Peevat Ramras Lagi Khumari #4

Anandamurti, don’t say that. If there is darkness, light is also possible. Darkness itself is evidence that light is possible. If there is foolishness, it can be broken. If there is inertia, it can be dissolved. What is needed is effort—tireless effort. Because the inertia is very old, its roots have gone deep. Our very life-breath has been irrigated with that poison for centuries. It has entered our bone, flesh, and marrow. Even so, there is no cause for despair or dejection. On the contrary, take it as a challenge—an invitation, a call. This struggle is dear. Even if one must be spent in it, blessed is that fortune.

Remember, even success on the path of untruth is futile, while even failure on the path of truth is meaningful. The question is not of the destination—not of arriving somewhere or acquiring something—it is of direction and dimension. Suppose someone collects pebbles and stones; what has he gained? And if, in searching for diamonds, one gets lost, even in that losing much is gained. Those who set out on the journey to the infinite take even sinking to be a kind of surfacing.

Granted there is darkness—and when there is darkness, the owls will hoot. The darker the night, the more it becomes the owls’ domain. And owls will fear the coming of dawn. Even a hint of morning, the sound of its approaching footsteps, will shake them to their core. Naturally, such people are restless. But from this, Anandamurti, you need not be disturbed. There is something within you that cannot be erased, even if one tries to erase it.

The wayward wind said, “You are a mere speck—like this I will blow you away.”
The swelling wave said, “For me you are a straw—like this I will sweep you off.”
A fierce flame said, “I will burn you up.”
And the earth said, “I will swallow you.”
I lifted the veil from my face and, laughing, said: “I am Solomon.
I am the son of Adam—meaning, I am a human being.”

Erase me and yet you will not erase me. Truth does not perish; it may be hidden, but it rises again and again. Neither wind nor fire can destroy it; neither river can erase it, nor earth swallow it, nor sky wipe it away.

I lifted the veil from my face and, laughing, said: “I am Solomon.
I am the son of Adam—meaning, I am a human being.”

We do not lose heart. Therefore do not say, “Will our darkness never be cut through?”

Even a small flame of a lamp shatters the oldest, deepest darkness—the moonless night. The issue is not darkness; the issue is lighting the lamp. That is the very effort we are engaged in. And it is a blessed effort. In it the reward is not separate—the reward is inherent in the effort itself.

Therefore I say—

Do not say:
Its fortune will never open, the thirsty earth will remain thirsty.
Do not say the withered plants will remain forever withered.
Do not say that, walking, the earth will stop upon reaching this destination.
Do not say the darkened suns will remain forever dark.
You are the delicate artistry of mingling twilight hues.
You are the soft light of dawn by which the world awakes.
You are the fragrance of a blossoming flower, the day’s rising brightness.
You have come and untangled so many snarled threads of the mind.
We have called you our own; you at least do not speak, like a prisoner,
that the heavy locks will never open, the chains will never break.
Do not say:
Its fortune will never open, the thirsty earth will remain thirsty.
Do not say the withered plants will remain forever withered.

These plants have indeed withered, but do not ever say—or even think—that they will remain withered forever. For the danger lies in your very thinking, in your very saying so. Saying such a thing could halt precisely that right effort I have invited you to, for which I have called you—and you have come, you have gathered. We will break the rocks! We will split the springs! We will set them free. And this is a joy-filled work. It is the work of the divine. This is what prayer is—this much is prayer.

All other prayers are false. Temples, mosques, churches, gurdwaras are hollow. Prayer is true only when you are engaged in such effort that the divine can make its advent. When you open a door, break a wall, so the sun may enter, so clean winds can flow in.

You ask that Swami Akshayanand Maharaj has said, “Acharya Rajneesh is misleading people by calling what he teaches Indian culture.”

This is utterly false. I have never said that what I teach is Indian culture. But in this country people seem to hear in dreams, see in dreams, and then trust those dreams.

There is the tale of King Harishchandra: in a dream he gifted his kingdom to a brahmin. In a dream! Then he had that brahmin hunted out. What a strange world! How did they find, on this vast earth, the very brahmin seen in a dream? It seems in those days they must have taken photographs of dreams! And he gave him the kingdom.

There was a King Harishchandra—his glory is sung. No one asks whether those who trust dreams are deranged or sensible. They are mad! Even life itself is a dream, not worthy of trust; and here is King Harishchandra who took a dream for life and trusted it! But for those who must cling to stories, what obstacle is there?

Just a few days ago, when Brezhnev came to India, Morarji Desai said, “Brezhnev told me to teach Pakistan a good lesson.” Now Morarji Desai—think of him as King Harishchandra! Because Brezhnev denied it, Russia denied it, everyone denied it. But he stood firm. Perhaps he heard it in a dream. Maybe in a dream Brezhnev did say it. But what is Brezhnev’s responsibility for what he said in Morarji’s dream?

Only yesterday he told the truth. He said Brezhnev had not said it; someone else had said it whose name he did not find appropriate to mention just yet. “But for the sake of the country I used Brezhnev’s name.”

These Gandhists, truth-lovers, satyagrahis, apostles of nonviolence! Contractors of untruth! Dishonest people! The policy of this country has fallen into the hands of such wrong kind of people. And they said it openly—and the whole country listened in silence.

Who knows in what dream Swami Akshayanand Maharaj heard what he claims to have heard. I never said it. How could I? It is contrary to my whole vision of life. My trust is neither in India, nor in China, nor Japan. I have no trust in nations. In the name of nations, too much sin has been committed—too many wars, too much violence. As long as nations remain, wars will remain. If wars are to go, nations must go. If humankind is to be saved, this earth must become a single brotherhood.

Therefore I have no special reverence for “India,” and I certainly cannot say “Indian culture.” Civilizations can be spoken of—India’s, China’s, Russia’s, America’s—civilizations, because civilization concerns the outer.

The word “civilization” is worth understanding. Civilization comes from “assembly” (sabha). One who is fit to sit in an assembly is called civilized; hence “civil” also means “member.” Civilization is about how we are in relation to others—how we stand, sit, dress, what we say or don’t say, what we eat... matters of this kind are civilization.

Naturally, different countries will have different civilizational forms. Hot countries differ from cold ones. In Tibet, if you rise at brahma-muhurta and bathe in cold water, you will be committing suicide; in India, if you don’t rise at brahma-muhurta and bathe in cold water, you will miss the most beautiful hour of the morning. What is healthful in India may be harmful in Tibet. In India you can sit bare-bodied; not in Siberia. If Mahavira had been in Siberia, he would not have stood naked—I can assure you of that. In a land like India, where the sun blazes, there is no difficulty in being naked. That is precisely why Jainism could not spread beyond India.

You will be surprised to know: Buddhism spread across all of Asia, while Jainism could not go beyond India. Buddhism influenced hundreds of millions; Jainism, five thousand years on, remains the religion of only three and a half million people in India. It is older than Buddhism by two and a half millennia. Mahavira was the last of the Jain tirthankaras, the twenty-fourth, a contemporary of the Buddha. Yet the Buddha transformed all of Asia. Why was a genius like Mahavira left behind? Nakedness became the difficulty. That nakedness could not be taken to Tibet, could not cross the Himalayas. The barrier was not only the cold. No country could accept a naked man, nor could a naked man travel freely. He became confined, shrank to this land.

Civilization is an outer thing; therefore it will differ from country to country and age to age. But culture is an inner matter. Culture means meditation—because meditation is the alchemy of self-purification. And is anyone “Indian” or “Chinese” or “Arab” or “Iranian” inside? Do you think there is geography inside? Do you think history exists inside? Do you think the same disturbances are within? Inside there is silence. Inside is the divine. Inside is the supreme stillness—soundless, formless. What boundaries, what adjectives can apply there?

Swami Akshayanand Maharaj does not even know that there is a difference between civilization and culture. Civilization will always differ; culture can never differ. There is no difference between the cultures of Jesus and Buddha, of Mahavira and Lao Tzu, of Zarathustra and Al-Hallaj. In civilization there are differences—there must be, and rightly so.

But what have the dull-witted to do with such fine distinctions!

So I could never say that what I teach is “Indian culture.” First, because I make no distinction between India and “non-India.” Second, because culture is an inner journey. Civilization differs; culture is one. Culture is singular, not plural.

And also because I am not “teaching” anything at all. My work is the very opposite of teaching. My work is to take away what you have learned; to empty your hands of what you are clutching. To dust off the grime that has collected over your life. To wipe the dust from the mirror of your consciousness. I am not teaching you; I am unmaking you. Something must be unlearned, not learned. My work is the precise reverse of education, and I call that reverse work religion.

A German professor once went to Maharshi Ramana and said, “I have come to learn religion from you.” Ramana said, “Then go elsewhere. If you want to learn, go elsewhere. Stay here only if you want to forget.”

There is no shortage of places to learn: universities, libraries, scriptures, teachers. There is plenty of spread for learning. We also need a few who help you forget. There are many who will engrave on your slate, carve into you. We need some who can give you back the innocent, unconditioned mind of your childhood; restore the consciousness with which you were born, the one you had before conditioning. Who wipe away your conditionings so that once again you can see the world filled with the same wonder and mystery; the very eyes that small children have. The same delight, the same amazement, the same wonder-struck state of mind!

So I am not giving education. You are already well-schooled; I am wiping away your schooling. Your certificates must be burned. I have burned mine; now I am burning yours. Your scriptures must be taken away. I have lost mine; now I am making an assault on yours.

Swami Akshayanand Maharaj has no idea what he is saying. He must have heard rumors about me. And those who trust in rumors—I do not count them among the intelligent.

And you ask, Anandamurti, “He also said your teaching is not in accordance with Indian culture or the scriptures.”

When did I ever say it was? I am anti-scripture. I certainly support the truths I have experienced—not because they are in the scriptures, but because I have known them. And if the scriptures happen to support them, I pat the scriptures on the back and say, “Child, you speak well.” Beyond my own experience, I trust nothing. What I have not known, what is not my own lived truth—I will not tell you. What have I to do with scriptures?

Therefore, those who listen to me do face a little inconvenience. At times I support one saying of a scripture, and at times I refute another saying of the very same scripture. Naturally, this confuses them. They think I should either support the entire scripture or oppose it entirely. No—I have no interest in wholesale support or wholesale opposition. Whatever meets the touchstone of my own truth—wherever it is, whether in the Quran, the Bible, the Zend Avesta, the Vedas, the Tao Te Ching, or the Dhammapada—I have no hesitation in standing with it. But if you watch carefully you will see: I support it because it supports me. Otherwise, wherever it differs from me, I do not hesitate. Then—Sat Sri Akal! Wahe Guruji ki Fateh, Wahe Guruji ka Khalsa! I observe no etiquette, no “civilization.”

For me there is no God higher than truth. Wherever truth resounds, there is my support—but only if it is truth I have lived. I do not support borrowed truths. So why are they troubled that my words are not in accordance with scripture? I have never said they should be. Your scriptures are fortunate if any of their statements accord with me; otherwise, unfortunate for them. I am a living man—shall I seek my support in dead scriptures? The dead seek backing in the dead scriptures. Those without their own experience seek it.

Kalidasa has said:

Purāṇam ity eva na sādhu sarvaṁ
Na cāpi kāvyaṁ navam ity avadyam.
Santaḥ parīkṣyānyatarad bhajante
Mūḍhaḥ parapratyaya-neya-buddhiḥ.

That is: Not everything old is therefore good; nor is a poem blameworthy simply because it is new. The wise examine both old and new and choose the one that is virtuous; the fool’s mind is led by others’ opinions.

Mūḍhaḥ parapratyaya-neya-buddhiḥ—
Only fools are guided by others’ knowledge. Those who have their own criterion of awareness test, examine, experiment. They call truth truth, falsehood false. That is why we have called such people paramahansas—they separate milk from water; they call the essential “essential,” the nonessential “nonessential.”

And in your scriptures, ninety-nine percent is nonessential; one percent is essential. This too is a marvel—that even one percent of truth remains is an extraordinary thing. It would not have been surprising if none remained. That there is one percent is the wonder. Your scriptures were written over centuries; not by a single person, but by who knows how many. Additions kept piling up. They contain the words of the knowing and the unknowing, of the wise and the scholars. Today, sifting that hotchpotch is very difficult.

I have no fascination for scriptures. Yes—if some scripture happens to accord with my truth, I remind you of it. As with this saying of Kalidasa: something does not become true simply because it is old—oldness is no proof of truth; nor does something become false because it is new—newness is no proof of falsehood. The converse is also true: something is not true merely because it is new, nor false merely because it is old. What have “new” and “old” to do with true and false? Wine gets better as it ages, and flowers are best when fresh. Some things are better old; some are better new. We should learn to distinguish between the two. Our commitment should be to truth—not to scriptures and not to the past.

My commitment is not to the past. My commitment is to the present. My commitment is not to words, but to experience. My commitment is not to mind, but to meditation—to the state of no-mind.

But poor people like Swami Akshayanand Maharaj neither know what I am doing nor what I am saying. They neither come, nor listen, nor understand. They live on rumors. They project their own made-up notions onto me—and then refute those very notions. They themselves fabricate positions and then themselves refute them. A fine game! They impose upon me what I have never said. If you must refute, refute what I am actually saying. And if you refute what I am actually saying, you will have to refute all truths—because apart from truth, I hold reverence for nothing else.

You should consider that notion as well. In India there is a belief that first came Satya Yuga—the Golden Age. Then Treta, then Dvapara, and finally Kali Yuga. Imagine it this way: in Satya Yuga man had four legs; in Treta three; in Dvapara two; and in Kali Yuga he is utterly lame—only one leg is left.

This Hindu conception is a doctrine of decline. First everything was supreme; then it kept falling, kept getting corrupted. The conception itself is sick—an expression of a morbid mind. My view is the reverse. Kali Yuga came first, then Dvapara. The lame man stood up again on two legs. Then came Treta. And now it is Satya Yuga. Now man is fully balanced, fully mature. And this is how life works. All of science agrees with me. Science is evolutionary, while the Indian conception is declinist, anti-evolutionary. Science is progressive; the Indian conception is reactionary, non-progressive. If we sit convinced that decline is happening, decline is exactly what will happen. Then how will growth happen? Where will it come from? Who will bring it? Defeated, broken people will certainly keep declining.

For centuries we have been rotting in slavery, rotting in poverty, rotting in misery and deprivation. And the cause? Our beliefs. Once you have accepted that as time goes on things only worsen, then when things do worsen you will only say, “We told you beforehand it was bound to get worse; the question of improvement doesn’t even arise.”

This despair has to be shattered. Why should things get worse? They will get better, because we will have the entire experience of the past, and with that experience we will climb higher. We will learn from those mistakes. That is why I say to you: we cannot call people like Parashurama “Bhagavan” today; if they were ever so called, it must have been Kali Yuga. A man who committed such violence and slaughter—who roamed with his axe and, eighteen times over, wiped the earth clean of Kshatriyas… Do you understand what the consequence would have been? The Kshatriya men were killed, but their women remained. So adultery spread, corruption spread, men became brothel-goers—for what was to become of those women? And the Kshatriyas weren’t really wiped out—where did later Kshatriyas come from? If all Kshatriyas were killed eighteen times over, how did they keep returning again and again? They were born from the women who survived. That is why there are no Kshatriyas now—only Khatris. The “kṣ” long ago became merely “kh”—spoiled. This is the fraternity of Khatris you see in the world today. And if Parashurama cleaned them out eighteen times, then these are no ordinary Khatris; they have been finished off eighteen times and yet have returned again and again—surely someone else sent them back!

In those days there was a practice—possible only in Kali Yuga—called niyoga. Any woman could approach rishis and sages and request a child, and the “work” of the rishis was precisely this: if a woman needed a child, if she was widowed, if a couple could not conceive, the rishis would render this “service.” Well, the one who does seva earns his meva—the fruit! They got a little meva and did a little seva. What were these rishis and munis if not Shiva’s bulls! What veterinary doctors do today, that was going on back in the Kali Yuga—when Parashurama was a god. It was called niyoga. But whatever the rishis do is, of course, fine—no sin in it! In this way Kshatriyas kept getting “produced” again and again.

Today you would call Parashurama a killer—a great mass-murderer. Genghis Khan, Tamerlane, Nadir Shah, Adolf Hitler, Stalin, Mao Zedong would all pale before him. All of them together did not kill as many as that one man did, if your Puranas are to be believed—in which case there was never a bigger butcher than Parashurama. And when Parashurama could be considered God, you can understand the condition of people’s intelligence then—how unrefined, how dull it must have been.

Krishna too was considered God—he carried off sixteen thousand other men’s women. Their children must have suffered, their husbands must have suffered, their families must have been destroyed. And these women did not all come of their own free will; they were seized and abducted. And still Krishna could be considered God! That is only possible in Kali Yuga. How could it be possible in Satya Yuga?

And in Krishna’s life there is nothing in which godliness shines forth. Krishna is responsible for the Mahabharata. In the Mahabharata India’s spine was broken, and after that India never rose again. The five thousand years of India’s misfortune—if any one person is most responsible, it is Krishna. If he could be called God, then people’s very notion of God shows what kind of intelligence they had.

As I see it, I am an evolutionist, not a declinist. For me, better people came later. From Parashurama to Buddha, godliness ripened. One can call Buddha “Bhagavan,” not Parashurama. I can call Kabir “Bhagavan,” not Rama. Godliness kept becoming more and more refined. Today we are living in Satya Yuga—today, for the first time on earth, man has come of age. And ahead, the days will be even more beautiful; even more flowers will bloom in this garden.

And the whole of science is on my side; science stands on the conception of evolution. Yet fools keep chanting that this is Kali Yuga and keep hoping that things will get worse and worse, that everything will perish. This rotten conception—this diseased, decrepit mind—should be abandoned, one should be free of it. So I cannot support such notions.

Tell Anandamurti, Swami Akshayananda Maharaj, that I agree with his every word—in the sense that I am neither a supporter of “Indian culture” nor of the scriptures, nor am I deceiving anyone that what I teach is Indian culture or Indian religion. What I say is plain and simple: what I teach is my experience; it bears my signature; it is no one’s hereditary property. What I teach is not something like education; it is the very opposite of education. You could call it freedom from knowledge, but not the giving of knowledge. Knowledge cannot be given. When your hollow knowledge drops away, fountains of knowing spring from within you. Knowing does not come from outside; knowing is your very nature.

Did you see yesterday? Bulleh Shah said: Why search for the Divine? Right here, right here! Where are you going to look for him? He is neither in the scriptures, nor in words, nor in doctrines—he is in the emptiness within you. That emptiness is what I call meditation, samadhi, nirvana.

Bhaidas, brother, what rambling things you’re saying! “Even to sannyas!” As if someone says, “I’m ready even to drink poison!” Don’t get into such a tangle. You’re a fine fellow—come whole, go whole! Why get ruined?

And who told you I am full of answers? Yes, I have become empty of questions. You are full of questions; I am empty of questions. Don’t remain in the illusion that I am full of answers. I am no pundit. Yes, if you too want to be emptied of questions, you can connect with me—that is sannyas. Questions don’t have answers.

A true Master doesn’t give answers to questions; he breaks the questions. Just look closely: are the “answers” I give to your questions really answers? A kick from here, a shove from there, a whack on the skull with a stick! A cuff from the front, one from behind. And you call that an answer? Answers are in the scriptures. Here, a thrashing happens.

And you say, “You will resolve my curiosities. If you give assurance…!”
You want a guarantee! I can give only one guarantee: I will destroy your questions. I will uproot each one and throw it away. And answers don’t come from outside. When all the questions fall, within you arises the Answer of answers, the Solution of solutions. That is why we call that state samadhi—because it is the solution of all solutions. It is not an answer. Life is not a school exam where questions are asked and answers written. But our habits are bad—rotten habits, outworn habits.

In the caravan of enslaved souls
not even the bell’s chime remains.
Rise, O guardians of civilization!
From the soil of your masters
the springs of life have already boiled over.
Now wipe the marks of prostration
from your foreheads; beware lest he hide it—
blood drips from his sleeves.
In the caravan of enslaved souls
not even the sound of breath remains.
Rise, O guardians of love!
These mountains and deserts, these wastes and seas,
your ancestors have already sung them—
that fiery anthem which once
warmed the gathering; but now
an age has passed over it.
The ocean of days runs lightning-swift.
Rise, for on every page of history
your good name is being sought.
We won’t summon back the pinions
of the time that has flown.
Do not scratch the earth with your eyes;
you won’t find those bones
the dark, deep bosom of the earth
has swallowed—teach trampled life
a new way, a new bearing.
Rise, O guardians of tombs!
Come, give life some warmth!
These mounds lie empty; upon them
at least lay two flowers.
In the caravan of enslaved souls
not even the bell’s chime remains.

What has this country become—a caravan of enslaved souls, in which the bells of life don’t ring at all!

In the caravan of enslaved souls
not even the bell’s chime remains;
in the caravan of enslaved souls
not even the sound of breath remains.

Forget the big temple gongs—here even the sound of breath has been lost!

Rise, O guardians of civilization!
O mad lovers of culture!
Rise, O guardians of love!
Enough of talk about love—now rise!
Rise, O guardians of tombs!
You’ve worshiped graves long enough; now live a little.

These mounds lie empty; upon them
at least lay two flowers.

Bhaidas, you say you are full of questions. Your questions will be your questions, won’t they? And in ignorance, what questions can there be? In knowledge, why would there be any? In ignorance there are idle curiosities, or trickery, or self-deception, or hypocrisy. Your questions will bear your stamp. After all, they will arise from within you. A babul thorn tree won’t yield roses. If I sit here plucking off the thorns, what will it do? New thorns will keep sprouting.

So I will erase you from the roots. Bhaidas, if you are ready to be utterly erased, then become a sannyasin. One assurance I give: I will erase you, completely erase you, uproot you from the roots. Nothing of “you” will remain in you. And when nothing of you remains in you, you will have the solution to all problems.

Grandpa Chuharmal Fuhrharmal was ill. He went to the doctor. The doctor examined him and gave him two pills, saying, “Take one in the morning and one in the evening. In just one day you’ll be changey (healthy).”
Grandpa panicked, “What did you say, doctor—nangey (naked)?!”

The doctor said, “No, no—I said you’ll get well. My medicine is so good you’ll be perfectly fine in a day.”

Grandpa said, “All right, all right, so that’s it! But tell me what to take the medicine with?”
“Take it with tea or milk,” came the reply.
Grandpa wasn’t satisfied: “Doctor, just say one thing—either tea or milk. We don’t like double talk.”
“Fine, then take the pill with milk.”
“Milk from a cow or a buffalo?”
“Forgive me, I have other patients to see. You aren’t the only one here. Take whatever milk you get; it makes no difference.”
“Doctor, why are you getting angry? This is my first time taking allopathy, so I want everything clear. We have neither a cow nor a buffalo at home—only goats. If I take the pill with goat’s milk, there won’t be any harm, right?”
“No.”
But Grandpa’s curiosity still wasn’t finished: “One more thing—should the milk be hot or cold?”
“To get rid of him,” the doctor said, “lukewarm.”
“Good. Should I drink the milk from a glass or a bowl?”
The doctor lost his temper: “Now please go home! Don’t you have anything else to do?”
“Why wouldn’t I? But since I’ve paid your full fee, give me full information in return. Should I drink the milk standing or sitting?”
The doctor slapped his forehead: “Here—take your fee back.” Handing over a ten-rupee note, he said, “For God’s sake, spare me now.”
Grandpa said, “But why get upset? I’m a simple man. I’ve never taken allopathic treatment, so I ask: should I drink it with my own hand, or if Munna’s mother feeds me, will that do?”
The doctor couldn’t help laughing. “Sir, you’re quite something! Go home now, and drink it from Munna’s mother’s hand.”
“Fine, I’m going, doctor. But tell me one thing—should I walk home or take a rickshaw?”
“Take a rickshaw; in this fever, walking isn’t good.”
Grandpa said goodbye and left. The doctor heaved a sigh of relief—until half an hour later Grandpa returned and said, “Doctor, what kind of man are you! You didn’t tell me which pill to take in the morning and which in the evening. Munna’s mother scolded me badly.”
With great restraint the doctor said, “Take this one in the morning and that one in the evening.”
Grandpa said, “Because of your mistake I had to come back. Now give me ten rupees for the rickshaw fare to go home again, otherwise how will I go?”
The doctor thought for half a minute and quietly put a ten-rupee note in Grandpa’s hand—wisest to do so. Grandpa smiled, came out, winked at his wife waiting in the room, and said, “People say, ‘Whom the Lord protects, none can harm.’ Fools! They should say, ‘Whom the Lord Himself loots, none can save.’”
His wife got up laughing and said, “So which picture shall we go to today, Munna’s Papa? How much did you squeeze out of this doctor today? Come on, tell me!”

Your curiosities, Bhaidas, won’t be of any use. Here the curiosities are to be broken. Here the questions are to be dropped. I have no answers. There is the Answer of answers, and it is within you; I can show you the way to find it.

Krishnaprem Bharti, there is no puzzle here. It is very simple. In the name of love, everything goes on—except love. Under the label of love a lot happens—everything but love. People say they want you to be blissful; but when you are, you will run into trouble. Because the moment you are joyous, you prick people like a thorn and jar them. You may have become a flower, but for others you will snag and pierce like thorns. Why? Because they are unhappy. Seeing you happy, jealousy stirs, hostility arises, enmity wakes. Seeing your joy, they cannot accept that you have truly become joyful; they will decide you have gone mad. And if you still do not listen to them and refuse to be as miserable as they are, if you will not become like them, will not rejoin their crowd, they will hurt you as much as they can—and say they are doing it for your own good, because you have gone mad.

Sannyas will make you blissful—and dangers come with becoming blissful.

Once before, too, the branches were laden with song,
Foliage and fruit had come, the palm had flowered.
The dust of the destitute grew heavy with blossoms—
Once before I had made a home,
Once before I had adorned a house.
Once before the caravans of spring,
Veiling their rose-bright faces, passed this way.
Who knows why the lamps of the house went out by themselves?
With a single flame of sorrow the gathering turned to ash;
The sting of thorns went and pierced the heart of flowers;
The caravans of spring were plundered at the very destination.
Once before, in the hem of darkness,
Over the death of song and bloom I have played with tears.
Today you have come again and lit all the lamps;
The walls of the scented house have begun to gleam again.

Sannyas is a lamp in your life. Sannyas is the open sky entering your prison. Sannyas is a shower of joy in your sorrow-filled world.

I do not tell you to seek God, nor do I tell you to seek liberation. I tell you: if you become silent right now, liberation descends within you, and God comes seeking you.

The moment you take sannyas, your style of living changes; a new home is established. Yes, you have made many homes before, but never a home like this. For the first time your house becomes a temple; for the first time music begins to play in your life; for the first time flowers arrive; for the first time spring descends.

Naturally, jealousy will be stirred on all sides; opposition will arise everywhere. The unhappy want you to remain unhappy. They have no trouble with a miserable person. In truth, seeing a miserable person makes them feel good: by comparison they feel they aren’t as badly off as you. That is why everyone shows sympathy to the unhappy and envy to the happy. The arithmetic is very clear; there is nothing confusing in it.

When you show sympathy to a suffering person, look within—there is a subtle pleasure arising in you. If you truly participate in another’s sorrow, then in another’s joy you should celebrate too; that is difficult. For centuries you have been taught to sympathize with the suffering. I say to you: celebrate in the celebration of the happy; then I will call you religious. Anyone can do the other; even the dishonest can. In expressing sympathy for sorrow, the ego finds gratification; there is a certain enjoyment in it.

If someone’s house catches fire, you all gather to offer sympathy: “How terrible, brother! What misfortune! This should not have happened. How did it happen!” Tears appear in your eyes—but inside, a sweetness flows. And when your neighbor builds a new, palatial house, do you feel delighted? If you were truly pained by someone’s house burning, then on seeing someone’s new house you should dance. But no one dances; envy arises. You stop taking that road; you take another, longer way around. Seeing his mansion causes you pain; your wounds feel fresh: “Ah, I achieved nothing, and this man has built a house!”

I say to you again: the truly religious person knows the art of being happy in another’s happiness. Only such a person’s sympathy has substance; otherwise it is hypocrisy.

You are becoming joyous, Krishnaprem Bharti—this will bring trouble. To be blissful in this world is a very dangerous thing. Where thousands upon thousands of trees bear no flowers, if one tree flowers, all the other trees will fall upon it and break it. They will take up axes and cut it down. That is why you made Socrates drink poison. That is why you hung Jesus on the cross. That is why Sarmad’s head was cut off. What was the reason? What was their crime?

Their only “crime” was that they were joyous—supremely joyous, ecstatic; they began to dance. And you are lame; far from dancing, you cannot even walk—you need crutches. And when people on crutches see someone dancing, they smash his head with their crutches.

Who is this who has come singing into the universe of the heart?
Who is this who has come, showering star-dust everywhere?
Who is this who has come, scattering flowers on all four sides?
Who is this who has come, startling me out of sleep?

Soft, sweet fires began to burn in the senses,
The chains of sorrow wrapped round the soul began to melt,
The dead branches of life began to blossom and fruit,
A shy breeze, heavy with fragrance, began to blow—
Who is this who has come to bathe the age in ecstasy?

Dust-motes began to bring tidings of the stars,
On the heavens the colors of the rainbow began to ripple,
The date-palms preened in the splendor of their beauty,
Cold gusts began to sing upon the instrument of the branches—
Who is this who has come to set the world-heart throbbing?

Life’s bitterness remained only as a dream,
The depths of longing became fordable,
Black nights turned into litters for the moon,
Sluggish pulses became filaments of quicksilver—
Who is this who has come, undulating like lightning?

Who has plucked the sparks of tears from my eyelashes?
Who has pressed my wounded heart to his own heart?
The deep mists that shadowed feeling have scattered,
In thought the piercing thorn has turned aside—
Who is this who has come returning the hours that had passed?

Let it not be he who once went into the stars and twinkled,
Not he who once hid in flowers and smiled,
Not he who, staying far, still permeated every vein,
Not he who, till now, did not come though I called—
Who is this who has come, shyly, pausing, swaying?

This is but a beautiful reflection of my own imagining,
This is the loom-work taking place in the heart’s beats—
Ah, but these light-filled cheeks, these kohl-dark eyes,
In the faltering gait a hidden glide of lotus-blue—
Who is this who has come, showing me myself like a mirror?

Sannyas is a mirror. Sannyas is that which twinkles in the stars and smiles in the flowers. Sannyas is the ray of the sun and the moon’s cool light. Sannyas is the color of rainbows. Sannyas is the flame of a lamp, the festival of lamps—the lights of Diwali. Sannyas is Holi too, and it is Diwali.

And opposition will come from all sides. But Krishnaprem Bharti, do not be frightened by this opposition. If the world calls you mad, brush it aside with a laugh.

Morning has come.
The mirror of darkness shattered; the East showered dawn.
Wearing a chandelier of embers, the dawn stretched and yawned.
The forests scented, the birds chirped, the playful breeze swayed—
Morning has come, morning has come.

Hesitant, bowed, sorrowing hopes
Began to frolic and leap, touching the sky’s lattice-windows;
Within, the queen of dreams preened silently—
Morning has come, morning has come.

The smoky settlements of the West went dim; the Eastern land blazed;
The sun-god lay in ambush; the goddess of night wrung her hands;
The milkmaids of the rays, shivering in the mist, cried out—
Morning has come, morning has come.

A morning has dawned in your life. And those groping about in the night will be angry, they will condemn, they will abuse.

But do not take their abuses as a curse; their abuses are messages that the first rays of morning have begun to break in your life. Their insults bring the news of dawn. If they call you mad, accept it quietly. If they slander you, listen in bliss. Care about your own intoxication. Do not bother about them. It has always been so, and it will go on being so.

Anand Maitreya, he said it to me as well. Not once—at least four times. Whenever we met, he said it. And I told him: what is there to worry about? What is there to be troubled about? A destiny like Socrates’ comes to very few, and in that destiny poison is part of it. A life like Jesus’ comes to very few, and in that life the cross is inevitable. And what is there to worry about in being a Sarmad or a Mansur al-Hallaj? In any case a man has to die—if not today, then tomorrow. Death is not something worth deliberating over. But if one could have the death of Sarmad, or that of Socrates, it is blessed fortune.

Anand Maitreya, he spoke rightly. And that this comes back to you now after fourteen years is natural, because I am sharpening my sword even more. This edge will keep growing, keep growing. I am going to strike ever deeper. My sannyasins too should gradually prepare themselves for this.
Therefore, regarding what you have asked, Krishnaprem Bharti: people will call you mad; perhaps people will throw stones. But take the stones as flowers, and understand their calling you mad to mean that now you have become a paramhansa. This is what they have always done, this is what they are doing even today, and this is likely what they will do tomorrow as well. If they do not give up their foolishness, should we give up our buddhahood?
That's all for today.