Nam Sumir Man Bavre #4

Purushottam! Being and nonbeing—“is” and “is not”—are not opposites; they are complements. The void and the whole are two sides of the same coin. Until this becomes your own experience, you will remain divided; you will go on seeing life and death as enemies of each other. And one who sees life and death as opposites will naturally cling to life and be afraid of death. When life and death are seen as two sides of the same coin—ripples of the same wave—in that very moment attachment to life drops; in that very moment, dispassion is born.
To know, to see, to recognize the void and the whole as one is the ultimate experience.

That is how it is. Both things happen together. If you fall into attachment to me… and remember: attachment is not love. Attachment is infatuation with life. Love is the awareness that life and death are one. Then you will fall into attachment to me.

And every attachment fetters; even attachment to the Master will bind you. A golden chain, yes—but a golden chain binds just as surely as an iron chain, perhaps more firmly. You feel like throwing away an iron chain; a golden chain people mistake for an ornament. A crown of thorns is easy to remove; how will you remove a crown of flowers?

The ordinary sprawl of life is thorn-ridden. There is abundant sorrow there. It is a marvel that you remain entangled in it at all. But in the love of a true Master there is fragrance upon fragrance. If that love turns into attachment, it will not liberate. Therefore the true Master enters you in both ways—like presence and like absence, as fullness and as emptiness. Sometimes you will find yourself utterly filled with him; sometimes you will find there is no one within, only silence. When these two become equal in weight, when the two pans of the scale come to balance, in that very moment attachment dissolves and love is experienced.

Love is a greater thing; love is liberating. Where attachment binds, love frees. Love is supreme freedom.

But for this you must rise above the divisions of the intellect. The intellect raises the question. The intellect is troubled: What is the matter here? “It seems you are, and it seems you are not.” The intellect says only one of the two can be true. It cannot hold opposites together; its chest is too small. Intellect insists: if it is day, then it cannot be night; if it is night, then there cannot be day. Rise a little above the intellect and day and night are together—two wings of one bird. To rise above intellect means: be a little crazy, a little mad.

We kept seeking the spring in the season of fall,
From the blackest night we begged the Beloved’s beauty;
At times the thought of the Friend, at times the Friend’s very mention—
On this single merchandise we made our living.
No complaint against separation—for by this very means
We kept the heart’s bond with Him secure.
Those days when there was no reason at all to wait—
Even in those days, for you, we did nothing but wait.
By the grace of those who, now and then, chose madness,
The marketplace of reason stays illumined.

Whatever little dignity, glory, and beauty there is in this world is because of those mad ones “who, now and then, chose madness.”

By their grace, by the grace of those few slightly crazy ones, the sap of life still flows and life does not get torn completely away from truth. The “clever” get trapped within the limits of their intellect. To rise above intellect is to break all limits. The clever one says, “I am a theist.” Another says, “I am an atheist.” The religious one says: Say of God “He is”—He is; say of God “He is not”—He is. The religious says: What theism, what atheism! His being is one of His modes; His non-being is another of His modes. His presence is His, His absence is also His. Form is His, formlessness is His. If He is—that too is He; if He is not—that too is He.

We kept seeking the spring in the season of fall—
Such madness is needed: that someone goes out to look for blossoms in the days of autumn; that someone seeks light in the dark, digs life out of death.

We kept seeking the spring in the season of fall—
When autumn has come, leaves have fallen, trees stand dry like skeletons—whoever searches for spring then, only such a madman can find the Divine.

From the blackest night we begged the Beloved’s beauty—
The one who seeks the Beloved’s face in darkness, who hunts for His radiance in the deepest night.

At times the thought of the Friend, at times the Friend’s very mention—
Sometimes he thinks, sometimes he speaks—but the thought is of the Beloved, the speech is of the Beloved.

On this single merchandise we made our living—
His whole life has been cast in this one mold: remembrance of the Beloved. When flowers appear—His remembrance; when flowers are gone—His remembrance.

No complaint against separation—for by this very means
We kept the heart’s bond with Him secure—
This is how the bond of love with the Beloved deepens, how it becomes steady and firm.

Those days when there was no reason at all to wait—
When there was no reason to wait, no likelihood of arrival, not even a hint…

Those days when there was no reason at all to wait—
Even in those days, for you, we did nothing but wait—
Even then we remembered you, and we waited for you. There was no reason. You had sent no message. No sound of your footsteps. In truth, your coming seemed impossible. There was every proof that you would never come. You had never come, you would never come—there was every proof. Yet—

Those days when there was no reason at all to wait—
Even in those days, for you, we did nothing but wait.

By the grace of those who, now and then, chose madness,
The marketplace of reason stays illumined—
Because of such few madmen, religion does not depart from the world. Because of such few daredevils, the earth’s connection with the Divine is not broken. These mad ones are the bridge between God and the earth.

You will have to be free of the intellect, Purushottam! Drop this worry. Great thinkers, great philosophers got entangled in this worry and were finished by it. What a dispute it has been! Buddhist philosophers say: the Ultimate is void. Vedantins say: the Ultimate is full. The quarrel has gone on for centuries. Neither knows. Philosophers do not know.

The Ultimate is both Fullness and Void. The Upanishads speak rightly. Their utterances are not those of philosophers but of ecstatics. The Divine is near, and far. Buddha is right: He is, and He is not.

Accept both at once. In the very acceptance of both, the breath of the intellect stops. When the intellect stops breathing, the soul breathes. When the intellect shatters, you come together. When the intellect goes, your arrival happens, your advent.

You ask:
“My dreams’ support, the stars of my paradise,
my world, my companion—O my friend!
What has happened to me?”

Do not ask outside. Whoever asks outside, misses. The happening is within. Close your eyes and dive; taste it, drink it. You will recognize what is happening. These matters are known only by tasting.

It was I who failed to understand—mine were the mistakes;
He kept sending the call through the beating of my heart.
From there, in the heart, a voice is rising. Someone is calling, someone is drawing you. If you raise the question outside, you will be entangled. Ask there, where the question arises; plunge into the very question—there lies the answer.

And you say, “I weep, I sing, I dance, I fall silent. I am so far away, and still your magic remains upon me.”

What has distance to do with magic? Magic does not acknowledge distance. Love has no notion of distance. For love, everything is near—nearer than near. For love there is no interval of time, no interval of space. Wherever the lover sits and closes his eyes, his inner stream begins to hum.

If the drinker lift his palm, it becomes a cup;
the place where he sits and drinks turns into a tavern.
Where you remember the Divine becomes a temple; right there is God—there is Kaaba, there is Kailash. Distance makes no difference. Even sitting near, it is not so easy to be near.

People sat before Buddha and missed. They sat before him and asked such futile things! Trifles—wasting their time and Buddha’s. Sitting before Buddha, they should have looked into his eyes, held his hand, laid their head at his feet. For a while, they should have forgotten thinking. For a while, become thought-free. In that very thought-freeness they would have linked with Buddha and with themselves. For the awakened one abides where you too will arrive when you awaken. Asleep, we are separate; awake, we are one. In sleep, difference; in awakening, non-difference.

It is going well. You weep, you sing, you dance, sometimes you are silent. Do not be afraid. Fear arises, because ordinarily such things are not done.

We have made man utterly false. We allow him neither to truly weep nor to truly sing. He laughs only as a formality, he weeps only as a formality. His tears are false, his smiles are false. We have taught him such control: suppress yourself. Let no surge of feeling show. We have killed feeling. We have stilled the beating of the heart.

Therefore, when for the first time you weep, dance, sing, fear will arise within: What am I doing? What will people think? But until staggering comes, the journey to His temple does not begin.

I am enamored of the falter in my gait, O Shad—
seeing me from afar, He recognized me.
Only when someone comes stumbling does the Divine recognize: someone has come—someone is coming toward me.

The composed people are not His people. The composed live from their ego, their control, their discipline. One has to go to Him staggering. And when you are recognized, only then will you give thanks.

I am enamored of the falter in my gait, O Shad—
Then you will say: Blessed is my lot that I faltered; blessed that my feet wavered; blessed that I walked like a drunkard—otherwise I would not have been recognized.

Seeing me from afar, He recognized me.

If crying comes, singing comes, dancing comes—let them come! Open your arms in welcome; embrace them. Feeling is blossoming. Support it, cooperate with it. Do not stop it for any outward reason.

And outside there are only reasons to stop—because we do not accept human simplicity. We make man cunning. We do not embrace his naturalness. We build a frame around him and call it character, conduct.

The more tightly someone is framed, the more he is honored and rewarded by society. But if you take society’s reward, remember, you will be deprived of God’s reward. You have received your prize; society has honored you, placed garlands around your neck. Those hands are false, their garlands are false. Those flowers will wither, those hands will wither. Those flowers are dust, those hands are dust, that honor is dust. Until the hands of the Immortal place a wedding garland around your neck, all is in vain.

Now, dive! The light breeze that has begun—let it become a storm.

No pleading with anyone, no dealings—I mind only my own business:
your mention, your thought, your remembrance, your name.

From your question it sounds as if at least you yourself are not miserable. The right to weep over the world’s suffering belongs to one who is not himself in misery. Otherwise your tears will only add to the suffering, not lessen it. And will anyone’s pain end because you cry? The world has been suffering from the very beginning. However bitter, this truth has to be accepted. The world has always suffered; the world’s suffering will never end. Individuals’ suffering has ended—only an individual’s suffering can end. Yes, if you wish, your suffering can end. How will you end someone else’s?

I am not saying people cannot be given bread, or houses. They can; they are; they have been. Yet suffering doesn’t disappear. In fact, it increases. Where people have got homes, bread, jobs, money—there suffering has increased, not decreased.

Today no country on earth is as miserable as America. Yes, the forms of suffering have changed. Bodily suffering is less; mental suffering is more. And mental suffering is certainly deeper. How deep is the body? Depth belongs to the mind. No country has as many going insane as America; no country has as many suicides; no country has as many broken marriages. The American mind carries a weight and anxiety no one else carries. And in material terms America is the most prosperous—history’s first fully affluent nation. But with prosperity has come a flood of suffering.

In my view, until a person awakens, whatever he does, he will remain miserable. Hungry, he suffers from hunger; with a full stomach, he suffers from the full stomach.

There is a story from Jesus’ life. Christians did not keep it in the Bible—it is a little dangerous—but the Sufi fakirs preserved it. Jesus entered a village and saw a man, drunk, lying in a gutter, spewing filthy abuses. Jesus bent down to explain; a terrible stench rose from the man’s breath. The face looked familiar. Jesus remembered. He shook the man and said, Brother! Open your eyes and look at me. Have you forgotten me? Don’t you remember who I am?

The man looked closely and said, Yes, I remember. And it is because of you that I suffer. I was ill, bedridden; you healed me. You touched me and I was well. Now tell me, what am I to do with this health? If I don’t drink, then what? When I was confined to bed, liquor didn’t even occur to me. Since I became healthy, this trouble has landed on my head. You are responsible.

Jesus was startled—perhaps he had never thought of this. He walked on, saddened. He saw another man chasing a prostitute. He stopped him: Brother, God did not give eyes for this. The man looked at Jesus and said, God did not give me eyes—you did. I was blind; you touched my eyes and I could see. Now tell me what I am to do with these eyes. Since you gave me sight, I run after women.

Jesus was amazed. He did not go further into the village; melancholy, he turned back. As he left, he saw a man outside the village tying a rope to a tree, preparing to hang himself. Jesus ran and stopped him: What are you doing? Life is so precious! The man said, Don’t come near me now. I was dead—you brought me back to life. What am I to do with this life? Life is a burden. Let me die. Please, show no more miracles. It is your miracles that are getting us into trouble. If you must display them, do so elsewhere. Spare me; forgive me.

See the meaning of the story. You have eyes—what will you do with them? You have health—what will you do with it? You have life—what will you do with it? Until awakening happens, you will remain blind even with eyes, and your eyes will lead you into pits. Until awakening happens, once healthy you will see nothing to do but sin—health will take you into sin. Until you awaken, even life is futile; it becomes a burden. Thoughts of suicide begin to arise.

Psychologists say it is hard to find a person who has not thought of suicide five or ten times in life. Think about yourself—you too have thought a few times: What’s the point? End it. Useless to get up every day, the same work, the same quarrels, the same commotion—what’s the meaning? Why not die? What will be lost by dying? There is nothing much in hand anyway. Life is so empty—what more can death take away?

People are miserable; they have been, and they will be. Because happiness does not descend from wealth. And I am not against wealth, mind you. Wealth brings convenience. A man without wealth suffers in inconvenience; a man with wealth suffers in convenience. Convenience does not remove suffering; it provides better opportunities for suffering. You will live in an air‑conditioned house—and be miserable. In marble palaces—and be miserable. On velvet beds—and be miserable.

Nor am I saying convenience is bad. As far as it goes, convenience is fine, but it does not erase suffering. In fact, the more comfort there is, the more starkly suffering shows itself. The deprived man often has no leisure to notice his sorrow. Those we call “fortunate” have the leisure to survey their sorrow.

Human suffering is not erased by comfort, nor by wealth, nor by status, nor by prestige. Human suffering is erased by self‑awakening.

You say, “I cry a lot seeing the world’s suffering.”
If you must cry, cry to your heart’s content—only find a better cause. Cry for God. And what will your crying do? A man is sick, dying; you sit by his bed and cry—do you think that will heal him? Your crying will hasten his death; it will unnerve him. Someone is drowning; you sit on the bank and weep—will he be saved by your tears? Seeing you weep he will lose hope sooner; out of pity for you he may drown at once: “Let me end it; this poor fellow is crying for nothing.” What will your tears achieve?

You ask, “Can’t this suffering be stopped?”
It surely can—but not by someone else. Here is the difference between politics and religion. Politics believes suffering can be removed by others. Hence the politician seeks power: once in power, with force in hand, he will end people’s suffering. So the politician thinks in the language of revolution: let there be revolution, let the economic order change, let socialism come, communism come—this or that—then people’s suffering will end. Socialism has come, communism has come; suffering has not ended, anywhere.

Religion’s fundamental ground, its essential difference, is that suffering ends through self‑awakening. Who can give you self‑awakening? You must awaken. Rise in meditation. Soak in devotion. Then suffering ends. Don’t weep pointlessly.

Do not weep, Kabir,
do not weep!
When a poet‑prophet like you lets fall a tear,
the hem of centuries grows wet.
Every naïve grain that lives, dies—
to fall between the mill’s two stones,
to be pressed and rubbed,
to be ground to dust,
has always happened,
and will always happen.
Nor will this ever stop
because of your tears.
Do not weep, Kabir,
do not weep!
By what unknown will did I fall
between two stones?
It was not decreed I be saved intact—
I had to be worn down.
I was time‑bound clay;
my present,
the past and future of all,
this debt had to be paid.
Free of joy and sorrow alike
I have accepted this fate.
There are greater mills,
and greater mills still,
in which this very mill is but a grain.
Those very stones that grind and wear me
will in their turn
be worn and ground.
This process goes on ahead as well.
But grinding and wearing are not the end,
not futile—
there is some meaning above them somewhere.
And even if there were not,
what difference would it make?
What count is a grain!
He who must quarrel
will quarrel with the last mill’s
two grinding stones.
Do not weep, Kabir,
do not weep!

This world is between two millstones, being ground. Kabir said he wept to see people crushed between them. When he came home and sang this song, Kabir’s son Kamal wrote a reply: “You are right—whoever falls between the two stones is crushed. But you have missed one thing: the peg between the two stones—any grain that clings to that peg is not crushed; it is saved.”

He was truly Kabir’s son—hence Kabir named him Kamal, “the miraculous.” Kamal said: “One who takes hold of the One on which all wheels turn, which stands unmoving in the center—the millstones cannot turn without the peg. The cartwheel turns; the peg stands still. Because the peg does not turn, the wheel can turn. If the peg also spun, the cart would collapse. Grains between the stones are ground; those that cling to the central peg are saved.”

In the world you will be crushed. The world has suffering; the world is suffering. But if you take refuge in Ram, if you lean on the One, you are saved. If you remain only with the changing, you will be ground. If you hold the Eternal, you will not be ground—you will be saved. There is only one way to be free of suffering: grasp the One that is present amidst the many. Grasp the Eternal hidden in the stream of time. Hold to the immutable. Hold to the mutable and you will find suffering.

What is suffering? That we have clung to the impermanent. To take the body as “I am” is suffering. The body will age, decay, die. Today it is young; tomorrow old; the day after, gone. The body will bring a thousand pains. To fall in love with a woman or a man will bring suffering, because we are all strangers here; no one belongs to anyone. The more you expand the circle of attachment, the more you will be in pain. To identify with the ego as a separate self and crave prestige, position, respect—that too brings suffering.

This suffering is natural—because you are caught between the millstones. Take hold of the One. The moment you grasp That, all suffering departs. Understand it this way: we are producing suffering out of our own delusion. No one can dispel another’s delusion. It is not in your hands to erase the world’s suffering; but one thing is in your hands: you can erase your own.

And there is no greater service than this. If you end your own suffering, you have removed the suffering of a part of the world—you too are a part of it. If there are three billion people and you end your suffering, one sufferer has become fewer. Not only that: when a single lamp of bliss is lit, its rays stir those nearby. When a flower blooms fragrant, its scent reaches others’ nostrils. When one veena sings, the strings of the sleeping veena in others’ hearts begin to vibrate.

Beyond this there is no other way. Whatever else you try will lead you into politics—and with those methods you will increase the world’s suffering, not decrease it. For the whole process of politics is the process of ego.

That is why I do not ask you to do “social service.” I say: social service will happen by itself. First serve yourself. Before you go to bring light into others’ lives, there should be light within you. At least fulfill that condition. Before you wish to remove others’ suffering, at least remove your own. Do at least that much. You are in your own hands; you will listen to yourself. As for others—who knows whether they will listen? There can be no coercion. If they are determined to remain miserable, what will you do?

In my view, those who become eager to end others’ suffering are playing a psychological trick—it is a way to avoid seeing their own suffering, a neat arrangement to prevent self‑encounter. Start looking at others’ sorrow and turn your eyes from yourself. “What is the point of looking at my own pain—people here are so miserable! First let me end theirs.” In this way they keep themselves busy. The social worker is only turning his back on his own pain—nothing else.

Social workers sometimes come to me. A gentleman has been serving the tribal people of Bastar for fifty years. He came to see me—an old man, around eighty. He said, “There is great restlessness in my life, great unease.” I said, “Fifty years of social service—and your restlessness and unease have not gone? Then who knows how many you have made restless and uneasy in these fifty years! Why are you after people?”

He said, “I have not done anything wrong. I am working for tribal education.” I said, “First look at the state of your universities. Look at the lives of the educated. Why are you after the tribals? Where have the educated reached? Your universities are the dens of the greatest unrest. What joy is there in the lives of the educated?

“The truth is, the educated become ambitious, and ambition increases suffering. Everyone educated wants to be prime minister. Everyone cannot be prime minister. And when they see any Tom, Dick, and Harry becoming prime minister, their pain increases: ‘We educated, intelligent people sit here, while illiterates become ministers, chief ministers—and we, the educated! What injustice!’ Their inner anguish grows; melancholy deepens.

“Those who create the greatest unrest in the world are the educated—because their ambition is big. Nothing can satisfy it. Whatever they get, it always feels less than their ‘merit.’ So peace can never be in their lives. Discontent is their note. They smolder with discontent. Where the flowers of contentment could bloom, only embers of discontent remain.”

So I asked him, “Why are you after the tribals? They are carefree as they are. Perhaps their bellies are not full—but at night they sing. Perhaps their bodies lack enough clothes—but they play the flute. Perhaps they don’t have fine houses—only thatch huts—but when they dance at night in abandon, even the richest feel envy.

“Why are you after them? You will put them into the same race in which the whole world is running. You will make them restless too. You are educated—have you any peace? At eighty you come to ask me: ‘There is no peace, no quiet in my life.’ And you have served for fifty years. Perhaps for fifty years you were staring at others only to hide this inner restlessness. This ‘service’ is self‑forgetfulness; it is a kind of intoxication, a liquor. Beware of it.

“There is the wine of politics; there is the wine of service. These wines seize a man so subtly he does not even know. And these wines are such that society honors them: ‘A great social servant! Honor him, celebrate his diamond jubilee, build a memorial, publish a volume in his memory’—and you remain the same. Your fifty years have been wasted.”

The old gentleman said, “As you say this, it occurs to me: I was young, just out of university, when I came under Mahatma Gandhi’s influence. He told me, ‘Serve—service is religion.’ So I began to serve.”

“After fifty years, has some sense come? Service is not religion; though religion is certainly service. There is a difference as vast as earth and sky between the two.

“Mahatma Gandhi said, ‘Service is religion.’ Vinoba Bhave says, ‘Service is religion.’ I tell you: service is not religion; religion is service. Then the journey is entirely different. First let religion awaken in your own life; then service happens on its own. You do not have to do it—no effort, no program. Wherever you sit, wherever you rise, whomever you are with, your fragrance begins to pervade. You don’t grab their necks: ‘We will change you.’

“Beware of becoming someone who wants to change others—such people are usually dangerous. They hound people: ‘We will set your character right.’ Who are you? Who gave you the responsibility? From where did you take the contract to fix another’s character? Take care of yourself. Settle your own account. Become beautiful—then, under the impact of your beauty, if something is to happen, it will. It certainly does. Your beauty will leave an imprint; many will fall under the shadow of your life—but then there will be no coercion.

“Those who want to change others usually use force. It is a form of violence. Beware of ‘mahatmas.’ Often they are violent. They speak of nonviolence, but even in their talk of nonviolence there is violence.

“Life is very subtle. Outside is one thing, inside another. If you did not obey Mahatma Gandhi, he would fast. What is this fast? It is violence—a threat: ‘I will die if you do not obey.’ If someone sits with a knife and says, ‘I will kill you if you do not obey,’ you see clearly that he is violent. Fasting is also a knife—subtle. He won’t die at once; he will die slowly, dying while living. And if he died at once, it would be better—your trouble would be over. Weep a little and bid him farewell. But for months he will haunt you; he will not let you sleep: ‘Poor fellow, dying because of me.’

“No one is dying for anyone else. People are dying for their ego. This man is dying to say, ‘Obey me. What I say is right.’ Someone else says, ‘Obey me—or I will cut your throat’—Adolf Hitler types: ‘We are right—are you with us or not?’

“I have heard: Hitler gathered his twenty ministers. He stood and said, ‘Here is a proposal. Whoever disagrees should hand in his resignation—case closed.’ Who will disagree? How? It will not stop with resignation—life will be at risk. Who will take that risk? Hitler said, ‘Those with me are right; those not with me are my enemies. It is my duty to eliminate them. If you do not agree with me, be ready to lose your head.’ That is one way.

“Mahatma Gandhi says: ‘If you do not agree with me, I will die.’ And for months I will keep dying, wearing away—and I will keep tormenting you, haunting you like a ghost. You will neither sleep nor rest. Even while you eat, the thought will come: ‘A man is dying because of me.’ This is not a new trick; women have used it for centuries. It is not Gandhi’s invention. It is an old feminine weapon: ‘I won’t eat.’ Then the question of right and true no longer arises—the one who refuses to eat becomes ‘right,’ because who wants to increase the hassle? What is the point?

“But when you insist so forcefully on changing another, you are tightening a noose around his neck; you are hanging him. This is not service. Our country is overflowing with such ‘servers.’ Soon each person will have several servers after him. There will be more servers than those to be served. Where will you find so many lepers? Pressing legs, massaging all day. The leper says, ‘I have been massaged enough. Let me do something else now.’ But how can that be? Service must be done!

“The whole attitude of service stands on a delusion. Before you think of serving, ask: Where am I? What am I? What is my inner state? First be a Buddha. First awaken. First become an ocean of love—then waves will arise on their own. Who knows how many will drown! But you will not have to drown them or chase each one. Let people come of their own to drown—that is joy.

“If you want to change people, there is no joy; if people change, there is joy. Do not impose discipline; do not frighten them with: ‘You will rot in hell if you do not obey us,’ or lure them with: ‘You will be rewarded with heaven if you do.’ These are frauds—the inventions of tricksters who do not want to take their hands off people’s throats. They frighten you and they tempt you.

“A true religious person neither frightens nor tempts. He opens his life before you. If there is something in it you wish to choose, choose it—thanks. If not, thanks.

“Do not worry about the suffering of others. End your own suffering. Do not weep. And if you must weep, weep for God—for the Beloved. Then even your tears will lift you upward; they will give you wings, height. Your tears will become precious—offer them at God’s feet. And I tell you, one day an event will happen: something from the Unknown will descend into you. Then much will begin to happen around you, by itself. Do not take charge of it. Do not become puffed up: ‘Look, so much is happening around me.’ The moment ego arrives, God departs. When ego goes, God arrives.

“It is also ego to say, ‘I will end others’ suffering.’ Who am I? If God has not been able to end it, how will I? So many avatars, tirthankaras, prophets came and went—if they could not end human suffering, how will I? Drop this madness—these empty notions.

“No one can end another’s suffering, but each person can certainly end his own. Do what is possible first; then what is not possible also begins to happen. Take care of the possible—the impossible also gets taken care of.”

Do not be irritated by the word love. It may be that what you took to be love was not love at all—that is what burned you. And I also know that one scalded by hot milk begins to blow even on buttermilk. So when you hear the word love, a pang must arise, you feel wounded, your old hurts are opened and memories surface. But I am not talking about that love.

The love I am speaking of—you do not yet know it. The love I speak of never fails. And in the love I speak of, if anyone is burned, he is refined into pure gold—into kundan, into the most pristine gold. In the love I speak of, the burning does not consume: it makes you alive. The futile is burned away; the meaningful shines forth.

I understand your pain. This is many people’s pain. That is why a word as dear and precious as love has lost its meaning—like a diamond fallen into the mud.

“People say love has power—
In which city does it happen, where does it happen?”

Naturally, in what you knew as love you found nothing but sorrow; you gained nothing but pain. You imagined that love would bring spring into your life—love brought autumn. Had you not loved, perhaps you would have been better off. Love only created new hells.

And it is not only those who “lose” in love who suffer hell and sorrow; those who “win” do too. George Bernard Shaw has said there are only two tragedies in life: one, not getting what you want; and the other, getting it. And I say the second is the greater.

For if Majnun does not get Layla, he can still think, “If only I had! If only I had—what joy there would have been! I would have flown in the sky, ridden the clouds, spoken with the moon and stars, blossomed like a lotus.” “I am unhappy because I did not get Layla—if only I had!” I would tell Majnun: ask those who did get their Layla. They are beating their chests. They think Majnun was blessed, fortunate—at least the poor fellow lived in his illusion; our illusion has shattered.

Even those whose love has “succeeded” find it has failed. In this world nothing external can truly succeed. All outward journeys are bound to fail. Why? Because that which you seek outside is within. From afar it appears outside; when you come near, it vanishes. It is a mirage. From a distance it seems real.

A thirsty man in the desert sees a spring of water. He runs and runs; as he reaches, he finds there is no spring—only a delusion. His thirst abetted the illusion. The thirst was so intense it created a dream, a mirage.

What we set out to find outside is within. And until we are utterly defeated outside—totally—we cannot turn within. I understand you.

“How heart-shattering the accidents of love were—
We could no longer raise a single longing in life.”

Once someone is burned in love, wounded in love, he becomes afraid. He cannot even dare to long for love again.

“What can one say of the desolation of the heart?
This city has been looted a hundred times.”

So many times has this heart been plundered! So many times you loved, and so many times you were robbed that now you are fearful and anxious.

But I tell you: you were robbed in the wrong place. There is an art to being robbed—ways, a style. There is even a scripture of being robbed. You were robbed in the wrong place, by the wrong bandits.

See, the Hindus are a most wondrous people. They gave God the name Hari. Hari means “the taker”—the one who takes away, who robs, who snatches, who steals. No other people have given such a sweet name to God. The one who takes away.

If you must be robbed, be robbed by God. You got looted over petty things! You tried to drown in a handful of water—didn’t die, spoiled the water, stirred up mud—and now you sit disillusioned. When I say, “Dive into the ocean,” you say, “Talk of drowning doesn’t appeal to us—we have drowned many times. One never really drowns; only mud gets stirred. We were better off as we were.” If you try to drown in a handful of water, of course there will be only mud. Dive into the oceans. There are oceans.

“Do not ask the truth of my hopeless love—
A wave of pain swells in the measure of feeling.”

Your love was only a sensation of pain. All you got was weeping; laughter never came. Tears, only tears. No moments of joy, of celebration.

“Love has no result but pain and grief;
Try a hundred strategies—the outcome is the same.”

Such is the sum of the world’s sorrow: sorrow is all you get.

But I am speaking to you of a flame where there is no smoke. I speak of a realm where the fire does not burn—it vivifies. I speak of the love within. I too am constrained: I must use the words you use. If I use words you do not, communication becomes impossible. And if I use the words you do use, trouble arises—because you have already filled them with your meanings.

The moment you hear the word “love,” the essence of all the films you have seen gathers in your mind—their distillation, their perfume. The love I speak of is something else. Meera knew it; Kabir knew it; Nanak knew it; Jagjivan knew it. Not the love of your movies, not theater. And those who knew this love all said: there is no defeat there, only victory upon victory. There is no sorrow there, only layer upon layer of bliss unfolding. And if you do not come to know this love, then know this—life has been wasted.

“We came from afar, O cupbearer, hearing of the tavern—
Alas, we kept on craving even for a measure.”

Do not find yourself at the moment of death having to say how far you came.

“We came from afar, O cupbearer, hearing of the tavern.”

Think: from how far have you come, hearing news of the wine-house! From what a distant journey you have arrived.

“Yet we kept on craving—alas!—even for the goblet.”

Here you did not get even a sip. Not even a palmful of wine to quench the thirst. Not even a single cup.

At the time of death, this is the feeling in the eyes of many: they kept craving and craving. Yes, sometimes it happens that a devotee, a lover of God, does not depart craving—he goes brimming, overflowing.

I am speaking of another love. With eyes open there is a love—that is for form. With eyes closed there is a love—that is for the formless. One kind of love comes from wanting to get something—that is greed, craving. Another kind of love is to offer oneself entirely—that is devotion.

Your love is exploitation. Man wants to exploit woman; woman wants to exploit man. That is why there is a continuous quarrel between them. Husband and wife keep on fighting; a perpetual atmosphere of discord persists. The reason is that each wishes to exploit the other as much as possible: to give as little as possible and get as much as possible. This is a relationship of the marketplace, of business.

I am speaking of a love where you ask nothing of God—nothing at all. You only say: Receive me. Accept me. Let me remain at your feet. This heart of mine is of no worth, of no use—but I offer it at your feet. I have nothing else. And even in offering it, I offer with this feeling: “Tvadīyaṁ vastu Govinda tubhyam eva samarpaye”—What is yours, O Govinda, I return to you. There is nothing of mine in it. There is no question of giving, no pride in giving. But the moment I place it at your feet, this heart finds peace, joy, nectar. The fragment broken from its source is rejoined. The tree that had been uprooted finds its roots again; it grows green, the sap flows, flowers bloom, birds sing, and there is union with moon and stars.

To love God means I join myself to this total existence. I will not live separated, I will not regard myself as other. I will not arrange my life as if I were apart. I am one with This. Its destiny is my destiny. I have no private goal. I will flow with this current—not even swim. Wherever it takes me! If it drowns me, I will drown. Such surrender is the key to divine love. Do not go empty.

“The drinkers drained and smashed the cups—
Alas, the oceans remained sealed away!”

Do not remain like that—untasted. Drink the essence of life. Break these little cups. And if but once His glance falls upon you, your life will be transformed.

“Among millions you made it worthy of being chosen—
The heart you looked upon, you made into a heart.”

Just place yourself at His feet. Bow a little. Let but one glance of His fall upon you, one ray touch you—and you are transformed. Iron becomes gold. In the dust, flowers of nectar bloom.

“What was in that last cup, O cupbearer?
Whoever drank it fell silent—and remained silent.”

Here you have drunk many kinds of cups. I speak of the last cup.

“What was in that last cup, O cupbearer?
Whoever drank it fell silent—and remained silent.”

Drink that, and a profound stillness will happen. All quiet, all empty, all silent. Within, not even a ripple of thought will arise. That unrippled consciousness is called samadhi. In that unrippled consciousness the knowing arises: Who am I?

I am speaking of one kind of love; you are hearing another. I say one thing; you hear something else. This is natural in the beginning. Slowly, sitting and sitting, my words will begin to be understood in my meanings. That is the purpose of satsang. If not today, then tomorrow; if not tomorrow, then the day after. Listening and listening… How long will you insist on your meanings? Slowly a new meaning will begin to dawn.

Sitting with me, you have to learn a new language, a new semantics. A new gesture of feeling, a new posture of life. I will use your very words, but I will inscribe new meanings upon them. Therefore, whenever any of my words becomes a stumbling block, remember: the obstacle lies in your meaning, not in my word. Try also to sense what my meaning is. Set your meanings aside. Show the readiness to catch mine. And if you show that readiness, the happening is certain.

Questions are futile, and answers are futile too. One has to become questionless. One has to reach a space where neither questions remain nor answers remain. For a question is a thought, and an answer is a thought as well. One has to become a void, a silence. There no question will arise, no thought will arise, no clinging to any answer will remain. Only in such a state does realization happen.

That is why samadhi is neither Hindu, nor Muslim, nor Christian. Thoughts can be Hindu, Christian, Muslim—of a thousand kinds. Thoughts come in many fashions; samadhi has only one color—emptiness. If a Hindu falls silent, he will reach the same where a Muslim reaches by falling silent. If a woman becomes silent, she will reach the same where a man reaches by becoming silent. But if they speak, differences appear; distinctions arise.

It is good that you can see all questions are futile. Yet they still arise. Questions sprout in the mind the way leaves sprout on trees. The nature of mind is to question. The mind lives by questions. The mind has no interest in answers—remember this. The mind has nothing to do with answers; it is eager to manufacture ten new questions even from an answer—that is why it also asks for answers. It asks one question; when an answer is given, from the answer it raises ten more.

It will ask, Did God create the world? Really, did God create the world? And it seems he is asking with great reverence, great devotion. Say, Yes, God created the world. At once ten questions arise: Why did he create it? Why did he create it like this? Why so much suffering? What kind of injustice is this? Why did he create the poor and the rich? Why some happy and some unhappy—one born with a silver spoon in his mouth and another starving for every grain? Why did he do that? Why did he create sin in the world? Why did he make man such that he could sin? Why didn’t he give him only the capacity for virtue?

Now it begins—there will be no end. Therefore the wise, like Buddha, wanted to stop you at the very first question. Ask Buddha: Is there a God? Buddha says: This question is of no use. From it you will gain neither nirvana nor samadhi, nor will peace be found. It cannot heal your mind. Drop it. It is useless. Buddha knows that if he answers it, you will come back with ten more. The progeny of questions goes on multiplying.

Why does the mind raise questions? It is a device to escape the real question. The real question is only one: Who am I? But the mind will not raise that. It says: What is the world? Why is there suffering in the world? Who created the world? Why did he create it? What is the end? What is the goal? It raises a thousand questions. It will not raise the one question—Who am I?

Whenever anyone went to Maharshi Raman—no matter what question he took—Raman would say: Drop that; ask the real question. People could not even understand what the real question was. They would ask: You tell us, what is the real question? And there was only one real question—Who am I? People would say: All right, then we will ask, Who am I? He would say: Don’t ask me. The real question cannot be asked of another. Close your eyes and repeat within: Who am I?

False questions can be asked of others. They are false; you can ask anyone. The real question can only be asked of oneself. It has to echo in your innermost core. You must keep digging—within, and within, and within.

One question is:
What is taken to be true,
and what is actually false?
Another question is:
What is it to bear a tumult,
and what is it to inflict a wound?
We must end these tumults.
Another question is:
Of the first two questions,
which one is truly first?
Are these two questions
neither first nor second?
These are not questions at all—
they are our weakness,
our dishonesty,
our theft.
Theft of what? We are hiding the real question by raising smoke. By erecting the net of a thousand questions we are making ourselves forget the real question. We want to keep ourselves entangled so that we need not ask the real question. The real question is painful. It will pierce your chest like a spear when you ask, Who am I?

For you have already assumed that you know. Everyone sits convinced, I know who I am. Is that even worth asking? You know your name, your address, your whereabouts—what more is needed? You know whether you are fair or dark; Hindu or Muslim; Indian or Pakistani. You know your father’s name, your grandfather’s name, your house—you know it all. Your profession, your education—you know it all; what more is needed?

And none of this is you. Neither your education nor your initiation, neither your culture nor your civilization nor your society. You are beyond all this, on the far side of it. You are pure consciousness. You are sat-chit-ananda. It cannot be confined by any adjective. You are a mirror. The reflections that appear in this mirror are not you. Everything you have taken yourself to be—this I am—these are all reflections. You have not yet recognized the mirror. The day you know the mirror, you will be astonished; enchanted. You will be drenched in such nectar that you will never be able to step out of it again.

All questions are futile, save one. And all answers are futile, save one. But that question and that answer have to happen within you. No answer can be given from the outside. I am telling you that you are sat-chit-ananda—but then what? You have heard it; what has happened?

The night before last a woman from France came to see me. She was unhappy, depressed. She said, Sometimes I feel happy, but mostly I remain sad. Now and then things feel okay—just now and then. Most of the time everything seems pointless. What should I do? I told her, I will tell you a Sufi story. I began the story, had spoken only two lines when she said, I know this story. I said: If you truly knew this story, then why are you sad? She was a bit startled, for how could knowing a story have anything to do with sadness?

So I said, Then listen again. You do not know the story. You may have heard it, read it—but a story has to be lived. What will hearing or reading do? The story is short, well known. Many of you will know it. But still I say: you will know it only when you live it.

I was telling her the story: An emperor summoned his goldsmith, his jeweler, and said: Make me a golden ring. Engrave upon it a sentence that will help me in every situation—whether I am in sorrow or in joy. The jeweler made the ring, a beautiful ring set with a diamond, but he was in great difficulty: What sentence could he engrave that would help in every moment? Anything he wrote might help at some time, in some particular situation. But in every moment, in every context of life—where could he find such a sentence? How could he write it?

He was going mad. Then he remembered: a faqir had come to the village; let me ask him. He went to the faqir. The faqir said: It’s nothing special. Go and write simply: This too will pass. And tell the emperor that whenever any moment comes—when you are troubled, or happy, or sorrowful—read what is engraved in the ring; it will work.

And it did work. A few days later the emperor lost a war and had to flee. The enemy gave chase; he hid in the hills, trembling. He could hear the hoofbeats. He was deeply distressed; life had turned to dust. What dreams he had dreamed, what it all came to! He had thought to enlarge his kingdom, hence he had gone to war. He lost even what was in his hand in trying to gain what was not. He was very sad, very anxious. What a mistake I made! Just then he remembered the ring. He read the sentence: This too will pass. His mind suddenly became light. As if someone had opened the shutters of a closed room. Sunlight came inside; a gust of fresh air came in. Like a mantra! As if nectar had showered—This too will pass.

He sat quietly. He even forgot when the hoofbeats stopped, when the enemy moved away. Much later he remembered: They still haven’t reached! And three days later his armies regrouped, they attacked again, and he won. He returned to his capital as a victor. He was puffed up. Flowers were being showered, drums resounded. A grand procession. Just then, in that moment of swagger, the diamond of the ring caught his eye. He read the words again: This too will pass. And the mind became light once more. As if a door opened and light flooded in. The pride he was clutching—Look at me! Has there ever been such a victor on earth? My name will be written in golden letters in history—evaporated, the way the morning sun rises and the dew on the grass disappears. He became light; the same peace returned.

I was telling that woman this story. I had said only half, and she said, I know this story. I said: You don’t. She said: I do. I said: You don’t. If you did, the question you asked would not have been asked. When sorrow comes, know that it will pass. Here, everything passes. When happiness comes, it passes. Do not break in sorrow; do not swell in joy. Do not sink into depression in sorrow; do not puff up and burst in happiness. Everything comes, everything goes. It is a stream of water—the Ganges keeps flowing.

Nothing here is steady. Here, only the witness is steady. Only the seer remains; everything else passes. Happiness passes, sorrow passes. But the one who knows sorrow and knows happiness—the knower never passes. He is unpassing, ever still. Seek him. The day you recognize him, know that the answer has been found to the question: Who am I? And that alone is the one meaningful question, and that alone the one meaningful search.

You call it nectar; most likely you haven’t yet seen it—otherwise you would have drunk it. If nectar becomes visible, enters experience, no one holds back from drinking; no one is afraid. Who would be afraid of nectar?

No—the nectar is what I say it is. You hear me and take my word for it. But to you it is not yet known as nectar. And until you yourself know, how will you drink? The moment you know, not even a second will be needed—you’ll drink instantly. Who would delay then? You won’t wait even for a moment. For what certainty is there even of a moment?

So remember first: nothing becomes truth because I say it. Only your experience will attest it as truth. You must be its witness. How will you know that what I call nectar is nectar? Right now you are even afraid to drink. By drinking you will know, won’t you? You don’t yet know its taste. You have only heard words; their meaning hasn’t spread through your very breath. You have heard talk of a lamp. By listening to talk you have become enchanted, but you ask, Why is there no light? Light the lamp and there will be light. Talking about the lamp does not create light.

I know there is nectar—but what will my knowing do for you? From my knowing, I drank. From your knowing, you will drink. How will you come to know? What is the way?

If you want to begin rightly, begin here: first look at what you are drinking now—what is it? It is poison. Then a true journey will begin. Look closely at what you are drinking: in your life, besides sorrow, pain, melancholy, anguish—what else is there? Besides toxic fumes, what else is there? You are suffocating. You are crucified. See clearly the poison of your life—your anger, your attachment, your greed, your ego, your hatred, your lust, your rivalry—all poison. What you have drunk till now is poison.

This recognition must come first. And it is not difficult. Your own experience says it is poison. If your experience did not say so, why would you come to me? Why would you seek? Why search?

A friend came—an old sannyasin from the Himalayas. He said, I came hearing your name. It’s been thirty, thirty-five years since I took sannyas. I asked him, Have you found anything? He said, Yes—why not? I said, The way you say “Yes—why not?” makes me suspicious. He hesitated, squirmed a little, then said, No, no, I have found—maybe not completely; perhaps not full samadhi yet, not nirvikalpa samadhi, but at least a little savikalpa samadhi I do experience.

Then I said, Why have you come here? Because if even a little experience of samadhi has happened, the ladder has arrived. If the first step is found, the staircase is found; then the second, the third—keep climbing. I won’t say anything to you; you have already found. Let me talk with those who have not. He said, No, no, I have come from far away. So I said, Speak truth—say you have not found. Think a bit. But I will begin only if you speak truth; otherwise it’s pointless. If you have found, the matter is over; blessed you are. I am happy for you. If you have not, I can offer some support. Then, somewhat abashed, he said, No, I haven’t found—nothing at all. I asked, Then why did you say you had?

I understand the obstruction. If someone has spent thirty, thirty-five years in something, the ego clings. To say, “For thirty-five years I wandered like a fool in the Himalayas, wasting time like a dolt,” does not feel good. One protects oneself: “I have found something.”

But remember: samadhi never comes in fragments. It is not that you get half a measure, then another half, then more, then by the sackful. Samadhi has no pieces. It comes whole. Either it is, or it is not. So whoever says, “I’m getting it little by little,” understand it is not happening. By saying “little by little” he is only saying, “Don’t call me a complete fool. From what I’m doing I’ve got something—though not what is truly needed.”

Look carefully: what you have attained in life—is it poison or nectar? If it is nectar, my blessings—then don’t trouble yourself here. If it is poison, the journey can begin. The one who has seen poison as poison has already completed half the work; half the journey toward nectar is done. To see darkness as darkness is the first step toward seeing light as light. If “I am ignorant” becomes visible, the first ray of knowledge has dawned. If “I do not know” is known, the beginning has happened. The pilgrimage has begun. The first step is taken.

And only the first step is difficult. The second is easy, for it is like the first. The third is easy, again like the first. Then all steps are easy.

You say: “What you are offering is nectar, but I am afraid to drink.”

For you it is not yet nectar. What you are already drinking you take to be precious. And you fear that if you drink what I offer, what you are drinking now may slip away. You are racing after position; now you fear that if you listen to me, if this sannyas takes hold of your mind, then what will you do?

A friend came from Bihar—and Biharis are a special breed; they run this country’s politics. Every upheaval begins there; if you want to start any disturbance—Bihar! Nowhere else will do. He said, I do want to take sannyas, but I seek one permission: even after sannyas, I will not give up politics. I will contest elections. I want your permission. I told him, You haven’t understood the meaning of sannyas. If you ask this, you have no feel for what you ask. Sannyas means: I step out of the race of ambition. I have no taste for position now; I have taste for the Divine. My craving is not for wealth now; my longing is for meditation. I have no concern to get ahead of others; my concern is how to go within.

You say, Let me take sannyas—and also permit me to remain in politics. So I said, Stay in politics a while longer. Drink some more. When the experience of poison deepens, then come back. Right now you are not ready for sannyas.

Why does fear arise? Because you have vested interests that will be hurt. If you are mad after money and you truly hear and absorb what I am saying, your grip on money will loosen. Your competitiveness, your violence—these will fall away. You will become a little simple. Till now you robbed others; now the fear is that others may rob you. That fear is arising.

You do want to drink nectar—but you want to drink while keeping yourself untouched. You want to remain exactly as you are and also get the nectar. That is impossible. Even so, you have asked this question for the third time. You keep coming. It seems you can no longer escape. Perhaps the limit of escape has been crossed.

Cupbearer, behold the intensity of my devotion—
I have returned again, defying the whirl of time.

You keep coming, dropping the rounds of the world again and again. Surely something has begun to happen—in the dark perhaps, in the unconscious perhaps; but somewhere a blow has landed, some sound is rising, some string is plucked. Now you cannot avoid it. That is why the question has arisen. One of these days you will drink—don’t fret. In a sudden flutter you will gulp it.

A thing as lovely as wine—and truly forbidden?
I panicked at the press of doubts, and drank.

Thinking and thinking so, one of these days you will ask, How long, how long? And if even a single drop slips down your throat, then the whole ocean will have to be drunk. Then “less” will not do.

My invitation is: drink. Put fear aside. Whatever you fear—do that very thing. That is the way fear dissolves. If you fear the dark, go into the dark. Sit under a tree in a distant forest. Let what will happen, happen. After a while you’ll begin to enjoy the darkness—such vast stillness, such peace. After a while fear will settle. After a while the stars will appear; the crickets’ song will be heard. After a while the night’s silence and your breath will sway together.

Arzoo—take the cup; why this hesitation!
Drink—and the dread of sin is gone.

But without drinking, that dread does not go. The dread of sin—the sense of guilt—lingers. That is there too. When you come to me, know that I do not side with any beaten-path religion. What I say to you is a revolutionary proclamation. To join me is to break from many places. If you join me, the temple you went to yesterday will become hard to enter. The mosque where you prayed yesterday—those very people will shut their doors on you.

Letters have come to me from Punjab. Some Sikh sannyasins have written: We are in great difficulty; we are not allowed into the gurdwara. They say, Choose. If you want to remain Sikh, be Sikh. If you want to wear these ochre robes and accept this sannyas, then go wherever you wish—but do not come to the gurdwara.

Those who bar them from the gurdwara don’t even know what the word “Sikh” means. It means disciple—Sikh is a colloquial form of shishya. Now these poor fellows have become disciples, and they are not permitted into the guru’s doorway. They have found a guru, and the gurdwara is slipping away from them. And gurdwara simply means the guru’s door—nothing more.

It is a great difficulty. You will face obstacles. The religion I give you is a rebel’s call, a challenge. The religion you have been accustomed to—Satyanarayana katha and the Hanuman Chalisa and so on—has nothing to do with this. Those are consolations. They do not transform you. They are your mind’s defenses. What I give you will destroy your mind. And only when mind is destroyed does the soul within you blaze forth. When this curtain of mind is drawn aside, the soul is revealed and expresses itself.

Just drink! Drop fear and drink.

One last goblet must be drunk, O cupbearer—
Whether the hands of longing tremble, or the feet falter.

Even if your hands tremble, forget it. Even if your feet stagger, forget it. Drink once and see—then decide whether to drink further or not. Those who have drunk have then chosen only to drink more.

And the first time the hands do tremble. Fear does arise. Because your entire past pulls one way, and you are about to do something new. The past is weighty; it pulls. And do not put it off till tomorrow. I say, drink today.

Cupbearer, keep it flowing while it flows—
As long as there is strength, let the ocean pour.

Who knows who will set out when—nothing can be said. Today is; tomorrow may not be. What trust is there in tomorrow!

Cupbearer, keep it flowing while it flows—
As long as there is strength, let the ocean pour.

Therefore, drink while you can. I stand before you holding this ocean—drink. Drop fear and drink. At least once, you will have to put fear aside and drink. Without drinking, fear will not end.

Your condition is like someone who says, I want to learn to swim, but I will enter the water only after I learn to swim. Without learning I won’t enter; I am afraid. How will such a one learn? Never. It’s not as if you can lie among cushions in your room and learn to swim. You must enter the water. Step into the shallows; don’t plunge into the depths at once. That’s why I say, take a sip or two.

Spring came, swaying with a cup in hand—
What else could we do but break our vow?

And I am calling you so strongly—surrounding you from all sides, I call you.

Spring came, swaying with a cup in hand—
What else could we do but break our vow?

In such a moment, drop old vows, old habits.

Fear grips everyone—not only you. Fear is natural; it is the mind’s habit. That is why Mahavira called fearlessness the first condition of religion. Only with fearlessness can one step in a new direction. And this is a very new direction. Religion is always a new direction—it never grows old. What grows old is not religion but tradition. Religion descends fresh each day, in new forms, singing new songs. Religion does not repeat old songs; tradition sings the old songs. And once we grow accustomed to old songs, the new song will not pass our throat.

I can only tell you this: your attachment has already formed. There is no way to run away now. The possibility of going back is gone. Now just drink. And only by drinking will you know that this is nectar. And only by drinking will you know that the temples and mosques you visited were all on the surface. By drinking this, for the first time you will reach the temple, reach the mosque. By drinking this, wherever you sit becomes a place of pilgrimage.

That’s all for today.