Piv Piv Lagi Pyas #2

If you are a seeker, it won’t take even a moment. If you are not a seeker, there is no way to recognize. If you are thirsty and you find water—do you need to go ask someone about it? The very thirst becomes the recognition. The cooling of the throat is the proof.

But if there is no thirst—if a lake is brimming and your throat has never known thirst—you will not recognize water. Water is known through thirst, not through definitions written in scriptures.

If someone is a seeker—what does “seeker” mean? It means one who is searching, aspiring, filled with longing; one who is thirsty for truth.

Out of a hundred, ninety-nine are not seekers, yet they descend into the world of sadhana. From this the whole confusion arises.

You have never felt thirst, but someone who has known the pangs of thirst and the satisfaction of drinking water tells you of his fulfillment; word by word you are impressed. Greed is stirred in your mind. You, too, think, “May I also attain such bliss, such fulfillment.” You forget that without thirst, the joy of satiation is impossible.

The fulfillment he knew was because of the pain of thirst. The deeper the pain, the deeper the fulfillment. The shallower the pain, the shallower the fulfillment. And if there is no pain at all, and you go to drink water out of greed—there is no thirst. How will you recognize it as water?

If you merely understand by scriptural definitions that “this must be water,” doubt will always remain, because within you there is no proof. You have had no contact with water. Your life has not been linked to the current of the stream. You remained far away. And even if you drink water without thirst—even if it is the real water—you will not find joy. The reverse may happen: you may feel like vomiting; nausea may arise.

To drink water without thirst is dangerous. To eat without hunger can prove costly. If you have never desired truth, meeting a Satguru can be dangerous.

Ninety-nine out of a hundred become curious out of greed. The Upanishads sing; Dadu and Kabir speak of the supreme bliss. Once in centuries, Meera, Nanak, Chaitanya have danced. Their dance touches you. The whisper of their song reaches your ears. Seeing them, your heart becomes covetous; you, too, want to be like that.

Who, going to Buddha, would not wish for such peace? But have you known the kind of unrest Buddha knew? That very unrest will become the gateway to your peace. Have you borne the agony that Buddha bore? Have you passed along that path—thorn-strewn—through which Buddha passed? The dance at the goal happens because of all the suffering experienced along the way.

You want to arrive directly at the goal; you know nothing of the path. Even if the goal is attained, it does not feel attained. And doubt will persist.

Therefore do not even ask, “If the Satguru is found—how will the seeker recognize him?”

Forget about the Satguru. First be concerned with this: are you a seeker? First recognize this: are you a seeker?

If you are, then the moment the Master appears, your life-breath will connect; the wires will join. No one will need to tell you. If darkness is dispelled by light, will someone have to come to inform you so you can recognize, “This is not darkness; this is light”? If the eyes of a blind man open, does he need others to tell him, “Now your eyes are open; now you can see—look”? The moment the eyes open, the blind man begins to see. When light dawns, it is recognized; it is self-evident.

The meeting with the Satguru is also self-evident. Otherwise, in the end you will ask, “When God is attained, how shall I recognize that this is God?” There is no need at all.

When you have a headache, you recognize the pain. And when the pain goes, you recognize that now everything is fine—health. You recognize both. When there is ache in the life-breath, you recognize it; when the life-breath is satisfied, you recognize that too.

No, there is no scripture of recognition. There is no need.

But the first mistake happens at the very beginning. Many people enter sadhana out of greed. And if not out of greed, then out of fear. It is the same thing. Greed and fear are two sides of the same coin. One prays to God because he is frightened; another prays because he is greedy. In neither is there a seeker.

A seeker means this: through the experience of life one comes to know that life is futile. Passing through life, one recognizes there is no essence. One’s hands gathered nothing but ash. All of life’s experiences were examined and found empty—bubbles of water. When the whole of life turns to ash—whatever you could have wanted, asked for, desired—everything becomes futile, all rainbows shatter, only the ruins of life remain—at that moment of realization, the search begins: Then what is truth? This life has proved a dream—not only a dream, but a painful dream. Now what is truth?

When you are filled with such ardor, you will not have to recognize the Master. Hearing the sound of his footsteps, the anklets of your heart will begin to ring. The moment your eyes meet the Master’s, doors long closed will swing open. His touch will make you dance. A single word of his—and within you an Om-like resonance will begin to echo such as you have never known. You will be suffused with a new thrill, a new music, a new life.

No, there will be no need to recognize. You will not ask. And even if the whole world says, “This man is not a Satguru,” it will make no difference to you; your heart has known. And the heart’s recognition is the only recognition.

So first search and see: are you a seeker? If the mistake happens there, then even if I tell you all the scriptures—“Recognize the Master in such-and-such ways”—it will be of no use.

Because Masters are as many kinds as there are Masters. No definition can suffice. Mahavira is of his own kind, Buddha of his own, Krishna of his own, Christ of his own, Muhammad speaks in yet another way. All are unique. If you make a definition, it will be based on some one Master. And a Master like that is not going to be born again. Therefore no Master will ever fit your definition.

Those who will be born will not fit your definition. And the one whose definition you are carrying does not take birth again. Where is Buddha born again? Where does Mahavira come again? To stage a play is one thing; to be Mahavira again is very difficult. Acting is one thing. Do not bring up the Ramleela; to be Rama is very difficult.

If you cling to someone’s definition, you will get into trouble, because the one who could fulfill that definition will not come again. He has come and gone. And when he came, you could not recognize him because you were then holding on to some other old definition.

When Mahavira was present, you had Krishna’s definition. Mahavira did not fit that definition at all. The Hindu scriptures do not even mention Mahavira. Such a glorious man was born, and the largest religion of this land, the scriptures of the majority, do not even mention him. What must have happened? They do not utter his name even once. Leave aside praise; they do not even oppose him. If not praise, at least they could have criticized!

No, they did not even pay that much attention. He did not fit their definition. Their definition of God was of another kind. They had seen Krishna with a peacock feather in his crown; this man stood naked. There was no match anywhere. They had seen Krishna playing the flute. If this man had any flute, it was so invisible that no one could see it. This man simply had no flute; he did not figure anywhere in their language. Measured by all the old signs and touchstones, he could not be assessed. Thus Mahavira was missed.

The few who understood Mahavira—who had thirst, who were willing to recognize without a definition—were precisely those who had thirst. Now they made another definition. Now their followers are carrying that definition. And now there is great difficulty. If they see me sitting on this chair—difficulty! Mahavira never sat on a chair. “This man is wrong.” If they see me wearing clothes—problem! For Mahavira was naked. Sky-clad-ness is a sign!

For now, only those can recognize me who have thirst. And the danger with them is the same: after I am gone, they will make some definition that will entangle others, because no one ever comes again.

Understand me rightly. By the time you make your definitions, the man has already gone. When your definition is ready and completely certain, then a person like that does not take birth again. This is the whole irony of religion. Therefore, please, do not ask for definitions. Ask for thirst. Probe your thirst.

If there is no thirst, drop talk of religion. The moment for religion has not yet come. Wander a little more. Suffer a little more. Let suffering polish you. Suffering will refine you further. Do not hurry yet. Remain in the marketplace for now. Keep your back turned to the temple. Because until you are truly filled with pain, even if you come to the temple a hundred times, you will not truly arrive. Each time you will come empty-handed and return empty-handed.

You will come to the temple only on that day when your back has turned to the marketplace. You will know that all is futile. That day, sitting in the marketplace, you will find the temple has surrounded you. That day you will not have to go searching for the Master; he will come to your door and knock. Examine your thirst.

But here is the great joke: people never ask about thirst; they ask, “How to test a Satguru?” Test yourself. Your own test is enough for you; go no further. What use have you for the Satguru? Recognize your thirst. If there is thirst, you will seek water—you will have to. Even in a desert a man finds water, if there is thirst.

And if there is no thirst, one can sit on the very bank of a lake. The water will not be seen. Water is not seen because it exists; it is seen because there is thirst within.

Have you ever gone to the bazaar after fasting? On that day you do not notice cloth shops or gold-and-silver shops; only restaurants and hotels! Go to the market after a fast; you will feel aromas of food coming from all directions, which you had never noticed before. Everywhere you will see food being cooked. It was being cooked before too, but then you were not hungry.

Food is visible to the hungry.

Water is visible to the thirsty.

The Satguru becomes visible to the seeker.

There is no guarantee. You’ve walked into a bank!
I call this a mind full of greed. Such a mind cannot be a seeker. What is this talk of guarantees? Who is going to guarantee whom? And a guarantee that there is no rebirth after liberation? Even if I were to put it in writing, of what use would it be? Where would you find me then? Where would you take the letter I wrote?

You want a guarantee that there is no rebirth after liberation—why? Because if, after millions of years, one has to be born again in a new creation, then what’s the use of this liberation?
I call this the outlook of profit and greed.

Your very start in spirituality has gone wrong. This child was born dead. Adorn it as much as you want, dress it in precious clothes, it will still stink. The child was stillborn—this is a miscarriage. The seeker was never born. You remained a shopkeeper, stayed in the marketplace. The temple never came into the market; you dragged the market into the temple. You ask for guarantees; there are none.

And a true seeker never asks for guarantees. In fact, a seeker does not bring up tomorrow at all. The seeker says, today is enough. This moment is sufficient. If in this moment I am free, then…

Try to understand this a little. If in this moment I am free, where will the next moment come from? It will arise from this very moment. Moments sprout from moments—like a rose blooms on a rosebush, the flower of freedom blooms in a free moment. In a slave moment, the flower of slavery blooms. If you are a slave today, you will remain a slave tomorrow. Today will further entrench your slavery. Tomorrow you’ll be even more enslaved, the day after even more.

If you are free today, where can tomorrow come from? Tomorrow doesn’t come out of the clock! It comes out of your life. Your tomorrow is your tomorrow; my tomorrow is my tomorrow. There are as many times as there are people. Time is not a single thing. What relation is there between my time and your time? Your time is flowing out from within you.

The man who was full of anger in the morning—his afternoon will carry the shadow of anger. The one who prayed in the morning, who was filled with awe and gratitude—his afternoon will carry the hum, the tune, the fragrance of that gratitude. Your moments sprout from within you like leaves on a tree. Why talk of tomorrow at all? If today’s moment is free, the guarantee is hidden right there, because tomorrow’s moment will arise from this moment—and it will be even freer, for there will have been that much more time for freedom. Then the day after will arise from that moment.

That is why we say: no one returns from liberation. Because liberation keeps growing, widening—how will you come back? Only the one whose bondage keeps growing returns.

It happened so—there was a very marvelous mendicant in Greece, Diogenes. He renounced everything. He came from a very wealthy and noble family. He left it all, but since he had never done his own work, he kept one slave. A servant to look after him, to serve him. He became a renunciate, leaving everything—except for that one slave. Old habits die hard: who would make the bed, who would cook? So he kept a servant.

One day the servant ran away. After all, keeping a servant is not so easy. When the servant saw that Diogenes had become a complete fakir, how could he stop him? He had nothing with which to restrain him. You can keep a servant because there is police, law, courts—they protect your hold. Otherwise, if the servant runs away, what can you do? Diogenes was alone in the forest; the servant fled.

Other ascetics meditating in the forest said, “Go after him. This isn’t right. The servant should be punished.”

But Diogenes said, “I’m thinking: if the slave can live without me and I cannot live without him, then who is the master and who the slave becomes a little doubtful. If the slave can live without me, needs nothing of me, and I cannot live without him—then I am the slave of the slave. No, I will not make this mistake again. It’s good that he escaped. And if he comes back, I will fold my hands before him.”

This man was taking a step toward freedom. His tomorrow, too, will arise from this.

Then he was left with only a begging bowl. One day he saw a dog drinking water at a spring and thought, “This dog is more free than I am. I have to carry this bowl. If a dog can live without a bowl, can I, being a man, not live without one? Am I worse off than a dog?” He left the bowl right there. He began to drink with his hands. He took alms in his hands. From freedom, a new moment emerged—vision!

When Alexander was coming to India, he met this fakir. The fakir said to Alexander, “Don’t trouble yourself in vain. Why do you want to conquer the world?” Alexander said, “So that I can rest in joy.” Diogenes burst out laughing. The hills, the river must have echoed with his laughter. Alexander was a bit bewildered. He said, “I don’t understand—what is there to laugh at?”

Diogenes said, “There is something to laugh at. Look at me—without conquering the world I am at ease, so I fail to understand how you will rest after conquering it. If rest is what you seek, what’s wrong with now? This river is wide, the sandy bank is vast. There is room for me and room for you. Even if the whole world came, it could rest here. Lie down. The morning is so beautiful! Where are you going?”

Diogenes lay naked, basking in the morning sun. It is said Alexander was filled with envy seeing Diogenes’ freedom. Imagine—Alexander, filled with envy! He said, “If God gives me another birth, I will ask: do not make me Alexander again, make me Diogenes. But now I must go. The journey is unfinished; the world is yet to be conquered. I will remember your words. Diogenes, I won’t forget you. If there is anything I can do for you, tell me. I am pleased.”

Diogenes said, “At most you can do this: step a little aside and let a bit of sun fall on me. Otherwise… I need nothing, there’s no need at all. The morning is chilly and I’m enjoying the sun. You are standing in the way for no reason.”

“And let me tell you this: no one has ever returned to rest after conquering the world. Whoever has rested began in this very moment. Because every moment is born from this moment.”

You say, “We’ll do it tomorrow.” But what will you do today? Whatever you do today will give birth to your tomorrow. You say, “Let me mind the shop today; tomorrow I’ll pray.” But where will tomorrow come from? It will come out of today’s shopkeeping. How then will prayer be born? Shopkeeping will beget shopkeeping. Another day passes in sleep; sleep grows stronger.

Do not even ask whether one returns after liberation. Liberation means that from which there remains no way to return. You haven’t understood what liberation means; that is why such a question arises. Liberation means: the person in whom no desire remains. One returns because of desire.

Understand a little: a child comes to school and asks the principal, “If I pass, will I have to come to school again?” The principal will say, “If you pass, even if you want to come, we won’t let you in. The school’s purpose is only this much: once you pass, the matter is finished. If those who passed kept coming back, what would happen to the little ones? Where would they go?”

Even as it is, there is a crowding. For the one who has graduated, there is no question of returning. But the one who has failed must come back. The world is a training to attain the divine. The one who has attained—finished; training complete. There is no question of return.

This question arises in your mind because your miserly, greedy mind wants to have everything secured and guaranteed in advance; only then will you take a step. Until you get a guarantee, you won’t meditate. It is this craving for guarantees that has created much mischief in the world. Then all kinds of clever people are ready to give you guarantees. Whatever you demand, someone or other will be ready to supply it.

When I was in Surat, a gentleman told me their religious leader of the Dawoodi Bohra community writes letters to God, saying, “This man donated a hundred thousand rupees; he is a good man; take care of him, give him proper reception,” and so on. A letter written to God—and when the man dies, the letter is placed on his chest and buried with him.

You ask for guarantees; there will always be people to give them. But what foolishness! The man remains here, and the letter also remains here. And there is no way to drag that religious leader to court afterward. No one ever returns. No one ever complains that the letter didn’t work—that it was useless. No one can return, no lawsuit can be filed. So the cleverness and exploitation continue.

As long as you demand, there will be suppliers. The fault is not theirs; the fault is yours.

And you ask, “What’s the point if we have to return again?” When you eat, do you ask, “If I must eat again tomorrow, what’s the use?” When you drink water, do you ask, “If I must drink again, what’s the use?” When you inhale, do you say, “What’s the use? I’ll have to exhale and inhale again—what’s the use?”

To ask about profit in life is foolishness. Life is not a business! The profit perspective itself is flawed. Because of it you go astray. You never reach where you should, because there’s no apparent profit in going there. And where profit appears, that is not your destiny.

I’ve heard: a Marwari merchant came to a railway station and asked at the ticket window, “Give me a ticket to Rampur.” The clerk said, “There are three Rampurs—one in Madhya Pradesh, one in Uttar Pradesh, one in Bihar. Which Rampur?” The merchant said, “Is that even a question? Whichever costs the least!”

The profit perspective—where to go has nothing to do with it. He will reach “Rampur,” but the one he never intended to go to. If you set out by asking about profit, you will miss life.

Because this existence is play, leela. There is no question of profit here. This is a celebration of joy. There is no goal here. The joy is in being. If you ask, “Why breathe?” you will have to commit suicide—because no reason appears as to why you should breathe. “Why drink water—what’s the profit? Because I’ll have to drink again and again.” Then don’t drink!

The real question is not of profit at all. The real question is to experience the joy of life. When the throat is parched and you drink water, a satisfaction descends. When you are hungry and the digestive fire burns, you eat and a deep contentment happens. When you draw in a fresh breath, new life courses through you. When you meditate, a new samadhi surrounds you on all sides.

It is not that you will do it today only if you won’t have to do it tomorrow. Then you will never do it. Every moment of life is to be lived in its totality. There is no end goal here. The world is not going anywhere. The world is already where it has to be. Only those attain truth in whose lives the means themselves become the end. Grasp this formula as deeply as you can.

Only they reach the divine, only they are liberated, in whose lives the means themselves become the end.

What does this mean? It means they do not talk of the destination. They say, walking the path is so joyous—who cares about the destination! They don’t speak of what will be gained tomorrow; they say, “So much is given today—why bring up tomorrow at all? Today we are so filled we can dance, feel grateful.”

Such a person receives even more tomorrow. His doors keep widening. One day the entire sky fits into his heart. One day the infinite descends within his bounds. One day the whole ocean leaps into his drop.

Do not approach the divine with a shopkeeper’s eye. Better you remain a good shopkeeper—good shopkeepers are needed. Better that than being a bad seeker. But when you come to be a seeker, come with understanding.

The mathematics of a seeker’s world is upside down. There one does not act in order to gain. There one acts because in the very doing, it is gained. Doing and receiving merge in the same instant. Destination and path together—the path itself becomes the destination.

You have prayed—you can do it in two ways. One is the shopkeeper’s prayer: “I am praying, I’ve offered a coconut, brought flowers—things are expensive these days—keep that in mind. Don’t cheat me. Win me the lawsuit. Make my boy pass his exam. My wife is ill, cure her.”

You bring a cheap, rotten coconut and feel you’re doing God a great favor! No one ever offers a good coconut in temples. There are special coconut shops near temples. They sell only rotten coconuts—and coconuts that have been offered hundreds of times are recycled back. That is why the price of coconuts in the world keeps rising, but the price at the temple-side shop stays the same. No need to raise it—no one can eat those coconuts. They’re good for nothing—only fit to be offered. You offer to God only what is of no use. They are offered again and again; by morning they’re back on the shop counter, then offered again, then back to the shop.

You offer a rotten coconut, thinking you’ve bestowed a great favor on God. Now tomorrow you sit at home watching for results. You haven’t understood the meaning of prayer.

Wherever there is asking, there is no prayer. Prayer is only offering, not asking. There is no expectation of fruit in prayer. If there is expectation of fruit, then it’s a transaction, not prayer. You went—it was your joy. It was your delight to offer. Do not think that by offering a little gift to God, God is indebted to you. He has given you so much; you returned a single grain and now you think God is obliged. Your offering should be your acknowledgment of grace: “I am blessed that you have given me so much; I offer a little—more is not in my capacity.”

A true one who prays will always feel, “I could not offer what I ought to have offered. I could not give what I should have given. I could not share what I was meant to share.” He will always be filled with the pang: “I received so much; I gave nothing.” The false devotee thinks, “I offered one coconut—now I must get the fruit.” And if the fruit does not come, then God’s existence or non-existence depends on your rotten coconut! If the fruit does not come, you say there is no God—because the rotten coconut didn’t work. And if it comes, then…

A man came to me and said, “I was an atheist, but now I’ve become a theist.”
I said, “No one becomes a theist from an atheist so easily. Tell me the whole story. There must be some slip. It is rare—once in thousands of years—that an atheist becomes a true theist. Where are the theists anyway? Once in ages you catch a glimpse of a true theist—then heaven descends upon earth. You’ve become a theist? There’s surely a mistake. What happened?”
He said, “My son wasn’t getting a job, so I went and gave God an ultimatum! That if within fifteen days he doesn’t get a job, understand that I will not believe in you at all. This is the final accounting. If he gets the job, I will be your devotee forever.”
And the job came through, so he became a theist. I said, “Don’t give another ultimatum, otherwise you’ll become an atheist again. By coincidence the job came—not because God was frightened by your ultimatum. Is God such a poor thing? Some political leader dependent on your vote? A two-bit God who gets scared of your ultimatum? Now don’t do it again, and your theism may survive. Your theism is such a thin veil—one scratch and it will rip; the atheist will pop out.”

But he didn’t listen—how can the greedy listen? He had been “successful” once. When his wife fell ill, he went and did the same thing again. Because it had worked once. And his wife died; she didn’t recover. Two or three years later he came to me and said, “You were right; I have become a great atheist.”
I said, “Be whatever you like—but know this: it’s all just play of your mind. You were never a theist, never an atheist. Your atheism and your theism are both business. They are not a life-vision, not a philosophy, not an inner experience. You are pointlessly becoming theist and atheist by turns. God is not a party to this—this is your solo game. Now remain an atheist—don’t make the mistake again, otherwise you’ll become a theist once more, and so it will go—‘Morning comes, evening falls, thus a lifetime passes’—and you will never truly become anything.”

Greed and profit can never connect you to the divine. Go, by all means, to temple, mosque, gurudwara—but let prayer be your gratitude. Let prayer be an end in itself. Pray because praying is such a great joy. Only when there isn’t even the faintest line of asking behind it will you taste its flavor. Only then, for the first time, will you know what prayer is. Only then, for the first time, will you know what meditation is.

People keep coming to me and asking, “You teach meditation—what’s the benefit, the profit, what will we get from it?”
I tell them, “You will get nothing; a lot will be lost—your worry, your restlessness, your tension, your running, ambition, jealousy—all that will be lost. And along with it, the whole spread of your ‘world,’ for your whole tent is pinned to these very poles. The tent will collapse. You will be leveled.”
To meditate, a gambler is needed, not a shopkeeper. Put everything on the stake—what is there to ask for? And let me tell you this: the one who does not ask, receives; the one who asks, misses. This is inverted mathematics. Here, the one who begs will return empty-handed. Here, the one who comes without asking—his every breath, every pore will be filled.

It is entirely natural. It has to be so. How many people can recognize a true master? Only those who are truly thirsty; for whom life has become futile; for whom life has turned into torment and a dream.

A crowd will gather around the false master, because he gratifies the crowd’s desires. He hands out amulets, materializes ash, performs tricks. The foolish will gather there in great numbers. That is exactly what they want. Wherever their cravings are being satisfied, there they will assemble.

A true master will take away. He will efface you. As Dadu has said, he will aim and shoot his arrows. He will erase you; he will virtually kill you. Only when you are gone can God arise upon your ashes. You are the disease. He will not support you; he will topple you. He will uproot you from the very roots.

So only one who is ready to die will come to a true master. The true master means death—greater than death, a great death. After ordinary death you are born again; but if you drown in the master’s death, there is no return. You cannot be born again.

Therefore only a very few courageous ones will gather there. It is not for everyone. Children are not needed there. What use is it for those who are still playing with toys?

People go on playing with toys their whole lives. As children they play with a little car, wind it up and make it run; when they grow up, it is a bigger car—but the game continues. In childhood they marry off little dolls; when they grow up, they enact the Ram Lila, take out the wedding procession of Rama and Sita—the play continues. As little ones they collect pebbles and stones; when grown, they collect diamonds and jewels—yet in the final reckoning, they are only pebbles and stones. The game continues. Small children collect cigarette packs, matchboxes, stamps; when grown, they collect currency notes—the same thing. The whole game is of toys.

Only one who has come of age can come to a true master—who has thrown away all toys and said, Enough of this childishness; the moment to awaken has arrived. Certainly, awakening is risky, because all your dreams will shatter. Dreams carry a kind of safety. Among your dreams there are sweet ones. Granted, there are painful ones too, but they are interconnected. If the painful dreams are to be broken, the pleasant ones will break as well. If you are to awaken, you must awaken from both pain and pleasure.

You too want to awaken, but you want the pleasant dream to remain and only the painful to end. You want to awaken, but only from sorrow—not from pleasure. So you will gather around the false master. There a crowd will always be.

But with the true master, both pleasure and pain will have to be dropped—only then is peace born. When all dualities dissolve, only then does the sky become undivided; only then does connection with the infinite arise. Only then, as Dadu says, do the wires connect; before that they do not connect.

Naturally, wherever promises are being made to cure your illnesses, assurances to win your lawsuits, or talk of fulfilling your ambitions for wealth, there a crowd will gather. From ordinary people to those you call extraordinary—they too gather around such people. You want blessings for your foolishnesses.

And the rule of life is such that even if you simply sit with closed eyes under a tree and bless whosoever comes, at least fifty percent of those blessings are going to come true. So you need not worry. Dress up even a donkey and seat him there, and let him merely raise his hand and bestow blessings without even looking at who is coming—it makes no difference.

Of the patients who come, by plain arithmetic at least fifty percent will recover anyway—perhaps more. Not all illnesses are fatal. Even a doctor does not really cure; he only supports. There is a saying in the West: if you catch a cold it gets well in seven days without medicine, and with medicine in one week. Medicine or no medicine is not the big issue. Illnesses mostly heal. A person does not die of every disease! It is a matter of time. Just keep sitting.

In lawsuits too, after all two people are fighting—one will win. And often it happens that both parties come to the same false master—the one who will lose and the one who will win; one is bound to win. And the game goes on. Those fifty percent who succeed because of your blessings return with garlands, spread your fame, and bring along fifty more simpletons.

Those who lose look for some other guru; they do not come back to you. They too will settle somewhere or other; somewhere, someday they will win, and there they will stay. The guru has nothing to do with it. This whole game runs on your foolishness.

But with the true master, none of your games can continue. A crowd cannot gather there. There the whole arrangement is to break the game.

Therefore only a few, the chosen, the sifted ones—those truly willing to take the leap, who have arrived at the hour when some transformation has become essential, whose longing is no longer for the outside but who now seek revolution within—only those few can reach there.

And even those few can stay there only if they have great courage; otherwise they too will run away. For the true master gives you no support to cling to. He does not gratify your ego. The very ego that has to be destroyed cannot rightly be supported in any way. If you remain there, you will remain by your own courage. He keeps pulling the ground out from under your feet.

So it is the work of a few daredevils. Yet only such daredevils come to attain life’s ultimate truth. That daring is worth undertaking.

Fear of meditation is natural—it will be there.
Because meditation means: to lose yourself, to dissolve. Meditation means: to be effaced. Your entire familiar ground will vanish. You will move in an unfamiliar realm. The world of your thoughts—which has been your home for ages, for lifetimes—will be left behind. Suddenly you will be homeless. The shade of thoughts will be removed, the roof torn away. You will descend into the void, you will be submerged in no-mind—there is danger in it.
It is like taking a tiny canoe into the ocean. The far shore is not visible and you have to leave this shore. Naturally there will be fear. The waves are high, and you carry no map. You have no firm assurance that someone has reached the other bank, because no one returns.

Meditation is a very deep journey. So fear will arise. Fear is natural; nothing unnatural about it. But you must rise above it; otherwise the journey will never begin. What to do so that the fear drops?

The first thing—which you have perhaps never done—is to accept the fear. Because the more you reject it, the more frightened you will become. Accept that fear is natural. You are about to disappear; of course fear will come. You are entering the greatest battlefield; fear will be there. You are willingly descending into death. You are placing the ladder against it with your own hands; fear will come.

It is natural; accept it. Go with trembling legs. You will go with trembling legs. If you accept it you will find that the more you accept, the more fear begins to melt away. If you deny it and fight it and suppress it, you can only push it deeper into your chest. But what is repressed within will always shake you. And whenever meditation starts nearing samadhi, whenever it seems you are about to be annihilated, that fear will surge up, explode. It will flood you.

This happens every day. People come to me daily who are meditating rightly. One day inevitably comes when fear seizes them. They have repressed it. They did not listen to me.

Accept it; do not suppress it. Tremble—if trembling happens. From whom are you hiding? You have to stand before God naked, as you are. If you are afraid, then afraid. From whom to hide? How will you hide it—from whom?

As you are, reveal yourself. Say, “I am afraid.” Say, “I am trembling.” Say, “I am scared—and still I come. In spite of fear, I come. Fear may remain alongside, still I come. I will fear, I will tremble, my legs will shake, my steps will falter—but I will come. I will neither stop coming nor will I suppress the fear.”

Understand these two points. Those who do not suppress fear, stop coming. Those who want to continue, suppress fear. Both miss. You keep coming—and come while afraid. When fear is there, what else can you do? Slowly, you will find that as you accept, fear begins to settle on its own.

Acceptance is a wondrous art. Some things vanish when accepted. Some things grow when rejected; they do not disappear. Try accepting.

Why do you want to reject fear? Because it seems you become “more” afraid! Your ego is hurt. The image you made of yourself begins to crack. You are very brave! You have put “Singh” after your name, you are a member of the Lions Club—a lion’s cub! You are crazy. You have built an image and are busy protecting it. When you enter the realm of meditation, your lion will shake. Your lion will start crying, will panic. Then you will wonder, what to do?

There are usually only two strategies. Either turn back to the world—drop this bother. There at least you are considered a lion. You have clout, you are a don; people fear you, they tremble. You ever tremble? You make others tremble. So go back there. Or the second way: repress it, clench your fists, contract your heart, grit your teeth and push fear down. Do not let the body tremble.

These two common ways are both wrong. If you go back, you deprive yourself of infinite treasure. You wander off just as you were nearing home. The door was close, almost about to open—and you turned your face away.

You will have to come back. No one can remain forever outside the temple. Because however far you wander outside, you will never find peace. Religion is the final refuge. You will have to come. Only there is surrender; only there is shelter. However much you run and avoid, one day you must return. Then the same question will arise. Better to settle it today. Why postpone to tomorrow?

And if you choose the second way and repress, you will find that as soon as meditation deepens your repressed content will explode. Because in depth one becomes loose, relaxed. When you relax, the very mechanisms you used to repress also relax. As they slacken, whatever you have pushed down rises with a roar. It will demolish your whole edifice. You will find yourself back in the marketplace—and in a more pitiful state than before. Because now you cannot even hold on to the idea of being a lion. Now you have trembled; now you have feared.

There is an old Sufi tale: A fakir was seeking truth. He asked his master, “Where will I find truth?” The master said, “Truth? Truth will be found where the world ends.”

From that day the fakir set out to find the world’s end. The story is very sweet. After years of walking and wandering he finally reached the place where the last village ended. He asked the villagers how far it was to the edge of the world. They said, “Not far. This is the last village. A little distance away there is a stone on which it is written: ‘Here the world ends.’ But do not go beyond.”

The fakir laughed. “That is exactly what I am seeking.” The people said, “You will be terrified there. Where the world ends, you will not even be able to look into that chasm.” But the fakir had staked his whole life on this search. He said, “I am seeking precisely that. And my master has said that unless I find the world’s end, truth will not be found. So I must go.”

They say he went. He did not heed the villagers. He reached the place where the signboard stood: “Here the world ends.” He looked with one eye into that place—there was emptiness. The pit had no bottom. There was nothing ahead.

You can understand his panic. The way he ran back—the journey that had taken half a lifetime, it is said he covered in days. He did not stop at all. He fell only at the master’s feet. Even then he was trembling; he could not speak. With great difficulty he was asked what had happened. He had become like a mute. He only gestured backward. For what he had seen was terrifying.

The master said, “Fool! I understand. It seems you reached the end of the world. Did you find a signboard that said ‘Here the world ends’?” He nodded, “Exactly! I found it.” “Did you look at the other side of the signboard to see what was written there?” “The other side? There was empty void ahead. I took one look—and the way I ran, I did not stop anywhere—not for water, not for food. I did not look on the other side.”

The master said, “That is the very mistake. If you had looked at the other side, you would have seen: on this side is written ‘Here the world ends’; on the other side it says, ‘Here God begins.’”

One boundary completes; another begins. God is formless. In the void you come close to the formless.

This story is very good, very precious.
There is no such sign anywhere outside. Do not go looking for it. It is an inner matter. Where the world ends means: where your fascinations and colorings end. Where the toys and games of life end, where the last halt comes. You have seen everything, known everything; all of it has become worth two pennies—no essence found. All bubbles have burst, all colors have faded.

The end of the world means: where desire ceases. Desire itself is the world. The expansion of ambition is samsara. But as soon as you come there, panic arises—because the void stands face to face. Where ambition ceases, only emptiness remains.

That void the enlightened call nirvana, moksha, kaivalya. But one needs the courage to look to the other side as well. Otherwise, if you run, you may never return. On the other side God begins exactly where the world ends. Meaning: where ambition ends, meditation begins. Where the race of desire drops, the restfulness of meditation begins. And that restfulness of meditation is rest in the void.

Sufi fakirs call it “fana”—to be effaced, to be utterly gone, to be not. In that not-being, everything is attained.

So fear is natural. What will you do? Do not suppress fear—and do not turn back because of fear. Accept fear; ride on it. Make fear your companion: “All right, come along; but we are going.” You will make us tremble; we will tremble. You will frighten us; we will be frightened—but we will not stop.

Last night I was reading a book by the Greek thinker Nikos Kazantzakis. Kazantzakis was a novelist, but very precious. Sometimes novelists touch heights which your ordinary religious preachers cannot even understand. Sometimes an artist experiences depths which the pundits and mullahs in your temples and mosques cannot even grasp.

In his book Kazantzakis writes: I have seen three kinds of people and three kinds of prayer. The first kind say, “O God, we are the bow; place your arrows upon our string. Do not let it happen that you never fit the arrow, never draw the string, and we rust away and end like this.”

The second kind of people, with a second kind of prayer, say, “Place your arrow upon our string—we are your bow, O God—but be careful. Do not draw too much; the string might snap.”

And the third kind of people, with the third kind of prayer, say, “O God, we are your bow. Place your arrows upon our strings and do not worry—do not calculate more or less. If in your hands we break, nothing greater could happen to us.”

Only the third kind of person will arrive.

The first type says, “We might pass away like this.” His eyes are still on himself. Even this running, this prayer, is of the ego. “Make me successful; let me not die a failure. May I not rust away. May I not vanish without having attained any fragrance.” This is a prayer of greed, a prayer of fear.

The second type are more clever, more shrewd. They want to bargain with God too. They bring their arithmetic there as well; they keep accounts, they are shopkeepers. They say to God, “Fit your arrows, but take care—do not pull too much, the string might break.”

Such people also cannot reach God. Even with God they allow no complete freedom. They want to keep him under control, to bind him to their way. They want God to walk according to their calculations; they do not want to walk according to God’s. And until you agree to move with God, you will not attain him. So long as you want him to follow you, the relationship cannot be formed.

There is the third kind; become that. Their prayer is lovely and very significant: “We are your bow. We are your means, your instrument. Place your arrows upon us—not to pierce our targets, but to pierce yours. We are only the bow. Fit your arrows and strike your aims—and do not worry whether we survive or shatter. If we break in your hands, nothing greater could happen to us.”

These are surrendered. In their prayer there is neither fear nor greed. There is only one prayer: “Make us your instrument. If in becoming that we are consumed, it is our good fortune.”

If you are afraid, it is natural. The heart trembles—nothing unnatural. You have to go in spite of the fear. You have to go with fear. You cannot be fearless until meditation happens. Only after meditation do you taste the nectar. Death dissolves; only then does fearlessness arise.

Therefore do not think beforehand, “First we must attain fearlessness, then we will meditate.” Then you will never meditate. Because fearlessness is born of meditation. It is the flower of meditation; its fragrance.

So go as you are—naked, afraid, trembling, full of darkness, sickly, not even worthy to be offered in worship, knowing that you have no qualifications—and still go. If, knowing all this, you go with humility and with the longing to become God’s instrument, your qualification is granted you.

This is the qualification: you are empty—that emptiness is your worthiness.

Your eyes are becoming blind because of overthinking. To perceive mystery, thought has to fall still, because it is in that very pause that mystery is revealed. Your eyes are open, but they are full of thoughts. That is why even open eyes cannot see.

You look at a flower and know it is a rose. You have seen it many times; there are thousands of memories of roses in you. Who knows how many poems you have read about roses, how many pictures and paintings you have seen—your mind is filled with them. When you go near a rose, all your knowledge stands in between like a curtain. Layer upon layer, whatever you have known comes in the way. Your knowing itself becomes your blindness.

Trim knowledge away for a little while. Be by the rose as if you were ignorant—as if you had never seen a rose before, never heard anything about it, never seen any pictures, never sung any songs. Let this rose sing its own song. Stop your songs. Let this rose, which is present now, reveal itself. Drop the images you saw in the past. They are gone. Their worth is no more than dust on a mirror. They are shapes from dreams.

This is real. You are hiding the real with the unreal. Remove the past so that you can catch a glimpse of this rose that has bloomed this very moment—and you may never meet it again. Look at it a little, sit with it. Let this rose hum its tune. Let it dance in the breeze. Give it the chance to send its fragrance to your nostrils. Touch it; feel its softness. Look at the dewdrops gathered on its petals—before which all pearls grow pale.

This rose that has bloomed in this moment, the rose of this moment—let it spread over your very soul. Sit by it for a while in silence and stillness. And you will find that suddenly your eyes have opened. You are being filled with a mystery. This small rose is a source—out of it infinite light, infinite fragrance, and the energy of infinite mystery is manifesting. Dive into it; be suffused with its nectar. Put knowledge aside; begin to live.

You are sitting on the riverbank—let this river be. Drop those rivers on whose ghats you once were. Sweet memories, bitter memories—let them go. You have nothing to do with them now. Apart from your memory, they have no value, no existence. And drop the future fantasies as well—those riverbanks where you imagine you will be someday.

Give this river a little opportunity to be with you. You be with it. Walk with it a while, flow with it a while, take a dip in it a while. Become one with it for a while—and the door of mystery will open.

Mystery is everywhere. Your eyes are open too. Who said you are blind? Who said your eyes are closed? They are only hazy, filled with smoke. And that smoke is nothing but the layers of your past, the layers of thought. Push them aside a bit and look. Look as a small child looks. He has no information. He looks from not-knowing.

If you want mystery, look from not-knowing. Put scholarship aside; take it off—that is your enemy. You are not separated from the divine because of sin; you are separated because of scholarship. As I see it, scholarship is the only sin. Even a sinner can arrive; scholars are never heard of arriving. Your Gita, your Quran, your Bible—remove them from your eyes. The divine is present; why do you not see? You go on reciting your Vedas. The divine stands at the door knocking; you go on with your worship.

Become a little empty—just that! Ignorance—“I know nothing”—such a mood is the first step toward knowing. “I know”—in that mood you become rigid. Your fluidity is lost. You are congealed, frozen. You have become like ice, like stone. The flow in you is gone.

You are being given chances at every moment. You wake in the morning; your eyes are not yet open; the birds have begun to sing; people have started walking softly on the road; the milkman has called out—listen. As if listening for the first time. After the night the mind is fresh. Listen a little; lie there with eyes still closed. Listen a little; let the ears experience this mystery. Open your eyes; look at your own house as if you were a stranger. All houses are strangers’ houses. All houses are inns. Today you are here; tomorrow you will not be. Yesterday there was some other house; today another. Yesterday there was another owner; tomorrow there will be another. Open your eyes.

Look at your own child as if he were a guest. And children are guests, visitors. Who knows—today he is a child; tomorrow he may not be. Then you will weep, beat your chest, writhe, saying, “If only I had once more looked with full eyes.” But the chance to look fully never came. There were a thousand chances, and you went on missing them. Look at your wife as if you had brought her home today, as if you were married today, as if you had just taken the seven steps around the fire.

Begin to see things afresh; do not let them go stale. Do not look through borrowed eyes; look through fresh eyes. Do not look through yesterday’s eyes; look through today’s. Keep dusting away the dust; do not let the mirror be covered with it. And the mystery will begin to appear in your life. Everywhere you will find mystery. Everywhere you will find the same music playing.

You have not truly known even a single thing. Man talks about knowing God, and he does not even know the stone lying on the path. The stone too is a mystery. And the day the stone becomes a mystery, that very day the stone becomes God. From that day you will find nothing but him. In the bird’s warble you will hear his tune. In the quiver of the wind, in the gusts passing through the trees, you will sense his voice, his rustle. You will gaze into someone’s eyes and see his spring. You will touch someone’s hand and he will be there in your hand.

But for this a deep revolution is needed. I call that revolution meditation. Meditation means dusting the mind, bathing the mind. Just as you bathe your body every day so it does not get dirty, the mind gets dirty—because you have forgotten the bath of the mind.

Meditation is the bathing of the mind—wash it as often as you can.

The Hindu way was: upon rising in the morning, meditate, so that the mind becomes fresh for the day. At night, before sleep, meditate, so that the day’s dust falls away again. Muslims have been praying five times a day so that dust does not get a chance to settle during the day. Whenever even a little dust settles, pray again, enter namaz again. Wash it a little, clean it, keep the mirror clear. In that mirror you will one day catch the divine.

That is the simple art. Meditation is the art of opening the door of mystery. In meditation the veil is lifted. The veil is not on the divine’s face; it is on your mind. When your dust is removed, the divine has always been right there before you.

That’s all for today.