Prem Panth Aiso Kathin #11

Veena! To inquire into God is life’s greatest adventure. Beyond it there is no other quest. No challenge is greater. Naturally, those who set out on this journey into the Infinite must endure much pain. The pain is sweet—but pain is still pain. However honeyed the sting, when the arrow of the Beloved pierces the heart there will be pain. And once the arrow of divine love strikes, there is no cure for it. No medicine exists for that illness. Then only the illness growing becomes the medicine. Let it grow so much, so utterly, that only the illness remains and you do not—that is the cure.

The longing for God has arisen in you; it should arise in everyone, because life without the search for God is meaningless, colorless, scentless. Without God, what is a human being? A hollow reed. Link to God, and it becomes a flute. Link to God, and song is born. But the journey of linking with God is a journey of melting the ego. And the ego does not want to die. It has dug in its heels—squatting there for lifetimes. How can anyone easily surrender ownership? Such ancient ownership—how to let it go? The ego believes, “I am the master.” And the first essential condition for seeking God is: dissolve the ego. That is where the ache arises. Uprooting roots compacted through so many births hurts; it is painful. This is not like taking off your clothes; it is like being flayed.

You ask:
This day-and-night throbbing,
this ache without a cause…

So it will feel. Because outwardly there is nothing visible that we are seeking. And if someone asks, “What are you searching for?” we cannot say. The devotee becomes dumb. Even if he must say something, he has to speak through the tears falling from his eyes. Words prove small, shabby. Words come up counterfeit. The coins of words do not pass in the marketplace of love. Even if you want to tell someone, you cannot. If you weep people call you mad; if you laugh they call you mad; if you remain silent they call you mad; and if you try to speak, your own heart says, “This speaking is not right.” How can the unsaid be said? How can the unutterable be uttered? Your own conscience warns, “It will be a sacrilege. Do not bring words here. In this realm of the wordless, do not bring the dirt of words. In this world of feeling, do not dump the trash of thought. Hold it in silence.” And that makes the ache keener. Had you been able to speak to someone, the heart might have been lightened. Saying lightens the heart.

Psychology accepts this truth very deeply. The whole process of psychotherapy is simply that the patient tells the psychologist the distress of his heart. The psychologist does not cure anything—no remedy is actually needed; the telling itself becomes the cure. The sick person pours out his grief; in telling, the grief lessens. In telling, the mind grows lighter. The psychotherapist only listens—quietly, attentively, with great care. Your scrap and rubbish, in which there is nothing worthy of hearing, he listens to it as if diamonds and jewels were raining down. And when someone listens to you with such feeling, you pour out your heart. In that pouring, the pain evaporates. Psychotherapy should not even be called therapy, because there is no medicine there, no method of treatment—only a simple, age-old human insight boiled down to its essence: telling sorrow lightens it.

Telling joy deepens it; telling sorrow lightens it. That is why people share their sorrows with one another. Sitting with their own, they weep a couple of moments—and the burden lifts.

But the pain of one who has set out to seek the Divine cannot be relieved by a psychologist. He who has set out for God is beyond all therapies. There is no cure for that illness. First, it cannot be spoken; second, even if spoken, no one understands; say one thing, people hear another.

Devotees have always been taken for deranged. So the devotee has to remain silent, to press his ache into his chest. And it will feel as if this ache will remain day and night; it will not be forgotten by mistake. Whether rising or sitting, doing a thousand tasks, the thorn keeps pricking within. This thorn is beyond time; it is timeless; so time makes no difference. Awake, it is there; asleep, it is there. Even in sleep the devotee’s eyes are wet with tears. Whom does the devotee dream of in sleep? Whom do you dream of?

The man who is crazy for wealth dreams of wealth—finding a treasure-chest lying by the roadside; counting, always counting his money. One who seeks office dreams he has arrived—become prime minister, become president.

But one who seeks God hears the call of His flute even in dreams. His image keeps shimmering. His flavor keeps floating. A single thing holds him—his every breath is held by one song—whether he speaks or not; rises, sits, works or not; whether he goes to temple, to mosque, sits in the shop or the market—God encircles him like a shadow. He is with him.

So you are right to say:
This day-and-night throbbing,
this ache without a cause…

It will not even seem to be “for a reason.” For what is this ache? You cannot close a fist upon God. You cannot hold God in your hand. God comes to those who learn the art of opening the fist. Not even His hem can be grasped. If even a little grip came, one could think, “At least what I seek is something real.” No—He never comes into your grasp. It feels as if—almost, almost!—and yet He never comes within reach. As long as we are, He is not. And as long as we are, the effort to grasp continues. When we are no more, when the grasper is gone, what grasping remains? Then God descends. With the loss of “I,” the experience of God showers. Until then, the ache will remain causeless. Your question is lovely!

This day-and-night throbbing,
this ache without a cause,
what kind of malady is this?
Beloved, now tell me!

This malady is unique. And it afflicts only the blessed. It is the health of healths. It is the greatest benediction of life.

Yet at the beginning it feels like a malady. Separation burns; the life-breath calls, “Beloved, where? Beloved, where?” And far and wide, unto the infinite, no echo returns, no answer comes. Eyes gaze into the sky—no trace of Him is found, His feet cannot be discovered.

Understand the devotee’s pain! Perhaps that is why many people decide to protect themselves from God. Seeing the devotee’s pain, they decide not to get into such trouble. Ordinary human loves throw one into so many tangles—then what of this extraordinary love! The path of love is so difficult! This is love for the Unknown. It has no near or far shore. It is a shoreless ocean. Whoever enters, drowns. Here drowning is the only crossing. Here dying is the only finding.

Moon?
I will surely catch it!
I will keep it in the cage of love,
lay it upon the bough of my heart.
A petal of love,
a shard of longing,
the moon—
with it
I will deck the nest of my dreams!
It is Your very crown!
Alighting like a butterfly
on the faces of flowers,
it will spread out rainbow wings.
I will
swing it in the cradle of the rainbow,
feed it the butter of love!
It is Your very face!
Moon?
I will surely taste it,
place it on the palm of a flower.
It is Your very light.
I will gather it with feeling,
wash it with tears!
It is Your very splendor.
Through the intervals of leaves,
through the meshes of tresses,
I
will surely catch the moon!
In the blue of vision,
in the scattering of moonlight,
it is Your very knowing!

Just so—someone trying to catch the moon; a child stretching out its arms toward it. In Krishna’s life there is a story: when he was small he grew eager to catch the moon. It must have been a full moon rising in the sky; Krishna began to cry, and sulked. Yashoda was distraught—what to do? How to give him the moon? Then a thought struck her; she figured out a trick. She filled a bronze platter with water; the moon’s reflection fell into the platter. She said to Krishna, “Here—now you can catch it!”

It’s a charming story. Likewise, to console those who have cried for God, images have been installed in temples—the moon’s reflection in water upon a bronze plate. The idols in temples are simply deceptions—ways to explain to children. Bow your head, hold the feet, offer flowers, light incense and lamps—fill your mind with the feeling that you have met Him.

But He is not found that way. He is found by dissolving. Do not make an idol of Him—immerse your own idol; then you will find Him. What will you gain by carving a stone image of Him? Break this statue of your ego. Let it go—root and branch. Do not keep back even a grain; otherwise trouble will remain; otherwise the matter will remain like catching the moon. It seems—there it is!—swinging between the branches, beyond the leaves—there it is! Stretch out your hand and seize it! But does the moon ever come to hand?

And the moon is not that far; perhaps someday it may even be grasped. After all, there is a finite distance between man and the moon. But the distance between ego and God is infinite. If ego dissolves, there is God; if ego remains, there is no God. Let this equation settle deep in your heart.

Silence has settled, and I remain.
A land of sleepers—and I remain.
Would that a man might one day know himself—
this fruitless striving—and I remain.
To whom shall I speak, in this democracy,
a crowd of merry-makers—and I remain.
Off to one side I sit tending my fire,
the wrath of wayfarers—and I remain.
Where are my tongue-mates? God alone knows—
only my tongue—and I remain.
Silence from earth to sky:
someone’s tale—and I remain.
Apocalypse in my very nest—
a search for the nest—and I remain.
Where recalling the spring is a crime,
that deathless autumn—and I remain.
Eyes thirst for buyers,
a shop of jewels—and I remain.
Even the bell’s call no longer comes,
a caravan’s dust-cloud—and I remain.
As for devotion—O “Josh,” forbear!
the Merciful God—and I remain.

Silence has settled, and I remain—
everywhere quiet, hush; all is stillness, and I am.

A land of sleepers—and I remain.

Would that one might know oneself—
without knowing oneself, all is vain.
If one were to know oneself…
then it would be seen that the whole life we took for life was not life at all—life is something else.

To whom shall I speak, in this democracy—
a crowd of revelers, and I remain.
Off to one side I sit tending my fire—
the scorn of travelers, and I remain.
Where are my tongue-mates? God alone knows—
only my tongue, and I remain.
Silence from earth to sky—
someone’s tale, and I remain.
Apocalypse in my very nest—
a search for the nest, and I remain.

This is the strangest fact of the world—that we sit in our own nest and seek our own nest.

Apocalypse in my very nest—
a search for the nest, and I remain.

What you are seeking is seated within you. But you look outside. You sit in your own nest; you abide in God; but your presence does not allow His presence to be experienced. Your noise does not allow His still voice to be revealed.

Where recalling the spring is a crime,
that deathless autumn—and I remain.
Eyes thirst for buyers,
a shop of jewels—and I remain.

This is the state of the world: heaps of jewels lie everywhere, piles of diamonds and pearls—but there are no discerning eyes—eyes that can appraise, that can see.

Which eyes can discern? Which eyes can see?
Eyes in which the webs of thought are no more. Eyes in which the mounds of ego are no more. Eyes in which the sense of “I” has ended—those eyes become discerning. Then they see jewels everywhere. Then God is not far—He is near.

The Upanishads say: God is farther than the farthest, and nearer than the nearest.
It sounds paradoxical. Mathematics and logic will protest: if He is far, He is far; if He is near, He is near. What kind of statement is this—that He is farther than the farthest and nearer than the nearest! Yet the statement is true. Let logic and mathematics say what they will—here they have no reach. God is farther than the farthest if your eyes are dusted with ego; and He is nearer than the nearest if your eyes are free of ego.

Even the bell’s call no longer comes—
a caravan’s dust-cloud, and I remain.
As for devotion—O “Josh,” forbear!
the Merciful God—and I remain.

Do not be frightened. Keep worshiping; keep bowing; melt into prayer; let yourself be shaped by prayer—and remember only this:
the Merciful God—and I remain.
God’s compassion is boundless. Seek, and you will find. All who have sought, have found. But whoever has found has paid a great price of pain. Pain is the price to be paid, Veena!

You ask:
This day-and-night throbbing,
this ache without a cause—
what kind of malady is this?

The very name of this malady is love. The very name is devotion. It is an ache without a cause. The reason is not understood; yet it churns the life-breath. The arrow is not seen, yet it keeps piercing. Who is calling is not seen, yet the call keeps drawing you on. Where are you going, in search of whom are you going—nothing is clear, nothing definite. All is vague, like the fog of morning—and yet the feet will not stop. Some challenge has struck the strings of your being. You must go. There is no way to stay, Veena. In whomever this ache has arisen, there is no possibility of stopping. Run—run with as much intensity and haste as you can. Disappear—with as much swiftness and speed as you can. Wipe yourself out. Then, out of this ache itself, bliss is born. Thorns become flowers. Separation becomes union.

And only when separation becomes union will you understand—
what kind of malady is this?
This day-and-night throbbing,
this ache without a cause…

Before that, it cannot be known. How can the thirsty know what the thirst is for? One knows thirst—but one who has never drunk water, how would he know what this thirst is for? Only by drinking water will he know. Yes—by drinking, two things will be clear: the water itself—its taste, its satiation, its contentment; and along with that, what the thirst had been for.

This is a strange arithmetic: only upon finding do we know whom we were seeking. Only through experience do we know what we were in search of.

Therefore the devotee is engaged in a very mysterious quest. That is why he has been called a mystic, a daredevil—because he seeks the One for whom he has neither a clear map nor a clear image. Even if he were to meet Him, how would he recognize Him? There is no certainty about that either. How will recognition dawn? He has never seen Him before.

Yet this too is the wonder of wonders: the very first glimpse of God and recognition is instantaneous. Immediate recognition arises. Hence the wise have called Him self-evident. The recognition does not rest on some past memory; it happens by the very nature of the experience. Knowing Him, all is known. The experience is so intense, so vast, so deep, so high that it penetrates every pore; every hair knows; every breath is certified; every heartbeat becomes absorbed in His dance.

But I understand your question. Your so‑called sadhus and mahatmas have been saying precisely this—that love is a sin. And they have kept saying such futile things for so long, for such a length of time, that its futility and its inner contradiction no longer strike you.

They call love a sin and prayer a virtue. And you never looked closely to see that if love is sin, then prayer too becomes a sin, because prayer is nothing but the purified form of love. Granted, there are impurities in love—but it is not sin. Even if gold is impure, it doesn’t become iron. Impure gold is still gold. Impure, yet gold is gold. As for purification—we can purify it. Burn away the rubbish, pass the gold through fire; what is useless, alien, will burn away; what is essential, pure, will remain.

The difference between love and prayer is only the difference between unrefined gold and refined gold. But both are gold—that I want to stress emphatically. This is where I put my weight. This is the foundational wall of the religion of the human being yet to come.

The past broke love and prayer apart—and the consequences were disastrous. One result was that love became tainted, polluted, condemned. On the one hand we made love a crime; so those who loved were humiliated in their own souls; we bred self‑condemnation within them. And in this world there is no greater calamity than self‑condemnation arising in a person. Through love we created sinners. If love is sin, then whoever loves is a sinner. And who is there who does not love? One loves a wife, another a husband, another a son, a brother, a friend. Disciples love the master; the master loves the disciples! All relationships here are, in one sense or another, relationships of love—relationships are nothing but love. So we made everyone a sinner. We filled the whole world with sin—on the strength of one small mistake: that love is a sin.

The second ill effect was this: once love was branded sin, our prayer turned hollow, lifeless, merely formal. Breath could have come to prayer only from love; but we had declared love sinful. Life could have flowed into prayer from love; we shut the door on life. Prayer draws its sap from the soil of love; we maligned the soil and tried to separate the tree of prayer from it. The soil became without a tree, and the tree became a corpse. These two calamities occurred: love became a sin and prayer became hollow.

That is why your question feels natural. For centuries this has been taught; so the mind asks: perhaps love really is a sin? But a fundamental mistake was made—and because of it the earth was deprived of becoming religious. That mistake has to be corrected; and the sooner the better.

I say to you—I declare—love is virtue.

But do not misunderstand me. When I call love virtue, I am not saying stop at love. I am saying only this: within love gold is hidden. There is dross too. But the dross is not love; it is alien to it. It is not the gold. There will be rubbish, dirt, something else mixed in. Pass it through the fire of separation. Slowly you will find a bird of prayer settling into your hands—winged, able to fly in the sky, so light! For all the weight has fallen away; all the nonessential has dropped. The day you experience prayer, that day you will feel grateful for all your relationships of love; without them you could never have arrived at prayer. You will thank love’s pains and love’s joys, the sweet and the bitter tastes; poison and nectar—love gave you both—and you will be grateful to both. For even poison refined you, and nectar sustained you, until the blessed moment arrived when love became prayer.

When love becomes prayer, the doors of the divine open.

Love is not a sin. No awakened one has ever called love a sin.

People misunderstood. Priests and pundits said it. But what understanding do priests have? What is their experience? They parrot the scriptures. Yes, you can have them recite the Ramayana, repeat the Gita, chant the entire Quran—like parrots, like machines. Machines can do that now. Computers can do all of it—and with greater accuracy than humans. The buddhas said something; the pundits understood something else. In a way it is inevitable: the awakened ones speak from mountain peaks, and the priests understand from dark valleys. The buddhas call from the summits; the priests crawl through shadowed ravines. From down there whatever echoes they hear, they assign meanings to and start interpreting. They turned sugar to dust.

Mulla Nasruddin went to the police station. The officer asked, “What proof do you have that your wife has gone mad? Any doctor’s report, or...”
Nasruddin interrupted, “I don’t know about all that, sir, but what I say is a hundred percent true. When I came home from the office this evening, she smiled to welcome me and offered me a cup of tea with great love—though today isn’t the first of the month.”

People have their own ways of understanding.

Nasruddin was leaving a hotel. The waiter said, “Big man, only an eight‑anna coin as a tip! You are insulting me. It should be at least one rupee.”
Nasruddin said, “Forgive me, brother—by giving you another eight‑anna I don’t wish to insult you twice.”

People have their own understandings, their own interpretations. The awakened say one thing; the fools understand another. No enlightened one has said love is sin. Jesus said: God is love. Buddha said: love is the culmination of meditation. Mahavira said: love is the ultimate taste of samadhi. Ask Narada, ask Shandilya, ask Chaitanya, ask Meera. Do you think any of them would say love is a sin? Impossible. Those who have known prayer, known meditation, cannot say love is sin. But those who have known neither meditation nor prayer, who have collected only the garbage of life, and who have never known love—who, even in the name of love, dragged around something else; who, behind the mask of love, did something entirely different—of course they will say love is sin. That is their experience.

If you examine ordinary human love you will be shocked! There is so much mud mixed into it, so much trash mixed into its gold, that perhaps one percent is gold and ninety‑nine percent is dross. Even hatred hides within what is called love.

Have you noticed? Love turns into hate in no time. How long does it take for a friend to become an enemy? The very woman for whom you were ready to give your life—you are ready to take hers. How long does that take?

Can love so quickly become hatred? If love can become hatred, what kind of love is that! Love cannot become hatred. If it turns into hate, it was never love; it was something else—hatred itself wearing a mask called “love.” In the name of love you exploit. In the name of love you use one another. In the name of love you claim ownership of one another. In the name of love there is politics and strategy. “Love” is a very alluring word, very sweet—it entangles easily. Tell anyone, “I love you very much,” and they fall for your words. You don’t even love yourself—whom else will you love? You say you love your children—no, they are yours, that is why there is “love.” They are “mine,” part of your ego, hence the “love.” And if your son becomes prime minister, suddenly so much love arises! And if your son becomes a bandit and lands in prison, you will stand in court and declare, “I deny he is my son.” The love vanishes.

Your love too is ego. It lasts only as long as it props up your ego, brings you honor, respect. Because this is the “love” people have known, it rings true to them when told that love is sin. But this is not the experience of love at all. You gathered pebbles and then proclaimed that diamonds are sinful! You have no experience of diamonds.

Taste a little of love. Love is a wondrous happening—extraordinary, otherworldly. The little ray of heaven that descends upon this earth is called love. The little glimmer of light that enters this darkness is called love. The touch of moisture that softens this stony heart is called love.

Love means: I rejoice in someone’s life; I am delighted by someone’s being—without cause! Love has no cause. If there is a cause, it is attachment. Without cause, it is love. If you tell someone, “I love you because...,” that is attachment. If, however much you search, you find no reason—and must say, “I don’t know why, but love is”—then it is not attachment. Love descends like the sky; its roots are not in the earth. Attachment has earthly roots. Those who called love a sin erred in words. Let them call attachment a sin—that is right. For attachment means the sense of “mine,” possessiveness. Love knows no attachment. Love is utterly non‑possessive.

You may be startled to hear me, but I repeat: love is profoundly non‑attached. Love does not know clinging. Love does not possess another; nor does it allow itself to be possessed. Love is freedom. Love is an exchange of freedom between two persons. No one is anyone’s master; no one is anyone’s slave. Love does not slip a noose around the other’s neck. Love cuts the nooses. If ever love happens in your life, you will be amazed: you are free, and the one you love is free. Love brings liberation. Love is liberating. This love Jesus called God. Buddha called it the final flowering of meditation. Mahavira called it the nature of kevalya. Such love cannot be called sin.

The talk of priests and pundits, of “saints” and “mahatmas”—so‑called—appealed to you because it matched your experience. Your experience is wrong. Your experience is of pebbles; and when the “holy men” said, “All these diamonds are just stones,” you nodded, “True enough.” The love in your life is so tainted, so smoky—there is no sign of flame, only smoke—that when the pundits say, “Smoke harms the eyes; there is only suffering, where is joy?” their words appeal. For that too is your experience.

But I say to you: love is a smokeless flame. Love does not produce smoke. Yes, the burning of what is foreign to love produces smoke.

Consider when wood produces smoke and when it does not. Dry wood—truly dry, with not a trace of moisture—burns without smoke. Smoke does not arise from the wood; it arises from moisture that is alien to it.

If your love blinds your eyes, if smoke is arising in your life and soot is collecting, if life is becoming entangled and anger, enmity, jealousy, envy are being born—know that there is still much rubbish in your love, much that is alien. To call that rubbish sin would be fine—but it is not right to call love sin.

Love never produces smoke. If your love does, then dry the wood—make love free of attachment. Attachment keeps the wood wet. Make love unattached, non‑clinging. Free love of hatred, jealousy, envy. Then you will be astonished: prayer is no longer needed as a separate thing; your love itself has become prayer.

Do not squander the opportunity life gives you through love. People waste it in two ways. Some, in the name of love, keep doing something else and think that is love—I call them indulgent, worldly; they waste life. The others run away from the world, frightened by the rubbish mixed in love. Some clasp the rubbish to their chest; some flee from it. Those who clasp the rubbish will not find the gold; those who flee from the rubbish flee from the gold too—because here gold and rubbish are mixed together. They too will never know love. Those you call sannyasins do not know love; those you call worldly do not know it either. The enjoyer is deprived, the renunciate is deprived—deprived in different ways, but both deprived. One because he clings to the rubbish; the other because he abandons it. Both fail to see what is hidden in that rubbish. In the mud a lotus lies hidden—neither sees it. That is their blindness.

I would have you live—do not run, do not renounce. Live life in its totality. Live life in all its forms. Only remember this much: where a form brings you pain, know that it needs refinement. Do not abandon; transform. Do not reject; transmute what is wrong within it.

This night is ours, this moonlight is ours—
O that the rushing river of time might pause here.
We too must walk to the goal, but oh, if only
For just a little while this caravan would halt.

From the sea of your colored lips the draught you poured today—
No one ever served, no one ever sipped such swift, fierce wine.
These galaxies, these stars are witnesses, dear friend:
Other than you, I have loved no one at all.

Sin! Life is colorless without sin—
This garden of life bears springtime through “transgression.”
By the oath of drunken lips and eyes half‑intoxicated,
May the customs and rituals of the world drown in a crimson wine.

Your youth, your beauty, your grace—
When these flowers bloom, the whole garden is perfumed.
Stoke and stoke again the flame of rapture,
So this cold air of life may glow and blaze!

This night is ours, this moonlight is ours—
This whole world is ours. This night and this day are ours. This sun is ours, this moon is ours.

This night is ours, this moonlight is ours—
O that the rushing river of time might pause here!

If only, in the beauty of this night, time’s caravan would stop! If only nothing would change! But that cannot be. If you desire it, you will get into trouble. Time’s caravan does stop—but not in nights and days. It stops only in meditation, only in prayer. Time halts, time is forgotten, becomes a distant memory. Yet this longing arises—seeing the night’s beauty—that everything should remain just so. From here attachment is born. From here love begins to turn into clinging.

This night is ours, this moonlight is ours—
O that the rushing river of time might pause here!
We too must walk to the goal, but oh, if only
For just a little while this caravan would halt.

We know we must walk to the goal—some distant unknown destination waits—but still the mind wishes that change cease for a while, that the river’s flow stop. And whenever the mind wants to stop the flow, to stop change—you fall into bondage. The wish to arrest is bondage. When you want things to stay as they are—“this is so pleasant; may this moment not slip away, may it not be lost, may this river not flow on, may time not change”—just where that desire arises, the murder of love begins.

Such desires arise in all our minds. Who doesn’t wish that the pleasant moment last forever and painful moments never arrive? But pleasant moments do not stay, and painful moments do not cease because you wish it. The wise one is a witness in pleasure and a witness in pain. And for the witness, time stands still.

From the sea of your colored lips the draught you poured today—
No one ever served, no one ever sipped such swift, fierce wine.

The lover says to the beloved, “From the decanter of your colored lips the wine you poured today—such potent drink no one ever served and no one ever drank.” Every lover thinks so: “What is happening in my life has never happened to anyone.”

From the sea of your colored lips the draught you poured today—
No one ever served, no one ever sipped such swift, fierce wine.
These galaxies, these stars are witnesses, dear friend:
Other than you, I have loved no one at all.

These are illusions. Thousands before you have loved; thousands are loving now; thousands will love in the future. Love is not some unnatural occurrence. But the ego wants to believe, “No one has loved as I have. All Majnus and Farhads are pale. No one has loved as I have.” Ego seizes love. And wherever ego seizes love, love becomes sin. Ego also wants to believe: “This is my only, exclusive love.”

“Other than you I have loved no one.” Love is not something that stops at one. To make love stop at one is to petrify it. Love flows—flows in all directions. Throw a pebble into a lake and circles arise—circle after circle spreads outward in all directions.

True love is not “from one to one.” To say “love is for someone” is not quite right. True love is a state of being; a state of consciousness. True love means: there is love within you. True love means: wherever you are, there is a rain of love. Whoever is with you, love showers there. We defiled love by binding it to persons. Then we began to keep watch over one another.

Nasruddin was on trial. He had shot his wife. The magistrate said, “Nasruddin, everything else I can understand. You came home and saw your wife in someone’s arms; you became enraged and shot your wife. This I can understand—human. I might have done the same in such a situation. But tell me—why didn’t you shoot the man? Why the wife?”
Nasruddin replied, “Instead of shooting a new man every week, I shot the wife. No bamboo, no flute.”

Can love kill? Jealousy kills. Jealousy is murder. But when you bind love to one, jealousy is inevitable. When you turn love into a relationship, you defile it.

Love should be a state. I don’t say, “Do love”; I say, “Be love.” Then you will find love utterly pure. If you “do love,” it will feel like sin. If you “become love,” it will turn into virtue.

Sin! Life is colorless without sin—
If life is a garden, “sin” is its spring. Without “sin,” life is drab.

Sin! Life is colorless without sin—
This garden of life bears springtime through “transgression.”
By the oath of drunken lips and half‑intoxicated eyes,
May the world’s customs and rituals drown in a crimson wine.

Let me tell you another wonder. Your priests have been crying out—like frogs in the rains—for centuries: “Love is a sin.” Two results followed. One: some people accepted that love is sin and felt themselves condemned, humiliated, wretched, sinful. Love continued—because love is natural; merely labeling it sin changes nothing. But a misfortune occurred—their love became poisoned.

Friedrich Nietzsche noted this. He had a unique eye. If only he had been born in India, he would have become a buddha; born in Germany, he went mad. He had a rare vision; had he found the path of meditation, his insight would have showered diamonds upon the world. Though he had no realization of meditation, perhaps windows opened for him at times—he saw certain truths. He said the priests could not destroy love, but they succeeded in poisoning it.

So one ill effect: the lives of millions became toxic. “Love is sin”—and yet one must love! A mother loves her son and believes love is sin. What kind of love will that be? Crippled, partial, halved. A husband loves his wife and believes love is sin. Between husband and wife stand the “holy men,” warning, “Love is sin—beware!” Wherever you go—even in the remotest mountains—these “holy men” follow you, standing in between, “Love is sin!” Even in the moment of loving, something within keeps whispering, “Love is sin.” So you can never complete love. And an incomplete experience cannot liberate. The mind then says, “Perhaps something is still left. It was not fully known. Maybe the remainder is the real joy. Keep going.” And because the notion of sin lurks behind, completion is never allowed.

So one calamity: love became poisoned, and with it the possibility of prayer receded far away—indeed the very possibility of love receded. A second outcome: in some, from hearing “love is sin,” a morbid curiosity for love arose. That too is a psychological fact: what is forbidden becomes enticing. Write on a door, “Do not peep,” and people will peep. Those who never peeped, who passed that door a thousand times—once the sign says “Do not peep,” they will peep.

Have you noticed? If a woman passes veiled in a burka, every man wants to see what face lies within—even if Mulla Nasruddin is inside the burka! Where there is prohibition, attraction is born.

This, in the Christian story, is the very first mistake God made. He told Adam, “Do not eat the fruit of this tree; the fruit of the tree of knowledge is forbidden.”

Now think. Tell a child, “Don’t go near the fridge; today there is rasmalai inside, and rasgullas.” If you say nothing, it may not even occur to him; he might not go near the fridge at all. Now you have said, “Rasgullas, rasmalai—don’t go near the fridge! See that your feet don’t take you there, or your leg will be broken!” Now for twenty‑four hours he will have only one thought: when will there be a chance? When will mother go to the neighbor? When will father leave for the office? When will he reach the fridge? Now he can’t enjoy his games, his kite‑flying—rasmalai keeps pulling him. Its sweetness has become deeper. Where there is prohibition, juice is created—much juice.

At a cinema it says, “For adults only.” Little boys rush there. I caught one child—he had stuck on a fake mustache. He must have bought it for two annas at the market. I knew the boy and wondered how his mustache had grown so suddenly. He tried to slip by; I stopped him, “Where are you going?” He said, “Don’t block me—let me go quickly; I’m getting late.” I asked, “What’s the matter?” He said, “Why hide it from you? I’m going to the matinee show. It’s for adults only, so I put on this mustache.”

Had it not said “adults only,” perhaps he would not have felt such relish.

You tell little children, “Don’t smoke!” They haven’t even tried smoking—your “kindness” is giving them the message to try. You’re saying, “There must be some fun in smoking.” Now they will smoke.

The first mistake God made—God is called Father; rightly so, because such mistakes only fathers make—was this: Adam simply had to taste the fruit. The same mistake all fathers make: “Don’t do this; don’t do that.” Children don’t even know yet what “lying” is—and you start teaching, “Don’t lie.” The more the prohibition, the more the attraction. “There must be something to it, or why forbid it? There must be something!” When such a hue and cry is raised—“Love is sin!”—there will be people who are drawn to love because of the “sin.” Had it not been called sin, perhaps they would not have felt such relish. Whatever is declared “sinful” becomes juicy.

For instance, if drinking alcohol is a sin, more people will drink. Wherever prohibition is enforced, people drink more. Liquor starts getting made at home—cottage industries bloom. Now Morarji Desai is trying the same in this country—opening cottage industries. Every house will brew liquor; every house will have a still. Hundreds will die from bad liquor. If they don’t get liquor, they will drink spirit. If they don’t get spirit—who knows—petrol, anything. You read in the papers how hundreds die; still a blindness persists: prohibition must be enforced.

If Morarji Desai doesn’t want to drink, who is forcing him? But by banning it you will make even those drink who perhaps would never have drunk. And those who want to drink will drink anyway. No law easily stops anyone. For centuries preachers have said, “Don’t drink”—and drinking continues. In those countries where laws were enacted against drinking, consumption rose. And because liquor is then home‑brewed, who knows whether it is safe or poison? And when alcohol is banned, people find substitutes. “Kamla tonic”! Who knows what all they will invent—they must. And when something is banned, a sickly relish is created.

Sin! Life is colorless without sin—
So if you say love is sin, some will respond, “Sin? Then fine!”

Sin! Life is colorless without sin—
If love is sin, then all right—without sin what taste is there in life? Declare anything sinful and you increase its relish.

Suppose you announced: “Coca‑Cola is a sin.” Then see with what delight people drink it! They won’t gulp it down quickly; they will sip it slowly. Does anyone gulp down sin? They will drink in secret; it will taste far better. Declare it a sin and you heighten the pleasure. Declare anything sinful and you deepen its taste.

A few years ago in America the government decided every cigarette pack must carry the warning, “This is hazardous to health.” The cigarette manufacturers were alarmed: who will buy after reading a bold warning? They lobbied hard, but the regulation passed. Then a strange thing happened. For two or three months sales dipped slightly; then they rose—higher than before the rule.

Psychologists were surprised. Investigations showed that the warning added relish. People said, “Who cares! Are we cowards? So we won’t live to eighty—seventy‑eight will do. What would we do with the two extra years anyway? If you neither drink nor smoke nor love—what will you do living?”

I heard of a man who died—a very pious fellow. At heaven’s gate the usual questioning was conducted. “Did you commit any sins?”
“Sins? I always kept far away.”
“Ever fall in love?”
“Never.”
“Smoke?”
“No.”
“Drink?”
“No.”
“Gamble?”
“No.”
“Racecourse?”
“No.”
The gatekeeper was puzzled and asked, “Then what did you do down there for so long? How did you manage to live so long?”

If people think something is sinful, the very thought adds relish. Some lives become toxic; some become fevered with eagerness for sin.

Sin! Life is colorless without sin—
If life is a garden, some will think sin is its spring.

By the oath of drunken lips and half‑intoxicated eyes,
May the world’s customs and rituals drown in a crimson wine.

Your youth—your beauty—your grace!
When these flowers bloom the whole garden is perfumed.
Stoke and stoke again the fire of pleasure,
So the cold air of life may flame and blaze.

Some get lost in such fantasies. Sin poisons some lives; it brings a kind of heat to others.

Those who called love a sin not only insulted humanity grievously; they harmed it—twice over.

I call love virtue. But not your “love.” You don’t yet know what love is. You have mistaken love’s rubbish for gold. Probe this rubbish a little—within it a diamond lies buried.

What does love mean? Love means giving. Love means sharing one’s life. Love means scattering joy. Love means being ceaselessly concerned that a few flowers may bloom in the lives of others. Love means lighting extinguished lamps.

Love is religion.

Dhirendra! Because a crowd is a crowd. Crowds are of sheep, not of lions. Crowds are of the blind, not of those who can see. Those with eyes have the strength to walk alone. The crowd walks by clutching at one another. The crowd belongs to cowards, not to the brave. Lions don’t flock; there is no herd of lions.

Why do sheep move in a flock? Because in a crowd there is a sense of safety: “We are so many; danger will be less. There is company; nothing will go wrong.” The crowd is blind. I call its gait the gait of sheep. The crowd’s opinions have no value. If a crowd could understand, it wouldn’t be a crowd—individuality would be born. In anyone within whom even a little wisdom arises, he becomes a person; he ceases to be a fragment of the crowd. Even while in a crowd he is alone, even in the marketplace he is alone. He carries an inner privacy. He is not a Hindu, for “Hindu” is the name of a crowd. He is not a Muslim, for “Muslim” is the name of another crowd. There are many such crowds on the earth. Whoever has even a small flame of knowing within, a little intellectual clarity, the capacity to think and to see—such a one does not belong to any crowd. He stands on his own feet. He has friends, but no crowd. He has companions, but no crowd. He has kinship with those of similar experience and understanding, but there is no crowd. He walks by his own inner light. He advances his steps in his own radiance. He is not anxious about security.

You ask: Your philosophy of life is so simple, natural and true; then why does the crowd abuse you?
Precisely because such a simple, natural, true vision frightens the crowd, makes it uneasy. The crowd craves artificial philosophies, for the more artificial the doctrine, the less the pressure of individuality. And the more natural and spontaneous the vision, the more individuality deepens and emerges. The more false you are, the more easily you can be a part of a crowd. The truer you are, the less the crowd can tolerate you.

Otherwise would the crowd have given Socrates hemlock? He was a true man, straight and simple. As he is, so he speaks—no trickery, no whitewash. If two and two make four, he will say two and two make four, whatever the consequence. And how will the crowd, which for ages has maintained that two and two make five, tolerate that? If the crowd agrees with Socrates, it means everyone until now was wrong: the crowd was wrong, tradition handed down for thousands of years was wrong. The crowd cannot bear that. Better that this one man be wrong. And it is not good to let this wrong man live. Because the simplicity and truth of a thing have this peculiarity: their very presence begins to dissolve falsehood. People are bound by a thousand kinds of lies; having lived with them so long, those lies have become dear. And since all are alike, no friction arises.

Once a perfume seller came to a village. He met two villagers in a field. He gave each a little swab and praised his perfume. One villager, quick as a flash, put the swab in his mouth. The other called him mad: “Are you crazy, man? You don’t even know the worth of perfume? You ate it right here? I’ll take mine home and eat it with bread.”
Perfume requires a little discernment. Those who have taken stench to be life itself cannot appreciate fragrance.

Kahlil Gibran tells a famous story: A fishmonger woman came from her village to the city to sell fish. On her way home after selling, she met a childhood friend in the marketplace. The friend had become a florist. “Stay at my house tonight,” the florist said. “Go at dawn. We’ve met after years; there’s so much to talk about!”
The fishmonger stayed. The florist’s home was surrounded by a garden. She served her old friend with a full heart. At bedtime, before she lay down, she went into the garden—there was a full moon, jasmine blooms open—filled her apron with blossoms, and piled them by her friend’s bed, thinking, “A night bathed in fragrance!” But a little later she grew concerned: the fishmonger tossed and turned without sleeping. “Can’t you sleep?” she asked.
“Forgive me,” said the fishmonger. “Take these flowers away. And sprinkle a little water on my basket—the one I brought fish in—and set it near me.”
“Have you gone mad?” asked the florist.
“I’m not mad,” said the fishmonger. “I know only one fragrance: fish. Everything else is stench.”

The crowd knows the smell of fish. It is familiar with it. Repeat the trite words of the scriptures and the crowd is pleased, because those are what it has heard from fathers and forefathers, generation after generation. Their ears have grown calloused hearing them; they feel right.
I tell them what is my realization, my experience. And the irony is, I tell them the very inner soul of the scriptures. But I do not use the scriptures’ words. The words are worn out. Words should be renewed. Each century has to find its own words. Each century must give religion a fresh incarnation. Each century must find its own expression.
So I am saying what Buddha said, what Krishna said, what Mohammed said, what Jesus said—but in my own way. I am a man of the twentieth century. Even if I wished, I could not speak Krishna’s language; it carries no meaning now. It was meaningful the day Krishna spoke to Arjuna. Today there is no Arjuna, no Kurukshetra, no Mahabharata taking place. Even if something is to be said about Krishna’s Gita today, it has to be said in the language of the twentieth century. But you are addicted to clutching at words, not recognizing the essence.
Thus the crowd is disturbed by my new words, my fresh vision. Those who can understand recognize at once that I am saying what has always been said. The language differs; the feeling does not. The expression is different. Perhaps my instrument is different, but the song I sing is the song of the Eternal, the Sanatan song. There is no other song. I am not; it is the Divine who sings—without obstruction I let it reach you.

But the crowd has its habits. I have heard:
The All-India Association of Pickpockets
held an unprecedented poetic symposium.
When for a long time no clapping was heard,
every poem began to fall flat.
We asked the emcee,
“What’s the matter?
All our poets
are putting their best verses on the line,
yet the audience won’t clap!”
He replied, “Sir,
you may not like it,
but the plain fact is:
there’ll be no applause here,
because every one of our listeners
has both hands in the pocket
of the person beside him.
We now reveal
the secret of our symposium.”

When pickpockets organize a poetry meet, how will there be applause? Hands aren’t free—they are in each other’s pockets. Who is there to clap?

The crowd can only understand what props up its sheepishness. And I am proclaiming individuality. I am saying that each person should live his own life. No imitation, no following. Learn from everyone, understand all, but always live by your own light, your own experience! Do not insult yourself. Do not sell your soul. Make no bargains, no compromises with the soul!

So the crowd has its difficulty. And when the crowd doesn’t understand, it will do something! If it cannot clap, it can at least curse. Hands may be entangled, but tongues are free. The crowd abuses me precisely for those things for which it should thank me. Yet I understand their predicament too. My words are against their beliefs. And only if their beliefs break will a little light enter their lives. I am helpless in this: I will go on breaking their beliefs. Let them hurl abuses; I will go on cutting their chains. And of course, if a person has worn chains for a long time and you suddenly start cutting them, he will be angry!

I have heard: In a mountain inn a poet stayed. At the door of the inn hung a parrot. It had only one refrain: “Freedom! Freedom! Freedom!” The innkeeper had been a foot-soldier in the freedom movement and had taught the parrot that lesson. He had been in jails, in prisons; in prison the one cry that arose in his being was “Freedom! Freedom! Freedom!” He taught this to his parrot too.
It’s a curious thing. Though he kept the parrot caged, he taught it “Freedom.” As some parrots mutter “Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram,” this one repeated “Freedom, freedom, freedom.” It never occurred to the owner what he was doing. If he loved freedom, he should have opened the door and let the parrot fly. The mountains are his, the forests his, the lakes his, the trees his, the moon and stars his, the sky his—release him! But no—only the lesson of freedom!
People are like this reading the lesson of liberation. None actually wants to die, to be free. If you ask someone, “Do you truly want liberation? Shall I send you off?” he will flare up at once—“What do you take me for? You want to dispatch me to liberation? Not now. I’ll go someday. This is only preparation for the end.”
People chant “Ram-Ram,” but no one has anything to do with Ram. Such was that parrot. But a poet is a poet. He thought, poor parrot! How insistently he cries for freedom, and no one hears. By day he thought, “Not right, the innkeeper may be offended if I release his parrot.” At night the parrot kept crying. The full moon was out; again and again across the mountain silence his cry rang out: “Freedom! Freedom!” The poet is a poet. He got up, opened the parrot’s cage, and said, “Beloved, fly!” But the parrot did not fly. Instead it looked at the poet in anger: Who is this opening my door?
The poet is a poet. Seeing the parrot not fly, he reached in to take it out. The parrot pecked at him. But the poet is a poet. The parrot kept pecking, clutched the bars with all its strength, yet the poet is a poet—he pulled it out and flung it into the air. His hands were bloodied, but he was happy that one soul was freed. He slept content.
In the morning he was astonished: the parrot sat in the cage—the cage door still open—and was shouting, “Freedom! Freedom! Freedom!”
Those who are habituated to prisons are not easy to free. Those who have grown used to living in blind beliefs are not easy to lead out. Those who have fashioned their prejudices—whose very life-breath is their prejudice—are not easy to divest of it. My hands will be bloodied. But a poet is a poet! Hurl abuses, throw stones, file cases, set the whole machinery of the state after me—but a poet is a poet!

Chaman walon mein idraak-e-numoo badhta hi jata hai,
Mubarak ho rivaaj-e-rang-o-boo badhta hi jata hai.
Salasil bhi hain, zindan bhi hain deewanon ki raahon mein,
Magar ai dost, shore-e-haa-e-hoo badhta hi jata hai.
Ye manzil ki kashish hai ya shu’oor-e-jaada-peemai?
Bahr-e-mushkil mazaak-e-justajoo badhta hi jata hai.
Huzoor-e-mohtasib rindon ki bebaaki koi dekhe,
Jawaban halqa-e-jaam-o-suboo badhta hi jata hai.
Khumar-e-hasrat-e-doshina kaisa aaj to “Taabaan”
Bahr-e-jur’at suroor-e-aarzu badhta hi jata hai.

My wine-worship is a dead man’s indictment, O cupbearer;
in the assemblies of the “rational,” passion is infamous, O cupbearer.

Chaman walon mein idraak-e-numoo badhta hi jata hai—
In the garden, awareness of growth keeps on increasing.
Mubarak ho rivaaj-e-rang-o-boo badhta hi jata hai—
Congratulations! The custom of color and fragrance keeps on spreading.
Salasil bhi hain, zindan bhi hain deewanon ki raahon mein—
Remember this: for the mad lovers—and I am mad, and those with me are mad—on their path there will be chains, there will be prisons.
Magar ai dost, shore-e-haa-e-hoo badhta hi jata hai—
But the joyful news is: we care neither for chains nor prisons. The song we must sing, we go on singing; the call we must raise, we go on raising; the stir we must make, we go on making.
Ye manzil ki kashish hai ya shu’oor-e-jaada-peemai?—
Is it the pull of the Goal, or the thrill of venturing into the unknown? Whatever it is—
Bahr-e-mushkil mazaak-e-justajoo badhta hi jata hai—
Difficulties increase, but with every difficulty the relish of seeking, the joy of the quest, the wonder of inquiry deepens further. Those who stand with me will be abused; stones will be thrown; on their path—
Salasil bhi hain, zindan bhi hain deewanon ki raahon mein—
Magar ai dost, shore-e-haa-e-hoo badhta hi jata hai—
This gathering of madmen keeps growing. In this tavern the number of drinkers keeps increasing. Neither abuses nor chains nor prisons can stop it.
Ye manzil ki kashish hai ya shu’oor-e-jaada-peemai?
Bahr-e-mushkil mazaak-e-justajoo badhta hi jata hai—
And hardships come—day after day—and keep mounting. But as they mount, the joy of the search for the Divine, this quest, grows deeper still.
Huzoor-e-mohtasib rindon ki bebaaki koi dekhe—
Just look at the daring of the drinkers before the moral police!
Jawaban halqa-e-jaam-o-suboo badhta hi jata hai—
As the abuses, chains, and prisons increase, so here the ewers pour more freely; goblets circulate faster. Drinkers drink more, and go on drinking. Our answer to abuses is only this: we will increase the drinkers, we will grow the madmen.
Khumar-e-hasrat-e-doshina kaisa aaj to “Taabaan”
Bahr-e-jur’at suroor-e-aarzu badhta hi jata hai—
What of last night’s intoxication! With each draught the ecstasy deepens, the rapture of longing grows more intense.

Meri baadaparasti murde-ilzaam hai, saqi—
My worship of wine—by “wine” I mean Truth; I call God wine, for whoever drinks never again returns to “sobriety”—
Meri baadaparasti… murde-ilzaam hai, saqi.
Khird walon ki mehfil mein junoon badnam hai, saqi—
In the assemblies of the so-called rational, among those tangled in thought, the lovers and madmen have always been received with abuse, “honored” with insults.
Meri baadaparasti murde-ilzaam hai, saqi,
Khird walon ki mehfil mein junoon badnam hai, saqi.

This is an old story: this madness of devotion has always been infamous among the “wise.” Meera was infamous—so infamous her own family sent her a cup of poison: “Drink and die, at least the family line will be spared disgrace.” And Meera said, “I have lost all concern for public opinion,” and danced from village to village.
Jesus was infamous. Had he not been, would he have been crucified? Do you crucify those you honor? Those you honor you call Padma Bhushan, Padma Vibhushan, Bharat Ratna.
I saw a suggestion in Blitz yesterday which I liked. Morarji Desai abolished those titles. Blitz suggested instituting new ones: “Urine Ratna,” “Urine Bhushan,” “Urine Vibhushan,” “Maha-Urine Ratna.” Urine Ratna: one who drinks quietly and tells no one. Urine Bhushan: one who drinks openly. Urine Vibhushan: one who not only drinks but makes others drink. And Maha-Urine Bhushan: one who not only drinks his own, but drinks others’ as well.
No one gave Jesus any honor—only a cross. But for one like Jesus, even a cross becomes a throne. You cannot give such a man a cross; give it, and it turns into a throne. That is the meaning of the story attached to Jesus: he was crucified and three days later rose again.
There are a few in this world who, dying, come alive; and there are millions who are alive and yet dead, who know nothing of life. Life is known only to those who sip the draught of love, who drink the draught of prayer, who drown in the Divine madness.
Meri baadaparasti murde-ilzaam hai, saqi,
Khird walon ki mehfil mein junoon badnam hai, saqi.

Enough for today.