Nam Sumir Man Bavre #6

My brother, how will you solve them? The very tangle is the absence of love. Life’s problems exist because our connection to the fountain of love has been cut. There is no flow of devotion, so puddles of problems have collected in life.

You are saying, “People are very sick right now—what is the point of talking about medicine? First let people get well, become healthy, then we’ll worry about medicine.” Your question is like that.

Devotion is the medicine. What does devotion mean? The way to be joined to God. Not being joined to that is precisely the misery. Having broken from That is the pain. Forgetting That—falling into oblivion—is the darkness. We’ve turned our backs to That and become oriented toward trash. We have connected ourselves to wealth and disconnected from awareness. We’ve tied ourselves to position and broken from the Divine. We’ve clung to the body and fallen away from the soul. That is why there is so much suffering in life.

And this suffering will not end without being immersed in love and devotion. The problems will remain snarled. The more you try to untangle them, the more tangled they’ll become, because you yourself are tangled. You must untangle! The untangler must be untangled. Whatever you do will go wrong.

Understand it like this: a madman builds a house—it will not be built. Even if it is, it will collapse. Better to live without a house than with one built by a madman. This madman has built many houses; all of them have fallen. Whatever this madman does will bear the stamp of his madness.

Has man made few attempts to solve problems? Have the problems decreased? In five thousand years not a single problem has been erased. Yes, in the long history of striving new problems have certainly been created. The old are still there and the queue of new ones keeps growing. The old problem never really goes; in the effort to solve it, new ones arrive.

But there have been a few on this earth whose lives held no problems, only solution. And from where does solution come? It comes from samadhi. These two words—solution and samadhi—arise from the same root. When consciousness within becomes silent, becomes empty, in that empty consciousness the Whole descends.

And when the Divine light arises within you, all problems vanish just as darkness disappears when a lamp is lit, or as the night departs when the sun appears. In the dark night you may pray to the birds, “Sing, open your throats! Cuckoo, what’s happened to you? Why are you silent?” All your efforts will be in vain. Let the sun rise, and cascades of song will begin to pour from the birds. It happens of itself.

As soon as someone comes near to the Divine, fountains begin to burst forth in their life. Whoever sits in their shade is also filled. The thirsty throat, perhaps for the first time, tastes nectar.

What you have asked is nothing new. It has been asked again and again through the centuries. Poets have written: How can we love now?

The caravans of poverty still wander,
the foreheads of the stars in the heavens tremble;
thousands of hearts are yearning for joy—
our lips still have no permission to smile.

“How can we laugh now? Our lips have no permission to smile. There is still so much poverty; caravans upon caravans of poverty are on the move.”

Do you think that by holding back your laughter the caravans of poverty will stop? Smile—and let poverty end. Your weeping will not remove poverty. Let your laughter scatter flowers. And it has often happened that one who had nothing, yet could laugh with an open heart, became rich. And those who have everything, if they cannot laugh open-heartedly, their wealth is worth two pennies. Where will you find greater beggars?

Do not believe that I have forgotten you,
but for God’s sake, do not wait for me.
It is a strange hour—I cannot come now,
I cannot raise the intoxicating world of love.

Poets have always said, “How can we build the world of love now? First let all arrangements be set right. First let the economy change, politics change, revolution come—then we will love. We will love when—

The doors of the lovers’ shrines have been locked,
religions have melted, creeds have rotted,
new souls, new bodies, new purpose, new intent—
the passion for self-offering will build a new creation.

When a new dawn comes, when a new human being is born—then! Not before. Then you will never love. And without love, devotion is an even more distant milestone. If the seed of love never sprouts, the plant of devotion will never grow. Only in the plant of love does devotion become possible. As the plant of love grows, one day it transforms into the blossoms of devotion.

Awaken—whether the moment of change comes or not;
a dream is a dream, whether its fulfillment comes or not.
Let us burn our blood in the lamps—
what of it if the light of morning comes or not?

Then people saw that thousands of years passed—no revolution came, nothing changed. The outer world remains as it is: hell as hell. Names change, labels change—nothing else. And yet…

Still they say, keep going. The revolutionary says:

Awaken—whether the moment of change comes or not;
do not worry whether the destination arrives.
A dream is a dream, whether its fulfillment comes or not—
we will keep burning our own blood in the lamps,
whether the radiance of dawn comes or not.

Let morning come or not—we will keep offering our blood, our sacrifice. Man has offered many sacrifices—and all in vain. He has climbed many altars, and all proved false. No star rose, no light was born. Yes—but in some people’s lives, stars have risen: a Buddha, a Meera, a Jagjivan, a Kabir, a Nacha!

What do you think—when Kabir danced, were all the world’s problems solved? The problems remained, and yet Kabir danced. And Kabir’s dance pointed toward the solution of problems. If Kabir can dance while problems remain, why can’t you? And if the whole world were to decide: let the problems remain—we will dance, we will sing, we will love as well; we will not wait for tomorrow; we will live today—then I tell you, problems would vanish. If so many people dance, so many sing, where will problems find a foothold? In which heart will they make space? Where dance fills the space, problems must depart. Where love wells up, entanglements fall away on their own. Love untangles.

And devotion is the ultimate solution. Devotion means: I have no problem left. What was to be attained has been attained. And what was to be attained has been found within—found in oneself. That is my very nature.

One who is filled, drowned, honeyed in such sat-chit-ananda—truth-consciousness-bliss—can even light the extinguished lamps of others. In their company, new rays can descend. Other than this, there is no way to end the world’s problems.

You say, “There is much sorrow in life.”
I say the same: there is much sorrow in life. But your reasons and mine differ. You think life is sorrowful because there is no money; let money increase and sorrow will decrease. In America wealth increased; sorrow did not decrease, it increased—hand in hand with wealth. How much suffering can a poor man buy? Even his purchasing power is low. One even needs wealth to buy suffering. The rich man can and does buy big sorrows. If he didn’t, what would be the meaning of riches?

I’ve heard of a tailor who bought a lottery ticket every month. For years this went on—it became a habit. He could afford no more than one ticket for a rupee. For twenty years he kept doing it. One day a luxury car stopped at his door; people got out with bags full of notes and said, “You’ve won the prize!”

He couldn’t believe his eyes. He’d stopped even thinking about it—just bought out of habit. He won hundreds of thousands.

He locked his shop at once. What need for tailoring now? There was a well in front—he threw the key into it. What use anymore? In a year the money was gone. He drank, consorted with prostitutes, traveled the world. Every possible expense—he did it. In a year, the money was finished. Not only the money—the tailor was half-finished too. Sleep gone, peace gone. He repented bitterly. He prayed, “God, for what sin are you punishing me by giving me this lottery? Couldn’t you find some other sinner? Life went smoothly: I earned my two coins, ate, drank. At least at night I slept peacefully. This turned into a calamity. Today Tokyo, tomorrow Calcutta, the day after Delhi… I must go—what else to do? Money has come into my hands! Today this woman, tomorrow that… I must go—what else to do? The costliest foods that I cannot even digest—what else to do? If I eat dry bread like a poor man, the world will call me a fool. If I bear the sorrows of the poor, does it look right? Now I must suffer the sorrows of the rich. The rich have their sorrows—sleep does not come at night.”

In a year everything was burnt up. When he returned after a year even his neighbors didn’t recognize him—completely crushed like an empty tin. Eyes sunken, glasses on. They said, “Are you the one who used to do tailoring here? You used to be so cheerful. What happened to you? We thought you’d been enjoying life.” He said, “This happened in enjoyment. Now I must climb down into the well and find my key.”

He climbed in and somehow found the key. He reopened his shop. But an old habit—he again started buying one-rupee tickets. Coincidentally, a year later he won the lottery again. When he won, he beat his head: “I am ruined! O God, why give me this suffering again? Must I pass through that mess again?”

But he had to. When money falls into your hands, what will you do? Such is man’s ignorance, his stupor. This time he never returned. Half of him had finished the first time; the other half finished now.

Do not think that increasing wealth decreases suffering. If that were so, suffering would have decreased in America. Do not think that equal distribution of wealth will reduce suffering. If that were so, suffering would have decreased in Russia. In creating equal distribution, Russia lost human freedom and the soul. Communism came; man’s inner being dried up.

Every kind of remedy has been tried. All have failed. Only one hasn’t failed simply because it has never been tried on a large scale. It hasn’t even been given a chance to fail, let alone succeed. What the Buddhas have said has been tried by a few individuals. And whoever tried it saw an incomparable glory manifest in their lives. It has not been attempted broadly. Not enough have bathed in that color.

This is why I speak to you of devotion. The conclusion of the whole history of humankind is this: if Rama is found, all is found. If Rama is missed, all is missed. Then find That by any means. If That is found through meditation, seek by meditation; if through love, seek by love. Whichever door opens, enter through that door. Do not worry about the doors. If it is through the Quran, fine; through the Gita, fine—wherever, however. Don’t worry which boat takes you across—big or small. Let there be only this one attention: to reconnect your roots with the Divine. Then you will find your sorrows ending.

And in the very way your suffering ends, the world’s suffering can end—because the world is only individuals. Where is “society”? Have you ever met society—walking down the road and you bump into society? You walk and run into a country? Country and society are empty words. What you meet is a person. If it can happen in the life of a Buddha, if it can happen in my life, it can happen in yours, because we are all made of the same bone, flesh, and marrow and share the same capacities.

Therefore I do not take much delight in the Hindu notion of divine incarnation; there is a flaw in it. I find the Jain and Buddhist understanding more meaningful. Hindus say God descends from above. That does not awaken man’s hope. All right: Krishna came from the house of God, was a full incarnation. Fine—he remained blissful. He was not like us; he was special, an avatar. What can we do? We are not avatars.

In the notion of avatar, man is cut off from God. Those who descend from above may be blissful, joyous, full of rasa—some Rama, some Krishna. But we are human beings of bone, flesh, and marrow, risen from this very earth, living in this very dust, sliding in this very dust. How will we fly in the sky? Where are our wings? They were divine beings with divine bodies. They came from the house of nectar. They were special, messengers.

This does not interest me much, because it does not give man hope; it weakens it.

The Jain and Buddhist vision is more important, more ennobling. They say: God does not descend from above—he rises from within you. As the sprout rises from the seed, as the flame rises upward from the lamp, as smoke rises upward from incense, God is your fragrance rising to the sky.

Mahavira is human, Buddha is human. And as human beings they realized the Supreme. There is assurance in this. There is hope for you. It means Buddha is not in the least different from you.

Buddha said to his disciples: “Once I was as you are. And I tell you, one day you will be as I am—because we are the same. As you wander in darkness today, so did I. As worries besiege you today, so did they besiege me. As the crowd of thoughts sits on your chest, it sat on mine. Today I am outside it; tomorrow you can be too. I am your future. Seeing me should give you trust in yourself.”

Buddha said something unique: “Seeing me should give you trust in yourself.” If in me, a human of bone, flesh, and marrow, this could happen, then in you too it can happen. When a seed sees a tree standing next to it, lifted into the sky, a trust arises: if from some other seed a tree can arise and talk to the stars, play with the clouds, dance in the winds, then something of that sleeps in me as well—let me awaken it, call to it.

So when I say: connect with the Divine, do not think I am talking about some God sitting in the sky. I am saying: make real the hidden possibility within you. Become a devotee so that you can become divine. Settle for nothing less. Whoever settles for less has refused the gift God placed within.

The key is hidden within you; with it, all secrets will open. And when your problem dissolves, the problems around you begin to dissolve.

Haven’t you seen—if you are angry, you create twenty-five kinds of problems around you. An angry person is not the only one in trouble; his anger creates problems in others’ lives. He will abuse someone, strike someone, insult someone. The net of problems begins to spread.

Throw a small pebble into a lake—waves start rising. They travel far to the shore, becoming endless. One person abuses—he has thrown a pebble into the ocean of consciousness. Waves will arise, and you will be amazed to know that those waves continue for centuries.

Small events bring consequences far, far away, to every horizon, because everything here is connected. This world is like a spider’s web. Have you ever shaken a single strand of a web? You’ll be amazed—the whole web trembles. Shake one thread a little and the entire web quivers.

Tennyson, a poet of the West, said: touch a single blade of grass and you have touched the far-off moon and stars. All existence is interconnected, interwoven, mutually dependent.

You’ll be astonished to know that because of a small incident the whole history of the world can turn into something else. In a battle that Napoleon lost, the cause of his defeat was astonishing: his opposing general brought seventy cats and tethered them before his army, having learned that Napoleon was afraid of cats.

And why was he afraid? When Napoleon was a six-month-old baby, the maid stepped out for a moment and a big tomcat sat on his chest. The baby panicked. He later grew to be a great warrior, could wrestle lions, but at the sight of a cat he would lose his breath. Just the sight of a cat, and he would behave like a six-month-old child, losing his senses.

Napoleon lost—through a cat. Had he won, the history of the world would have been different. Perhaps the British rule over India would never have happened. The whole story would be other. Think: a cat sat upon the chest of a six-month-old child and changed the history of the world. Life is linked in this way.

An angry person creates waves around him. Perhaps the waves Durvasa Rishi created still operate in your skull. Where would they go? They are somewhere here. Durvasa is gone, but the waves are somewhere, roaming the infinite sky. Who knows whose mind they will catch, whose neural strings will vibrate, who will become linked to them.

As with anger, so with love. When someone fills with love, a current flows around them, waves of love arise, music arises. That music touches forever and ever. Its sound is heard eternally.

Buddha has not ended, nor Jesus. Nothing ends here. Everything lives on in eternity. The threads of consciousness Buddha once touched still vibrate today. Today, too, one can connect to Buddha—or to Jesus. Today one can still discover the Way.

If you truly want to end the world’s problems, end your own. You will have taken a great step toward ending the world’s problems.

But as I see it, often those eager to end the world’s problems are the very people who are incapable—impotent—at ending their own. They are so powerless in dealing with their own issues that they turn to others’ problems to hide the fact that they have their own entanglements.

Such people become social workers, politicians; they set out to fix the whole world. Beware of them. They are troublemakers. They have not solved themselves, yet they set out to solve others.

A man went to a doctor’s home and said, “I suffer from TB. I’ve tried every treatment. I’ve massaged the feet of every doctor in this village. Only you remain. People say you are very experienced in this disease.” The doctor said, “Very experienced indeed—thirty years’ experience. You will surely be cured.” The medicines began. Six months passed, the condition worsened. Money was going, health was worsening. Finally the man asked, “You said you had thirty years’ experience—there’s no result.” The doctor said, “Thirty years’ experience—thirty years I myself have suffered from the same disease.”

There are such “experienced” people. Beware of them. If such an expert starts pressing your feet, be cautious. Often, when someone presses your feet, you don’t feel like resisting; you stretch your legs out, thinking, “Well, someone’s doing social service; it’s merit for him and benefit for me.” But remember: those who start with the feet end by pressing the neck. Whoever pressed your feet will press your throat. If not today, then tomorrow he will say, “I am going to Delhi. I must go to Delhi. Now send me to Delhi. I’ve served you so long; I deserve a reward. I didn’t press your feet for nothing. Now give me a chance to press a neck or two.”

A politician was running for election and told people, “The party you’ve elected for thirty years has sucked you dry, looted you, ruined you. Brothers, now give us a chance.”

Please, change yourself. Do not worry about others. If you change, your change will certainly benefit others. And there is no other way.

The struggle of human life is to become human. A human being is not born human. One is born only with the possibility. With birth, no “man” is yet there. Dogs are surely dogs, cats are cats, pigeons pigeons, crows crows. But no human is human at birth. Humanity has to be earned. This is the unique distinction of man upon this whole earth. This is his dignity, his glory—and also his anguish and pain.

You can’t say to a dog, “You’re not fully a dog.” Try saying it—you yourself will feel how absurd it sounds. All dogs are complete dogs. But you can very rightly say to a person, “Brother, you are not fully a man.” And there will be no inconsistency or error in that.

In fact, for most people this is the truth: they are not fully human. A dog is born complete. Have you seen? The human child is the most helpless being in this world. A fawn is born and goes about its business. A calf is born and stands up. A human child takes twenty-five years to stand on his own feet. In a life of seventy-five years, twenty-five years—one third—go just in standing on one’s own legs. Until the son returns from the university and gets a job, he does not stand on his own feet. Twenty-five years go simply to “standing up.”

The human child is the most helpless. Leave human children without parents—not one would survive. The young of animals and birds would live; they are born complete. There is nothing further to acquire. The child of man has to acquire everything. He must learn all, grow, refine, become. Human life is a creative process.

That is why no dog ever rises above “dog.” Note also, he does not fall below it either; but he never rises beyond. A man can fall below man—and he can rise above man. Fall below, and you get a Tamerlane the Lame; rise above, and you get a Gautam Buddha. And even to simply become human brings a great fragrance.

Man’s struggle is to become human. And once one becomes human, one realizes: now I can become divine. In man there are births upon births. All animals are born once; man is born twice. Hence we have a precious word: Dvija—twice-born. The Brahmin is called dvija. Not all Brahmins are truly twice-born; the term is symbolic. In my view, only one who is twice-born should be called a Brahmin. Do not call all Brahmins dvija; call the dvija a Brahmin—even if he happens to be a chamar.

Dvija means one who is born again. One birth is from the parents. We come carrying a possibility: that we may become human. Then, when one becomes human, a second birth happens—within oneself, in the innermost core, in one’s own soul. From that second birth arises a Buddha, a Mahavira, a Krishna. That second birth makes a man a Brahmin. Why a Brahmin? Because in that second birth one experiences Brahman, the Absolute; hence one becomes a Brahmin. Not all Brahmins are twice-born, but all who are twice-born are Brahmins. Yet to be twice-born is a far-off matter—we do not even complete the first birth. Our first birth itself remains incomplete. We do not become human at all.

Diogenes wandered through life carrying a lantern. Day or night—even at high noon in the blazing sun—he kept his lit lantern. Anyone he met, he would lift the lantern and peer closely at the face. People asked, “Are you in your senses? What are you doing?” He said, “I am looking for a man.”

And when he was dying, people asked him—he had kept the lantern by his side even then—“You spent your whole life searching for a man, roaming with a lantern at midday. Did you find one?” He said, “I did not find a man, but thank God my lantern was not stolen—is that not something? My lantern survived. I met such people that I began to fear for my lantern. I met some quite accomplished specimens! That my lantern survived—is that not enough? I did not find a man.”

Man himself does not become man. And if he does become man, then another gate opens.

There was a time
when I sought no one,
and even if I were lost,
somewhere inside there was a trust:
someone would surely find me.

There was a time
when something of mine was lost
and I searched for it,
holding a trust within
that I would find it
among the stars, in flowers,
in the countless moving shadows of the world.

There was a time
when I felt the contentment
of finding what I had lost.
But in the human breast,
contentment does not linger long;
restlessness is the rightful resident there—
by the very fact of being born, of being nourished, of growing—
it does not let contentment stay.

To tell the truth, man’s struggle is not
to obtain the lost, the desired;
it is to evict that imperious occupant
and keep one’s house empty,
so that whether a thorn arrives
or a rosebud arrives,
it is welcomed.

One process is that we become human. The process of becoming human is the process of asmitā, of ego. Then comes a second process: to be free of ego, to go beyond ego. And the one who goes beyond ego—

To tell the truth, man’s struggle is not
to obtain the lost, the desired;
it is to evict that imperious occupant
and keep one’s house empty,
so that whether a thorn arrives
or a rosebud arrives,
it is welcomed.

A moment comes when within you the ego sits down having stamped its seal upon everything; then you must be free of that ego. This may seem a very reverse process. It is like climbing to the roof by a ladder: first you set the ladder, build it, then you climb it. But you do not remain sitting on the ladder; otherwise you will never reach the roof. You reach the roof only when you leave the ladder behind. And the wise have even said: push the ladder away so there is no way back—so the journey goes only forward.

Ego is a ladder. To the child we teach the dignity of his asmitā, his selfhood. We tell him, You are—you are unique. Take care of yourself, polish yourself, increase your honor and dignity. Prove yourself. Then a time comes when we have to say, Now this ego has ripened enough, this ambition has ripened enough. Now drop it. Now throw down this ladder. Now empty yourself. Now this imperious occupant within, this ego—let it go too. Bid it farewell. Become empty.

The path seems paradoxical: first you have to build the ego, then you have to bid it farewell. But that is the path. One must walk the road to reach the destination; and to reach the destination one must leave the road.

So it is: half the journey is to become human, and then half the journey is to be free of the human. The day you become human you are blessed, for half the journey is complete. Now the temple is not far. You have become worthy of the temple. Now an even steeper ascent begins—the final struggle of reaching the peak. Now you must bid farewell even to the human. Now you must learn to be zero: I am nothing. This is what we call meditation, samadhi. Now you must become thought-free, egoless, stainless. Now you must utterly disappear, so that you do not remain at all. And the very moment you utterly vanish, you will find you have become divine. Here you disappear—there you arise. This is the final oblation a man must offer.

This is man’s struggle: first become human, then be free of the human. A great responsibility rests upon man, because God has placed great trust in man. All animals have been created complete—because there is no trust that they can rise beyond themselves. Man has been left open, given freedom—given the chance: create yourself, fashion yourself. In this sense God has made man a creator: create your own being. And there is joy in creation. And for the one who fashions himself, there is no limit to the bliss.

Think a little! When a mother gives birth to a child, what radiance surrounds her! What aura begins to glow! Until a woman becomes a mother, there is a certain lack of aura in her; until then she is like a bud, not yet a flower. When she gives birth, the petals open—she becomes a flower.

Have you seen a pregnant woman? A certain luminosity comes to her face. Within her a new life is surging, a new breath, a new beginning. God has entrusted her with a treasure.

And when a woman becomes a mother, it is not only the child who is born—that is but one side of the coin. The other side is that a mother is born too. Woman is woman—but “mother” is something else. Motherhood is born; love is born.

Have you seen a poet when a poem is completed? He begins to dance. He has created something. Have you seen a painter when his painting is finished? Have you seen his eyes? Such wonder and astonishment! He can hardly believe, “Could this also arise from me?” When a musician succeeds in giving birth to music, his very life is flooded with bliss.

But these are small joys. When someone succeeds in giving birth to Buddhahood within himself, then all these are small by comparison. Gather all musicians, all poets, all painters, all sculptors together—still, in front of that joy there is no comparison. All of them together are like drops; that joy is like an ocean.

The joy of creating oneself, of making the hidden possibility within you real. What is the meaning of creation? To bring the invisible into the visible. Until now the poem was not in the world and you created a poem; it was in the invisible, and you drew it into the visible. It was in the void, and you clothed it in words. It was unexpressed, and you expressed it.

A sculptor makes a statue. The stone was still rough. No one had thought that anything could be in that stone. He picked up the chisel, and the stone gained value; the stone began to feel alive. From the stone a Buddha arose, or a Meera, or a Krishna; in the stone a flute began to sing; in the stone flowers bloomed. What was invisible became visible.

Who is the most invisible? God is the most invisible; and when He becomes visible within you, the greatest act of creation takes place. The struggle of man is precisely this creation: to give birth to God.

In my vision, they are the two ends of the same ladder—like seed and tree, like egg and hen. One day lust grows wings and becomes prayer. Lust is prayer in the process of being born. Lust is groping in the dark for the way to become prayer. Lust is the wandering, the search for the path, the quest for the door. Therefore I have no condemnation of lust.

In fact, I have no condemnation at all—of anything. In me there is a total acceptance, because I see: when everything is accepted by God, to reject anything is to reject God.

I have heard this: The Sufi fakir Bayazid was very troubled by a neighbor. For a whole year that man lived next door and was a great nuisance. When Bayazid would sit to meditate, the fellow would beat a drum; when Bayazid would offer namaz, he would hurl abuses; when Bayazid would instruct his disciples, the man would create some disturbance; he would collect garbage and throw it into Bayazid’s hut.

One night, as Bayazid was rising from prayer, filled with a glimpse of the Divine—the glimpse was so clear that he said, “O Lord! You have showered such grace that today You gave me Your glimpse. Do just one thing more: free me from this neighbor.” And do you know what voice of God Bayazid heard? God said, “Bayazid, I have tolerated this man for fifty years, and you have been troubled only for one year! And that fifty years is only of this life—don’t even start counting his previous lives. If I have borne with him and not lost hope, and I still hold hope that he too will change, you also must not lose hope.”

If God were opposed to lust, lust would not exist. Saints are opposed to it—therefore I say, the saints are wrong. God is not opposed to lust. He sends every child into the world adorned with lust, filled with lust.

Lust is energy, pure energy, a wealth. Everything depends on where you invest it. The same lust, if invested in money, will make you a billionaire. The same lust, if poured into position and power, can make you the president of a country. The same lust, if turned toward the Divine, becomes prayer.

Lust is pure energy. Lust is neutral. Lust does not come with a built-in goal; you have to determine the goal. Then your energy begins to flow in that direction. Love a woman and lust will build a home. Love God and a temple will arise. Love only your family and there will be a small family standing against the whole world. Love the whole world and none will stand against you—the whole world will be your home. It depends on you.

Lust is the seed of prayer. And until lust is transformed into prayer, you will have to return again and again to the world, because you have not yet learned the lesson. Then you are sent back: Go again—enroll again in the same class. Until you pass... And what is the touchstone of passing? The day your entire lust is transformed into prayer; the day nothing but God is visible to you. Then, desire if you must, but desire only God. Then, even if you relate to anyone, love anyone, in every love it is God you love. See God in your wife, see God in your son, see God in your friend, see God in your enemy.

Therefore Jesus said: Love your enemy as yourself. Do not forget that God is hidden in him too. Do not forget this even for a single moment—otherwise that much prayer will be missed; by that much you will fall below prayer.

You made the paradise of color and fragrance a guest in the heart;
you turned today’s sorrow into a troubled dream.
Through the stages of the world of rapture and pain, with a single smile
you made the intellect indifferent to profit and loss.
With the gaze of love you made green sprout in the sand—
our heart was a wilderness; you turned it into a garden.

Life entered the dust only because of lust; an oasis has sprung up in the desert. All the greenery you see in life is of lust. Birds sing—those are songs of lust. The cuckoo calls her lover. The peacock dances for his beloved; those beautiful feathers he spreads are the very wings of lust. The beauty of those peacock feathers is the beauty of lust. Flowers bloom—ask the scientist; they are flowers of lust. In those flowers are the pollen grains, the seed, the semen of the trees. Butterflies will carry them on their feet to their destination.

If you look carefully, you will be astonished. When you pluck a rose and place it at God’s feet, you offer the rose’s lust at God’s feet—what you were meant to offer was your own lust.

With the gaze of love you made green sprout in the sand—
our heart was a wilderness; you turned it into a garden.
On the shore of longing, by showering the blossoms of your smile,
you made my relish for verse bloom into roses and almonds.
Those intoxicating, wine-filled eyes—those overflowing drops—
stirred a storm in this temperament of water and clay.

How did God create life in the dust? How did He breathe life into it? According to what principle did He breathe? According to the principle of lust.

You gave youth’s lust the restlessness of love;
and by furthering love, you made it into faith.

First, to youth... “You gave youth’s lust the restlessness of love”—you gave youth the sweet unease of lust.

You gave youth’s lust the restlessness of love;
and by furthering love, you made it into faith.

And then one day you raised love higher and higher—“you made it into faith.” You made it religion; you made it prayer.

How can I render thanks for the heart-delighting kindness of this gaze—
that what was merely a beggar at the heart’s door
you turned into an arrow lodged in the heart?
In the heart’s rebab, starved by the world’s hard patrons,
in your love you made it a singer of ghazals.

The songs that are arising within you right now—at first they will be songs of lust; but let their direction change just a little, and those same songs will become arrows toward God, and thus they will be songs of prayer.

Hence, in the depths of prayer you often find the symbols of lust. Sigmund Freud could not understand this; he knew nothing of prayer. He thought that what devotees like Meera have said is repressed sexuality. There is a reason why he could think so.

You too have heard the words of devotees. I have spoken to you of many. Again and again some things must have struck you. Meera says: “I have prepared the bed, adorned with flowers. Beloved, I wait for you—when will you come?” That is indeed a symbol of lust: decorating the bed with flowers, waiting for the lover; “I sit with the bed adorned and you have not come. The night has passed; dawn is near. Will you not come even today?”

Freud did not discuss Meera—he did not know of her. But he did discuss Christian mystics—Teresa, who is the Christian counterpart of Meera—saying that Teresa is full of lust. She says, “Embrace me.” She says, “Jesus, I am wedded to you; I have tied my knot with you. You are my bridegroom.”

It is just as well he did not know Kabir, or he would have created even greater trouble. If a woman calls Jesus her bridegroom, somehow it can be forgiven—she is a woman. But Kabir, a man, says, “I am Ram’s bride.” Freud would have read all sorts of things into this—he would have said it shows signs of homosexuality. Because Freud saw lust in everything.

And yet it is not entirely his fault. Everything does contain lust. Only he did not know that there also come moments when lust rises above itself, takes on new colors, new radiance, opens new wings.

The symbols remain the same, because where else is human language to come from? From where will we fetch new symbols? How lovely a symbol it is when Kabir says, “I am your bride.” He is saying something that cannot be said in any other way. In this world there is no deeper relationship than that of love. How else can we indicate what kind of relationship has come to be between us and God? How to convey this to the world?

Shall we say that the relationship between shopkeeper and customer is the same as that between God and us? It won’t do. Shall we say the relationship between a party and its member is like that between God and us? That too won’t do—how long does it take to change parties? Aya Ram, Gaya Ram! One never knows—by evening he is here, by morning there. How long does it take to change one’s flag? Any flag can be raised on the same pole. A clever man keeps all flags in his suitcase—ready for whichever is needed.

How to say what kind of relationship has arisen with God? No, Kabir is right: it can only be spoken of through love. Such freshness it has. You cannot even call it the relation of husband and wife, for the husband-wife relationship grows stale, while the relationship with God is ever fresh. The honeymoon never ends.

Now, if Freud hears the word “honeymoon,” he will at once say, “Stop—first this must be analyzed. Honeymoon! Honeymoon that never ends?” In human relationships honeymoons come and go, and are gone. Here everything becomes old. But with God nothing ever grows old; everything is ever new, fresh—fresh like the morning dew, clean, virginal.

Therefore Kabir does not say, “I am your wife”—that does not ring true. He says: “Bride”—fresh, just-now! Perhaps the veil has not yet been lifted. The knot has only just been tied. Perhaps the shehnai is still playing—so fresh! Perhaps the mantras are still being chanted; perhaps the sacrificial fire on the altar is not yet out; the guests have not yet departed. That thrill—fresh thrill! A just-opened bud—that alone can be compared. Only the heart of a bride can be compared. Her breast is throbbing, she is filled with ecstasy, every hair stands on end. The Beloved has been attained. How many days of waiting! How many nights of longing! How many tears! Today all are fulfilled; the supreme moment has arrived.

Only through love can prayer be explained, because in this world we have no relationship deeper than love.

Do not become opposed to lust. One has to go beyond lust—but the one who becomes opposed to lust never goes beyond it; he gets entangled in it, caught in conflict and duality. Befriend lust. Take its companionship. Use it as far as it can take you. Ride the wave of lust—allow it to carry your boat as far as it can.

And when lust can carry you no further, you will find a greater wave has come—the wave of prayer. But the journey of lust must be completed first; only then does the wave of prayer arrive. Lust is with you; prayer is your future. You must fulfill the limit of lust. Those who run away raw never find prayer in their lives.

That is why I say to my sannyasins: Do not escape from the world—live it to the full. If God has sent you, He has sent you to live, not to run away. God does not trust escapees. And we, strangely, trust escapees too much; we give them great respect.

Just consider the fallacy of your logic: if someone runs away from battle you call him a coward, but those who flee the battle of life you call mahatmas. They go to the Himalayas, sit in a cave, and you go to touch their feet. These are deserters. They are weak. They were not strong enough to face the challenge of the world.

But we respect deserters so much we have even given Krishna the honorific “Ranchhod-dasji”—there are temples to Ranchhod-dasji. Do you know what Ranchhod means? One who leaves the battlefield—His Excellency the Deserter! But all your so-called saints are Ranchhod-dasjis.

Do not drop and run. Live. Pass through this struggle. Only by passing through the fire will you be refined, will you become pure gold.

Lust will slowly take you into that experience where you will find that lust was groping in darkness, prayer is light; lust was like fumbling, prayer is a luminous world. But what was essential in lust remains in prayer; only the rubbish is burned away. Hence Kabir says, “I am your bride!” Meera says, “I have adorned the bed—come, Beloved, come!” She calls to her Beloved.

This flagon, this rose-colored glow of wine, this cup—
nothing but the bounty of the cupbearer’s eye.

Pass once through the hardships of lust and come out unscathed, and then its prasad begins to shower.

This flagon, this rose-colored glow of wine, this cup—
nothing but the bounty of the cupbearer’s eye.

Then it is His prasad, His grace—prayer is His grace, His gift. This gift comes to those who are ripened by lust, who have lived the world of lust so fully that lust no longer holds them. If you repress lust, its grip remains; from within it will keep clutching at you, calling you; you will not be able to escape. If you allow lust to pass naturally, spontaneously, simply, one day you will become light.

In my observation—and psychologists agree—if a person lives life rightly, in a well-balanced way, then by the age of forty-two lust will of its own accord begin to transform into prayer. Just as at fourteen lust suddenly awakens, at twenty-eight lust reaches its peak; fourteen years more, and by forty-two it begins to descend from the peak.

Western research is approaching this too: after forty-two a human being’s real problem is no longer life but religion. After forty-two the questions that arise are: How to give life a religious meaning? How to give it a religious hue? And if up to forty-two no religious color has touched life, a person begins to go neurotic.

Carl Gustav Jung has written that among all the patients who came to him he always found that the real question of those aged forty-two or more was not psychological but spiritual.

Live life naturally. In your question I smell this: perhaps you think lust is one thing and prayer another. No—lust is the prologue to prayer; the introduction. Although the introduction is not the book. You have to go beyond the introduction.

Lust is the A-B-C, the alphabet. Do not stop at the alphabet. Kalidasa’s poems are not just alphabets—they are far more. Picasso’s paintings are not merely color and canvas—they are much more. When a musician plays the veena it is not only hands and strings—between the hands and the strings something uncanny happens; something that should not be possible, becomes possible.

Lust is the alphabet; prayer is the poem woven from that alphabet. Lust is like bricks. From the same bricks your house can be built, a prostitute’s house can be built, and also a temple can be built—remember that. The bricks are the same; everything depends on the builder.

His grace descends upon the one who passes through life without fleeing—who says, “Wherever You take me, even into darkness, I will go. Into whatever pits You make me fall, I will fall—for if You push me into pits, it must be so that I can learn to walk. Has anyone learned to walk without falling into pits?”

Just think: if a mother never lets her child fall, the child will never learn to walk. He must be allowed to fall. His knees will be bruised, his skin will get scraped, sometimes there will be blood. He must be allowed to fall. Only then one day will he stand—he will stand by falling many times. Behind the standing are a thousand falls. First he will crawl on his knees. Do not tell him this is not right, that it is beneath human dignity—crawling on the knees like a man’s child? Stand up! If you try to make him stand from the first day, he will never be able to stand. Let him crawl on his knees too.

Lust is like this: prayer still crawling on its knees. And prayer is when the child has stood up—no longer crawling on the ground; the legs have become fit, strong.

Wherever God leads in the darkness, go. The one who does not run away—I call him a man of trust. He says, “Whatever You show, I will see; wherever You take me, I will go; wherever You make me fall, I will fall; whatever mistakes You make me commit, I will commit. Whatever You do, whatever Your will is, let it be. I leave everything to Your will.” Such a person ripens one day. In that ripening is the sweetness called prayer. Prayer descends from above.

Lust is the journey from below to above. Prayer is the journey from above to below. Half the journey you must do—lust’s half; the other half God will do. Take one step and, says the Talmud, God takes a thousand.

And the first glimpses of God will start appearing, and you too will be startled. You will have the very same confusion that Freud has: “What is happening? Is this God, or is some lust arising?” In the beginning this confusion is natural. It quickly vanishes, because after lust you are always left unfulfilled. With prayer there is contentment before, in the middle, and at the end. Buddha has said: The fruit I give you is sweet at the beginning, sweet in the middle, and sweet at the end.

The fruit that lust gives is very sweet at first, and then becomes very bitter. All the fruits of lust—today or tomorrow—turn to poison. The promise is of nectar; what comes is poison. Prayer is sweetness through and through; sweetness, grace, wine.

And do not worry—His compassion is boundless. Walk with Him just once, and...

We never kept our distance from such things—
yet You never let the heart be hurt.
Indeed, we made every arrangement for hell,
but Your mercy did not allow it.

We did not shun bad things, nor bad people, nor bad habits. We plunged into indulgence.

We never kept our distance from such things—
yet You never let the heart be hurt.
You have great heart! You never lost; You never gave up hope. However deep a pit we fell into, You always held the hope that one day we would stand upon the Everest. You did not let Your heart be saddened, You were not disappointed, not disheartened.

We never kept our distance from such things—
yet You never let the heart be hurt.
Indeed, we made every arrangement for hell—
but Your mercy did not permit it.

How could Your compassion bear it? How could Your compassion let us fall into hell?

If lust is suffused with trust, then one day prayer will descend within you. His grace will shower upon you. Prayer comes—it cannot be brought. Those who force prayer upon themselves because “one should”—out of fear, out of greed—do not know the meaning of prayer. They know nothing of love.

Love is the ecstasy of self-forgetfulness—what has it to do with ego?
If its climate is of union-and-separation, of counting gains and losses,
that is not love at all.

One who is concerned with profit and loss, with union and separation, with hell and heaven, does not yet know love. Love worries neither about profit nor loss, neither is it frightened of hell nor filled with greed for heaven.

Love is the ecstasy of self-forgetfulness—what has it to do with ego?
Greed and fear are all of the ego.
If its climate is of union-and-separation...
and if one’s only concern is “How to attain this, how to attain that—how to attain God, liberation, Vaikuntha,”
then it is not love at all.

He still does not know what love is. Love does not ask.

Lust asks; love gives. Prayer gives. When you are asking something from God in your prayer, you have forgotten—you have only given lust the name of prayer. As long as there is demand, there is lust. And as long as there is demand, you are a beggar. Remember, God is not found by beggars; He is found by emperors—by masters. He is the Master; only masters meet the Master. Become like Him—that is how you will meet Him.

Live lust—experience it. With awareness, taste lust completely. See its fleeting glimpse of pleasure, and also the long dark night that follows, the melancholy, the sorrow and pain. In lust, sometimes smell the flower that blooms—and also allow all its thorns to pierce the depths of your heart, so that the whole form of lust is revealed to you. In these buffets you will ripen. In this ripening one day you will find—you have come out.

Lust is not to be “left”—by fully experiencing lust, one day lust drops of its own accord. And the day lust drops, that same energy which was engaged in lust is freed; like the smoke of incense it begins to rise toward the sky. And the day this ascent within you begins, that very day the sky begins to bend down toward you. The name of that meeting is heaven, liberation, Vaikuntha—or whatever else you wish to call it.

Religion is not that cheap. If only it were so cheap, there would be no need for anything else. Then Buddha wasted six years striving in meditation—he must have been foolish! You are more intelligent, aren’t you? Then Mahavira kept silence for twelve years—he must have been mad. You are smarter! At the last moment we’ll just utter Rama’s name once.

First thing: you have not understood those who said this. You have taken it to mean something else altogether; you have turned the meaning upside down. Certainly such statements exist in the scriptures—but their meaning is far larger.

The wise have said that the final moment is decisive, because in the last moment the first seed of your next journey is sown. As you are dying, your new life is beginning. One door closes and another opens. So the last hour is a supremely determining hour. Whatever you remember then will bear fruit. If in the last hour you can remember the name of Hari, your journey will indeed be affected.

Understand it through a small experiment. At night, as sleep starts to descend—when a soft drowsiness has come, you’re neither fully asleep nor fully awake, suspended in between—keep repeating a single thought in the mind. Any thought! “Two and two are four, two and two are four…” and repeating only this, drift off to sleep. You will be astonished: when you wake up in the morning, the first thought that appears will be “Two and two are four, two and two are four.” What was last at night becomes first in the morning.

Exactly this happens between death and birth, because death too is a deep sleep. The last thought at the time of death becomes the first thought with birth. And if life ends with the remembrance of Hari, it begins with the remembrance of Hari. And if a life begins in the womb with the remembrance of Hari, there is no doubt that a revolution will happen in that life.

But you have taken it quite otherwise. Who will be able to remember Hari at the end? Only one who has remembered all his life. Do you think someone who has spent a lifetime remembering other things will suddenly remember Hari while dying? Impossible! One who has always thought of wealth, for whom life has known only one music—the jingling of coins—and who has recognized only one beauty—the beauty of the green note; do you think that man will have Hari’s remembrance at the moment of death? He will see bundles of currency.

And it is absolutely natural, logical, that he would. This is what he gathered his whole life—and now it is all slipping away. He spent his life amassing it. He will see piles upon piles of notes. The wealth he collected will appear before him. The locker that is being left behind will appear before him. In that last hour, how will he remember the name of Hari?

Remembrance of Hari at the final moment is possible only if a lifetime of preparation has been done. Do you think fruit appears on a tree all of a sudden? You sowed the seed, you manured it, watered it, fenced it, protected it from a thousand troubles—animals, children, then storms, winds, frost, ice, hail—after saving it from all these, one day fruit appears on the tree.

Life too is a tree. Only at the end can the fruit of the name of Hari appear if throughout life the preparation has been made—if in every way it has been cultivated. Do you think someone from outside will paste Hari’s name on you? That as you are dying someone will write “Hari” on your skull?

This is exactly what is happening. Someone is dying, and someone else is whispering in his ear, “Chant Rama, chant Rama!” Another is saying, “Chant Rama!” And the dying person won’t even hear a thing. He cannot hear. Yet people have taken it to mean just this.

When the scriptures say it, they say it rightly: one who remembers God at the final moment will be liberated. But who will remember God at the final moment? Only one who has tended remembrance all his life, who has cared for it. People, however, extract what suits them. You don’t really read the scriptures; you read yourself into the scriptures.

I have heard: a circus company advertised that that day’s show would include a completely new act. Reading the ad, a huge crowd turned up. When the circus began, the audience saw a beautiful girl, lipstick on her lips, enter the lion’s cage—and the lion licked the lipstick clean with his tongue.

Seeing the act, the entire audience was stunned. When it ended, the tent resounded with thunderous applause. Then a voice came over the loudspeaker: “If any member of the audience has the courage to perform a similar act, please come forward. A prize of five thousand rupees will be awarded.” For a while there was silence, then a scrawny young man came forward and accepted the challenge. When the lipstick was handed to him, he said, “I gladly accept—on one condition: I will play the role of the lion. By the way, my name is also Sardar Boota Singh.”

This is how understanding is. You read one thing, you understand another; you extract what suits you. Sardar Boota Singh said, “First take this lion out of the cage, then I’ll go in and play the lion. My name too is Sardar Boota Singh.”

You read the scriptures, fine—but how will you read them? Where do you have the meditation that can give you their meaning? Where do you have the devotion that can make the scriptures resonate in your heart? There is cleverness, dishonesty, hypocrisy—and out of that you will compute an answer. You ask: Is it not true that remembering Rama’s name at the final moment certainly brings liberation?

Remembrance at the final moment will come only to the one whose remembrance has lasted a whole life.

I have heard, Shri 1008 Maharshi Bhootnath died. He lay on his deathbed. Disciples gathered, thinking he would say something profound. He had hardly spoken all his life, because his master had told him, “Don’t speak, otherwise you’ll make a mess of it. Stay quiet! Only in your silence will people consider you wise. If you speak, you’ll be trapped.”

So Bhootnath remained silent. His silence had a great effect on people. But who can control what whirls inside the skull! Even if the guru says so, what will come of it? Yet he kept his lips sealed. His fame spread. Many disciples said, “Such a master! See how he sits in silence, never speaks. Those who keep silence are called munis.” So, as he was dying, they prayed, “Gurudev, at least say something now. Leave us a message.”

Bhootnath was wavering, half alive, half dead. Everything was hazy. All the disciples came close, ears inclined, ready. A hush fell. Do you know what Bhootnath said? “Now I am going—take care of Munnibai. She loved me dearly.” And Munnibai was the village prostitute. That must have been what kept circling in his skull. Even at that hour he was thinking, “What will happen to Munnibai? Munnalal is leaving—but what will happen to Munnibai?”

Where is the name of Hari! Silent all his life, but at the end he remembered Munnibai. You will remember only what has been moving within. In the moment of death you won’t be able to fake it. In life you may deceive—death will expose your reality.

Something similar happened with Seth Chuharmal-Fuharmal. He had read in the scriptures that at the end one should utter God’s name—so he named his son Bhagwandas. That much was certain: at the end he’d have to call his son, because the keys would have to be handed over, the safe entrusted, hints given about what to do next. So on that pretext he would utter God’s name.

That is why people name their sons after God. Among Hindus and Muslims alike, names for centuries have been taken from God. There is a little trick behind it: “At least this way, whenever we call out ‘Bhagwandas,’ the One above will think we are calling Him. Our account will be credited there. No need to call Him directly or do any bhajan-kirtan. A few times a day we will have to call the boy anyway.”

But the plan soured in advance. Before Bhagwandas became known as Bhagwandas, he became Bhaggu. God above began to be annoyed. Because whenever the father called, “Bhaggu!” God would think, “This is too much!” He had thought merit would be written into his ledger; instead preparations for hell began.

Then the time to die came. Chuharmal-Fuharmal called Bhaggu, and Bhaggu came. And as Bhaggu’s tend to be, he was the same—tight, narrow-bottomed pants, a printed bush-shirt, hair cut in Dilip style. Chuharmal-Fuharmal caught fire. “Hey Bhaggu, you good-for-nothing, you fool! Your father is dying and you’re strutting about like a film hero!”

Chuharmal-Fuharmal are still in hell. If you call God “good-for-nothing, you fool,” you will reap the fruit. Don’t get entangled in such things. Better to have gone without calling anyone.

And a third incident: There was a Baba Mordanand. He kept repeating “Sita-Ram, Sita-Ram.” Whatever you said to him, he said “Sita-Ram, Sita-Ram.” He had also kept a parrot; the parrot too repeated “Sita-Ram, Sita-Ram.” Sometimes there would be a full-on competition between them—“Sita-Ram, Sita-Ram.” The parrot would also say, “Sita-Ram, Sita-Ram.” Baba Mordanand’s only distinction was that he had stood on one leg for years. That was his great feat—and there wasn’t much else to him.

With such feats people become “mahatmas”: standing on one leg—amazing! All cranes stand on one leg; and all cranes wear khadi—pure white! All cranes are Gandhians.

Standing on one leg, Baba Mordanand became very famous. Following his example, the parrot also stood on one leg—after all, it was Baba’s parrot, not an ordinary parrot! And he would get excited: when Baba stood on one leg and said, “Sita-Ram, Sita-Ram,” the parrot too stood on one leg and said, “Sita-Ram, Sita-Ram.” This had great glory. People would come for a darshan: “Baba is realized, and the parrot too is advanced. Parrots are very religious—and religious people are exactly parrots.”

Then Baba Mordanand’s time to die came. He was half-dead anyway, but even the half-dead are taken by death. Death doesn’t spare anyone; it kills the living and the dead alike. Death arrived. Disciples gathered; the whole town of Gobarpuri was filled with Baba’s followers. All were eager for a final message: “Baba will leave us something.” All his life he had stood on one leg; such tapasya had never been seen or heard. And what did Baba Mordanand say? “Alas, who will feed my parrot flattened rice?” Mian Mitthu chirped, “Sita-Ram, Sita-Ram!” They say Baba went to hell, and Mian Mitthu went to Vaikuntha—because at death he said “Sita-Ram, Sita-Ram.”

I have my doubts about this story too. How could the parrot be liberated? What meaning has “Sita-Ram” for a parrot? What purpose? He doesn’t even know the meaning. What is achieved by meaningless utterance? The parrot repeats mechanically: “Sita-Ram, Sita-Ram.”

So don’t think I am telling you that if you practice all your life—“Sita-Ram, Sita-Ram”—then at death “Sita-Ram” will pop out. That would be like the parrot. Practice does not mean rote repetition of “Sita-Ram.” Practice means begin to experience the presence of the Divine. Slowly, connect Him to yourself, and yourself to Him.

When there are stars in the sky, lie down on the grass and look at them—quietly, silently. A glimpse of His image will begin to flicker. When spring comes and scented breezes blow, go sit beneath the trees—you will sense something of God’s presence there. Spring brings news of Him. Because of His passing by, buds become blossoms. He passes close by, and thus the month of honey arrives.

When the sun rises in the morning, don’t miss it by mumbling “Sita-Ram, Sita-Ram.” People keep saying “Sita-Ram, Sita-Ram,” the sun is rising and they don’t even look. God is dawning at the door, and they are busy with “Sita-Ram, Sita-Ram.” When the sun rises, look with full eyes. That is His color, His manner; that is His glow, His light.

In the same way, one day a sun rises within. By contemplating the outer sun, memory of the inner will awaken. When the moon is in the night sky, converse a little with the moon. Where there is music, listen; dive into it.

Music brings you nearest to God, because in music there is no language, no words. Hence there is no way to misunderstand it. Music is neither true nor false—it simply is. So too is God. Listen to the vina and dive deep. Listening, a hush will descend. Listening, your inner vina will begin to resonate. When your inner vina vibrates with the outer, then you will sense what “God” means.

I am not asking you to chant “Sita-Ram, Sita-Ram.” I am saying: in life, by every possible means and in every possible way, find pretexts to remember God. Turn every excuse into His remembrance. By every excuse, call to Him. By every excuse, slowly build a bridge between you and Him, so that, one day, at the hour of death, nothing remains but Him. Everything else will fall away. Then He alone is the companion.

Then you will not be saying “Sita-Ram, Sita-Ram” like a parrot, like Mian Mitthu. You won’t have to say anything. Is there any need to say? To repeat? Your inner being will be overflowing with feeling, filled with His fragrance. You will leave this world immersed in His music. And one who departs immersed in His music—death becomes nectar for him. For him, release from the body is not a cause of sorrow, but of joy. To be free of the body means liberation, freedom—supreme freedom. The whole sky becomes yours. You were confined in a small pot—now you are free. The vastness is yours. You leave a small courtyard, and the entire sky is yours. Nothing is lost; all is gained. And that courtyard is included in this whole sky, so nothing has gone anywhere.

Departing in such bliss—dancing, intoxicated, absorbed, fulfilled, content, in a deep satisfaction—this is called remembrance of the Lord.

But you interpret the scriptures to suit yourselves. Have some compassion for the scriptures. If you want to understand their meaning, ask the realized ones; don’t impose your own meanings. Your cleverness, your hypocrisy, your dishonesty will twist the words. You will force such interpretations upon them that if it were Krishna’s book, Krishna would beat his head; if it were Buddha’s, Buddha would beat his head.

People have extracted such meanings that Krishna must be thinking, “If only I had remained silent. At least there would have been no mischief.” Now there are a thousand commentaries on the Gita. Anyone can draw whatever meaning he wants. And what fun—the meanings are opposite of each other! Someone says the Gita teaches nonduality, someone says duality—and both extract their meanings. Shankaracharya draws his meaning, Ramanuja his, Nimbarka his, Vallabha his—everyone his own.

What a delight! Either the Gita has no meaning at all, so anyone can pull out anything; or the Gita is such a poetic utterance that meanings in it are fluid, flowing. Until you become fluid and flow with it, whatever you extract will be wrong. Only when the Gita reveals itself in the emptiness of your consciousness will the meaning be experienced. If you draw meanings by applying your intellect, you have violated the Gita, committed violence upon it.

I have seen many commentaries on the Gita; most are violations—force, distortion. The meanings are pre-decided, and then the Gita is made to support them. So whoever wants to extract whatever, does so. Shankaracharya pulled out sannyas—“renounce all action.” Lokmanya Tilak wanted action, so he pulled out action—“struggle! Do not renounce; liberation is through action.”

Just see—whatever one wants! The same has happened with the sayings of Jesus, with the sayings of Muhammad. It has happened with everyone’s words because man is equally dishonest everywhere. Whether Hindu, Muslim, Jain, or Buddhist—it makes no difference. The mind is dishonest. Do not draw meanings with the mind.

The heart is honest. Only the heart knows integrity. The heart is faithful. But your heart sleeps; awaken it. When the heart awakens you will not go wrong. You will be amazed—meanings will begin to reveal themselves from the book of life. A dry leaf will fall, and the essence of the scriptures will open before you. A bud will split and become a flower, and the Upanishads will start dancing before you. A bird will fly across the sky and scatter the whole fragrance of the Vedas.

Ramakrishna experienced his first samadhi when black monsoon clouds had gathered—month of Ashadh! New clouds had come, massed in the sky. Ramakrishna was returning from the fields. Because of his coming, a flock of herons that had been sitting by the pond took flight—a line of herons, perhaps ten or fifteen of them, pure white. Against the black cloud, the flock passed, like lightning flashing. Ramakrishna fell to the ground right there—ecstatic, overwhelmed. Samadhi happened.

This was the first samadhi. Not while reading the Vedas, not while listening to the Gita, not while chanting “Sita-Ram.” A strange samadhi!

They carried him home. Waves of bliss were coursing through him; every hair was dancing. After hours, his eyes opened. They asked, “What happened?” Ramakrishna said, “I am no longer who I was. The old has gone. I have become something else. How it happened, I do not know. I can only say this much: a line of herons flew.” People said, “Madman! We too see herons fly, but nothing happens to us. We too have seen dark clouds. Are you someone special? And your age! Our whole lives have passed.”

Ramakrishna was only thirteen then. So how did it happen? Others too had seen herons fly and black clouds, but nothing happened. The intellect was a veil between. Ramakrishna was guileless, very simple-hearted—utterly straightforward. He saw with the eye of the heart—and the white silver line of herons against the dark! That lightning-flash of beauty! He was overwhelmed. He fell to the ground. Tears of joy flowed. He rolled in bliss. The dance began.

That dance, growing and growing, led him to the state of Paramahansa. Illiterate—he had studied only up to the second grade—yet great scholars paled. Great pundits became worth two coins. The glory of Ramakrishna is the glory of the heart. The glory of all saints is the glory of the heart.

So I will only say this: do not interpret what is written in the scriptures with the intellect—otherwise you will miss. First bid farewell to the intellect, bow it out, set it aside. Then, whether it is scripture or life, from anywhere God will call—and you will hear.

God is calling—calling every moment. Every hour His call comes to your door. His hands knock upon your heart again and again—but you are not there. You are somewhere else. You have wandered into the head. You are lost in the jungle of thoughts. You are never found at home. And God knows only one address for you—your heart. He comes there, poor fellow, searching. But the meeting does not happen. Be present in your heart, and the meeting will be. The meeting is certain.

Enough for today.