliss, tears of bliss will flow too.

People weep even in anger. Women often weep in anger. Anger reaches excess. People weep in compassion, they weep in love, they weep even in disgust. Just remember this: tears carry out whatever exceeds your capacity to contain. As a pot fills and overflows—the overflowing is the sign.

“A tear departs the eye, the heart leaves the hand, the life quits the body—
O calamity! Who can keep hold of so many?”
So don’t hold on. Holding back is harmful. And the habit of holding is old. If you decide to hold, you will be able to; if you decide to stop, you will stop. Everything can be suppressed. People even suppress joy.

Some days ago, Chetana came to see me one evening. I placed my hand on her forehead. I saw bliss rise in her to excess, and almost unconsciously, as if in a faint, she bit her lip—pressed it between her teeth. I saw it—she was suppressing; she got scared. To display so much joy looks like madness. Perhaps she didn’t even do it deliberately. To press the lip between the teeth is a way of repression. A profound opportunity was missed. Something was just about to arise—and it was pushed back down.

Remain aware. When something wants to flow, let it flow. Panic can be so great that many times it will seem: What trouble have I landed in! Let’s drop it. Let’s get out of this uproar.

“The power to renounce love never came even once;
The thought of renouncing love came again and again.”
And many times the thought will come: drop this bother of love, this bother of prayer.
“The thought of renouncing love came again and again—
But the power to renounce love never came even once.”
And when love flows toward the Lord, then there is no way to renounce it. Today you may bite your lip—how long will you keep biting? The Lord will come with more and more force. The clouds will grow denser and pour. A flood will come and carry you away. Once you open the gate to the flood, there is no way to close it.

And people will call you mad. Krishna, people will say: beware. Keep away from this place; keep away from such people. Even friends grow afraid to utter my name; they won’t mention my name when speaking to others. Drop this fear. Make what has happened to you contagious. Let the tears that flow in you flow in others too. Let the thrill you feel happen in others too. Let the flight that awakens in you awaken in others too. Go! Let them call you mad—but share your bliss. Share your song. Share it with a hundred—perhaps one will truly listen. If even one listens, that is much.

“There is no crime in love that we should hide it from the world;
We will proclaim among thousands that we have loved you.”
Go and say it, call it out. And whenever something begins to happen within you, share it. Because by sharing it grows. Do not hold it back; by holding it, it dies. By holding it, it rots. No matter how pure the stream…

Yesterday I was reading a Sufi story. A poor nomad was returning from a pilgrimage. On the way, in a small oasis in the midst of a vast desert, he found a spring whose water was so sweet that he filled his leather waterskin. He thought, I will present it to my emperor. Never had he seen such pure water, such sweetness.

He filled his waterskin and, upon reaching the capital, went straight to the palace gate and knocked. “I have brought a gift for the emperor,” he said. He was called in. He praised the spring greatly and said, “I have brought you this water. Perhaps you have never tasted such sweet water.” The emperor sipped a little, was pleased, delighted. He filled the poor man’s bag with gold coins and bid him farewell.

The courtiers said, “Let us taste a little too.” The emperor said, “Wait; let him go first.” When the man had left, the emperor said, “Do not drink it by mistake. It has become pure poison. But look at the poor man’s love. When he filled it, it must indeed have been sweet. But in a leather waterskin, after months, the water has rotted completely. It has become poisonous, even dangerous. That is why I took only one sip, and then I had the bottle put away. I did not want to give it to you in his presence because I did not trust that you would have the tact not to blurt out in front of him that it is poison. Do not drink it, even by mistake.”

Even the purest water, when it does not flow in the streams, turns poisonous. If your tears do not flow from the springs of your eyes, they will remain in your body as poison. If your hairs wanted to dance in joy and did not, that same energy will become poison within you.

Why have people become so bitter? For this very reason. There is such acrid taste in people. When they speak, there is poison in their words. Even when they sing, their songs carry the tune of abuse. Everything has turned toxic because life has forgotten an art—the art of sharing, of giving, of squandering. Squander! “Pour out with both hands—this is the work of the noble.”

Let people call you mad; they are right to call you that. Do not mind. Share even with the one who calls you mad. Who knows—perhaps in calling you mad there is, even in that, an attraction toward you. Who knows—perhaps in calling you mad he is only protecting himself.

When life is a torment,
love triumphs.
When life is so flooded with anguish that you can no longer endure it, only then does the flower of love blossom.
When life is a torment,
trouble upon trouble descends, the fire of separation blazes high.
Love triumphs.

Do not hasten to sprinkle water and put out this fire. This is not a fire to extinguish; this is a fire to intensify. This is not a fire for which you call a stream; this is a fire for which you call the winds. Call the storms—come, fan this blaze! Let it burn so utterly that only fire remains and you are no more.

You say, “Lord, the pain of separation is unbearable.”
I know. But as long as you are, the pain will remain. To whom is it unbearable? You still stand a little apart, that is why you feel the scorch. When you are no more, how can it be unbearable? To whom would it be unbearable? And this pain is not such that it can be put out. If you try to kindle it, it does not catch; if you try to quench it, it does not go out. Neither by lighting does it light, nor by dousing does it douse. If someone strives to ignite it, it will not ignite; if someone strives to extinguish it, it will not extinguish. You are blessed. This is the Lord’s prasad. Bow down. Receive it upon your head. Accept it. You are chosen. I know—even to speak of it is difficult. The difficulty is such that words cannot express it.

O Lord, with what tongue can one describe the affair of the grief of separation?
If one does not speak, what is there to say? If one speaks, what is there to say?

It cannot be spoken; the tongue falters. Great knowers stammer. The very wise begin to speak like little children. Sense and sagacity are lost.

It seems unbearable because you are trying to save yourself. And as long as you try to save yourself, it will feel unbearable. Now take the plunge into it. Become a sati—enter this fire. Step in, and you will find a lotus blossoming in the flames. You have seen lotuses blossoming in water; when will you see a lotus blossoming in fire? The lotuses that bloom in water open for a moment and then wither. They arise from the mud and fall back into the mud; they are clay-born, mortal. But the flower kindled in fire, arising in fire, fashioned of flame, is eternal. Born in fire, how can it perish? There is now no way to undo it. What pyre could ever destroy it? It has become immortal nectar.

Until this happens, endure the pain of separation with as much joy as you can; the more joyfully you bear it, the sooner the night will pass and the morning will come.

Between me and the candle these talks went on all night:
If we survive this night, we shall see the dawn.

Long is the night of separation.

Between me and the candle these talks went on all night:
If we survive this night, we shall see the dawn.

If we can make it through tonight, we may have the chance to see the morning. And this night is long. But the length of this night depends on you. It can be short. It can be very long. If it is lukewarm, it can stretch across lifetimes. And if it is not lukewarm—if it burns swiftly, fiercely—it can be over in a single instant. Morning can be now. Here and now the dawn can break. Tomorrow is far off; there is no need to postpone even for a moment. But then courage is needed—the gambler’s courage, who stakes everything at once, the whole heap on one throw.

Who keeps you company through the night of sorrow?
Even the candle, in the end, could only flare up.

In the end a man is utterly alone. All drop away—friends and companions, the beloved, one’s own and others. All fall away. And as companions drop away, the separation grows deeper. The spear begins to pierce the chest. The pain goes ever more inward. Until this arrow passes clean through, the difficulty remains.

Do not, by mistake, make such a prayer as “Remove this arrow,” because this very arrow is the single hope. Pray thus: Lord, let it go all the way through. Hurry. Let me be effaced.

Ah, these compulsions, these deprivations, these failures—
Love is, after all, love; what can you do, what can I do?

No one can do anything. There is no cure for this!

You ask me: “Lord, the pain of separation is unbearable. Now please do something.”
Love is, after all, love; what can you do, what can I do?
No one can do anything. There is no remedy. This illness is no illness; it is the beginning of supreme health. It seems like sickness to you because you have never known it before.

A king spent the night in dance and music, as he did every day. Wine flowed without restraint, as was his habit. When sleep did not come, he rose and went into the garden. It was the Brahma-muhurta—the first time in his life he was up at that hour—and he went into the garden. Cool and fresh breezes, the Malaya wind, fragrant! He asked his guard, “What is this stench? Where is this foul odor coming from?” To one who has always found fragrance in wine, if the morning’s Malaya breeze smells foul, it is no surprise. The guard said, “Master, this is the fresh air of morning. It is no stench.”

All you have known in life till now was disease. Now, for the first time, health is descending. You will be afraid: What sort of sickness is this? Unfamiliar, unknown! And there is no cure for it. No physician can do anything.

Nanak fell “ill,” and physicians were called. The physician placed his hand on Nanak’s pulse. Nanak began to laugh. And he said, “Look at the pulse, if you wish. And if you give medicine, I will drink it. But this ‘illness’ has no remedy. It is not in your hands.”

The family was worried, because Nanak grew thin. He did not sleep, he did not eat properly. Who knows what obsession had taken hold! He would sit and weep nights on end. One night he wept very long. His mother said, “Now sleep a little. What is the use of crying?” Nanak said, “I have a wager with someone. Do you hear? Far away a pied cuckoo is calling: ‘Where is the Beloved? Where is the Beloved?’ I too am calling to my Beloved: ‘Where are you?’ And if the cuckoo does not give up, how can I give up? In this contest I am not going to lose—whether I stay or go.”

“Where are you?” One who has set out in search of the Beloved will find his outer life here becoming disordered. People will take this disarray to be sickness. You too will at first think, “What has happened? All was fine—how did it all go wrong?” But I assure you, this is news of the dawn. The Malaya breeze is coming. With a little experience, slowly you will recognize the fragrance.

And do not hurry. Do not think, “Why is it taking so long?” Waiting is the very life-breath of prayer. And he who is not delighted in waiting—there is a lack in his waiting, and his waiting will not be fulfilled.

Where is that urgent ecstasy in having found you?
Life is what was spent in the search for you.

Those who have found have said: Having found you—yes, all is well—but there is not the same flavor as there was in your search, in your waiting, in your expectancy. That longing, that thrill! Those flames of yearning and desire!

Where is that urgent ecstasy in having found you?
Life is what was spent in the search for you.

True life is known when one looks back and sees how dear were the days of seeking. The goal is lovely, yes—but the journey is no less lovely; perhaps even lovelier, for it is through that very path that we arrive at the goal.

Accept also, as a good fortune, that which brings you to the goal. This very fire of separation, this very unbearable pain, will lead you to the temple. These thorns along the way—each thorn will blossom into a thousand flowers. These troubles on the path—each trouble will become a thousand cups of nectar.

Keep walking. Keep weeping. Keep calling. Do not lose heart. “Lose not courage; forget not the Lord.”

Maitreya! There is only one question that has no answer; all other questions have answers. That one question is called the “final question.” It concerns God, or the Self, or existence—and these three are names for the same.

What is existence, why is it—there is no answer. There cannot be an answer. It is not that man has failed to search; rather, by its very nature this question admits of no answer. The absence of an answer is built into the structure of the question. Even if someone were to offer a cause for existence, another question would immediately arise: why that cause? One question will always remain.

Someone may say that God created existence; you will then ask, who created God? An infinite regress begins. You can go on searching for ever subtler “gods,” but in the end the question will still stand. Behind every answer a question mark will remain: who made this?

This is what Sharatchandra has called the “final question.” It will remain.

We can find answers to small things, to fragments; we cannot find an answer regarding the Whole, because we ourselves are part of that Whole. We are born within it and we dissolve back into it. We cannot stand far enough behind the Whole so that it comes after us and we can see where and how it began; nor can we save ourselves to remain outside when the Whole dissolves, watching how it vanishes. We cannot be present on the first day of the journey, nor on the last. We arrive in the middle and we disappear in the middle. How, then, shall we answer?

But this does not mean it cannot be known. Understand the distinction between the two. There is no answer, there is experience. You cannot know why God is, but you can become God. And to become divine, it is not necessary to know why the Divine is.

Why is there an ocean—must you know that in order to take a dip? Is it necessary to know why water exists in order to quench your thirst? Do you think that until people discovered that water is H2O, their thirst could not be quenched? And even now that we know, another question arises: water is formed of oxygen and hydrogen—where do they come from, how are they formed? We discover that hydrogen is composed of atoms, of electrons, neutrons, protons—where do they come from?

The question keeps standing up again and again. Behind every answer a new question-mark appears. At some point we simply have to grow weary. The Upanishads call this the Atiprashna—the transcendent question.

King Janaka once convened a great assembly in which all the scholars of the land gathered for debate. He had a thousand of the most beautiful cows stand before the palace. Their horns were sheathed in gold, studded with diamonds. He announced that whoever won the debate would take the cows.

Many aspired to victory, but victory was difficult—the land was full of pundits. Then Yajnavalkya arrived with his disciples. It was midday; the sun was fierce; the cows were standing in the heat. Yajnavalkya was a man of an unusual kind. He said to his disciples, “Drive the cows away and take them to the ashram.” A man after my own heart! “Drive the cows away—take them all to Koregaon Park.” The disciples said, “To Koregaon Park? But you haven’t won yet!” He said, “We’ll take care of that. But the cows are standing in the sun, exhausted, dripping with sweat. This is beyond my tolerance. You take the cows.”

The cows were taken away. The pundits were startled; the learned were aghast. They even lodged a complaint with Janaka—“What a joke! The debate hasn’t even begun.” But Yajnavalkya had such trust in his realization. Because there was realization, there was trust. The others were merely pundits; Yajnavalkya was a knower. One who knows, knows—where is the possibility of defeat? He also knew that those gathered were parrots.

The debate was held, and Yajnavalkya had almost won when a woman stood up—Gargi. She said, “You have answered everyone else; now answer my questions too.” She asked a simple-sounding question; behind it, it was complex. It was the final question.

She asked, “On what is this earth supported?”

Yajnavalkya said, “Everything is supported by the Divine.”

Gargi asked, “On what is the Divine supported?”

Yajnavalkya said, “That is an Atiprashna, Gargi.”

What does Atiprashna mean? It means the final, transcendent question. Yajnavalkya said, “It is an Atiprashna, Gargi.” Atiprashna means that whatever answer I give, your question will immediately apply to that answer as well.

This is not a question to be resolved by answers. The way to know it is meditation. I cannot answer it; no one can. No scripture has ever given such an answer, nor will any ever give one. But one who dives within comes to know. It is a matter of taste. From the standpoint of questioning, it is an Atiprashna; from the standpoint of experience, there is no obstacle.

And the wonder is that what exhausts the intellect and cannot be found by thinking, the heart knows in a single leap. Thought, even after great exertion, is defeated; feeling arrives without effort. Through effort we go farther and farther away. Effortless, unstrained, surrendered—and grace showers.

Whose life is without it? Don’t isolate yourself like that. Don’t imagine you are so special that only your life is full of suffering. Everyone’s life has suffering. Life is suffering.

And if life were not suffering, why would there be a search for the divine at all? Precisely because life is suffering, there is a search for the divine. Precisely because this life is suffering, we long for another kind of life, where suffering is not. The real surprise is not that life has suffering; the surprise is that despite so much suffering people still don’t set out to find another life. They bear it, get thrashed, get beaten. “Even if we take a hundred shoe-beatings, we’ll get inside and watch the show!” Whatever happens—no matter how much beating—people keep going to watch the show. Others watch their show; they watch others’ show. It seems there’s a mutual pact: when we’re getting beaten, you enjoy; when you’re getting beaten, we’ll enjoy. But here—what is there other than sorrow?

So first, don’t ask, “Why is my life nothing but suffering?” There is nothing special in your life. Life is suffering because we are living it in darkness.

If someone asks, “Why do I keep bumping into everything—now the table, then the chair, then the wall?” the meaning is: the room is dark. Or even if the room is lit, you have your eyes closed; for you it is dark. Your eyes are shut; that’s why you collide. It is dark; that’s why you collide. You are blind; that’s why there are obstacles.

A Zen story: A disciple had come to see the master and was going back at night. The disciple was blind. All disciples are blind—if they were not, what need would there be to be a disciple? The master has eyes; the disciple is blind. The master said, “You’re going now and it’s night—take this lantern.” The blind disciple said, “What will I do with a lantern? Why carry a useless load? I am blind. I can’t see. Even if a lantern is in my hand, what use is it? For me day and night are the same.” But the master said, “Listen to me—take the lantern. You may not see, but at least others will see that you are coming with a light. They will avoid bumping into you. Isn’t that something?”

The argument was such that the disciple had nothing left to say. He took the lantern and set off—reluctantly. “There’s no sense in this; I’m just lugging a lantern.” It was a weight. If you cannot see the light, a lantern is at least a burden. He had gone only twenty-five steps when a man ran into him. “Incredible!” he said. “I’m carrying this load, and the master’s logic is shattered. He had said at least others would not collide with me.”

Angrily the disciple asked, “Sir, are you blind too?” The man said, “I’m not blind, but your lantern has gone out.” How is a blind man to know his lantern has gone out? Many times you have been given lamps—the Upanishads gave them, the Vedas gave them, the Quran gave them, the Dhammapada gave them.

Many times you have been given lamps, but they went out long ago. You pointlessly haul around extinguished lanterns. The load has grown heavy. Centuries of junk have gathered on them. Yet you carry them—temple, mosque, gurdwara. You can barely carry yourself, and you carry all this as well. And you bang into everything. Bumps everywhere! Then somehow you gather up your scattered belongings and start off again.

If there is not suffering in life, what else would there be? Light is needed. Eyes open are needed. And I want to tell you: light already is—only open your eyes. And I also want to tell you: you are not blind; you’re merely habituated to keeping your eyes closed. And you keep them closed because with eyes shut you can enjoy the beautiful dreams inside.

Mulla Nasruddin one night dreamt a miraculous being stood before him and said, “Ask, brother. Here, take this one rupee.” Mulla said, “One? I won’t settle for one. At least make it a hundred. Since I’m asking and you’re giving, and you’re acting so generous, at least make it a hundred.” But that fellow too was a stickler. He said, “Take two, take three...”—the same old haggling. The talk stalled at ninety-nine. That man dug in: not a paisa more than ninety-nine. Because the trick of dreams is the circle of ninety-nine; they too get stuck there. He said, “I cannot give more than ninety-nine.” No dream ever gives more than ninety-nine; if it gave a full hundred, the dream would end—everything would be settled.

That fellow insisted, “Not a hair more than ninety-nine. If you want it, take it.” But Mulla was stubborn, as all people are. Mulla said, “I will take a hundred. Now this is too much of your stinginess. When you agreed up to ninety-nine, what difference does one more rupee make? Why make a fuss over a single rupee? Just give it.”

The quarrel escalated—Mulla shouting “hundred,” the other saying “ninety-nine.” Mulla yelled “hundred!” so loudly that his sleep broke. He opened his eyes—no one there. His wife was sitting beside him watching. Wives sit up at night to see what the husband is muttering—whether he is taking the names of some Kamla or Vimla. Since he was talking so loudly, it must be something important. Numbers were involved, so she too became curious. She began calculating: if he actually gets ninety-nine, or a hundred, or whatever it is—then that necklace I saw in the market can be bought. She too was slipping into fresh dreams.

Mulla opened his eyes, saw his wife sitting there—and he panicked. Any chance of meeting that gentleman was gone. He quickly shut his eyes and called out, “Brother, where are you? All right—ninety-nine it is!” But now it was too late. Once the eyes open, dreams are destroyed. The fellow could not be found. Then Mulla squeezed his eyes shut again and again and called out, “Ninety-eight, ninety-seven, ninety-six...” He began to go backwards—even down to one rupee: “Come on, give me something at least!”

But once the eyes open, the dream is gone. There is no way. The gentleman would not appear. Finally Mulla said to his wife, “Bring my spectacles. It’s night, it’s dark, and the gentleman isn’t visible.” But even if you put on glasses, it won’t help.

Man is not blind; he just keeps his eyes shut. And behind shutting the eyes there is a vested interest: he is enjoying beautiful dreams—build this mansion, raise that upper floor, that palace, amass such heaps of wealth. How to turn ninety-nine into a hundred—that is everyone’s demand. But ninety-nine never becomes a hundred. Tension continues. There is no courage to open the eyes—lest, upon opening them, even what is in hand should slip away.

That is why life has suffering. And everyone’s life has suffering. Not just one or two—nothing but suffering. That’s why listen to people: everyone sits with their personal “epic of sorrows,” reciting it to one another.

Listen to the epic of sufferings:
From one suffering, three are born;
the fourth leaves you heartsick.
One more suffering:
First suffering—that we are educated.
We never counted the cost,
and the job we got
doesn’t pay what we spent to study.
Second suffering—the job itself,
stuffed with sufferings;
its pains are beyond description—
only the one who has done it knows.
Third suffering—money:
it makes you miserable coming and going;
everyone knows this.
Fourth suffering—the neighbor:
always right there before our eyes.
We somehow live with our grief—
why does he live happily?

One more suffering:
Suffering—that there’s too much money.
Calamity has struck:
it’s all black; we can’t spend it.
Second suffering—amenities:
I’ve got everything,
nothing is left to do;
this very feeling is the suffering.
Third suffering—the evening:
it comes every single day.
How are we to pass it?
Each day the problem returns.
Fourth suffering—monotony:
whether people or the weather,
nothing changes;
not everyone can fathom this grief.

One more suffering:
Suffering—that there’s so much to do,
but one isn’t allowed to do it.
The decisions are someone else’s;
the poor fellow only obeys orders.
Second suffering—“butter”:
it’s available everywhere;
whoever knows how to use it
will never lose. (Flattery greases all.)
Third suffering—speeches:
listening to them is compulsory;
say one thing, do another—
here the license is total.
Fourth suffering—very heavy:
you’re forced to endure it.
We were born later—
their pan of the scale is heavier.

One more suffering...

But there is no end. If you sit to talk about sufferings, the epic can begin, but it never concludes.

And you say, “Why is my life nothing but suffering?”

Everyone’s life is. Listen to people—only the tales of suffering are told. The talk always is: who is in how much trouble! Everyone is in trouble.

Then surely some fundamental mistake is being made, something basic that everyone is doing wrong. All are in a swoon. Stupor is suffering; awakening is bliss. Wake up! Rouse consciousness! Open those sleeping eyes!

Listen to the buddhas. They say life is sat-chit-ananda—existence-consciousness-bliss—and you say it is nothing but suffering. Then surely they are speaking of another life, and you are speaking of another. I too tell you: other than bliss, there is nothing in life. Life is built out of the bricks of bliss.

But you say, “It is nothing but suffering.” Then surely something is going wrong in your seeing; you are missing. You are blindfolded—eyes closed. You grope in the dark and keep colliding. In darkness you mistake one thing for another. Then when you collide, what else will happen?

I’ve heard: One night a man went to a tavern. People go there precisely to forget their troubles—if only for a while—by drowning in intoxication; if they themselves sink, their sorrows sink too. He drank heartily—flat on his back. He had left home thinking that when he returned it would be dark—new moon night—so he had taken a lantern. But he got thoroughly drunk and lay spread-eagled. Now he was groping for his lantern. He would grab someone’s foot, the leg of a chair, the leg of a table—but no sign of the lantern. Then he found it. He picked up the lantern and set off. No sooner had he stepped outside than he bumped into a buffalo. Then he fell into a gutter. Then a truck knocked him. In the morning he was found lying in a drain. He was lifted and taken home.

At noon the tavern-keeper came and said, “Sir, here is your lantern.” The man said, “What! Did I forget my lantern at your place? I’d taken it with me.” The tavern-keeper said, “You certainly took something—but that was my parrot’s cage. Return my parrot. Keep your lantern.”

In a stupor, people walk off with parrot cages instead of lanterns. Then they collide with buffaloes, get hit by trucks, fall into gutters. And then you ask, “Why is life nothing but suffering?” Look carefully: in your hand are parrot cages, not lanterns. You yourself have become parrots—parrots shut in cages, merely repeating—someone’s Gita, someone’s Quran, someone’s Bible.

Stop this repetition. By talking about lamps, lamps do not light. You will have to light them. The flame must be kindled within. And when there is a flame within you and light all around, your sufferings will vanish just as darkness vanishes.

That there are sufferings in your life is proof that the lamp of meditation is not lit in you. There is no prayer and love, no light, no divine presence in your life. Take the hint from your sufferings, heed the signal, understand something. Suffering is saying only this: you have strayed; return to the path. As I see it, sorrow is a symptom that we have moved away from life’s dharma; happiness is a sign that we are approaching it; and bliss is the sign that we have become one with it.

The moment you call the world “mud,” the mistake begins right there. Do you not see the lotuses blossoming in the world? Where did Buddha blossom? Where did Mahavira blossom? Where did Kabir blossom? These sutras on the art of living that we are contemplating—where were they born? Where did this song of life arise? In this very world. In this very mud.
So don’t call it only mud; there are lotuses here too. Mud is the mother of the lotus. Respect it. Without mud, where is the lotus? If you run away from the mud, how will the lotus be born? Use the mud. The lotus is the potential hidden in the mud. The lotus lies buried in the mud. Seek. Search. You will find. It has been found; you, too, will find. Where will you run? And if you run from the mud, remember, you are also running from the lotus. You will dry up and rot, but fragrance will never arise in your life.
That is why I say, running from the world is cowardice—escapism. Use the world. The world is an opportunity—a great opportunity. A challenge, in which at every moment God makes elaborate arrangements to awaken you. Someone’s mouth lets out an abuse at you—if you are intelligent, the abuse will awaken you. Someone slanders you—slander will awaken you. You clash with someone—the clash will awaken you. Anger arises; it burns, wounds form, blisters rise—anger will awaken you. Compassion arises, its nectar flows—compassion will awaken you. Love wells up and turns into prayer—prayer will awaken you. Here sorrow will awaken you, and happiness will also awaken you. And the world is the mud of happiness and sorrow. But in this very mud of happiness and sorrow, in this very tension of happiness and sorrow, the incomparable flowers of the lotus also bloom.

Summer has
drunk up
the water of the lake,
made it mud,
and in the mire
up to my knees
I stand, sunk.
I will not run,
leaving this lake.
In the mud
the fallen lotus seeds
are not dead—
they have only gone underground,
fighting
the battle
to be born.
It is in the mud,
in truth,
that the crop
of lotuses
grows!

The seeds lie here, buried in this very mud. The wise can turn even poison into nectar. The foolish can turn even nectar into poison.
Those who have told you, “Run away from the world,” can only be foolish people. And this does not mean I am saying that if you sometimes go to the mountains and spend a few days there in silence and solitude it is something bad. But remember, you must return here. The mountains must not become your habit. The mountains must not become your addiction. The mountains must not become your attachment. Let it not happen that you become so attached to the forest’s peace that you can no longer bear the tumult of the marketplace. That would be an even greater defeat, a greater weakness. You would have become more pitiable than before.
The peace of the forest—go there sometimes, enjoy it. That too is the world—the other face of the world. Enjoy that too, but return to the marketplace. Keep returning to the marketplace; the real test is in the marketplace. And the day you find that you are as peaceful in the marketplace as you are in the forest, understand that something has happened—before that, not. That day understand something has happened; that day understand you have found your own nature. Now, whether circumstances are favorable or unfavorable, it makes no difference. Whether there is defeat or victory, the inner joy remains untouched. Whether happiness comes or sorrow, the inner song is the same. Whether life or death, within, all remains untouched.
That untouched state is called sannyas. Sannyas does not mean the opposite of the world. Sannyas means the art of remaining undisturbed amidst dualities.
So those who have gone off to the forest and are afraid to come to the marketplace are also bound. From the forest’s silence they have forged chains. They have mistaken the mountain’s silence for their own silence, which is a deception. The peace of the Himalayas is not your peace. Come back and see in the marketplace. If it abides in the marketplace too, know that it is yours; and if it is lost the moment you enter the marketplace, know it belonged to the Himalayas. Then the Himalayas will be liberated by the Himalayas—how will you be liberated? What kind of borrowing is this! Why deceive yourself with such loans?
Always come back to the marketplace. Keep returning to the marketplace. That is the touchstone. There your gold will be tested—whether it is brass or gold.
And the day you discover that in the mud the lotus blossoms, that day you will certainly succeed in thanking God. Only on that day will you succeed; not before. Right now your mind is full of mud—“Where has God thrown me! Someone as lovely as me—thrown into the mud! A diamond—thrown into the muck!” Your mind is full of complaint. From such complaint how can prayer be born? From such complaint how can worship arise? From such complaint how can the tray of offerings be adorned? Where, in such complaint, is fragrance—where incense, where lamp-light?
Prayer arises when the feeling becomes dense within you that as God has given, so it is auspicious; as it has been given, this is the best; as it is, it could not be more perfect. When such a feeling grows intense, from that intensity gratitude arises, thanksgiving arises.
I do not want to sever you from the peace of the forest, nor do I want to sever you from the marketplace’s clamor. Enjoy both. Sometimes go to the forest when it is convenient. If you cannot go to the forest, close the doors and sit silently for an hour or two in the day. Forget the world. Let the marketplace go on outside—it goes on; it will go on. What have you to do with it? Become still within yourself. Keep diving within yourself like this. Sometimes also go to the forest and enjoy the peace of the trees and the mountains, but each time return to the market. And each time, keep this in mind: does what you have earned remain, or not?
So many sannyasins come to me from the West; their pain is the same—that ultimately they have to go back. They can stay only up to a limit. One can stay three months, another only three weeks. Because there are state borders—great prisons. Some get a three-week leave to go—and after three weeks, out of the country.
The world is still fragmented, divided. All the constitutions of the world say there is freedom of movement; nowhere is it seen that a person is free to move—nowhere is it seen. Step outside your country and you start to realize how much hassle there is. Hassle in going out, then hassle in entering another country. As if this entire earth is not ours; small pieces have been carved up.
So those who come from the West have this hindrance. They live here with me for three months, they taste a certain juice, and then the hour of leaving comes too soon. Then the heart becomes sad. And I can understand their sadness. Because your marketplaces are nothing compared to the marketplaces of the West. The commotion in your markets is nothing—it is very primitive; your markets are from Adam’s era. Theirs are highly developed. There the noise is truly heavy. The turmoil is at its peak. There, there is no trace of soul or God. What meditation, what prayer, what worship! Whoever does it is mad.
And people won’t leave you merely by calling you mad, as I said responding to the first question. People say to Krishna: she’s mad. It’s good that you are in India—here people just call you mad and let you be; the matter ends. In the West they don’t let you off so easily. Once they say “mad,” they admit you to a madhouse. Then you may shout as much as you like, cry as much as you like, say a thousand times that you are perfectly fine—the more you say “I am fine,” the more difficult it becomes. They will give injections. They will put poisons into your body. They will stupefy you, keep you unconscious. They will feed you a thousand kinds of medicines.
A French youth went back a few days ago. He said, “I am in great difficulty. Because the moment I return I will have to go into the army. My age has come for conscription, and I’ll have to stay in the army for a year and a half. And now I don’t want to go into the army. I don’t want to fire guns or learn to throw bombs. Now these things seem foolish to me. You have put me in trouble. I cannot stay in this country. The government says: leave. Notices upon notices are coming. There I cannot go, because the moment I go I will be caught. I’ll have to go into the military.”
I asked, “Is there any way to avoid it?” He said, “Only one way: if it can be proved that I am mad.” I said, “Then it is very easy.” He said, “How? What should I do to prove it?” I said, “You do nothing. Just go and start doing kundalini immediately. Or dynamic meditation will also do. The moment you begin ‘Hoo! Hoo! Hoo!’… And do kundalini wholeheartedly. And when you are doing it, don’t stop.” He said, “What are you saying?” I said, “You try it and see.”
He tried it, and succeeded. His letter has come: “It was amazing! When I did kundalini they said, ‘This one is absolutely mad. Don’t, by mistake, take him into the military.’ Whatever they kept doing, I kept doing my kundalini. They kept examining and testing; I kept doing my kundalini.”
In the West you will be quickly declared mad. And then the West’s turmoil and marketplace and the deranged race for money! Sannyasins begin to feel distressed—How can we go back? But I send them. I say, going is gain, not loss. Whatever you have earned here, whatever you have received in three months—now protect it there. Guard what you are carrying from here. Granted that the sapling is weak, it can break. But if it is properly protected it will become strong. And where there is challenge, if you become a vigilant sentry of your inner being, you will gain greatly. And this is my constant experience: a person who meditates here for two, three, five months, then goes back to the West and later returns—his depth has increased vastly.
I do not tell you to leave the world. Yes, take a holiday from the world once in a while. Go to the forest for a day or two or four, for a fortnight—but then come back. And each time, this going and returning will deepen you and raise you higher.

It is the beginning of love—why are you crying?
Just wait and see what lies ahead!

It is only the beginning. Only the first steps have been taken. Do not be afraid. Do not worry.

Until love has dragged you through disgrace,
a man is of no real use.

Until love ruins you, defames you, a man is not of any worth at all.

You ask, “What has happened to me?”
Love has happened to you. Your feeling is turning into devotion. And this comes only by great good fortune.

By destiny alone one receives the pain of love;
here, only those who die in love have truly fared well.

Those who die in love attain the immortal. And this wound, this anguish, comes by great fortune; it does not come to everyone.

If tears come, turn them into prayer.

Why complain of separation?
Why weep over pain?
Now that it is love, be patient too—
for this is how it goes in love.

And this is only the beginning—the first drizzle. The cloudburst is yet to come, which will carry everything away: all that you have taken to be yours, and all the ways you have taken yourself to be. And when you are completely swept away in this flood, whatever remains behind is your true being, your essence. Call it Truth, call it God, call it Nirvana—give it whatever name you wish.

When everything is carried off in this flood of tears; when this blessed madness breaks all your nets of logic; when this love, like an arrow, slowly pierces the innermost core of your heart—then you will know how fortunate you are. You will find living springs. They are found only by digging within—and only with the pickaxe of love does one dig within.

Difficulties will come. There will be disgrace.

They wander, like Mir, abased—no one even asks.
In this love, even the Sayyids’ honor is lost.

No one will even ask after you. At first people will say you’ve gone mad: “What has happened to you? Tears keep flowing—this never used to happen. What have you started? What web have you fallen into? Under whose spell are you? You don’t walk consciously. You go one way and look another. You speak one thing and think another. What is happening inside you? Are you drunk? Have you started drinking?” People will even avoid your path. They will be afraid to greet you. Who keeps company with madmen? And if you stay with madmen, others begin to think you too are going mad.

They wander, like Mir, abased—no one even asks.
In this love, even the Sayyids’ honor is lost.

Such is love: in it, everything goes. Even the honor that comes from lineage is gone—“even the Sayyids’ honor is lost.” In this, one must lose everything. But only those who lose, gain.

And many will counsel you, “Stop now. Nothing is spoiled yet. Pause here. You’ve only taken a couple of steps—turn back.” But on the path of love, if even a single step is taken, then in the whole history of humanity it has never happened that anyone has turned back. Such is its flavor. Such is its intoxication.

I understood nothing in the frenzy of love;
for a long time the moralist kept explaining.

People will try to explain. The sensible will advise, the preachers will advise, religious leaders will advise, pundits and maulvis will advise.

I understood nothing in the frenzy of love;
for a long time the moralist kept explaining.

But the one seized by this madness, by the intoxication of love—nothing reaches his ears, nothing makes sense. Once he has heard the call of love, no argument of the world appears meaningful. He will laugh and brush them aside. He will remain intoxicated in his own tune. He knows all those arguments; from them nothing was ever gained—not even a single blade of grass bloomed. And now the fragrance of roses has begun to arise within. How can he stop? Helplessly he is drawn on.

Now there is nothing for it but to be effaced.

You ask, “Ever since I listened to you, I’ve fallen into great trouble.”
Hands off the love-sick—who has ever been saved from this malady?

No one escapes this ailment. In this disease one must go in; one must be annihilated.

Had you not listened, that would have been one thing—now you have listened! Had you not come here, that would have been one thing—now you have come! Now this dye has taken on you; it is not a color that fades. I am a dyer.

And let me remind you: this suffering that seems to be arising now—guard it as a treasure. Like a child in the mother’s womb: she must bear the pain. Food won’t digest; there will be nausea. A burden, pain—for nine months she endures. But she endures because there is trust: a new life is growing within her. A new life is coming.

So it is with you. These words falling within you will become your womb. You will have to pass through great pain. But all the pain is worth bearing, because through this your new life will be born. One birth is received from parents; one birth you must give to yourself. You must be born of your own womb. This is sadhana.

Life’s caravan is looted exactly there
where your sorrow for the Beloved parts from you.

And the day sorrow for the Divine departs, know that life’s caravan has been looted. Unfortunate are those to whom, in their lives, God has not given the labor pains of the womb. You are fortunate.

You ask, “I have fallen into trouble.”
Good. We will push you into even more trouble. Only thus will you be refined. Only thus will you be cleansed. Only thus will you be resolved.

“Tears do not stop.”
Why stop them? Support them, cooperate with them—let them flow. Dust of lifetimes has settled on the eyes; let the tears wash it away. And tears do not cleanse only the outer eyes; they cleanse the inner eyes as well.

“The remembrance remains every moment.”
Good. Those in whom it does not remain every moment—they should be troubled. Why are you troubled? They should raise questions. Why do you? Remembrance should become such that not only by day, but by night too; not only when awake, but even in sleep.

Swami Ram returned from America. He was a guest in the palace at Tehri Garhwal in the Himalayas. His disciple, a Sardar named Puran Singh, was attending to him. One hot night Puran Singh couldn’t sleep. And another reason he couldn’t sleep was that someone nearby kept humming, “Ram, Ram, Ram.” He got up to see which madman it was. He went out, circled the veranda—the palace was empty, no one anywhere for a long distance. The farther he walked, the fainter the sound became. When he returned to the room, the sound grew clearer again.

He was puzzled. Could it be that Ram himself was chanting “Ram-Ram”? If one can’t sleep, what else to do lying down! He went close—Ram was asleep. Not only asleep—he was even snoring. But as he went nearer, the sound grew even stronger. He listened carefully—near the head, near the feet, near the hands. Putting his ear close, he heard the whole body humming with the rhythm of “Ram, Ram, Ram.”

In the morning he asked Ram. Ram said, “You heard correctly. At first it came only in the day; slowly it entered the night too. At first it came only in the mind; slowly it entered the body as well. Now there is only Ram. Now ‘I’ am no more.”

Do not complain. Does remembrance come every moment? Deepen it. Let not a single moment go empty. This remembrance is the fine thread that will lead you to the Divine. It is a slender thread of memory, of awareness; this is what will carry you. Pour your whole energy into this thread so that it becomes strong—stronger each day. Make it profound.

“…the remembrance remains every moment. What is happening to me?”
The signs are perfectly clear. There is no need to ask anyone. Love is happening. Feeling is becoming devotion. The night has begun to wane. The dawn is nearing. Keep walking—if you do not stop, you will arrive.

“People say I should leave you. And that seems impossible now.”
People will say so. They say it out of pity: “What has become of you? You were a sensible man—what has happened? Tears flowing… What have you gotten into? Whose spell are you under?” Do not be angry with them. But what is happening to you—there is no way back from it.

The heart will not turn away from Him, O moralist;
once it has taken His side, it has taken His side.

Once the heart inclines to Him, even if the empire of the whole world is placed on the other scale, you will not agree to take it.

The heart will not turn away from Him, O moralist;
once it has taken His side, it has taken His side.

Enough for today.