Peevat Ramras Lagi Khumari #9

Purnananda, godliness is a truth; God is a figment. Godliness is an experience; “God” is a symbol, an image. You have seen pictures of Mother India. Someone might even paint a picture of love. People have painted the dawn and the night, and tried to give form to nature. As poetry, all that is fine; but as truth it has no value.

Life, existence, is not made of nouns; it is made of verbs. Our language, however, emphasizes nouns. To tell the truth, even when we say “there is a tree,” we are wrong. We should say: “the tree is happening.” A tree is a verb, a living process. It is not something static; it is moving, dynamic, in flow. Forget the tree—even about a river we say “there is a river.”

Heraclitus, the Greek mystic, said you cannot step into the same river twice. And I say: you cannot step into the same river even once. When your foot first touches the surface, the river is already flowing away. As your foot sinks a little deeper, the water above has already gone. By the time your foot reaches the riverbed, how much water has flowed past! You cannot step into the same river even once. A river is a flow. But we turn “river” into a fixed noun. If only we could turn language into verbs, we would come closer to truth. That is my whole effort.

Therefore I do not emphasize “God,” I emphasize godliness. Godliness means a living, flowing experience. Godliness means: no worship to perform, no prayers to recite, no temple bells to ring, no trays of offerings to arrange, no adoration, no rites and rituals, no sacrifices and fire-oblations. Rather, to experience the ceaseless stream of life within you—that which is consciousness, awareness, light; the hidden world of knowing within, the mysterious realm of awakening—to realize that. With that realization, life fills with fragrance, a fragrance that never exhausts. That fragrance is what I call godliness.

You will never meet a person called God. If you think you will meet him someday, have a talk with him, weep out your sorrows and tell your tale of woe—you are mistaken. Such a God is nowhere and never was. The images before which you bow are your own inventions. As poetry, I accept them—they may be beautiful—but as fact they are nothing. What could be greater folly than bowing before what you yourself have made?

I am an iconoclast—but not of stone images. What would come of breaking stone images? They are works of art. What must be shattered is the very notion of the idol in your mind.

People often raise questions. Jains ask, “How can we call Krishna God?” Hindus ask, “How can we call Mahavira or Buddha God?” Buddhists ask, “How can we call Mahavira God?” For a person has limits—birth and death; illness and old age; today a person is, tomorrow he is gone. Their argument sounds logical.

But I want to tell you: you may call persons “God” if you wish—in the sense that they recognized godliness, drank the godliness within them to the brim, and were drowned in it. Then you may call them God—whether Jesus or Mohammed, Mansoor or Mahavira, Kabir or Nanak—it makes no difference who. The one who has known love is a lover; the one who has known godliness is God. But godliness is the essential point. The one who has imbibed it, who is fulfilled by it, is God. There is no God who created the world. There is no such creator God. Surely this whole nature is soaked through with an ineffable mystery, an indefinable, an infinite—immanent in the entirety of nature. It is not a maker outside; it is infused in every hair and every particle. That alone is.

From “God” arises the illusion of a creator; from godliness arises the sense of creativity.

In the same way, I speak of religiousness instead of religion. For “religion” means fixed notions—beliefs, dogmas. “Religiousness” means a radiant state of consciousness: the inner becoming luminous, lit up. Right now there is darkness within—that is irreligion, or more precisely, non-religiousness. When the light of awareness spreads within, meditation awakens, the flame of meditation rises—that is religiousness.

Religiousness is not a doctrine, just as godliness is not a person. Doctrines are worth two pennies; make them as you like, erase them as you like. A doctrine is a net of arguments—and man is the master of argument. The same logic can prove, the same logic can disprove. There is no trusting logic. What doctrine is there that cannot be refuted? What idea is there that cannot be supported? Logic is a prostitute—make it stand with anyone. Or say logic is a lawyer. There is not much difference between lawyers and prostitutes: the lawyer is ready to stand by anyone.

Mulla Nasruddin once went to a lawyer. The lawyer heard him out and said, “Don’t worry at all. My fee will be a thousand rupees, but you are bound to win the case. Your victory is certain. Your case is absolutely clear. There is no possibility of defeat.”

Mulla stood up to leave.
The lawyer asked, “Where are you going?”
Mulla replied, “If victory is certain and there is no way to lose, what is the point of fighting?”
The lawyer said, “I don’t understand. Do you want to fight in order to lose?”
Mulla said, “Why hide it from you? What I presented to you was my opponent’s case. If the victory is absolutely certain and defeat impossible, then why fight at all? I laid before you all the arguments on the opponent’s side, and you say the victory is assured—so the opponent will win. Why waste a thousand rupees now?”

A lawyer tells everyone they will win. If Mulla had presented his own case, the lawyer would have said the same. He presented someone else’s case, and the lawyer said the same. That is the lawyer’s trade.

Argument too is a trade. You can prove God by argument, and you can disprove God by argument. That is why theists and atheists have been entangled for centuries and no conclusion has ever been reached.

I do not take religion to be a matter of doctrine. Doctrines change. New facts come to light and doctrines have to be altered. Science concerns doctrines; therefore in science doctrines change daily. In Newton’s time one doctrine prevailed; in Edison’s time another; in Einstein’s time a third; and now the discourse goes beyond Einstein. New facts are appearing. This change will go on.

Religion is not doctrine.
What then is religion? Religion is meditation, awareness, Buddhahood. Hence I speak of religiousness. Because religion was mistaken for doctrine, Christians, Hindus, Muslims were born. If, in place of religion, religiousness spreads, these distinctions will fall away on their own. Is religiousness Hindu, Muslim, or Christian? Religiousness is simply religiousness. Is health Hindu, Muslim, or Christian? Is love Jain, Buddhist, or Sikh?

Life, existence, does not fit into such narrow notions. Life transcends all narrow notions; it goes beyond them.

Religiousness is beyond religions. And godliness is beyond your so‑called notions of God. There are many notions of God: the Hindu God with three faces and a thousand hands; then the Christian God; then the Muslim God. There can be as many notions of God as there are people. But godliness is not a notion. Therefore no form can be made of godliness. What form will you make of beauty? There can be a picture of a beautiful morning, of a beautiful flower, of a beautiful face—but what picture will you make of beauty itself? Beauty can only be experienced. Godliness is beauty.

Godliness and religiousness are two sides of the same coin. If you believe in God, you will believe in religion; when God comes, doctrines come, scriptures come. When godliness arrives, doctrines go, scriptures go—and religiousness arrives.

So, Purnananda, I am indeed emphasizing godliness and religiousness. If only you could be free of the person, the doctrine, the scripture, the word—then your return within would become possible. And the moment you come within, you will find that great treasure lying buried—the very thing you are seeking is present within you; the one you worship is seated in the worshipper. Whom then are you worshipping outside?

People keep changing their temples. Tired of one temple, they begin going to another. Tired of temples, they go to mosques; tired of mosques, they go to churches; tired of churches, they go to gurudwaras.

But none of these changes will do anything. If you get tired of the outside, a revolution can happen. Tire of the outside and come within—come to yourself. There is the destination. There is the final halt. There is repose. There is rest.

Rampyari Agarwal,
It will change, sister, certainly it will. In fact, it is already changing. When was it ever still? That which changes is what we call time. And it is changing fast. A little patience, a little more forbearance. After all, patience has been kept since time immemorial. Just a little more—and it is changing in such a way—the times are turning—that the dues of centuries will be gathered all at once.

A few more days, my love—only a few days more:
We are compelled to breathe under the shade of tyranny.
Let us bear a little more oppression, writhe a bit, weep a bit—
we are weighed down by the legacy of our forefathers’ heights.
There is captivity upon the body, chains upon the feelings;
thought is confined, and there are penalties upon speech.
Our courage is that we go on living even so.
What is life but a pauper’s cloak,
in which, every hour, patches of pain are sewn?
But now the allotted days of tyranny are few;
a little patience—the days of pleading are few.
In the scorched desolation of this age,
if we must live, it cannot be as we have lived.
The nameless, heavy burdens of a stranger’s hands—
we must bear them today, but not forever.
This dust of the world clinging to your beauty,
the tally of defeats of our two-day youth,
the useless, burning pain of moonlit nights,
the fruitless throbbing of the heart, the body’s hopeless cry—
a few more days, my love—only a few days more.

Just a little more patience. The house built by man is collapsing. Only ruins remain. Anyway, the man has been master only outside—master only in words, only for show. He tried a thousand ways to be the owner, but when did he ever really win? The moment he enters the home he tucks his tail between his legs.

And women are clever. They say, “In the marketplace, strut—puff your chest, beat your drum—no worries. But at home, behave: sit properly, get up properly.” And he does sit properly; he gets up properly.

But even with all this, Rampyari, you are not satisfied—you want something more! That “something more” will also happen. Soon the time will come when men will have to ride in palanquins. They have already begun to do the housework; only sitting in the palanquin remains, only putting on the veil remains. That too will happen. After all, for so many years women sat in palanquins and went veiled; the reaction is bound to come.

One day when my mother came home from the office, Father said, “Listen, do you see anyone suitable? The boy is coming of age. Find a good family and get his hand dyed yellow with the wedding turmeric. If something improper happens tomorrow, the family’s nose—its honor—will be cut.”

As Father was talking to my mother about my marriage, I was listening through the crack of the door. Just hearing it, my face flushed with shame. Many girls came and rejected me and went away. But one day a girl came to see me—lean of body, dry of heart, hungry for dowry. I pulled my scarf over my head, lowered my eyes, and extended the tray of betel leaves toward them.

But that girl was playful. As she took the betel leaf, she pressed my finger. I went to the next room and told Father everything. Father said, “You got flustered just by that? Your mother pressed my finger like this too.”

They accepted that girl for me, and then the day came when the shehnai played in my heart.

It played in our house too. Then after the “gift of the son,” when the time for farewell came, Father said, “Son, why are you crying?” I said, “What can I do? A son is another’s wealth.” Sitting in the palanquin, I wept and sang:

“I am the helpless man—this is our story:
a moustache on the face and tears in the eyes.”

When, in my in-laws’ house, my Lady of Life came into my room, I bowed at her feet. But before I could, she lifted my veil and, in the face-showing ceremony, placed in my hand—oh, the humiliation—a shaving set. Imported, of course.

One day I complained to my revered wife, “Madam, your aunt’s intentions toward me look improper. She barges into my room without even clearing her throat. What if tomorrow I’m sitting… not quite decent? We men have only our honor; if that gets looted, how will I show my face?”

Don’t be afraid, Rampyari—time is changing, and changing rapidly. The sufferings of centuries—just a little more patience. Sister, a little more patience! Only a few days. Only a few days more.

Third question:

Hina Bharti, “Drinking the nectar of Rama, the khumari arises”—that is indeed the message. But something more must be added: let there be meditation in the wine, awareness within the ecstasy—then this is the message. By all means sway, but know: swaying can be unconscious stupor or it can be divine rapture. Swaying can be a faint—or it can be supreme Buddhahood. Sway you must, but sway from bliss. Drink you must—but not from the outside. What is drunk from outside wears off. If you must drink, drink from within. The wine pressed from grapes serves only for a while; the wine distilled by the soul is to be drunk. It has to be brewed within.

Meditation brings both phenomena together at once: an intoxication like wine and, alongside it, the alertness of samadhi, wakefulness. This is what Buddha called samma-sati—right mindfulness; Kabir and Nanak called it surati, remembrance. If there is both awareness and rapture, the work is complete. That is the meaning of khumari.

Khumari is a very sweet word. It does not mean mere unconsciousness; it means unconsciousness plus awareness. Khumari is a paradoxical word. It means: you are swaying, yet you have not lost your wits; you are dancing, yet within, the steady, unwavering lamp of attention is alight. There are bells strapped to your ankles, yet you are not in a swoon but in an overflowing of joy. Such a state is called khumari. “Drinking the nectar of Rama, the khumari arises!”

Hina, do drink! But my words can be misunderstood. That is why Umar Khayyam was misunderstood—because he used the symbol of wine. It is an old Sufi usage. The Sufis take the word “wine” in the same sense Kabir takes khumari.

Umar Khayyam is a Sufi dervish, not an ordinary tippler—he is a drunkard who has quaffed divinity. He is no common drinker; not from some outer tavern or wineshop—he plunged into his own inexhaustible inner spring, he discovered the tavern within. But when Fitzgerald translated Khayyam into English, and then other languages translated from English, a great confusion arose. People took “wine” to mean wine. Fitzgerald himself misunderstood. As poetry, he made the most beautiful translation—he added to Khayyam rather than subtracting, rare among translators—but the meaning was lost. The sense was turned into nonsense.

For the Sufis the cupbearer—the saki—is the symbol of God: the one who pours the wine into your cup; you cannot even drink it all and still the cup keeps filling, keeps filling; you drink by the thousand and the cup is never empty. Saki is God; and the wine is religiosity.

Hina, if you drink in that sense, then it is right. But just as Umar Khayyam was misunderstood, I too can be misunderstood.

Along with the roses, messages from eternity also came;
When spring arrived, prices in the garden rose as well.
It was we who could not renew our longing—otherwise
A thousand times the beloved’s messages arrived.
Even the work did not progress though in the assembly of guides
The venerable Khizr himself came.
Those who were thirsty from the very beginning remained thirsty;
Through a thousand cycles the flagon and the goblet came and came.
Even the greatest had their footsteps stagger—
On the road of life such stations also come.

On this path there are such halting places where even the feet of the great falter; where mistakes are made, where something is taken to mean what it is not.

Those who were thirsty from the very beginning remained thirsty—
And there are such mad ones who were thirsty from the start and are thirsty still.

Those who were thirsty from the very beginning remained thirsty,
Though across a thousand cycles the flagon and the goblet came.
It is not that the flagon and goblet never arrived. What did Buddha bring? What did Mahavira bring? What did Krishna bring? What is Jesus’ gift? What do Sarmad and Mansoor offer?

Across a thousand cycles, flagons and goblets came again and again.
Taverns opened time after time; wine was placed before you, cups were filled, the ewers overturned—and yet some misunderstanding persists:

Those who were thirsty from the very beginning remained thirsty,
Though the flagon and the goblet came a thousand times.
Either you did not understand, or you misunderstood. Either you did not hear, or you heard something else. The likelihood of error is complete.

This is the message I am giving:

It is we who could not renew our longing—otherwise
A thousand times the beloved’s messages arrived.
I am sending the message, daily I send it—but you yourselves do not extend your cup. You do not muster the courage. Who knows in what weaknesses the mind is entangled, in what old beliefs it is stuck.

When the dust clears from the eyes, the roof of Sinai appears;
Drink the wine so that radiance dawns upon your face.
Raise the cup in the name of life, O drinkers,
So the scenes may sway and the gaze be filled with suroor.
What shall one say of speaking of Kausar in the tavern?
As if some craze seizes someone’s reason.
Pass through the station of the gallows, and you shall find life;
Drink even the deadly poison, and rapture will come.
Let the gaze be keen, the breath warm, the longing fearless—
Whoever would be proud, let him come into our presence.
This commerce of the Divine Will is quite a marvel, O Taban:
Lightning falls on one—and Sinai appears upon another’s brow.

This world is most wondrous. At times it so happens that the lightning strikes one person, and another receives the Sinai upon his brow.

This commerce of God’s play is remarkable—
Lightning falls on someone, and Sinai appears on someone else’s forehead.
I say it to one, and another understands. The one who did not even ask gets the answer, and the one who asked remains empty-handed.

I am speaking of wine, Hina!

When the dust clears from the eyes, the roof of Sinai appears—
Just a little of the dust must be removed from the eyes. The mesh of doctrines and scriptures must be cut away so that, as the light of God appeared upon Mount Sinai, the same may befall your life too. That Mount Sinai is not outside—it is the peak of your own samadhi.

When the dust clears from the eyes, the roof of Sinai appears—
Just sift away the dust, polish the mirror within, clean it, and the Sinai will appear inside you.
Drink the wine so that radiance dawns upon your face—
Drink, then—but the wine within.

Raise the cup in the name of life, O drinkers—
In the name of life,
Raise the cup in the name of life, O drinkers,
So the scenes may sway and the gaze be filled with suroor.

Suroor has two meanings—bliss and intoxication. If you drink outer wine, intoxication comes, but not bliss. Yes, intoxication comes and you forget sorrow—but forgetting sorrow is not bliss. It is only that sorrow goes underground. The intoxication will wear off and sorrow will show itself again. Do not forget sorrow—find bliss.

Raise the cup in the name of life, O drinkers,
So the scenes may sway and the gaze be filled with suroor.

Pass through the station of the gallows, and you shall find life—
Pass through the cross, and you shall gain the throne.

Pass through the station of the gallows, and you shall find life—
If you have the courage to dissolve, the eternal life is yours. If you can melt, the ocean is yours. If you can immerse the ego, the infinite, the eternal—all is yours. The whole sky is yours; the moon and stars are yours.

Pass through the station of the gallows, and you shall find life,
Drink even the deadly poison, and rapture will come—
Even if you drink poison, bliss will arise; life will be gained still—because then there is no death. Only the ego dies. One who is free of ego has no death, no possibility of death.

Let the gaze be keen, the breath warm, the longing fearless—
This is all I am teaching: let the gaze be a little sharper, sharper still, with greater edge—let the gaze become a sword.

Let the gaze be keen, the breath warm…
And live with a little warmth. Live with some urgency. Let the breath be warm; it has become cold—so cold that within, everything seems frozen. Ice remains; the soul is gone.

Let the gaze be keen, the breath warm, the longing fearless—
Whoever is ready, let him come before me; whoever is ready to drink, let him come into my presence.

This commerce of the Divine Will is quite a marvel, O Taban:
Lightning falls on one—and Sinai appears upon another’s brow.
One asks, another receives the answer. One listens and only listens—and another absorbs. One gets entangled in words—and another sets out on the journey.

My worship of wine is the corpse of accusations, O Cupbearer;
In the assembly of the rational, ecstasy is ill-reputed, O Cupbearer.
Between ecstasy and reason, in truth, the difference is only this:
That one stands under the gallows, O Cupbearer; this one under a price-tag, O Cupbearer.
I move toward the destination—tavern after tavern—
Call this quest the name of parched-lipped thirst, O Cupbearer.
Some could not manage to drink even two or four drops with grace—
They are raw rakes, O Cupbearer, they are the disgrace of the cup, O Cupbearer.
Even today they lack the etiquette of wine-drinking—
That lone pain-bearer of a drunk whose name is Taban, O Cupbearer.

My worship of wine…
All who have known have worshiped wine. All who have known have spoken of khumari.

My worship of wine draws accusations, O Cupbearer—
Those who do not know will accuse, oppose, denounce.

In the assembly of the rational, ecstasy is ill-reputed, O Cupbearer—
In the gatherings of the so-called wise, the pundits, the intoxication of the intoxicated, the madness of the mad…

In the assembly of the rational, ecstasy is ill-reputed, O Cupbearer—
This madness—the moth’s frenzy—this rapture—is infamous, O Cupbearer!

And remember: by saki is always meant the Divine.

My worship of wine draws accusations, O Cupbearer;
In the assembly of the rational, ecstasy is ill-reputed, O Cupbearer.
I move toward the destination…
Toward the cross I go—

I move toward the destination—tavern after tavern—
From one tavern to another, from the second to the third—thus, slowly, I move toward the cross.

I move toward the destination—tavern after tavern—
This sport of seeking is called parched-lipped thirst, O Cupbearer.
This urge to search—this is thirst. This is tishna-labi. This aspiration to seek truth—this longing—this is madness.

The “sensible” are busy amassing wealth. The “sensible” are searching for truth in scriptures. The “sensible” are seeking position, prestige, new ornaments for the ego. A few are mad in this world—who are seeking truth, who are seeking themselves. And because of those few mad ones, this earth has a little salt, a little flavor—otherwise everything would be tasteless.

I move toward the destination—tavern after tavern—
This sport of seeking is called parched-lipped thirst, O Cupbearer.
Some could not manage to drink even two or four drops with grace—
There are such ill-fated ones who could not drink even two or four drops properly.

They are raw rakes, O Cupbearer…
They are untrained.

They are raw rakes, O Cupbearer; they are the disgrace of the cup, O Cupbearer—
Not only untrained—they are a blot upon the whole wine-house; a blot upon this ecstasy-filled existence.

Even today they lack the etiquette of wine-drinking—
The art of drinking has not yet been learned. There is wine; there is the saki; there is the ewer; there are the cups—and yet some sit with their backs turned.

Even today they lack the etiquette of wine-drinking—
This world is full of such blind ones.

Friends who have gathered around me should at least remember this is no temple; it is a tavern. Whenever a temple is alive, it is a tavern; and when a tavern dies, it becomes a temple. Temples are the corpses, the tombs, of taverns.

While Buddha is alive, it is a tavern. While Jesus is alive, it is a tavern. When they are gone—then churches, temples, mosques, gurudwaras. These are all corpses. Keep on carrying these corpses! Some mad ones keep carrying the empty bottles. Once there was wine in them; the drinkers drank, the bottles remained. What has a drinker to do with bottles?

What are scriptures but bottles? What are words but bottles? Their essence, the honey, someone drank; the vessels were left. And some worship those very vessels! Footprints remain on time’s sand—and people pile flowers on them.

Beware of the dead! And they are plentiful. The worship of the dead is cheap and easy. But whoever worships the dead remains dead himself.

Hina, you say it rightly. This is my message:

Sway on, sway on, O reveler;
Sway on, sway on.
The clouds are dark, the air is ecstatic;
Lift the goblet and kiss, kiss, kiss—
Sway on, sway on, O reveler.

Only, let there be meditation in your swaying, awareness in your rapture; let the inner lamp of light keep burning. Otherwise you will err. So many such errors have happened—and those who made them were very clever, very “thoughtful”—that one is amazed how such thinking people err so badly! But to me it seems they err precisely because of the illusion that they are “thinkers,” while in truth they are stuffed with borrowed thoughts—and no one becomes thoughtful through borrowed thoughts.

Dr. Popatmal, Ph.D., after dinner went into his private library to study and saw his glasses were not on the table. This worried him: where could they have gone? He sat down in gloom, placed both elbows on the table, rested his head in his hands, and began to ponder the matter of the glasses.

He thought: surely someone has taken them. Now the question is: whoever took them either has weak eyesight or strong. If his eyes are weak, how could he take my glasses—he must have his own. And if someone with good eyes took them, what would he do with them? Hence it is proved that no one took my glasses.

On the table next to him sat his friend, Pandit Totaram Shastri. He asked, “What’s the matter, Doctor? Why so troubled, my friend? Tell me—perhaps I can help.”

Popatmal said, “Brother Shastri, I don’t know where my glasses have gone. Since the glasses cannot go by themselves, it is proven someone took them. Since a person with sound eyesight would not take them, and a person with weak eyesight would not take them because he already has his own glasses—you solve this problem.”

After thinking for two minutes, Shastri said, “It could be someone stole them to sell them.”

Popatmal replied, “Impossible. The thief would sell them to someone whose eyes are weak. And as I said, he would already have his own glasses.”

Shastri said, “But perhaps someone with weak eyes broke his glasses and needed new ones—then either he himself took them, or someone stole them to sell to him.”

At once Popatmal phoned the town’s only ophthalmologist and asked whether anyone else in the city had the same prescription as his. The specialist said no—no one else had that number.

This answer disproved Shastri’s hypothesis. For half an hour they sat like philosophers in grave meditation. Then suddenly Shastri leapt up, pulled a book from the cupboard, and read out that sometimes people push their glasses up on the forehead while eating or talking—and then forget.

Popatmal’s face lit up. “Oh Rama! That never occurred to me! That must be it. Now the question is: there are only two of us in this room; no one else has entered; so either the glasses are on my forehead or on yours. Since I do not see any glasses on your forehead, it is clearly proven they must be on mine. Although logical inference is sufficient to discover truth, some scholars say ‘what is written is nothing—what is seen is the thing.’ Therefore, besides logical conclusion, I shall obtain the testimony of my eyes.” Saying this, Popatmal rose and went before the mirror. Seeing the reflection of the glasses perched on his own forehead, he cried in joy, “Found! Found! Eureka, eureka!”

So great was his leap of joy that the glasses slipped, fell, and shattered.

There is no one more foolish in this world than the pundits. Pundits have wrought havoc.

I need those who can dust off their pedantry; who have the courage to become childlike again—innocent, simple; to set down the whole burden of doctrines, scriptures, teachings. Then you gain that sharp, piercing gaze capable of seeing through all life’s mysteries. Only then can one avoid error. Then you will understand the exact meaning of khumari. Otherwise, there is danger.

Do not take khumari to mean that you should drink alcohol. And do not, to avoid drinking, grow rigid, dried up, fearful lest some mistake be made—that way too khumari will be missed.

You must drink—but drink within. And drink—yet drink with awareness. Let there be both wakefulness and a sweet losing of oneself; let a balance arise, a harmony, a cadence—and then astonishing flowers bloom in the personality. Then Buddha dances and Meera is silent. And where Buddha and Meera are together, life blossoms in its fullness.

Suraj Prakash Bharati, this is exactly what I call divine madness. This is the sweet craziness. The invitation is for just such mad ones—and only such mad ones can truly be related to me. That relationship is the relationship of love. Here there is no guru and no disciple; this is a congregation of lovers.

And don’t worry that you have come to my shelter late. If one who went astray in the morning returns home at dusk, he is not lost. Whenever you come, it is early enough. The very coming is grace! But remember, people come and still miss. Many come again and again and still miss. Merely arriving is not enough—do not be satisfied with that. Now, drown!

You have heard the call of love—and a trembling of love is arising in your heart; it will also bring fear. The mind will oppose it, raise objections, hurl accusations, erect a thousand arguments. Don’t listen to the mind. Listen to the heart, and mull over the heart. Only then will you become part of this gathering; otherwise you will remain cut off. To come and then miss—that is an even greater misfortune.

Call it fickleness if you like,
call it weakness if you like—
the moment my heart compelled me,
I fell in love with you.
I am a chatak bird, you are the raincloud,
I am the eye, you are the kohl,
I am the tear, you are the veil,
I am the thirst, you are the Ganges’ water.
Call it naiveté if you like,
call it whim if you like—
whoever asked me who I was,
I blurted out your name.
I fell in love with you.
I roamed through the taverns,
kissed every cup,
but when you lifted your veil,
I reeled without drinking.
Call it madness if you like,
or, if you wish, call it worship—
when the temple bell rang,
I bowed my head to you.
I fell in love with you.
I still haven’t discovered
why I came to meet you.
You are the heartbeat of my heart,
I am the shadow in your mirror.
Call it a dream if you wish,
or an incredible happenstance—
whichever path I took,
I ended up at your door,
I fell in love with you.
This love is not the oil in a lamp,
not a meeting for a few hours;
it is a bond of ages,
no child’s play.
Call me crazy if you like,
or a carefree reveler—
whatever line I drew,
it became your portrait.
I fell in love with you.
I cannot bear the heart’s pain,
I long to speak but cannot,
I cannot stay as a flame,
nor flow away as tears.
Call me a patient if you like,
or a bliss-drunk yogi—
thinking of you, thinking of you,
I lost my very wits.
I fell in love with you.

Love has happened; the first step of the journey has been taken—but much journey remains. In this love one must die, one must dissolve. Only he who dies will know resurrection. Whether you came late or early—let that worry go now. You have come: give thanks to yourself, consider yourself blessed. But don’t remain standing on the shore.

Kabir has said:
Those who searched found, by diving into the deep.
I, crazy one, went to search—and sat upon the shore.
Sometimes it happens: people reach the bank and then sit there.

Now take the plunge! And when you plunge, don’t try to save anything. Let the plunge be total, complete. Don’t be clever. Cleverness is the most dangerous thing.

During the India–Pakistan war, people were being forcibly recruited for the army. Government officers came to the young brahmachari Shri Mitthulal Gyani and urged him to enlist.

The brahmachari wrinkled his nose and said, No, sir, say Ram’s name! I will never join the army. I am a lifelong celibate—how can I go to war?

The officers said, But Gyani-ji, war does not destroy celibacy. And if robust brahmacharis like you won’t go to save Mother India’s honor, who will?

Brahmachari Mitthulal said, There is danger. That’s why I hesitate. If you don’t believe me, I’ll prove it.

After thinking it over, the officers said, If you can prove that going to war will destroy your celibacy, we won’t send you.

They thought, Women aren’t going to the front anyway—how could celibacy be broken?

The brahmachari began, Listen: If I enlist, either I’ll be put to work in the military kitchen or I’ll have to go to the front. If I get kitchen work, fine; but if I go to battle, two things can happen—either I’ll be killed or I’ll survive. If I survive, no problem; but God forbid, if I’m killed, then two possibilities: either I’ll be blown apart by a cannon or shot by a bullet. If a cannon blows me to bits, I’ve no sorrow. But suppose I’m killed by a bullet—then two things can happen: either I’ll be cremated or buried. If I’m cremated, God be praised; but if I’m buried, then two possibilities: in future, either wheat, chickpeas, rice, etc., will be grown on that land, or sesame, linseed, or peanuts. If wheat or chickpeas are grown—no harm; but if sesame, linseed, or peanuts are grown, then my oil will definitely be extracted. If that oil is used for other purposes, all right; but if it’s used to make soap, then two possibilities: either bathing soap or laundry soap. If laundry soap is made—everything is fine; but if bathing soap is made, then there could be trouble. Because then two uses are possible: men might bathe with that soap—if men bathe, I’ve no objection; but if some beautiful young woman starts rubbing and rubbing me all over while bathing—just imagine what will happen to this poor brahmachari! Saying this, he hid his face in his hands in shame.

The “knowers” have their nets. They go on and on—there is no end.

In America, they’ve made a computer with human qualities—an American tourist told His Holiness Matkanath Brahmachari during a conversation.
Matkanath asked, Child, what qualities does it have that resemble humans?
The reply came, If it makes a mistake, it puts the blame on another computer.
The brahmachari said, What’s so great about that, child? In our great country India, our holy scientists have invented a computer that is religious. Not only human, but filled with divine qualities. Ask it any question, however difficult, however complex—it gives the solution instantly.
Astonished, the tourist asked, Any question?
His Holiness said, Yes, yes—any! Geography or politics, physics or spirits, chemistry or mathematics, cookery or medicine. Not only that—whether the question is of today, the past, or the future—just press the button, and our religious computer immediately gives the solution.
The American expressed his desire to see this marvelous machine. His Holiness pointed to a tape recorder lying nearby and said, Ask! Child, ask any question! It will answer at once.
The American asked several questions, but pressing the button each time brought the same reply: Child, the solution to this problem is clearly given in the Srimad Bhagavad Gita. Om shantih, shantih, shantih.

What need is there to search for questions or look for answers—everything is already given in the Gita. Turn any page, everywhere, only answers!

Not one answer is living in your life, and yet there is the illusion of having all the answers.

Only those who drop the illusion of answers will be able to learn with me. And this is the hardest thing in the world. To renounce the world is easy; to leave wife, children, husband is easy; to drop wealth, position, prestige is easy. The most difficult is to drop false knowledge—for it feeds the ego most.

You have come now, Suraj Prakash Bharati, and the first humming has arisen in your heart, the first flowers of spring have begun to bloom. Now be careful that knowledge does not become a hindrance. It is dangerous—that is why you ask me, “What state of mind should this be called?”

Ah, what is there to call it! Why definitions? What will come of that? You will paste a label: this is such-and-such a state of mind; this is its name—and then, Om shantih, shantih, shantih. Then what will you do? What is the use of knowing the mind’s “state”? The mind has to be lost—not labeled. Know this much: all states are ill states. We have to arrive at that where no state remains, where no direction remains—to that supreme silence where no adjective survives, no definition remains, and the inexpressible is experienced.

You came late or early—now let this resonance grow:

Rain, O my nectar-laden clouds,
rain into the courtyard of my life.
Flow down as droplets of essence
into the honey-garden of my heart.
In the sky of my life-breath,
come as play of light;
illumine this world and that,
scatter seven-colored radiance.
In the splendor of my mind
lotuses of feeling have bloomed;
in this tidal embrace
earth and sky have met.
Blooming in the heart’s blossoms,
pour out the fragrance of bliss;
come along the path of my gaze,
Beloved, abide within my breath.
This is the endearing song of the Beloved of yoga.

Rain, O my nectar-laden clouds,
rain into the courtyard of my life.
Flow down as droplets of essence
into the honey-garden of my heart.

Now drop talk of knowledge, of definitions, of doctrines. Now drown so completely that even you are not left to know. Let “Who am I? What am I?” also be immersed and forgotten. Let there remain a clean slate, a blank page. On that blank page lies life’s treasure, life’s kingdom. Into that empty, thought-free, stainless state, the rain of nectar descends—and such nectar that once it begins to rain, it keeps raining; it never runs out.

Do not sit on the bank. One in a hundred comes—and of those who come, one in a hundred truly drowns; ninety-nine sit on the shore. I warn you of this. Whether late or early—you’ve come; now don’t worry about the past. What’s gone is gone. Forget what has passed; take care of what lies ahead. And the care now is: since you have come, take the leap. And such a leap that you do not look back. Such a leap that you save nothing. Because whatever you save will be what drowns you. The leap must be total.

Just yesterday Krishna Prem wrote to me. He had gone to Mahabaleshwar for a week. There he met Vijayanand in a hotel. Vijayanand told him, I am completely broken from the Bhagwan, severed; I have no connection now. Yet for two hours he spoke only of me. So Krishna Prem said, What kind of break is this? You didn’t speak so much even when you were connected! Now you talk even more—and yet you say the relationship is broken. This is a bit unreasonable. The pendulum has swung from one extreme to the other—from one excess to another.

In the course of the conversation, Vijayanand also said, I stayed with him for five years, surrendered totally, surrendered everything, and still Buddhahood did not happen to me. So I left. I even left sannyas.

Now, think a little: How can a person return who has surrendered totally? He must have left something on the shore. Something was kept back. He must have left some space from which to return. He must have kept a bridge intact. He did not break all bridges. He kept some possibility in case he had to come back. Such surrender cannot be total. And it cannot be total for another reason too: if deep inside there was this longing, this desire, this craving—“I must attain Buddhahood; not yet, not yet—it’s been five years!” As if five years were such a great matter! You have been wandering for fifty million years—through eighty-four million forms it has taken millions of years. And now, Buddhahood in five years!

The truth is: the desire for Buddhahood itself becomes the obstacle to Buddhahood. Any desire will become an obstacle. The very talk of “attaining” is the talk of greed. The very idea of attaining is the ego’s idea. What can I do? What can anyone do? It is you who must receive—and if the poison of craving sits within you, how will you receive? It can happen in a single instant—but the drowning must be complete.

Two things are indispensable in drowning:
1) Drown without any cause. If there is a cause for drowning, you have not drowned. Let there be no craving behind it, no greed, no drive—otherwise you have not drowned. Causeless. Love is causeless; and surrender is the perfection of love. It can only be causeless. Whoever can give a reason for his surrender—his surrender is not surrender. He is deceived, and deceiving—deceiving none but himself.
2) And to “attain Buddhahood”—this is the very race of ego. Buddhahood is not “attained,” it is bestowed. Whoever seeks to attain it misses. Whoever simply drowns—receives it. Those who drowned, they were saved. Those who drowned utterly, they crossed over.

This became clear even to Krishna Prem—he wrote me in his letter. His beloved, Vasumati, was with him; both had gone for a week’s holiday. Both wrote: It became so clear to us—how can the desire to attain Buddhahood ever allow Buddhahood to happen!

And Vijayanand asked them, Have you attained Buddhahood yet? They said, We aren’t bothered. What will we do with Buddhahood? What would we do with it?
Vijayanand told them, That’s not right. Then what is the essence of sannyas? What are you doing there?
They said, We are joyous. We are having a good time. Who worries about Buddhahood! What have we to do with it? Will we eat it, drink it, wear it? We are blissful. We have no concern.

This did not make sense to Vijayanand’s greedy mind. He even tried to convince them: No, you too should worry about Buddhahood. It is absolutely necessary to attain Buddhahood.

In India this craving runs deep. People drop wealth and position—but then they want to attain God, attain Buddhahood, attain nirvana! The same race to attain—only the object has changed. The same thought, the same greed, the same craving, the same ambition, the same ego—nothing has changed.

Vijayanand could not understand that they were laughing and saying, We have nothing to do with it; what will we do with Buddhahood! We are carefree. We are joyful. Our sannyas is purposeless.

And when sannyas is purposeless, the plunge is complete. Then there is simply no need to return—for there is no expectation, and so no possibility of failure. When there is nothing to gain, how can “loss” arise?

Drown like this! Come late if you came late—no worry. Just don’t get stuck.

For the Indian mind I am always apprehensive. Even when it comes, the same greed for moksha, for kaivalya, for nirvana clutches it. The Indian mind is very greed-ridden, afflicted with a terrible greed—the greed for the other world. That greed has ruined this world too. And the other world cannot be found because of greed. If greed must be, better it be of this world—at least you’ll get something, clay pots if nothing else. Something will be in your hand. Worldly greed is understandable; spiritual greed is sheer derangement. But its roots have gone deep into the Indian mind. Without uprooting them, there is no way.

Therefore, Suraj Prakash, drown here! But keep two things in mind—drown completely. Don’t leave anything on the shore, as if in case you have to return at least you’ll have your clothes, otherwise where will you go naked?

If you come to me, burn all the bridges behind you; if you come to me, kick away the ladders; if you come to me, leave no path to return. Set fire to the road behind—only then can you come to me wholly. And when you come to me, keep no expectation ahead. No way back behind, no desire ahead. No road behind, no want ahead. Where there is neither road nor want, there, wholly, in this very moment, the plunge happens. And in that very drowning is the finding.

Enough for today.