Prem Panth Aiso Kathin #10

Jagdish Bharti! The impossible has never happened, nor does it happen. Whatever happens is that which could happen—therefore it happens. It is natural, hence possible.

When, for the first time, the experience of oneself begins, it will naturally feel as if something “impossible” is happening. Until now it had never happened—through births and births it had not happened. Today, suddenly the night has broken and morning has come; darkness has turned into light. Until now there were only thorns; today, suddenly, flowers have bloomed—not only bloomed, the thorns themselves have transformed into flowers. It will feel as though something impossible is taking place.

Even so, let me remind you: whatever is happening cannot be the impossible. The un-happenable does not happen. The unnatural neither can be, nor is there any possibility of it being. Sooner or later—no matter how long it takes—you are bound to become that for which you were born. You have to become what you are. Remain forgetful, remain lost, keep your back turned to yourself, set up as many obstructions as you want—pile as many rocks in the stream’s path as you like so the waterfall cannot flow—but the day you remove the rocks, the day you lift the curtains, the day you slide the veil aside, that day it will look like a miracle! But it is not a miracle.

It looks like a miracle only because for so long you kept it forgotten, you lost even the knack of remembrance. Morning didn’t even come in dreams; the sun didn’t peep into your sleep. Nevertheless, if there is night, there is morning. If there is the world, there is liberation. If there is mind, there is freedom from mind. The mind is crammed with thoughts—waves upon waves. Have you seen a lake with waves upon waves? That is how the mind is. But sometimes the lake is utterly quiet too—still, not a ripple. Then the lake becomes a mirror. Then the sky, the stars, the moon are reflected in it. Then the trees standing on the shore are mirrored. Then the lake shows things as they are.

So it is with the mind: two states. One: agitated—storm, whirlwind, squalls, waves on waves, everything heaving—restlessness. The other: thought-free—no ripple, no wave; the mind has become a silent lake. In that very instant, what is…what is has always been; only we were perturbed, so we couldn’t reflect it, couldn’t know it. The moment we are unperturbed, the whole of the Divine rushes toward us from all directions. We are filled—become empty and you are filled.

But Jagdish, you are right. When it happens for the first time it feels:
“Without asking, you filled my bag with true gems…
Without my even wanting, you filled my life with joys…”

The “bag” you think I filled was already full. You simply hadn’t felt around in your own pouch. A ruby lay hidden in your rag-bundle, but you ran all over the world with the bundle slung on your shoulder. You never felt inside it. You search the world but not your own home. And the more you search outside, the more restlessness grows—because every day you fail, every day you lose. Each day your hopes are ground into dust; each day the lamps of your fantasies go out. You thought, “Tomorrow it will happen.” Tomorrow came—and nothing happened. Dejection surrounds you; the darkness grows denser; despair sits on your chest like the Himalayas—immovable.

As life’s days pass, man begins to lose his hopes. The sparkle goes out of his eyes, his vitality loses courage, his feet begin to falter. Trust in himself withers. Self-reverence is lost. Fail repeatedly, and self-trust will be lost. Be defeated again and again—how will you keep believing you will one day win, surely win? Everything has its limit. Lose once—you think, “I’ll win.” Lose twice—you still think, “I’ll win.” But how many losses can you endure and still keep up the hope of victory?

Thus, the more you search outside, the more your bag seems empty. The more you run after craving, the more beggarly you become. Here, beggars are beggars, of course; but even those who have everything are beggars. As long as there is craving, there is beggary. Craving is a begging-bowl. Craving means: “More! More! More…” and “more” has no end. The race for more never concludes. However much you get, still—“more!” The one running outward slowly goes insane. The final outcome of the outer chase is nothing but madness.

And the marvel—the miracle of miracles, the wonder of wonders; hard to believe, but true—is that what you seek is in your own rag-bundle; and the bundle is slung on your shoulder. You don’t feel inside it. You don’t feel within. “Search inside yourself!” The day this awareness dawns—the day you start feeling within—that very day revolution happens.

That revolution has begun. I did not fill your bag. Your bag was already full. I only shook you awake: “Jagdish, wake up and look—you’re going to beg for what you already have!” You listened. Tell a thousand; one or two will listen. Of those thousand who listen, one or two will believe. Of those thousand who believe, one or two will translate belief into action. You listened, you believed, you translated it into action. Suddenly you felt: “I thought my bag was empty—it has been filled!” It wasn’t filled; it was always full.

God has made each person a sovereign. He does not create beggars—He cannot. This existence gives birth only to emperors, each with infinite potential. Here, oceans are hidden in drops; in tiny courtyards, the vast sky is contained. Just a little clarity of seeing, a little refinement, a little insight, a sharper vision—and beggary ends. Nothing to do—only to see.

“Without asking, you filled my bag with true gems…
Without my even wanting, you filled my life with joys…”

This too is worth understanding. This revolution happens “without asking.” Because the one who asks keeps his eyes fixed outside. A beggar’s gaze rests on the one he is begging from. Naturally, if you knock on someone’s door seeking alms, your eyes will be on the giver—you’ll search his eyes for mercy, compassion, some support. You won’t be looking within yourself!

The beggar cannot muster the capacity to look within; his gaze has to stay on the other. He forgets himself; only the other appears to him. What you see is what you are seeking—and whom you seek it from.

Have you noticed? People pass along a street, yet each sees different things. The cobbler’s eyes go to shoes. He reads people through their shoes. The shoe’s condition reveals the condition of your pocket, whether you won or lost the election this time—the shoe tells it. The tailor’s gaze goes to clothes. We see where our demand is. The cobbler, the repairer, the seller—he looks at feet, not faces. What has he to do with faces? Faces or no faces—no matter. Shoes concern him; they attract him.

If you are hungry or fasting, you will see only hotels and restaurants along the road, and notice nothing else. You will smell only the aromas of food. But the day your belly is full, those hotels scarcely appear. When your pocket is hot, you see other things. One who wants diamonds notices only diamond shops.

Our gaze goes where our demand is.

A Hindu passes a mosque and doesn’t even see it; a Muslim sees it. A Hindu sees a temple; the Muslim passing by doesn’t register it. We see what we are seeking. And how will the gaze turn upon oneself? We never seek ourselves.

Yes—for one who wants to seek himself, one condition must be fulfilled: he has to free himself from desire. Desire binds you to the other. Desire means a bridge between me and the other. Desire is a bridge that ties me to others. The one who wants to know himself must break all the bridges of desire. He must turn the eyes inward. He must cultivate the capacity to see within and listen within. That is meditation. Once that begins, life fills with joys—so many joys you cannot even imagine. Such joys that even if you want to dream them, you cannot. Without experience, how could you dream them?

We dream only of what we have experienced—perhaps rearranged a little, painted and polished—but still, only of the known. What has never been experienced you cannot even imagine; you cannot dream it. That’s why by examining your dreams one can know the experiences of your life. Psychologists analyze your dreams to discover the meaning of your days. Your night is the reflection of your day; your night is the echo of your day.

Right now you cannot even imagine how many joys you own, how many are your birthright—joys upon joys can shower upon you. The clouds are ready to burst—but you are not ready to receive. You are running; you are never where the clouds are willing to rain. You are elsewhere—in the past, in the future—never in the present. Yet whatever showers, showers only in the present. God rains in the present.

God has only one time: the present. You have everything but the present—past and future are yours; only the present is not. To be in the present is meditation. To live such that there is no shadow of the past and no plan for the future—then there remain no thoughts; you become thought-free. Where only the present is, how can there be thought? There will be an unprecedented peace. And in that peace, joys begin to pour.

“Without asking…”

You say:
“…you filled my life with joys.
How—what happened? Please tell me, Bhagwan.”

It did not “happen”—you had not been allowing it. It always wanted to happen. The river wanted to reach the ocean, but you had built dams. The tree wanted to blossom, but you placed a stone on the chest of the seed. What was to be—you were not letting it be.

Spiritual life is not an achievement. Spiritual life is simply the dropping of obstacles. Understand this well. Let me repeat it: spiritual life is not a new attainment—it is the expression of your nature. It is to have what already is. But we cannot have it because we have built many barriers, many hindrances. The eyes can see, but a veil has been drawn across them.

Remove the veil! The moment the curtains are lifted, everything is revealed. If a blind man’s eyes suddenly opened, Jagdish, he would be astonished: “Colors have started raining! Light has poured!” He would say, “What a miracle! What was impossible, you made happen!”

But one who has eyes will say, “It wasn’t the impossible—it was already happening. The trees were green, roses were red, there was light in the moon and stars; only your eyes were closed.” The world is as it is. If there’s been a little change, it has happened within you. And even that is very small—merely the opening of eyelids. You are not even blind; you are simply sitting with your eyelids shut.

Perhaps you have even forgotten that eyelids can be opened. From childhood you have been taught to keep them shut. You have been taught the ostrich’s logic: life has great difficulties, sorrow, crises, calamities—keep your eyes closed and you won’t see the dangers. And what is not seen—says the ostrich’s logic—does not exist. Therefore the ostrich, seeing the enemy, buries its head in the sand; and when the enemy is not visible, it says, “If it’s not seen, how can it be?”

Don’t laugh at the ostrich. That is precisely the argument of all atheists: “How can God be, we don’t see him!” All atheists are ostriches, and all ostriches are atheists. The fundamental viewpoint of atheism is: what is not seen cannot be. The irony is: you do not see. Even if someone tries to show you, you won’t open your eyes.

The latest researches reveal that man allows only two percent of events to enter and blocks ninety-eight percent outside. You see only two percent; ninety-eight percent you don’t. You hear only two percent; ninety-eight you don’t. You live only two percent; ninety-eight you don’t. That is why your life is lukewarm, without urgency, without intensity, without density. And without density and intensity, how will bliss be?

Joys poured because you agreed, Jagdish, to remove a few obstacles. You agreed to open your eyes. People find it costly to open their eyes—because they have invested in certain things; they fear that if they open their eyes, those things may be seen not to be. They fear opening their eyes lest some dreams be lost.

Mulla Nasruddin was muttering one night. His wife sat up: what are you muttering? He was counting aloud—ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine… He seemed very disturbed, tossing and turning. She shook him awake, thinking he was having a nightmare. Mulla opened his eyes and said, “You ruined it all! An angel was standing there asking, ‘Take it—how much do you want?’ We were bargaining. That angel was a real miser. If I said ‘ninety-seven,’ he said ‘ninety-six.’ I said ‘ninety-eight,’ he grudgingly said ‘ninety-seven.’ I was somehow dragging him toward a hundred—he refused to go beyond ninety-nine. And what have you done—woke me up in the middle! Now don’t mess it up!” He hurriedly shut his eyes: “All right, where are you? Appear!” But who was there now? Whom should he call? Mulla said, “Fine—then I’ll settle for ninety-nine. Okay, let it be ninety-eight, ninety-seven!” But who was there now? The dream broke; once broken, dreams cannot be patched again.

People are afraid to open their eyes, because they have built sweet dreams. Someone thinks: I have built a house; wife, children—everything; position, prestige—everything; honor and respect—everything. He fears if he opens his eyes, the truth may be exposed. He fears that those who praise him are merely flattering him to his face and cursing him behind his back. If the eye opens, all will be revealed.

One day Mulla Nasruddin told me, “My friend and I decided that since our friendship is so deep, we shall never lie to each other—only truth.”

I asked, “Then what happened?”

Mulla said, “Don’t ask. It’s been twenty years. We spoke truth to each other one day—and the friendship ended. We haven’t spoken since.”

In this world, the outer talk is one thing; the inner, another. One who builds bridges of praise before you, know for certain he will slander you behind your back. He must—there are reasons. He suffered pain in praising you; he will take revenge. He wasn’t happy praising you; he had vested interests. He wanted something from you and couldn’t get it without buttering you up. He was flattering you—but it pained him. His ego was hurt: “What a fool I am calling wise! What a hypocrite I am calling virtuous! What a crude man I’m calling refined! What a miser I’m calling generous!” He felt it all. He suffered. His ego hurt: “What an unlucky day—being someone’s lackey!” He will take revenge—behind your back, if not today then tomorrow.

Beware of those who praise you—they will certainly slander you. Only then will their mind be at peace, balance restored, and they can sleep at night. If they do not slander you, a heavy burden remains on them.

So you fear that if you open your eyes—eyes become transparent. If someone praises you, you see not just the praise, but the hidden slander within it. If someone lies, you see not only the lie, but the truth buried within it. The eye becomes transparent—seeing through. People’s hearts lie open before such an eye; what they try to hide cannot be hidden. Everything shines through.

Hence people fear opening their eyes. If they open them, what if all the cherished illusions collapse? What if the own becomes other? What if praise turns to blame? What if honor turns into insult? And this house, this wife, these children, whom I think are mine, for whom I sacrifice everything—what if I see clearly: Who belongs to whom? Who is whose here? Who is mine? Who is yours? They are afraid to open their eyes. “Keep them shut a little longer—let this sweet dream run its course.”

Because of dreams people won’t open their eyes. One who agrees to open his eyes—that one is a sannyasin. Who says, “Whatever the consequence, whatever the result—even if the fruit is bitter—the truth, even if bitter, is desirable; and falsehood, however sweet, is not desirable, because falsehood is falsehood.”

Buddha has said: Falsehood is first sweet and then bitter; truth is first bitter and then sweet.

People avoid bitterness; they avoid the pain of truth. Therefore they sit with eyes closed. Tell them a thousand times to open their eyes—they won’t. Some are so clever that with eyes closed they start dreaming that their eyes are open. With eyes closed they dream: “Yes, I have opened them.” These you call so-called religious people.

Their lives do not testify that their eyes are open. If someone’s eyes are open, will he continue to divide temple and mosque? To him, will Rama and Allah be different? Will the Gita and the Quran be different? Will black and white be different? The moment eyes open, all divisions fall. When eyes open, this entire existence is seen as the expression of one God.

Many think they have opened their eyes. They have not. Sometimes you’ve dreamt, haven’t you, that you woke up—only to find in the morning that the “waking” was also a dream. Dreams can be dreamed within dreams—like those nested Chinese boxes. You sleep and dream that you return from the office, tired; you lie down to sleep—this inside the dream. And within that you dream you go to a movie and watch a film.

You can dream inside dreams. The mind is very complex. And the strangest dream within the dream is the dream of awakening. The mind says, “Whatever you want, I’ll provide.”

Do you know the psychological basis of dreams?

For centuries people thought dreams disturb sleep. Even now in this country people think that on nights when they dream, they did not sleep well. But modern psychological research concludes the opposite: dreams are not obstacles to sleep; they support it. Without dreams you could not sleep. The dream is sleep’s device to keep you asleep, to prevent you from waking.

Suppose you’re fasting—it’s Ekadashi; you fast. At night hunger will press. Somehow you passed the day—prayer, temple, rituals kept you occupied. But what about the night? As soon as you lie down, the body demands food. If hunger is there, how will sleep come? The dream makes a way. In the dream you are invited to the palace—what a feast! Thirty-six delicacies. Aromas wafting. Foods you’ve only read about. You eat to your heart’s content.

This dream saves your sleep; otherwise hunger would break it.

Everyone has experienced this: at night the bladder presses; you feel like urinating. Now you must get up—sleep will be broken; go to the bathroom—sleep is interrupted. Immediately, the sleep produces a dream: you get up, go to the bathroom, relieve yourself, return, and sleep again—all in the dream. The bladder is being tricked. You see such dreams repeatedly.

Mulla Nasruddin went on the Haj with two companions—three great “enlightened” fakirs. In one village they begged and begged—no alms. They pooled their little money and bought halva. But it was so little, the hunger so great, that only one could be satisfied. A dispute broke out: who should eat? Each argued he was more essential to the world. No decision. Each claimed, “Without me the world will be empty; my place can never be filled.” The dispute continued all day. Evening came; as hunger grew, the quarrel grew—abuse, then near blows. At last they said, “We are fakirs, wise men. Fighting for halva doesn’t befit us. Do this,” Mulla said, “keep the halva safe. We’ll sleep. Tomorrow morning, whoever tells the most beautiful dream—each will tell his dream—the most religious, most virtuous dream will win the halva.”

They agreed. They slept. Each planned ahead which dream to narrate—because dreams don’t come on command; you wish for virtue, and sin appears; you wish to see God—He never shows; the devil appears.

Morning came. “Now speak—your dreams.” Hunger was acute; only halva danced before their eyes.

One said, “I saw Khizr Himself—the invisible guide of Sufis who leads the lost, who guards the realized from falling. The highest Sufi vision—Khizr’s darshan. Not only did I see him—he embraced me. Now what more could be? Bring the halva!”

The second said, “Wait—that’s nothing. I saw God Himself—no Khizr business—God saw me and rose from His throne and seated me beside Him on the throne. Now bring the halva!”

Nasruddin said, “Listen to mine. I don’t know who called out—God, Khizr, or the devil—I heard a voice: ‘You fool, what are you lying there for? Eat the halva!’ So I got up and ate it—because disobeying a command…whoever gave it, I don’t know. In the dream I can’t say who shouted. The halva is gone. It’s already digested.”

Dreams support your sleep. And you have built many dreams. Someone is seeing Khizr, someone God; someone hears a voice, “Eat the halva now!” If I tell you, “Open your eyes,” you say, “Wait—let me eat the halva first. Dream or not, it’s still something—better than nothing.”

But Jagdish, you agreed—you gathered a little courage to open your eyes. What happened to you can happen to all. So today you can say, “What was impossible, you made happen.”

No—it was not impossible. By my doing nothing can happen; by your doing, nothing can happen. Whatever we do is only negative—we can only create obstacles. If we don’t erect negative barriers, God Himself is leading each by the hand. If we do not step in between, God is already present. Your bag will fill with pearls; joys will shower. Nectar will pour; the thousand-petaled lotus of the crown will blossom.

What happened to all the Buddhas can happen to you. Your flute can sing as Krishna’s did; your feet can dance as Meera’s danced. What has happened to one human being can happen to all.

“A lamp flickers in the shadows of darkness,
like a caged bird gasping in stifled air.
Between mind and heart, the surges stall,
as if fetters clasped heroes’ feet.

Tidings of spring—blossom by blossom, garden to garden,
as if the tale of lovers spreads from village to village.
Longings die of thirst deep in the heart,
like veiled queens confined in palace harems.

In the air, the delicate rustle of budding leaves,
as if celestial nymphs were teasing one another.
Even life’s bitterness has turned to sweetness,
as though an immortal intoxication in youth’s transgressions.”

If the eye is open, this very world is heaven.
“Even life’s bitterness has turned to sweetness…”

The bitterness of life turns sweet; thorns become flowers; poison becomes nectar.

“Even life’s bitterness has turned to sweetness,
as though an immortal intoxication in youth’s transgressions.”

Life’s ordinariness is not ordinary; only our eyes are closed. Otherwise, everything here is extraordinary. Even the pebbles here are Kohinoors, because God pervades every pebble—what more can the Kohinoor have? On every leaf are His signatures; in every bird’s throat, His song. Just open your eyes a little; open your ears a little; open your heart a little; open your doors—and the “impossible” begins to happen. At first it will seem impossible; in the end you will find quite the opposite—you will discover that the worldliness was the “impossible,” our ignorance was the “impossible,” our darkness was the “impossible,” our misery was the “impossible,” our hell was the “impossible”—it should not have been, and yet it was. And heaven is our nature.

Rupesh! Prayer has as many forms as there are people who pray. Prayer has no fixed blueprint. As jasmine is jasmine, rose is rose, champa is champa—colors different, manner different, fragrance different, form different, beauty different. Yet one thing is common: all are flowers, all have bloomed, all have poured out their joy.

Infinite blossoms of prayer bloom too. The difference between Meera’s prayer and Chaitanya’s prayer is as much as between champa and jasmine. The difference between Jesus’ prayer and Mohammed’s prayer is as between lotus and rose. And yet, the essence of prayer is one.

So two things have to be understood: first, the essence of prayer, its inner core; and second, the expression of prayer. One is the center of prayer, the other its circumference.

The circumferences will be different. This world is immensely diverse—and it is good that it is, otherwise it would be utterly boring. If there were only one kind of flower, one kind of person, one kind of tree, then apart from suicide nothing else would occur to you. Even if they were all good! Imagine everyone as Lord Rama, bow and arrows in hand, marching along—how alarming that would be! The truth is, without Ravana even the Ramleela cannot be staged. Rama wandering the stage with bow and arrows, with Mother Sita beside him—until Ravana appears, there is no Ramleela. And how long can you keep circling the stage? The audience too will say, now let’s go home—drop the curtain!

Here Rama is as necessary as Ravana; otherwise there would be no savor in Rama’s tale. Here stars are as necessary as the dark sky; otherwise stars would not shine. A background is needed. Here there is diversity and there is opposition—and both are significant.

So, first: prayers differ. Their colors differ, their styles differ. Do not infer from this that the souls of prayers are different. The soul is not different—only the body, the wrapping, the garment. The soul is one.

The soul of prayer is surrender. “I am not; Thou art”—this feeling is the very life of prayer. How this feeling expresses itself depends on the person.

In Meera it will burst forth as dance. Meera will lose herself in dancing. “I am not; Thou art”—this will be expressed through her dance. She will dance and dance until the dancer is lost and only the dance remains.

In Buddha the same prayer will not arise as dance but as emptiness. Not only will there be no dancing, there will not even be a slight movement. Buddha will sit utterly still, like a statue of marble—motionless, perfectly still. Within him the same prayer is unfolding, but silent, quiet, void—not dancing. That prayer is called meditation. When prayer is void, not humming, not singing, it is meditation. And when meditation hums and sings, it becomes prayer.

Even among prayers there will be differences. The songs that are sung will be different—different languages, different people, different sensitivities. If prayer arises in a musician, he will pick up his veena. What else will he do? He will set the strings ringing. If prayer arises in a painter, what will he do? He will pick up his brush, fling colors on the canvas, pour them out. If prayer arises in a poet, poetry will be born. Different people have different sensitivities; so their expressions will differ.

Your prayer will depend on your sensitivity. That is why I keep saying: do not borrow someone else’s prayer; otherwise you will commit self-violence. Do not become a blind follower of another. Learn from everyone, but do only what your own life-breath says. Listen to all, consider all, but live what your inner feeling commands. Sit with true masters, but do not become an imitator. The temptation to imitate does arise, because imitation is easy—cheap. To awaken your own life-breath is a costly affair. But putting on someone else’s clothes is very easy.

Listen, understand, learn, bow everywhere—but never forget this one thing: Existence has given you a unique soul, and in your soul certain seeds are hidden, and they are to be revealed. Who knows—are they juhi, or champa, or kewra? Until they manifest, even you cannot know. No prophecy can be made—whether you will dance, or sing, or fall completely silent. But the life of prayer is one—surrender: the feeling of dissolution into existence; the realization that I am not separate from existence, I am one with it. However you express that realization, it is beautiful.

You ask: “How and when is prayer born?”

Prayer is born when the sense of doership in you has been utterly defeated—when you have fought and struggled and lost every time; when you have swum against the current and been broken each time; when battling life you fall, shattered—then prayer is born. The vanquished turns to the Lord’s Name! Defeat is absolutely necessary.

One who keeps winning will not have prayer arise in his life, because conceit will arise in him. He will say, “I am somebody!” And where there is “I,” there is no prayer. Let the “I” be broken; let its edges be carried off in the stream of life; let the rock of “I” wear down and become sand. The day you realize that this feeling of “mine” is itself wrong—that from it conflict is born; that from it I have become engaged in a war with existence, when what is needed is to be in embrace with existence; friendship is to be cultivated with existence—we belong to existence, and existence belongs to us—the day you experience this, the day you feel such helplessness, such compulsion, that separation is not possible, that separateness is an illusion, that very day prayer is born.

I want—
that my hair should stop turning gray.
I want—
that my youth should stop fading.
But!
The hair will gray.
Youth will fade.
I cannot stop it.
Right here
I am defeated.
The tendency
to struggle
melts away
on its own.
Argument
gives place
to prayer.

When you look at life—its inevitability, its inescapability—and when you see that nothing happens by my doing, the “I” falls. And where the “I” falls, prayer is born.

So, prayer is born in the defeat of “I,” in its utter defeat. Blessed are those whose “I” is vanquished. Unfortunate are those who win small toys and think they have won. Someone piles up a little money in the bank and struts about puffed up—his feet hardly touch the ground. Someone reaches a position—look at his swagger! Two days of swagger; if it lasts even two days, that is much. But while he is in office, look at his strut—his ego is getting fuel. In such a person prayer does not arise. How can it?

Blessed are those who are not deceived by such toys. They know that toys are toys, and all will be left behind. All pomp will lie there when the wanderer loads up and moves on. They know death comes, and soon the caravan will set out. The positions here, the wealth here, the reputations here—all will be left behind. The time I am wasting gathering these is going to waste. One who sees this becomes truly fortunate and attains prayer.

Prayer is the experience of mystery. Prayer is not logic, not thought; prayer is feeling. Logic has questions and answers; from questions, answers arise; from answers, new questions arise. Logic remains entangled between questions and answers. No answer is final, and no question is truly meaningful—for a meaningful question would be that which brings the final answer. But logic keeps swinging like a clock’s pendulum between questions and answers—manufacturing questions on its own, composing answers on its own, finding new questions in every answer, and new answers for every question. A riddle one keeps sitting and trying to solve—this never gets solved. It never will.

Prayer is not thought. Prayer is neither question nor answer. Prayer is the silencing of both question and answer. Prayer is a wordless state—wonder-struck. Standing transfixed before the mystery of existence; nothing occurs, all cleverness lost—there prayer is born.

Sinking into the unknown,
the trailing rays,
evading collusion,
moving toward a novel union,
went and
were lost.
After this
dissolving of light,
in the blue sky
a few scattered fragments
surfaced;
and after wandering
in this all night—
who can know
where this
moon-vagabond
will go!

We do not know from where we have come; we do not know where we are going.

Who can know
where this
moon-vagabond
will go!

Those who accept life in its mysteriousness—who say life has no answer and no question—life is, and life is a mystery, not a problem. Problems have solutions; mystery has no solution. Life is not a puzzle to be solved. Life is a mystery—the more you know, the deeper it becomes; the further you enter, the more bottomless it gets. The more you know, the less you know. Those who know totally say, “We know nothing.”

The Upanishads say: He who says, “I know,” know that he does not know. And he who says, “I do not know,” know that he knows.

Socrates said: I know only one thing—that I know nothing.

In such a moment prayer is born—in the realization of mystery—where all knowledge is rendered futile, all doership useless, where all selfhood, all ego melts away. The vanquished turns to the Lord’s Name!

Hariprasad! Will you die or won’t you? You will die—then what will happen to your wife and children? And meditation is only the death of the ego, not of you. You will remain—more crystallized, more profound. Yes, in meditation the ego goes.

But do you think your ego has been of any great benefit to your wife and children? Your ego has been their noose! If your ego disappears, your wife and children will be delighted—truly delighted. You’re choking your wife’s neck. You sit on your children’s chest. Ego does that. Ego wants to exploit everyone; it is the great exploiter. It wants to use everyone, to turn everyone into a means. And whenever one person makes another a means, violence happens. Whether the husband makes the wife a means, or the wife makes the husband a means—both are violence. Because whenever we make a person a means, we rob them of their dignity. Every person is an end, not a means. Your wife has a soul; she is not an object for your use.

But people have turned wives into things. In this country they even say, “stri-sampatti”—woman as property. Do you see how insulting that is? No one says “man-property.” “Woman-property!” And your great saints repeat it. “Kanyadaan”—the gifting of the daughter! No one says “putradaan”—the gifting of a son. As if a girl were a thing to be donated—“kanyadaan.” And people think they’re doing a noble deed by “donating a maiden.”

Donation? Can souls be donated? You call a woman property? She has a soul just as you do! But for centuries the male ego has put a noose around the woman’s neck. And women, of course, have taken their own kind of revenge—they aren’t going to let it pass. They have their own ways—indirect, subtle.

If a man gets angry, he beats his wife; if a wife gets angry, she beats herself. But be careful—by beating herself she beats you in a way you could never beat her. If a wife gets angry, she cries; her tears inflict deeper wounds. If she hurled abuse at you, you might withstand it. Her routes are indirect, feminine. By clever means she ensnares you. Naturally, if you bind her, she will bind you. Bondage is always mutual.

The Sufi fakir Junaid was passing through a village with his disciples. It was his habit—the Sufi way—to draw a teaching from every situation. A man was leading a cow with a rope tied around her neck. Junaid said, “Brother, stop a moment—let me teach my disciples something.”

The man stopped, curious to learn too. The disciples circled the cow and the man. Junaid said, “Look and listen, disciples. Which is the master and which the slave? Is the man holding the rope the master? Or is the cow with the rope around her neck the master?”

The disciples laughed. “Master, what a question! It’s obvious—even a blind man could see. The man is the master. The rope is in his hand; the noose is on the cow.”

Junaid said, “You’re certain the man is the master?” “We’re certain,” they said.

“Then look!” He pulled out the scissors he kept in his bag and cut the rope. The cow bolted—and the “master” ran after the cow. “Now,” he said, “who is master? If the cow were the slave, she would follow the man. The man is the slave—he runs after the cow. The rope was only deception. I cut the rope and cut through the delusion.”

You think you have enslaved someone. Perhaps the rope is in your hand. But if a Junaid appears and cuts the rope, you will see who chases whom! You will see that the “ownership” was never one-way; the slavery was never one-way. It’s a double-edged sword.

You’re so worried that if you meditate, what will happen to your wife and children. Only good will happen! And if you’re afraid of benefit… If you become tranquil, what harm will befall your wife and children? Do you think the racket you keep raising at home brings them great benefit?

Wives dread Sundays—the husband at home, the children at home—such upheaval! You can somehow manage the children—but how do you manage the husband? If he’s in the house, he will tinker with something. He’ll open a perfectly running clock to “fix” it. He’ll pop the car’s hood though it’s fine. He has to do something—he can’t sit idle. He’s used to doing. He barks orders in the office; he’ll bark at home. He’ll find fault in everything.

Wives are so pleased when the husband goes to the office—the headache’s gone, the commotion gone. Children to school—bliss!

And do you think the children are thrilled to have you at home? “Don’t speak loudly—Daddy’s home! Don’t play—Daddy’s home! Don’t dance—Daddy’s home!”

If you become peaceful, Hariprasad, no harm will come. Your wife will be happy: “Wonderful—he sits with eyes closed. Keep sitting like that! You look beautiful!” And the children will say, “Great—now we can make noise or do anything, and Daddy is a witness. He’s neither doer nor enjoyer. He just sits and watches. Whatever happens—let the Divine do it. If God wants the kids to romp, they romp. He sees the world as leela now.”

Your worry is needless!

You say, “Vanquish my fear!” Still, some fear must be there—otherwise you wouldn’t ask. The fear is this: You’ve maintained a certain order over wife and children, over the family, through your ego. In meditation the ego will melt; you’ll have to create a new order. You’ll have to craft a new style of living. You’ll have to forge new relationships—with your son, your daughter, your wife, your brother, your friends. And people fear the new. They’ve grown accustomed, comfortable with the old. Repetition brings a certain skill. The new is uncertain—who knows what will happen, what the consequences will be?

Don’t be afraid! Peace has never produced ill consequences—never. And if someone feels harmed, that responsibility is theirs; it is not yours to carry.

Your situation is like this: A man has been bedridden for years, paralyzed. When a man becomes paralyzed, the whole household’s rhythm changes. He becomes the center. Everyone serves him. Everyone sympathizes. No one gets angry with him. Even if he gets angry, people swallow it—“He’s ill; what can we say?” If he doesn’t work, no one calls him lazy. If he lies in bed, no one condemns him. If he rises late, no one says, “Get up at dawn.” He receives everyone’s pity and care.

Now imagine, Hariprasad, that it’s you lying there “paralyzed,” and I see there’s no paralysis—only a delusion. I whisper in your ear, “There’s nothing wrong. Get up—you can stand.”

You will be afraid. Because the whole arrangement built around your paralysis will collapse. The streams of sympathy will dry up. Worse, people will say, “So you deceived us all this time? Made us suffer needlessly? Lay in bed for nothing? It was mental, not real? And look at the medical bills piled up!” The very next day your wife will say, “Now why are you sitting at home? Do something! Go to the shop!” People will look at you as if you’re mad. “How could you lie paralyzed so long? No sense at all? Faked it?”

You’ll be scared—and after so long, to reopen the shop, to face those hassles and anxieties again—you’ll wish for someone to declare, “Your paralysis is absolutely real and will never leave—rest in peace right there!”

I am telling you: the thousand illnesses of your mind are all false—self-imagined, self-created. Because of them you’ve adopted a certain life-style, a certain conduct. If you change it today, yes, there will be some friction. But it is worth enduring. Don’t lie ill. And certainly not falsely ill!

Mind is illness; meditation is health. When you move beyond mind, many things will change—this is certain.

Just yesterday evening a couple from Australia came to see me, both sannyasins. As they went deeper into meditation, problems arose—the very ones you mention. The biggest? Their interest in sex vanished. Now the husband–wife relationship rests on sex; the very foundation fell away. Neither had any taste for it. They asked, “What do we do? What happened? Why didn’t you warn us? Is it that we are bored of each other? No great peaks of joy, no valleys of sorrow—nothing. It’s a level super-highway. No fights, no tricks.”

Understand: when there are fights and deceptions, a certain pleasure follows—because when conflict subsides, there is relief. Often husband and wife quarrel in the evening so they can make love at night. It sounds upside down—but psychology fully supports it. First they fight, spar, hurl words, condemn, get offended, sulk—these are the processes. The final fruit is making love, in repentance: “Enough now. Better cajole each other—tomorrow life resumes. Morning tea will be needed. And if the wife sleeps angry, who knows about morning tea? You’ll be hunting your slippers for the bathroom and won’t find them. Everything will be topsy-turvy. Best to make peace before morning.” Wars are followed by peace; between two wars lies peace. Likewise, between two quarrels lies love. Husbands and wives keep fighting and keep loving.

Now see the couple’s difficulty, Hariprasad. No quarrel, and no surges of “love” afterwards. Nothing happens. Silence in the house. Both are meditators; whenever there’s time, both sit. “So what now?” they fretted—more so because they’re from the West. In the East, our insights sank deep over millennia. We may have forgotten today, but the depths were touched. When a newly married couple came for blessings, do you know what the rishis said to the bride? “May you have ten sons, and may your husband become your eleventh son.” An unparalleled blessing—nowhere else in the world. It couldn’t be given without such deep exploration. The day the husband becomes like a son, know that love has reached its peak—its purest.

The Australian couple’s trouble is understandable. When I told them, “This is auspicious; you are now brother and sister, not husband and wife,” their joy knew no bounds. They embraced; tears flowed—tears of a rare kind. They had never imagined such a thing.

There is a significant Jain legend: In the beginning, in primeval times, a boy and a girl were born together—twins from the same womb. Later the boy would be the husband, the girl the wife. Brother and sister—born together. That is why “bhagini”—which means sister—is still used for wife. Those who crafted that myth—it is a myth, but sweet and meaningful; it holds truth.

In truth, only those can be husband and wife who have the harmony of brother and sister. Where there is that rhythmic attunement, there can be true marriage. If humanity reorders life scientifically some day, we will ensure: only those marry who share that brother–sister-like resonance. First they should be brother and sister in spirit—and ultimately they must become so. Then know that marriage has reached its pinnacle.

So yes, such “obstacles” will arise. If you meditate, your wife will slowly become more like a sister. If she doesn’t meditate, trouble looms!

Often, as I see daily, women consider their husbands animal-like because they are lustful. Women complain to me: “He’s always after me. I have no interest in sex—what to do? It’s his demand.” Women present themselves as very pure—as if they have no demands. Perhaps consciously they don’t, because for centuries we drilled into women the ideals of purity and chastity. Women are deeply sensitive; their capacity for suggestion is great. Repetition over centuries has imprinted the notion that sex is animality.

So every wife sees her husband as animal within, no matter if she says, “Husband, you are God!” She knows the truth inside. She will touch the feet of any random holy man, any baba—but when touching her husband’s feet, she knows it’s mere formality; she knows his animality.

Yet here a curious thing happens, every day. When the husband begins meditation and his interest in sex wanes, the wives become suddenly sex-hungry. The same wives who paraded their purity become lustful. Their husbands come and say, “Now we are in trouble. Her demands have skyrocketed. Earlier they weren’t there. What happened? When we wanted, she didn’t. Now we don’t, and she does.”

It’s simple. It’s economics—a deal. Earlier you wanted; she rationed it out. “Wag your tail enough and you’ll get a scrap.” That was her power; she was above, you below. “Headache today; I’m exhausted; the baby’s teething”—this and that. As soon as the husband’s eagerness wanes, panic sets in: “My power is slipping!” That was her leverage, her politics.

If the husband is no longer eager, she fears: “What if he becomes totally indifferent? What of my saris, my jewelry, my ornaments?” Those came from the tail-wagging husband. If his lust form is fading, my whole arrangement is at risk. Women become frantic, almost mad in pursuit. And if a woman pursues, there will be friction when your taste has gone.

So I understand your fear. Some of it is real. My suggestion: if possible, bring your wife into meditation too. Gently kindle her interest. Grow together; then the hurdles lessen. You will become allies. And I tell you, just as a household cart needs two wheels, if your meditation gets two wheels, your progress will be extraordinary. So don’t meditate by abandoning your wife—include her.

And when you set out for such a treasure as meditation, why go alone? The one you love—take her along. In my experience, women slip into meditation more easily than men, because the male ego is tougher. By nature, man’s ego is stronger. Woman is soft; surrender is natural to her. Man inclines to struggle; without a fight he feels worthless. If no quarrel happens in a day, he looks around, “Come on, bull—gore me!” He will create a dispute from anything. Women can enter meditation simply.

Biologically, man has a kind of angularity; woman a roundedness. The atoms within a woman are in balance; in man they are not. Think of it this way: twenty-four chromosomes come from the mother’s womb, twenty-four from the father. When twenty-four meet twenty-four (48), a girl is born. A man carries two types of sperm—some with twenty-four, some with twenty-three chromosomes. If a twenty-three meets the woman’s twenty-four, a male is born—forty-seven in all. One pan slightly heavy, one slightly light. This is the biological base of man’s angularity. He walks stiffly. This is also the reason for woman’s beauty—her symmetry, her serenity, the gentleness on her face.

This isn’t learned. An experienced mother can sense in the womb whether it’s a boy or girl: the boy will kick, butt his head—trouble begins! The girl lies quiet.

Watch little children. Seat a boy and a girl of the same age. The boy will do some mischief—he cannot not. The girl will dress her doll, make a bride and groom, stage a wedding. The boy is dismantling his toy car—that’s what he’ll do later too; he’s practicing now.

See their toys: boys want guns, bicycles, motorcycles, cars. Girls aren’t drawn to these. A gun? Meaningless to them. Different toys, different ways. Women slip into meditation easily.

The statistics of history say the same. Mahavira had forty thousand renunciates—thirty thousand women, ten thousand men. The same ratio with Buddha—three women to one man. The same is happening around me—three women to one man. There are psychological reasons. Women surrender more easily; they can drop ego more easily.

So, Hariprasad, persuade your wife. Bring her along. Will you sip such treasure alone? Share everything with the one with whom you’ve bound your life. Don’t leave her isolated.

Humanity has been deprived of religion largely because of excluding women. In Jewish synagogues, women cannot enter. In mosques, women cannot enter. For thousands of years women were barred from the Vedas and Upanishads. Even a revolutionary like Buddha, when a woman first came for initiation, said no—“Women will cause trouble.” Will women cause trouble, or was Buddha doubtful of his monks? The truth is, he doubted the monks. He knew they were repressing desire, bulls pretending to be oxen—danger! What danger from women?

After a decade of persistent requests, Buddha finally initiated women—and the ratio returned to three women for one man.

Even today, go to a temple—you’ll find three women for every man. And that one man may be there because of women! Perhaps he has no business with Rama or Krishna—a local woman piqued his curiosity. Or he followed his wife. A man’s reasons are many; surrender is not his natural way.

But if the spirit of surrender has arisen in you, if you want to go deep into meditation, bring your wife and children too. Children enter even more readily—their minds aren’t cluttered. No junk yet. The mirror is clear.

People ask why I give sannyas to small children. Precisely because it is easiest for them. If they taste meditation early, the troubles that plague you may never arise. Preventing a disease is better than curing it.

If children become interested now, the illness is stopped before it starts. You have accumulated many illnesses; a drop or two of meditation falls and disappears in the heap of rubbish. Children are clean slates. If the imprint of the Divine falls now—if they catch the fragrance of peace, the flavor of celebration, a hint of the invisible—never again will it be so easy. The longer the delay, the harder it gets.

Bring your children, Hariprasad. Bring your wife. Bit by bit, let them dive. All dive—dive together. Let the whole family dive.

And I do not want a sannyas that runs to the forest. I want you to dive where you are, as you are—and let your family dive too. Yes, if meditation makes you abandon your home, there will be trouble.

Much trouble did arise. Because of Buddha and Mahavira, so many left their homes. Who has accounted for the pain caused by their going? No one. Jains won’t, Buddhists won’t—because the accounting would go against them. How many women became widows while their husbands still lived! How many children became orphans while their fathers still lived!

Just think: how did those wives live? Some must have washed others’ dishes. What did those children do? Perhaps they begged. Who knows how many wives of the newly made monks became prostitutes simply because there was no other means to survive!

You kept the accounts of the monks, but not of the consequences they triggered. One man becomes a monk, and at least ten are affected—his aged father, his mother, perhaps a widowed sister, his wife, his children. Those ten lives are shaken, disordered. No one kept that ledger. Someday it must be kept, so history can be whole. Then you’ll have to ponder—do we thank Mahavira and Buddha or not? Yes, lamps were lit in some lives—but how many were plunged into darkness?

My sannyas is different. I don’t break—you; I join you. You will be joined to your wife as never before—because lust cannot join, it divides. Lust is exploitation. Meditation turns lust into love—and then you join.

What is your relationship with your children? Ambition. You want to rest your gun on their shoulders and fire your bullets. You failed your matriculation; now you want your son to stand first. You want to enjoy firing from his shoulder. At least you can say, “My boy came first!” You couldn’t be educated; you want him a graduate with a big post. You couldn’t earn; you want him to earn. This is your disease—unfinished ambition—being dumped on the child.

And you call that child “obedient” who takes up your illness onto his head. “Bring your sickness; I’ll carry it. Even when you die, don’t worry—I’ll carry your corpse; your rotten bier I will shoulder. Your diseases will remain intact. I won’t reduce them a bit; I’ll only increase them.” Such a one you call an obedient son.

That is no relationship. The only true relationship is love. And love happens when there is no ego—when there is meditation.

Enter meditation, Hariprasad. Some hurdles are fine—they are the price to pay. Accept the challenge. But drown the whole house!

One last point. In the West, the latest psychological research has reached a conclusion: if one person in a family is ill—mad or disturbed—he cannot be treated alone. Family therapy has been born: one person is sick, the whole family must be treated. Because he fell ill within the family context; the whole family carries the causes of the disturbance. The one who goes mad was the most sensitive, delicate; the family’s madness flowers through him. He cannot be cured in isolation; the entire family needs therapy.

I am doing the same experiment at a deeper level. If one person takes sannyas, I want the whole family to take sannyas. If one plunges into meditation, I want the whole family to plunge. Then you become allies; your waves, your currents, support each other. Alone you may not rise so high as you can with your family.

And how long will you keep thinking only of wife and children?

Shall I pour my gloom into dreams,
file my complaints with my own?
How long shall I go on like this?
Shall I keep writing my trust,
keep writing my mockery,
keep writing my small history—
for how long?
The heart’s desires are mind’s mistake,
the heart’s pride a mind’s mistake—
shall I go on taking this mistake
for a boon forever?
For how long?

In this four-day life, don’t give too much value to the transient. Give value to the eternal—and the eternal is approached only through meditation.

While breath remains,
I wish a song to remain upon my lips.
Whether the wheel of fate turns or does not,
whether the sky rains flowers or hurls thunder,
in victory or defeat, with heads held high,
let us bear fear’s end,
hard as thunder, soft as blossom.
While breath remains—
I wish a song to remain upon my lips.

In the hard moment, may our movement be natural,
may our courage and wisdom not fail.
Though the deluge play with waves beyond measure,
let the oars be plied in the right way,
and the boat, brimming sea, keep flowing on.
While breath remains—
I wish a song to remain upon my lips.

Whether people give support or abandon us,
let us bind our bond to the tempest itself.
As if we took the storm by the hand,
let every mounting wave become a step.
While breath remains—
I wish a song to remain upon my lips.

Storms will come—turn them into steps. Difficulties will come—take them as blessings and challenges. Stones will lie on the path—don’t make them obstacles, make them stairs.

This is life. Some turn it into hell—if their way of looking is negative. Some turn it into heaven—if their way of looking is creative. Some keep counting thorns on the rosebush and life passes by; others pluck the flowers. Hariprasad, don’t count thorns—pick the flowers!

That’s all for today.