Prem Panth Aiso Kathin #1

Sagar! Sadhus and saints say what you want to hear—not what is. Not as it is, but as it will please you, sound sweet to you. The way it is may be bitter, hard. You want consolation, not truth. You crucify truth. You want ointment and bandages, not real treatment. For treatment may sometimes be surgery. Sadhus and saints pat your back and keep you cheerful. That cheerfulness is fleeting. Their back-patting is of no real use to you. Yes, it gives a little relief, a momentary hope.

Your sadhus and saints live on your hopes. They are peddlers of dreams. They know very well what you want. One thing they know for certain is that you do not want truth. You treat truth badly. You want sweet lies, sugar-coated lies. You want a web of untruths so you can go on living as you live, unchanged. You don’t want the transformation of life.

Among Freud’s important insights is this: I see no possibility that man will be able to live without illusions. Illusion is like essential food for man. You want big illusions, big lies—about heaven, hell, sin, virtue. Propped up by these crutches, you somehow drag your life along. If someone tells you you’re lame, it hurts. If someone says you’re blind, it hurts. If someone says those aren’t legs but wooden crutches, you don’t like it. That’s why we call a blind man “Surdasji,” so he won’t feel bad!

Sadhus and saints are parasitic; they depend on you. They get their bread, clothes, and honors from you. They are your hired hands. You give them respect and hospitality; in return you demand consolation. It’s a transaction, a business, a bargain, a deal. Therefore, be very alert about what sadhus and saints say. Look closely: is it merely propping up your lies? Stroking your sores and helping you forget? Is religion being used to feed you opium?

When working women go out, they feed their children opium; the children lie stupefied—no crying, no shouting. The mother works all day, and the child lies blissed-out under a tree in a basket.

Karl Marx said that religion has given man opium. There is a lot of truth in it—at least regarding those you call sadhus and saints; in their case it is a hundred percent true. Yes, leave aside a few—one Buddha, one Krishna, one Mahavira, one Christ, one Mohammed, a few such people are exceptions—but the jostling crowd at your Kumbh Melas that you call sadhus and saints, about them Marx is absolutely right: the masses have been fed opium.

But it is you who ask for opium. You say, make life somehow bearable. Your life is full of suffering—true. It can end—also true. But suffering doesn’t end with opium. To end suffering, effort is needed, sadhana is needed. You must cut suffering at its roots. If suffering is, there are causes. Eliminate the causes. If there is disease, there is a reason. Removing symptoms won’t cure the disease.

You have a fever. Your sadhus and saints say: sit in cold water; the body is hot, it will cool down. The body will cool down—and so will you. That’s not treatment; that’s the patient’s death. Body heat is a symptom. The disease is within. As long as the disease remains, the body will be heated. The body is merely reporting an inner Mahabharata, an inner war. End that inner war, and the heat will go. Sitting in cold water won’t do it. The patient may die; the disease will not end.

But sitting in cold water feels good. Feeling good does not make a thing good.

Sadhus and saints treat your symptoms—or rather, they supply explanations for them. They keep telling people: This is the Kali Yuga, a terrible time. As if there were ever good times before! Time itself is the problem. Goodness lies in going beyond time. All ages are Kali Yuga. Sat Yuga neither was, nor is, nor will be. Sat Yuga is only your fantasy—opium! People used to think Sat Yuga had already happened; that opium worked for thousands of years, keeping man asleep. Slowly its effect wore off—people got used to it—so it could no longer intoxicate. A new opium was needed.

Communism is the new opium. The old opium said Ram-rajya once existed. The new opium says Ram-rajya is coming. Those who escaped the old opium have reached the new shop. The same people who went to Kashi and Kaaba now go to the Kremlin. The same people who sought consolation in the Gita and the Quran now seek it in Das Kapital and the Communist Manifesto. But nothing has changed. Formerly heaven was behind; now heaven is ahead. Yet life is here, now! If anything is to be done, it must be done now, today, this instant! But we are not ready for the instant. We want a sweet dream to wrap around us so we can go back to sleep.

So your sadhus and saints say: It’s Kali Yuga, a hard time; the only easy way now is bhakti. Austerity is hard, yoga is hard, meditation is hard; devotion is easy—go to the temple, wave the aarti, offer two flowers, bang your head on some stone idol, or put a god in the corner of your house—your own homemade god—and bow before it. These games are called bhakti. Easy indeed! What could be cheaper? And you think the problem is solved. Tough times, but we’ve found an easy path.

Forget lesser folk; even consider big names! Jayaprakash Narayan hung between life and death, strapped to machines; Vinoba sent him two messages. The first, via a messenger: Become a vegetarian! Until you give up meat you won’t recover! Is this the time? And what about the whole lifetime before? Jayaprakash sat at Vinoba’s feet for years; even then he didn’t say, “Become vegetarian, give up meat!” He remained a meat-eater and still a Sarvodaya man, a Gandhian, preaching non-violence. And now, at the time of death—no awareness, no capacity to hear or understand—he couldn’t recognize even his own sister; people opened his eyes and he recognized no one—ninety percent gone—and the message comes: Become vegetarian! He already is—who’s feeding him meat now?

The second message: Keep chanting Ram-Hari, Ram-Hari. As the breath goes out, say “Ram”; as the breath comes in, say “Hari.” Ram-Hari, Ram-Hari—keep chanting. The man is dying, has never chanted Ram or Hari in his life, and now, without consciousness, he’s to coordinate “Ram-Hari” with his breath! And you will say: What a religious message Vinoba sent!

It’s not religious; it only shows these people have become senile. They themselves lack awareness of what they are doing. Your sadhus and saints keep saying what pleases you. In life they never said, “Give up meat,” because then you wouldn’t have liked it. Now there’s no obstacle—one can die vegetarian. Everyone becomes vegetarian at death! In life there was no worry about Ram-Hari—there were a thousand political calculations. Now at death, chant Ram-Hari—and, presto, the realm of God, liberation! Your sadhus and saints are merely consoling you, and in exchange they receive your honors.

So first I say to you: beware of sadhus and saints! Enlightened ones are another matter. Enlightened ones you will abuse, insult, crucify, poison, stone. Sadhus and saints you will worship! Whomever you worship, pause and ask—why am I worshiping? Is it because he gives me delusions—sweet, beautiful delusions, charming dreams? Exactly what I want? You don’t want austerity, you don’t want meditation—just keep muttering Ram-Hari, Ram-Hari.

Meditation is difficult, because it requires you to break the entire chain of thought. Meditation is a struggle, because until you go beyond mind, meditation is not attained. Repeating Ram-Hari is utterly easy. But repeating Ram-Hari is not devotion; it is parrot-talk. Parrots can be taught to say Ram-Hari. It is only a matter of lips. The heart’s remembrance of God is as difficult as meditation—perhaps even more so. I agree with Rahim. He is right:

Rahiman, mounting the steed of the mind, go riding through fire.
The path of love is so difficult, not everyone can keep to it.

Like someone riding a horse through a forest aflame—that is how difficult it is:

Rahiman, mounting the steed of the mind, go riding through fire.
The path of love is so difficult, not everyone can keep to it.

Repeating Ram-Hari will not see you through the path of love! It may deceive you—and the fools around you—but the path of love won’t be mastered.

Understand love—what does it mean? Love has three meanings.

The first is what you usually know: “falling in love.” It is indeed a fall. What does it mean when someone falls in love? It means he has lost his autonomy, his individuality; he has become the other’s slave. You fall in love with a woman; you become her slave. Or with a man; you become his slave. Now you cannot live without that person; she becomes your necessity, your addiction. Without her you feel difficulty, life seems vain; you feel lonely, empty. She has made a place in your soul. And whoever you depend on becomes your master. A master does not feel pleasant; it feels painful.

So these love relationships lead to misery, to quarrels. Who wants to make another his master? You went to love and something else happened. You went to sing of Rama and ended up picking cotton. You thought love would elevate and liberate; it brought bondage, prison, chains. You cannot forgive the one you depend on; you will remain angry. Hence husbands are angry with wives, wives with husbands. Whether they say it or not is irrelevant; inside there is a fire of anger. Why? Not because of wife or husband, but because of dependence. Dependence breeds resentment. No one wants to sell his soul and become a slave. But the love you call love demands just that. And the one you enslave is enslaving you in return. It is mutual slavery. Husbands enslave wives; wives enslave husbands. Each imposes slavery on the other. Both souls wither. Slowly both become crippled.

You have seen school sports where children run three-legged, two legs tied together? Marriage is the three-legged race. Two people have one leg tied, now they must run on three legs. Both become annoyed with each other because both are hindered. One wants to go east, the other west; they cannot. One wants to go fast, the other doesn’t; you must constantly accommodate the other—and every time you are forced to bend, you later force the other to bend. It becomes enmity, not friendship; exploitation, not love.

This is the ordinary love you know—the love that has made your life a hell. Rahim is not speaking of this love. “The path of love is so difficult”—this is not difficult; it’s the easiest. Everyone manages it; every home runs on it. What’s difficult about it?

Above this is a second kind of love. It is not falling in love; it is “being in love.” Its flavor is friendship. Kahlil Gibran said true lovers are like two pillars of a temple—neither too close, lest the roof fall, nor too far, lest the roof fall. Look at these pillars holding up this pavilion: not too close, not too far; a measured distance, a measured nearness—only then can the roof stand. If they come very close, the roof collapses; too far, it collapses. A balance is needed.

True lovers are neither too close nor too distant. They keep a little space so each one’s freedom remains alive—no violation, no trespass. No needless intrusion into the other’s domain.

I once walked with a small child. Outside a garden a sign read: NO TRESPASSING. The child was new to English; he read it and fell silent, thinking. I asked, “What are you thinking?” He said, “I wonder if there is any place in the world with a sign that says: TRESPASSING—entry invited!”

Not in this world. Here everyone is guarded. Either someone is enslaved and so trampled by others’ feet he has no voice left; or else, frightened by past tramplings, he flees to the forest and sits alone, hanging signs all around: NO TRESPASSING. That’s what we call a renunciate, a sadhu: he flees to the forest and draws a Lakshman-rekha—Do not enter! He’s afraid that if you enter, slavery begins.

In this world some are being trampled; others have run away. Both are crippled. To be in love means: we shall be close enough that we have no fear of one another, and far enough that we do not trample one another. There will be sky between us. If you invite me, I will come; if I invite you, you come within. But by invitation—not by right, not by claim.

In a novel by Rabindranath Tagore, a young woman says to her lover: I agree to marry, but you will live on that side of the lake and I on this side. The lover is baffled: Have you gone mad? After love people live in the same house. She says: Before love, live in one house if you like; after love, it’s risky. We begin to obstruct each other’s sky. I on that shore, you on this—then we will marry. Sometimes you send an invitation and I will come; or I will invite you, and you come; or perhaps we’ll meet by chance while boating, or on a morning walk by the trees near the lake—then we’ll be delighted. But no slavery. Without call I will not come; without call you don’t come. Come when you wish, not just because I call. I will come when I truly wish, not merely because you call. Let such freedom remain between us—only in this sky of freedom can love’s flower bloom.

This second love is difficult.

But Rahim is speaking of the third kind of love—the supremely difficult. The second is sometimes possible—for a poet, a painter, a sculptor, a musician. The first is the love of the common herd. The second is for human beings with some dignity, awareness, talent. Even the second is very difficult. And Rahim speaks of the third.

First: falling in love.
Second: being in love.
Third: being love.

The third has no relationship; it is not about the other. It is a state of consciousness. It is love welling up from within toward the whole of existence—toward the cuckoo’s call, the birds’ songs, the sun’s rays, the trees, people—toward the totality. Truly, there is no “toward”; that love is addressless. Like a spring bursting forth, like fragrance rising from a flower—not going to any fixed address, not via a post office, not riding a postman, not sealed in an envelope—just flying in the open sky. Whoever wants, can receive; whoever doesn’t, doesn’t. Like light spilling from a lamp—it pours because it is the lamp’s nature.

This is the love Rahim speaks of. This is the love of the Buddhas—those who have attained the ultimate state of meditation. This love is the outcome of meditation. And it cannot be “easy,” as your sadhus and saints say.

Rahiman, mounting the steed of the mind, go riding through fire.
The path of love is so difficult, not everyone can keep to it.

Not everyone can keep to it. Rare, very rare, highly aware beings attain this state. Those who know such love alone know God. And this love is bhakti. Waving a lamp in the temple, offering two flowers, lighting a candle, doing a Satyanarayan story at home, or muttering Hari-Ram at the time of death—or having a priest mutter if you can’t—this won’t do! Rahim is not speaking of this. He speaks of the path of love that leads to the Divine—supremely difficult, more difficult than climbing Everest or reaching the moon. To be love is the hardest.

I agree with Rahim, not with your sadhus and saints. They hand you toys and kazoos.

I have heard: A man read an advertisement—seductive, as ads are. Watch ads closely; they reveal your mind. A Cadillac ad says: Something to believe in! A car—something to believe in! Something to trust, to have faith in! For whom is this written? Faith in God is gone, in life is gone, in love is gone; all precious faiths exhausted—now one must have faith in a Cadillac. One must believe in something.

Or read Coca-Cola’s ad: Everything goes well with Coca-Cola. Quarreling with your wife? Bring Coke! Hostility at home? Stock the fridge with Coke! Everything flows smoothly—just have Coke and all is well. People practice this now. Bibles failed, Gitas failed—now trust Coke! Ads tell on you.

A man read of a new musical instrument: needs no electricity, no batteries; take it to the forest—wherever you are, listen to music! He immediately sent a money order—twenty-five rupees. Cheap too. No learning required, said the ad. No school, no lessons, no batteries, no electricity—sit in the woods and enjoy! A lovely parcel arrived; the whole family gathered; he opened it eagerly—and out came a kazoo! Wherever you go, hum away. No learning; no batteries; no electricity.

Your bhakti is like that kazoo—children’s toys. And sadhus and saints say the path of devotion is simple, easy. It suits you—you want something easy, a kazoo—no learning, no power, no battery; no heating, no melting, no surrendering of life—nothing. Make a Ganesh out of cow-dung if you like—“holy” dung!—garland it, fold your hands, shed false tears, pray to Ganapati—and you think you’ve done it: devotion accomplished. So you feel the saints are right—it’s all very easy. What hurdle is there?

But this is not devotion. You wanted it; the saints sold it. You asked for kazoos; they supplied kazoos. They need to sell; you want to buy; the deal makes both happy.

Your sadhus and saints are not saints—they are exploiters. They exploit your weaknesses so smoothly, for so many centuries, so anciently, that it doesn’t even occur to you it’s exploitation. You think it’s satsang.

I say to you: the path of love is indeed the most difficult. Don’t take this to mean I am saying you cannot attain love. I am not. I am not saying the path of love is impossible. I am only saying it isn’t cheap. Your false arrangements won’t do. You must pass through the touchstone of fire.

Rahiman, mounting the steed of the mind, go riding through fire.
You must undergo the trial by fire. Only if you are baked in fire will you be refined. Your gold will be purified like kundan—fit to be offered at the Lord’s feet; you will become an ornament. Without fire, it cannot be. No fire burns like love. Other fires can burn the body; love alone burns and refines the soul. Other fires remain outside; love alone reaches the innermost core, refining every pore, every fiber, purifying every breath.

But then you must learn the third kind of love. You must become love—not do love, not have a relationship. Love must become the inner state. You must be love-full. The first love is lust; the second is friendship; the third is compassion. When love becomes compassion, it becomes a door to God. But to reach this love, meditation is indispensable. There is no other way. Love means descending from head to heart. But your head has you in its grip. And your sadhus tell you to chant Ram-Hari. Where will you chant? Words are in the head; they do not reach the heart.

Vinoba’s message to Jayaprakash looked “religious” to many. This country is strange. Its sadhus and its leaders—each more astonishing than the other! Jayaprakash hadn’t even died, yet Parliament passed a condolence motion; the Prime Minister, Morarji Desai, announced he had died! Morarji’s psyche needs analysis. Ask Freud and he’ll say he wants him to die—hence the premature announcement. An inner desire: may he die, and the hassle end. No verification! Astonishing. No inquiry. The government apparatus was in place; big leaders were in Jaslok Hospital; the hospital was on 24-hour phone with the PM. Yet without checking, some person started a rumor that he had died—no one knows who. Perhaps a prank call from Bombay—and it was believed. When we love someone, even after he dies, we cannot believe he is gone.

You know this. If you love someone and he dies, it takes days to believe it. Again and again you forget he is dead. How is it possible? A mother’s son dies, the body is before her, yet she can’t accept it: How can my son die? No, he’s not dead—perhaps asleep, perhaps unconscious; perhaps he will return.

We cannot believe at death; yet here, a living man sits and the radio announces his death, Parliament and the States pass condolence motions, offices close, flags are lowered. Could such stupidity occur anywhere else? Blessed is India! Blessed its leaders! Blessed its sadhus! Matchless!

Somewhere there is a deep unconscious wish: let this man be finished. That’s why belief came so quickly, without even a single inquiry. On the other side, there are people like Vinoba saying: Keep chanting the Lord’s name. On one side, Morarji says: Prepare, tie the bier; Ram-naam sat hai! On one side, those ready to chant “Ram-naam sat hai,” on the other, those saying: Keep chanting the name!

Cheap talk!

To be available to love, all your consciousness must flow from head to heart. This is a great revolution, a transformation. Not a small task—the greatest a human can undertake. The greatest challenge. Consciousness has got stuck in the head because your entire education, your schools, colleges, universities, your society, culture, civilization—all have one insistence: move consciousness into the head—teach math, logic, geography, history—everything but love. Don’t let even a glimpse of love descend. Cut love out. We’ve trained man to bypass the heart—so the heart never comes into the picture. We have forgotten the path to the heart. So even our devotion remains in the head; it never reaches the heart. And without the heart, there is neither devotion nor love.

How to bring it to the heart? With the hoe of meditation, cut the tendrils of thought. With the sword of meditation, cut the roots of thinking so consciousness is freed from the head. Freed from the head, it instantly enters the heart. Love is the fruition of meditation. And modern man cannot reach love without meditation.

People often ask: I speak so much on bhakti, yet in the ashram I teach meditation. The reason is clear. The modern mind is so head-filled that only meditation can break it. When your linkage with the head loosens and the energy is freed, there is nowhere else for it to go—only two places exist within you: head or heart; logic or love; mathematics or poetry. If consciousness is freed from logic and math, it will immediately flow to the heart. That wave reaching the heart is the most extraordinary happening. But for that, you must be free of the head. And we have invested so much in the head—education, identity, ego—our whole career resides there. Letting go is not easy. The sadhus speak falsehoods because you want to hear them.

Children want ghost and fairy tales; we tell them ghost and fairy tales. You too are children. You want cheap talk; cheap sadhus roam from village to village, keeping you satisfied, bandaging your sores, not letting your wounds open, not letting your diseases surface—covering them with flowers. And that suits them: they speak the language you understand; only then will you honor them, and their business will run. It is a matter of language. I have heard—

A politician
wrote to another
on his birthday:
May God grant that at your
inaugural speech
there be no hooting,
no stone-throwing
may the guru save you from
the wrath of your opponents,
nor any student gherao
By Saturn’s grace
may your constituency
be declared flood-, drought-
and famine-affected,
and under relief work
may all your poverty be washed away;
May your trade in politics
go on as ever—
Happy anniversary!

Language is a matter of language. What else will one politician wish another? Likewise you are given what you want—and when your blind beliefs are reinforced and your ego strengthened, you return pleased.

Go to a true master and you will be shaken, broken, erased. To sit by a true master needs courage—recklessness. You must be ready to risk your head. Kabir says: Kabira stands in the marketplace, torch in hand; whoever will burn down his house, come with me. You must dare to burn your house—this is not easy. The seed of the ego must break; only then will love sprout. If the seed fears breaking, fears dying, the plant will never be.

In darkness,
buried, I
—let me remain unknown!
With the life-force given you,
pierce this weight of darkness,
move where the sun’s rays call!
Do not break your bond with earth—
she is mother,
she feeds you life-sap.
But do not ignore
the call of the sky—
move that way
into the free air!
When you leaf and blossom,
with bowed head you must bear
the burden of fruit—
then I too will be fulfilled!
Give up your clinging to me,
move toward the sun’s rays,
move and breathe the free air,
always toward the open sky!

When the seed breaks, there is pain. But without breaking, no tree. And for a tree, two marvelous things must happen: one, its bond with the soil must deepen. A seed merely lying on the soil has no bond—remember that. The seed breaks; roots emerge; then the bond is made. On one side the seed breaks and spreads roots, draws nourishment from earth; on the other, it begins to rise toward the sky—sprouts, leaves. A wondrous, paradoxical journey: deeper roots into earth, and higher branches into sky.

In my view a sannyasin is one who, on one side, sinks roots into the earth, and on the other, spreads wings toward the sky. Those who remain only in earth are foolish; those who, out of fear of earth, desire only sky are just as foolish. The householder you speak of remains a seed in the soil, and the so-called sadhus flee the earth in fear of being rooted by the world; they run to the jungle hoping thereby to fly into the sky. But there is only one way to the sky—paradoxical—go deep into earth and you will rise high into sky. The deeper your roots, the higher your branches. Touch the netherworld with your roots and you will touch the heavens with your flowers.

In darkness,
buried, I
—let me remain unknown!
With the life-force given you,
pierce this weight of darkness,
move where the sun’s rays call!
Do not break your bond with earth—
she is mother,
she feeds you life-sap.
But do not ignore
the call of the sky—
move that way
into the free air!
When you leaf and blossom,
with bowed head you must bear
the burden of fruit—
then I too will be fulfilled!
Give up your clinging to me,
move toward the sun’s rays,
move and breathe the free air,
always toward the open sky!

He who holds these two together—this apparent duality—who attains non-duality between sky and earth, he is my sannyasin: in the world yet not of it; rooted in earth, aspiring to sky; in the body, seeking the soul; the body as temple; this existence as God’s temple.

I am not teaching a love that is anti-life. I teach a love by which you will see life in its fullness. The vision of a complete life—that is God-realization. What is God but life’s totality, life’s perfection, its utter innocence and refinement, its ultimate height? And if this is possible, then Ram-rajya can be now. For me it is now. Whoever awakens is in Ram-rajya. By Ram I don’t mean Dasharatha’s son; I mean the Lord’s reign—what Jesus calls the Kingdom of God.

They say: That day will come very soon,
when the earth, all transformed,
pure, cool, gentle, radiant, new,
will be as if freshly bathed.
The sky will be filled with a tender light,
and this darkness of despair will flee.
Man will grow wings,
and as far as dream can fly,
man will fly unbound.
In the intoxicating spring breeze
white doves with red eyes will fly with joy,
and the earth will hear the cooing of peace everywhere.
Clouds will gather and pour ambrosia;
by day the sun will infuse life,
by night the moon will drip nectar.

No, I don’t speak of the future. I cannot say “that day will come soon.” I say: that day has already come—always. Ami jharat, bigasat kanval—nectar is showering now, lotuses are blossoming now. Open your eyes. Become a little alert. Bathe in the waters of meditation—not in the Ganga, Yamuna, or Narmada, but in meditation! Enter the invisible stream of meditation. Let the mind’s noise and clamor fall away. Silent, still, thought-free—and a flame will arise within you that will burn your past to ashes and bid farewell to your future forever. Only pure present will remain—and in that present rises the fragrance of love, the light of love pours down. But it is difficult!

Rahiman, mounting the steed of the mind, go riding through fire.
The path of love is so difficult, not everyone can keep to it.

If you have courage, accept the challenge! Mount this steed! The forest is on fire—let’s ride. Those with a little capacity, a little genius, will accept this challenge—it is an adventure.

Only the impotent, the coward, the lazy, pull the sheet over their heads and refuse the call. They are the crowd. And sadhus live off them. So they explain that the path of devotion is very simple. Ring the bell—ting, ting, ting—and the path is complete! If you won’t ring it yourself, hire a servant to ring it; the path is complete! Put on sandal paste and tilak—the path complete!

Are you mad? You must burn! Your inmost life must be refined! Love is your purest state—and only the pure meets the Pure. Love is the state of your absence, of emptiness, egolessness—and only emptiness meets the Vast Emptiness. Difficult, I say—but not impossible. In truth, because it is difficult, it has juice. If it were cheap, sold in the bazaar, where would the joy be? It is difficult: a challenge, an adventure, a call. Those with a little strength will awaken and set out.

One last word—added at the end because if I had said it first you would have misunderstood. The day you know love, you too may say it is simple, easy. Why? Because love is your innermost nature, your very being. Thus, once known, one can say it is simple, easy. But that simplicity has nothing to do with Kali Yuga, nor with you. Yes, for a Buddha, for Narada, for Meera, it is simple, easy. In truth, once the goal is reached, it becomes easy—for all—after reaching. But do not tell this to those on the path. For them it is difficult. They must be called, challenged again and again—otherwise they will slump by the wayside and hug a milestone as if it were the goal. At the end, all goals seem easy, even the greatest quest for truth. Once known, it is easy.

But that is talk among those who have arrived. If Buddha says to Kabir, “It is easy,” fine. If Kabir says to Dadu, “It is easy,” fine. But that is a private exchange among saints. It is not to be said to the sick that it is easy—otherwise the patient will pull up his blanket and stay put: “If it’s easy, where is the hurry? It’s Kali Yuga; just chant the name and stay vegetarian—everything will be fine. Eat meat all your life, never take the Lord’s name, and at death just chant the name!”

And the same sadhus tell you tales: A sinner lay dying and called his son—but the Lord above was mistaken. The son’s name was God’s name—as once all names were God’s: Ishwar, Bhagwan, Ram, Krishna, Abdullah, Rahim—these are His attributes. He called his son, the Ram above thought, “He’s calling me”—and the sinner went straight to heaven! Perhaps that’s why people think: At death we’ll remember. If great sinners went to heaven just calling their sons, and the Lord was fooled, then we, calling the Lord Himself, are assured of heaven.

If only it were so easy! Life must be lived in love—founded on love. Your whole temple of life must be built of love, brick by brick; only then will its final spire—death—touch the Lord’s feet. Otherwise not. If at death you need to take the name of Ram, know that life has been wasted. He who has lived in love will not take the name at death—he will be Ram-saturated. What name to take when it is all Ram within and without? Names are taken for others, for strangers.

Vinoba did not write: “O Jayaprakash, at death keep muttering ‘Jayaprakash, Jayaprakash.’” He wrote: Chant Ram-Hari. Ram-Hari—meaning something else, distant, other. The knower will not chant his own name; he knows: That am I, that are you, that pervades all, the All-pervading.

Once known, it is simple, very easy—because it is your nature, your very being. Until then it is very difficult—supremely difficult.

Rahiman, mounting the steed of the mind, go riding through fire.
The path of love is so difficult, not everyone can keep to it.

Shobha! It all depends on what abhipsa is for. If abhipsa is just a beautiful name given to desire, it is not enough. If abhipsa is a lovely garment put on lust, it is not enough. If abhipsa is truly abhipsa… abhipsa means a blazing fire. Within you only one yearning remains…

Consider this: someone asked Farid, “I want to attain God—what should I do?” Farid said, “Come with me to the river, we’ll bathe. If I get the chance while we’re bathing, I’ll give you the answer; otherwise, we’ll sit on the steps afterward and I’ll tell you.”

The inquirer was a little frightened—what kind of answer is that? “If I get the chance, I’ll answer while bathing!” Still he thought, “Fakirs speak in such carefree ways. Let’s see what he does—what answer can there be in bathing?”

He had no idea. He got his answer. As soon as he stepped into the water—Farid also stepped in—when the man took a dip, Farid climbed onto him and pressed him down, held his head under. Farid was strong, a robust fakir. And the inquirer—you know how such seekers often are—thin, philosophical types, all bone and skin. But Farid kept pressing him down.

Yet when death stands before you even a bag of bones comes alive! When the man saw the danger had become mortal, the last moment had arrived, one more second and death would be there, that bony philosopher gave a violent jerk, flung Farid off, and shot up out of the water.

Farid asked, “Well, how was it? Did you experience anything?”

He said, “Experience what! Is this an answer? I came to ask, ‘How to find God?’ Is this your answer? You were killing me! I came thinking you a saint—turns out you’re a murderer. Perhaps I only survived because my life-span wasn’t yet over; otherwise, looking at you I wonder how I escaped at all.”

Farid said, “Let me ask you: when I held you under, how many desires were there in you?”

He said, “How many desires? All desires vanished. One desire remained—to get out somehow.”

“And then?”

He said, “Then even that desire disappeared. I no longer knew what I was doing or what was happening. There was only an unknown urge to breathe! Not even in words—I had no time or space inside to form words. When life itself is under threat, who bothers with words and thought? Every pore of me was filled with one cry—though I’m giving it words now; then there were no words.”

Farid laughed and said, “Then you have understood. You’re an intelligent man, not a fool. The day you are filled with just such abhipsa for God, that day God will be found. Now get on your way. Now get to your work. The answer is given. The satsang is complete.”

This is satsang.

What does abhipsa mean? Is it like your wish to build a big house—if it happens, fine; if not, fine? Like your desire to earn a little money? Or to have that beautiful woman who is passing by? Do you want God in the same way? Then it is not abhipsa. That is only desire in a new form. Greed has arisen in your mind. You have seen a few people—some sadhus, some saints, some fakirs—speak of God. They say, “By attaining God there is great bliss.” You think, “All right, let’s try this too. We’ve tried everything else, why leave this out? Since we are in life, let’s also have a taste of God!” Greed arises in your mind.

And if by chance you come close to a Buddha, then a very deep greed can arise—that what happened to them should happen to you. Envy can arise, jealousy can arise, competition can arise, the ego can be hurt—“If it happened to this Buddha, to Mahavira, to Krishna, why not to me? It must be mine too! I will attain it!”

If it is such ambition, it is not abhipsa. Then abhipsa is not enough.

But if it is the kind of abhipsa Farid pointed to—if within you, truly without any greed, having seen the futility and meaninglessness of life, having looked through all its experiences, a clear sense has dawned that here there is nothing else worth attaining, nothing else worth knowing; that it is Truth one must know, that unseen which sustains all; because only by knowing That will we find the ultimate rest—otherwise this scramble will go on and on; we have gained all and, having gained, seen that nothing is really gained, the hands remain empty—if from such understanding a tongue of flaming fire rises within you; or in the satsang of a Buddha the contagion of his thirst infects you, provokes you, sets you ablaze, fills you with urgency, gives birth to a fire of longing—viraha—then abhipsa is sufficient. Nothing more is needed. If thirst becomes total, God happens that very moment.

Eyes do not meet eyes; it is the tide of the heart that meets.
Lamps do not burn; it is the oil of love stored in the lamp that burns.
The flame, wedding love to smoke,
Turns the wick to kohl.
Taking the hand of the sun’s ray,
It loses itself in the depths of the sky.
Feet do not walk the Beloved’s path; it is the thirsty heart that walks.

One does not reach God with feet, but with a thirsty heart. Lamps do not burn; what burns is the oil of love filled into the lamp, the love that has been poured.

Eyes do not meet eyes; it is the tide of the heart that meets.
When a tide rises in your heart, the meeting with God happens. Eyes won’t meet eyes.

Lamps do not burn; it is the oil of love stored in the lamp that burns.
The flame, wedding love to smoke,
Turns the wick to kohl.
Taking the hand of the sun’s ray,
It loses itself in the depths of the sky.
Feet do not walk the Beloved’s path; it is the thirsty heart that walks.

Only thirst leads the way—complete thirst leads to the Complete. Awaken thirst! Let it not be greed; let it not be envy; let it not be ambition; let it be pure love.

What shall I say—are these eyes fuller of tears or of thirst?
Like the sky’s courtyard filling with monsoon clouds,
Tears swell and gather.
And as if, parched for centuries upon centuries,
Young hatchlings of the chatak cry stubbornly for rain.
I do not know—are these eyes fuller of tears or of thirst?
What shall I say—are these eyes fuller of tears or of thirst?
In one moment golden smiles are etched
Upon the lips;
And the very next moment, unknown to me,
The eyes are filled with a gentle monsoon drizzle.
What shall I say—does this life hold more weeping or more laughter?
What shall I say—are these eyes fuller of tears or of thirst?
Hope and despair, like sun and shade,
Come and go in a moment.
The past remains only as a story,
The future, as a dream that spreads and covers.
What shall I say—does the heart hold more despair, or more trust?
What shall I say—are these eyes fuller of tears or of thirst?

Everything depends on your eyes. You must make thirst into thirst—and even water into thirst. Let every tear turn into thirst. Let your eyes begin searching, begin seeking. And not merely in temples and mosques—that is a false search. No one has found him there first. Yes, those who have found him elsewhere can also find him in temples and mosques—that is another matter. But first you must seek in this vast existence. Here he is in abundance—in thickness, in density. Here the clouds are heavy with him. Seek here. Peer into the greenness of trees. Search for his signature on the leaves. Sit by the waterfalls and listen to their babble; there you will hear the sound of Om. Look into the stars, and sometimes you will catch a glimpse of him, see his light showering. And look into yourself, feel within your own heart—and sometimes his hand will be in your hand. As these experiences deepen, trust, shraddha, will be born.

I am not a partisan of belief. I do not tell you to believe in God. The God of belief is false. A Hindu’s, a Muslim’s, a Christian’s—false. I say: know God, do not believe. Why believe in what can be known? Only those choose belief who want to avoid the bother of knowing.

As I see it, your so-called theists are not theists at all; they are concealed atheists. The atheist is at least honest; your theist is dishonest. The atheist at least says, “I don’t know, how can I accept it? I find no proof—how can I accept it? Give me evidence and I will accept.” At least he shows this much honesty. But the theist is thoroughly dishonest. He says, “There is no proof, we don’t know—but I believe because my father believed, and his father believed; our lineage has always believed; we have always believed.”

Borrowed faith, blind belief will take you nowhere. They will not generate abhipsa. At best they will create a small, petty greed. And greed is dirty, ugly. No one reaches God through filthy greed. One man keeps filling his safe—dirty greed makes him fill his safe. Then as death approaches he thinks, “Death is near; let me do something for what lies ahead,” and from that same filthy safe he takes out a little and gives in charity. But those same dirty hands, that same dirty intention—that now he will seize God too.

I have heard: a Marwari died… Marwaris, don’t be offended. What can I do? Marwaris do die—this is not my fault. He strutted into heaven, proud. A Marwari, turban and all—he banged hard on heaven’s door. He was a rich man! He went there in swagger! An angel opened the door and asked, “Who are you? And how dare you pound on the door? And how do you stand there so puffed up?” He said, “I am such-and-such seth; I have come to heaven!” The angel asked, “What have you done on account of which you should be admitted to heaven?” He said, “Why not? I gave three paisa to a blind woman.”

This is how sadhus and saints coax you: “Give a little here; there you’ll get it back a crore-fold.” Even compound interest has its limits! Even lotteries don’t pay like this! For three paisa he imagines he has bought trillions’ worth.

The angel was astonished, and seeing his swagger said, “All right, let’s check the ledger.” They checked. He had given three paisa. The angel couldn’t believe this man would have given anything, but it was there. He was perplexed. He asked his colleague, “What shall we do? He did give three paisa; he did charity. But to admit this man to heaven for three paisa! To buy heaven so cheap!” The colleague said, “Do this: return four paisa to him—with interest—and tell him to go to hell.”

They returned four paisa and told him to go to hell.

He had never heard of this—no sadhu had ever told him that with interest it would be returned and he would be told to go to hell. Sadhus never tell the real things! They only tell enough to soothe and console your heart.

If your merit is born of greed, shaped by greed, it has no meaning; it will lead you to hell. And the God in whom you “believe”—merely believe—whom you have never known living, of whom you have never had even a glimpse—how could you surrender to that? I do not tell you to believe.

Shobha! Abhipsa can be sufficient—if it is not blind belief. If it is inquiry, search, mumuksha—an impartial readiness to know the Truth as it is, whatever it may be—then abhipsa is enough. That alone will refine you. That alone will bring you.

You can set the word “God” aside; “Truth” will do; “self” will do. The very word “God” starts a subtle confusion—as if someone far away, seated on a throne in the sky, is running the world.

There is no one anywhere sitting on a throne. Nor is someone sitting somewhere running the world. God is not a person; God is a principle—the principle of the world’s harmony. The principle of the coherence within existence. The principle of the music within the world. Seek a little music within yourself, a little without; discover a little rhythm inside, a little outside; and wherever the sense of rhythm appears, the recognition arises, know you are very close to God. You have begun to hear the sound of his footsteps.

People come and ask me, “Why so much music and dance in this ashram? We don’t see this in other ashrams.”

Then they are not ashrams. Where there is no music, no dance, no song rising, no fragrance of love—those are not ashrams, they are cremation grounds. But in this country cremation grounds have become ashrams. And the dead have gathered there, muttering the Name of Hari endlessly!

In an American university a survey was conducted: how many people have had even one experience in their lives that for them served as evidence of God? They asked thousands. People were shy—such talk has become awkward in today’s world. If today you tell someone, “I have had an experience of God,” people will think you have gone mad. “Talk sensibly! Whom are you trying to fool?” Even if something happens to you, you won’t be able to tell it; you’ll be afraid to tell even your wife. And it isn’t only today—it was so before as well. When Muhammad had his first experience of God, he ran home—the fever rose in him, his hands and feet trembled, he was drenched in sweat. There were no thermometers then, but it could not have been less than a hundred and ten degrees—the experience was such! He cried to his wife, “Bring all the blankets in the house and put them over me; I am shaking.”

She asked, “What happened suddenly? You left the house fine.”

He said, “Don’t ask yet! Either I have become a poet, or I have gone mad.”

He said both—either I have become a poet, or I have gone mad—two words that often mean the same thing. After two or three hours, when he had calmed a little, his wife asked, “Tell me something—what is it? Your eyes are staring; you seem utterly new.” Muhammad said, “I will tell you, but don’t tell anyone else…”

She was the first Muslim—Muhammad’s wife. She was older than he—Muhammad was twenty-six, she was forty. She was experienced. She steadied Muhammad. It was a time that needed steadying—a new birth had happened. Muhammad had become dvija—twice-born. She did a mother’s work.

Muhammad said, “I tell you because I think you won’t laugh; you will understand. Something happened. I heard a voice—arising from within and yet coming from without…” The first ayat of the Koran had descended. The first footprints of God had appeared. Muhammad said, “I do not accept that this could be real. I must have dreamed; I must be deluded; perhaps I am feverish, in delirium—anything is possible.”

But his wife said, “I am looking at you. There is a radiance on your face such as I have never seen; there is a depth in your eyes I have never known; there is a fragrance around you I have never felt; you are bound in a new rhythm. You are certainly frightened; your whole being is shaken; but something unparalleled has happened. Surely you have passed close by God—his hem has brushed you. Do not be afraid.”

She steadied him—for days. Then gradually more ayats began to descend. Years were needed for the Koran to descend—it did not descend in one day; it descended over years. As Muhammad consented, it descended.

So it is not only today that, if you go and tell someone you have experienced God, anyone will believe you. And today it is hard to find a wife who will give you such support.

When the university people went asking, people looked this way and that. Even those who wanted to tell, told with great embarrassment. But the researchers assured them their names would not be revealed. Slowly people said, “Yes, we have had some experiences.” Who knows how many were true and how many imagined, but there were experiences. Someone went into the mountains, and suddenly, as if a door opened for a moment, this world vanished and another world appeared. Someone lay in his room, silent, in the dark, and suddenly something happened—the darkness was no longer dark; it became luminous. Thousands reported such experiences.

The surprising thing! At least thirty-three percent of people have such experiences. Ordinarily, thirty-three percent of people have such experiences—experiences which, if a true master were found, would not remain seeds but become trees. But even those thirty-three percent tell no one. Telling others aside, they even deny it to themselves. They convince themselves, “It must have been imagination; it must have been a dream; something came and went—no need to pay attention.” They fear that paying attention to such things is dangerous. Who knows where such doors may lead! Better not to get into such troubles! They get entangled again in their work and business. Those thirty-three percent could very easily…

You will be amazed to know that this thirty-three percent figure is meaningful in many ways. In the world only thirty-three percent can go deep into music. And thirty-three percent can go deep into meditation. And thirty-three percent can very easily enter hypnosis. And thirty-three percent carry natural talent. For the rest it becomes more difficult. But thirty-three percent is a large number—one-third. Out of every three, one can become a blazing light. The other two can also become so; it will be a little harder for them. But the one who could easily become so is not becoming so.

And the survey revealed other thought-provoking things. One was that the largest number of such special experiences were through music—fifty percent. Of those who received a little aura, a little intimation of the divine, fifty percent received it through music.

That is why I regard music as very near to meditation. Music is the search of meditators. Those who first heard the inner sound, the inner Om, gradually arranged to play that Om outwardly on instruments. Music was born of rishis and seers. One of our Vedas, the Sam Veda, is the source of music—the original scripture of music.

Fifty percent of the unique experiences people have in life happen through music. Then surely music should be used abundantly. For outer music can vibrate the strings within you. That is why you see music in this ashram.

In the second place come experiences through dance—either while dancing yourself or while watching another dance.

There is a rhythm to dance. If you are dancing yourself, very deep experiences can happen. For in dance there comes a moment—after ebb and flow, ebb and flow—when your body, your mind, your soul fall into one line. And in that moment when soul, mind and body come into one alignment, one balance, a glimpse of God happens.

Sometimes it can happen even watching another dance.

Gurdjieff developed many such dances that would take people into meditation just by watching—just by watching! For when you watch someone dance, his expressions, his gestures, his rhythm stir your eyes. And when your eyes are stirred, eighty percent of your life-energy is stirred. Your eyes are eighty percent of your vital energy. Through the eyes your heart begins to be stirred. Haven’t you seen? When someone dances your feet begin to twitch. When someone beats the mridang, your hands begin to drum on the arm of the chair; you feel like clapping—something begins to happen within.

Therefore there is dance here, music here. And as this ashram develops and grows—more dance, more music; newer experiments in music. Today science has given many facilities that did not exist before. Using them, people can be slid into meditation very easily—very easily! There are now arrangements in music—being introduced in the new commune—such that, with headphones on, you won’t feel the music is coming from outside; you will feel it is arising from within, from your very heart. And when music seems to arise from within, it surely shakes the music within you.

There is no need to believe in God. Yes, there is a need to experience God. Keep the doors of the mind open, remain unbiased—neither theist nor atheist—be a seeker. Abhipsa means: search! The longing to know! Do not decide in advance that God is or that God is not. Any prior decision becomes an obstacle. It is enough to say: “I am, and I do not know what all this is. I want to know it. I am, and I do not know who I am. I want to know who I am. What is the secret, the mystery of this whole existence?” For this, you need be neither theist nor atheist.

Therefore my bond becomes deep with those who are seekers. With those who have already decided—theist or atheist—I do not form a bond. For they have already fixed a preconception. Their preconception will be their prison, their blindness.

Shobha! Abhipsa is sufficient for the Lord—but abhipsa should not be based on belief; it should be rooted in living experiences—music, dance, beauty, love. From these experiences, drops of nectar will slowly begin to fall within you. And those very drops will make you so thirsty that the longing to drink the entire ocean will arise. That longing is abhipsa. Such abhipsa is sufficient.

Kishori Lal! Neither can the devotee be without God, nor can God be without the devotee. God and the devotee are two aspects of the same coin. If there is a devotee, there is God; if there is God, there is a devotee. These two happenings occur together, not separately. It is not that God sits apart and the devotee stands elsewhere. It is in the very moment of devotion that God manifests. Let me remind you again: God is not a person; God is an experience. Better that we drop the word “God” and use “godliness”; then it becomes simpler. One face of godliness is the devotee, the other face is God. In the final hour the devotee disappears, God disappears; what remains is godliness, the ocean of godliness.

Out of hundreds of stones you would be just one more stone;
Had there not been feeling in me, how would you have been God?
In the small lamp of love
I have burned as the wick,
To touch your feet
I have flowed as the water of offering.
Had I not erased myself, what obstacle would have moved away?
Had there not been feeling in me, how would you have been God?

For an age my imagination
has been the painter;
See what form I have given you—
glimpse a little my capacity.
Had I not filled you with colors, you would not be so resplendent;
Had there not been feeling in me, how would you have been God?

Were there no night, how would
the sun be so honored?
Were there no humility, how would
lordliness be respected?
If there were no my practice, how would you be a boon?
Had there not been feeling in me, how would you have been God?

Since the primal age why does man
sing songs of helplessness?
Why has he not yet understood
this one eternal truth:
Even the deity is fashioned by the hands of man;
Had there not been feeling in me, how would you have been God?

The glory of man is boundless. The ultimate, peak state of that glory is the transformation within him of the devotee into God—the flowering of godliness within. In that supreme experience the devotee and God are not separate. It is not that you stand with folded hands and there stands God before you, bestowing blessings. Do not think as you see in Hindi films—God giving benediction and the devotee standing with folded hands. Where is the devotee there, where is God there! We have split godliness into two pieces in language and called them “devotee” and “God.”

Language always breaks everything into two. It breaks day and night. It breaks life and death. It breaks pleasure and pain. It breaks beauty and ugliness. Language splits everything into two halves. And life is one. In just this way we have broken the devotee and God apart. But there is no devotee separate from God, and no God separate from the devotee—there is only godliness.

Keep godliness in remembrance, so that the devotee dissolves and God dissolves. When both are absorbed into one, yearn for that experience of nonduality. Where there is yearning, there is the door.

That’s all for today.