Prem Panth Aiso Kathin #14

Krishnatirth Bharti! A heart and dry? That is impossible. The heart is, by its very nature, moist, dewy. The very meaning of “heart” is Gangotri, the source from which the Ganga of love springs. Gangotri—and dry? The heart is never dry. And the head is never wet.

You are taking the head to be the heart; hence the question. You are mistaking thought for feeling; hence the confusion. Many are caught in this same confusion because society gives it prestige. Society teaches you to beware of the heart. Society manufactures and conditions this illusion so that your life-energy bypasses the heart and goes straight into the head. This is the greatest conspiracy that has been played upon man for centuries upon centuries.

There are deep vested interests behind it.

And man himself collaborates in this conspiracy, because the intellect is “useful.” What use is the heart? In the marketplace, in the shop, in business, in dealings, thought is needed—calculation is needed, logic is needed. Love has no use. Love is a rose. It has immense beauty, but no utility. Love is the full moon—sing, dance, celebrate—but you cannot sell it in the market! You cannot fill your safe with it!

All of society’s education is of the head. And the head is the exact opposite pole of the heart. Those who remain stuck in the head will certainly never glimpse the Supreme Beloved. No shadow of the Divine falls upon their life—they cannot allow even a shadow. For them, the very being of God would be unauthoritative. God is not for the intellect. Amass a thousand proofs; the intellect can refute them all.

God has no proof; God is experience. Those who have the experience will not give you proofs—they will show the way, take your hand in theirs, and say, Come, walk with us. But the intellect says, First wait! First let it be proved, first let me be convinced—then I will take a step. I am not that foolish. Don’t take me for mad. I am not blind. Put the cash in my hand, then I will proceed.

But God is not an object to be put into your hand. Nor is God a doctrine to be proved by arguments. It is as if the eye were to say, I will go to hear the music only if I first get proof that music exists.

How will you give the eye proof that music exists? At most you can show the eye a veena. But the veena is not music! The eye will ask, Where is the music?

You cannot show light to the ear. The rainbow spreads across the sky—you cannot make the ear perceive it. Lotuses bloom and their fragrance floats—you cannot connect that fragrance to the ear. And if the ear sits stubbornly and says, Until I have proof, how can I accept that fragrance exists, that color exists, that scent exists, that light exists?—you will be in trouble.

This is exactly the trouble. The heart experiences; the intellect demands proof. The heart has no proof; the intellect has no experience. Which of the two will you choose?

For utility’s sake, people choose the intellect. If you want to pile up wealth in the safe, love does not mint money. Love is not a mint. In truth, if money is near, even that may go—because love has the capacity to give. Love delights in giving. Love knows how to squander and be blissful. The intellect grabs and won’t let go; it pounces, it snatches, it is aggressive; it plays all kinds of tricks. By hook or by crook, the intellect will gather money, gain position, gain prestige, fulfill ambitions. The things that people call “success” in this world are all obtained through the intellect. Therefore the ambitious one remains empty of prayer. One who runs after worldly success forms no bond with God. His whirl does not meet the Supreme Beloved.

Krishnatirth, you ask: “Will the longing be born even in my dry heart...”

The heart is never dry. That simply cannot be. The heart is always moist. Yes, you have bypassed the heart. Logic is dry—utterly dry—there is no moisture in it.

But you have taken the head to be the heart. People even love these days and say, “I think I have fallen in love.” People come to me and say, “A thought is arising that I have fallen in love.”

Thought and love! Now people are trying to love through thinking. No path from thought leads to love. Thought has to be transcended. The junk and litter of thought has to be pushed aside. That is why thought calls love blind, calls love mad.

If you listen to thought and play safe, you will surely miss the Supreme Beloved. It is the great irony that in this world the intellect succeeds and love fails. In that world, love succeeds and the intellect fails.

There is a famous saying of Jesus—hold it carefully and carry it as deep within as you can. Jesus said: Those who are first in this world will be last in the kingdom of my God; and those who are last here will be first in the kingdom of my Lord.

Do you understand? Those who are successful here are failures there; those who are failures here are successful there. It is a completely different arithmetic—two different worlds, different dimensions.

Come a little down from the head, Krishnatirth! Don’t only think—also feel. Don’t only think—hum a little. Don’t only arrange arguments—dance a little. When the sky fills with stars, dance. Dance with the stars. The stars are dancing; the whole existence is dancing. This existence is raas! Enter this raas. And when the veena plays, let your feet begin to tap. And when flowers bloom, drop the web of arguments; talk a little with the flowers, converse, enter into dialogue with them.

The intellect will say, What madness! Talking to flowers!

But the one who cannot talk to flowers will not be able to talk to God either. Flowers are at least manifest, at least before you. And one whose eyes are not filled with beauty, whose ears are not resonant with music, whose feet never begin to throb to dance, who is never wonderstruck, enchanted by the mysterious expanse of existence—the poetry of this world never touches him—he is unfortunate!

Allow the poetry of this world to touch you. God is nothing else but another name for the poetry hidden in existence. God is not a person; God is the experience of the beauty permeating every pore of this world. God is not in temples and mosques; He is in the moon and stars, in seas and mountains, in the eyes of people, in the wings of birds, in the petals of flowers, in butterflies in flight.

If you are talking about the god of temples and mosques, you have come to the wrong man! I cannot give you the temple-mosque god. That is a web of the mind, the play of the intellect. That which sits enthroned in temples is the construction of the intellect. And if the intellect manufactures God, that god will be false. God is the One who has created us. And look at the joke—we are busy creating Him! You make a Ganeshji, take him out in procession, raise a hullabaloo—having made him, you also immerse him. What games!

Little children marry their dolls; you stage a Ramlila. Rama and Sita are being wed; the whole town participates. Between the children’s play and your play there is no qualitative difference—only a difference of scale. Their dolls are small; your dolls are big. That’s all.

Do not go into temples and mosques to seek Him! Yes, if He begins to appear to you everywhere else, I am not saying He won’t appear to you in temples and mosques too. If He begins to appear everywhere, He will appear there as well. But it will not happen the other way—that first He appears in the temple and mosque and then everywhere. He is alive in the tree! The idol in the temple is your hewn stone. The tree is green, burgeoning now, becoming a flower. Connect with the living; drop the doctrines about God. Do not grope in the Gita, the Quran, or the Bible. I am not saying there is nothing in them—there is much! But first relate to the living Divine, then the Gita will become alive too. Then the Quran will not remain just a book—your experience will make it living as well. But your experience is primary.

And do not put conditions upon God! Do not say, Appear to me first, then I will experience you; come before me first, then I will see you. Do not set conditions on God! Only those who can move without conditions can move toward God. God is—He simply is. When was He absent? How could He be absent? That which cannot be nonexistent at any time is what we call God. Do not bind Him with conditions! Open your heart—unconditionally! Uncover yourself. And you will be amazed! But we keep binding conditions.

You sing, and I will compose songs—
gentle songs of beauty and rasa!
You sing, and I will compose songs,
gentle songs of beauty and rasa!
Of the fragrant blossoms in the garden,
of bees that wander sipping nectar,
of kohl-dark cloud-curtains turning and turning,
of the smiling, laughing lightning,
of the river’s playful waves,
of rays kissing their faces,
of rays that seem to dance
in dewdrops on the flowers!
I will compose songs of nature’s beauty,
songs of the ever-new beauty!
You sing, and I will compose songs,
gentle songs of beauty and rasa!

Of man, of life, of the world,
of the mind’s inner traffic,
of the seen and the unseen,
of the mortal and the immortal,
of the earth’s myriad forms,
of the three worlds’ many distinctions,
of the future, the past, the present,
of becoming and the fierce overthrow!
Of the distinctions of eternal truth, of essence,
I will compose many-hued, new songs!
You sing, and I will compose songs,
gentle songs of beauty and rasa!

That intoxicating beauty, unseen and seen,
pervading every particle in all directions—
I will bind it in words and meters,
in metaphors, similes, and analogies!
I will craft the words—do you give them tune,
pour life into these inert words,
fill the melody with the nectar of life,
make my songs immortal!
You sing, and I will compose songs,
new, rapture-filled songs of rasa!

This dry, insipid routine of life,
this resting, weary routine,
goes on unceasingly—
its breaking is near-impossible!
By the marriage of music and song,
by the marriage of words with melody,
let us create a new world of beauty,
a new, rapture-filled world of rasa!
You sing, and I will compose songs,
gentle songs of beauty and rasa!

Such a condition you have placed upon God—“You sing first, then I will compose”—that neither will He ever sing nor will you ever compose anything. You compose—He is always singing. Become the flute—He is always singing. Place the veena of your heart before Him, and His fingers will pluck your strings—they always have; that is His eternal way.

Do not say, “Will the longing for the Supreme Beloved be born in my dry heart?” It has already been born—hence your question. That you can call Him the Supreme Beloved means the seed has been sown somewhere. Even to ask, “Will the longing arise?” is a sign that longing has begun. Somewhere the thirst has started to stir. Perhaps it is still in the unconscious, deep within; the news has not yet reached the upper layers of the mind. News takes time to arrive. The seed falls into the soil, breaks open, sprouts, begins to germinate; it takes time to pierce the ground and appear above.

Within you, Krishnatirth, the longing to attain Him has already arisen. Otherwise you would not be here; otherwise you would not be a sannyasin; otherwise this question would not arise. But somewhere there is a misconception—drop it: the head is not the heart. Do not give too much prestige, too much value to thinking. Give it to feeling! And feeling is a very different matter. In the morning the sun rises and you say to someone, Ah! What a beautiful morning! What a lovely sun! The birds are singing! The fresh dawn descending! These colors spread across the sky! These sunrays sparkling in the dewdrops clinging to the leaves! What a beautiful morning! What a sweet dawn! And if someone says, Prove it—what is beauty? What is its definition? What do you mean by calling it beautiful?—what will you do? You will be left utterly defeated.

In this way the saints have been left defeated. They know, they see, they recognize, they drink—but it is like the mute tasting jaggery. They cannot speak. And the questions you ask seem very meaningful; they are not. No one has yet been able to answer “What is beauty?” Beauty has been experienced—countless ones have experienced it. From the experience of beauty, people have taken up the brush and painted; from the experience of beauty, people have gathered words and sung songs; from the experience of beauty, they have beaten the drum and danced. But no one has been able to define what beauty is.

If beauty itself cannot be defined, how will the Supreme Beauty be defined?

You fall in love with a woman—or with a man—and someone asks, What is love? Your heart is flowing, every pore is thrilled, your eyes are shining, your face has a new expression never seen before; you are bathed, utterly fresh; for the first time in life there is urgency, movement, joy, celebration. But someone asks, What is love? And you will falter; you will not be able to answer.

If love itself has no definition, how will the Supreme Love be defined? And even in the case of ordinary lovers we cannot say anything definitive. The woman you have loved—if someone starts questioning about her—you will not be able to answer. You may insist she is beautiful; if someone says, No, what will you do?

Majnun was summoned by the king of his town. The king must have felt compassion—Majnun used to wander the lanes weeping, day and night crying out, “Laila! Laila!” The whole town began to pity him: What a madman! The king called him and said, I feel sorry for you. And hearing your constant praise of Laila, even desire has arisen in me to see her. She must be very beautiful—only then would you be so mad! Yesterday I went to see your Laila. And you are utterly insane; there is nothing in that woman—an ordinary sort. I feel pity for you and for your tears. So I have summoned the twelve most beautiful women of my palace; choose any one of them. The palace, surely, held the land’s greatest beauties. He lined them up and said, Choose.

Majnun went to each and refused one by one. When he had refused all twelve, the king said, Are you in your senses? Have you seen women more beautiful than these? And what is there in Laila before them?

Majnun began to laugh. He said, My lord, you will not understand. To see Laila you need my eyes. Without my eyes you cannot see Laila. And among these, not one is Laila—not even the dust at Laila’s feet.

Majnun cannot prove anything. He can only say: See through my eyes.

But how can one see through another’s eyes? I cannot give you my eyes. Even if I could, by the time they reached you they would no longer be capable of seeing. I keep calling you to see through my eyes—what else am I doing when I speak to you day after day?—but there is no way.

Yes, from my speaking at least this much may happen: perhaps you will understand my thirst a little; perhaps you will think, This man goes on and on—there must be something, some experience. Let me search too! And there is nowhere to go but within your own heart. Come down from the head to where the heartbeat is; there lies the true center of your life.

Even today when you fall in love, you place your hand on your heart, not on your head. If someone says, “I have fallen in love,” and places his hand on his head, you will ask, “Has love broken, or begun? What’s the matter?” People put their hand on the head when love breaks. When love happens, you place your hand on the heart—and on a particular spot. That is where the center of life is hidden, where the life of life throbs. There is the Gangotri. However many rocks cover it, they can be removed. The rocks belong to the mind.

Remove the rocks! Do not set conditions on God! Do not demand proofs! He has none—though He alone exists. Open your eyes; become a little more feeling, a little more sentimental; awaken sensitivity; embrace trees; kiss flowers; meet the stars with your eyes—lock eyes with them. Gradually, the poetry of life will set your heart in motion. And once your heart begins to be stirred, you will know that God is—and only God is. Besides Him, there is no one.

I am speaking only one thing—the same in the morning, the same in the evening. I said the same yesterday, I am saying the same today, and I will say the same tomorrow. But what I speak is my own direct experience, my realization, my felt knowing. Therefore, even if I say it a hundred thousand times, it does not turn stale. My breath is in it; my heart’s heartbeat is in it. And whoever is willing to listen will feel its freshness every day. It was the same sun that rose yesterday, and the day before, and it is the same sun that has risen today. But just look in the early morning—how fresh it is! Yesterday the same trees were there; today the same trees; they will be the same tomorrow—and how fresh they are! What is the secret of their freshness, their newness? Only this: they are alive.

Sit and read the Quran every day—if not today, then tomorrow it will grow stale. It is not your experience. Words become a parrot’s chant. A man sits repeating Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram, while a thousand thoughts run within. His Ram-Ram has become mechanical. If you listen to that Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram, you will feel drowsy, bored, you will yawn.

One day I asked Mulla Nasruddin, “Nasruddin, you take such astonishing yawns! I’ve seen many yawners, but if there were an Olympics for yawning, you would win. Where did you learn this?” He said, “You know I have four wives; I am a Muslim. There is no other opportunity to open my mouth—only yawning remains as a liberty.”

You will see people sleeping in temples and mosques. There are doctors who tell their patients with insomnia, “Go to religious gatherings; you will fall asleep there. If you don’t, no sedative can help you.”

Wherever things are repeated like parrots, mechanically, there can be no freshness. But where experience flows spontaneously, there will be freshness. Hang a picture of the Ganga in your home; it will not be fresh—it will grow stale day by day. But the Ganga you photographed never turns stale. The Ganga is new every day—new patterns, new moods, new gestures. Go to her banks every day and you will be amazed: the same Ganga, and yet not the same!

Heraclitus has said: you cannot step into the same river twice, because the river keeps flowing. And I say to you: it is hard even to step into the same river once. For in the very time it takes you to step, the river is running away. You put your foot in, the water touches your foot—already it has gone, on its way to the ocean. Your foot sinks deeper; that water too is running on. By the time your foot reaches the riverbed, how much water has flowed! Each moment it is new. Pictures do not become new.

When Mohammed spoke, each day it must have been fresh. The Quran cannot be fresh; it is a picture. When Krishna spoke to Arjuna, every word must have been fresh—fresh like the morning dew, fresh like the night’s stars. But the Gita cannot be fresh; the Gita is a picture. Pictures are not fresh; pictures are dead. Where is life in a picture? Life goes on growing, changing; a picture remains exactly as it is.

A mother was showing the family album to her son. In one photo a handsome young man in a fine suit and tie, hair carefully groomed, was visible. The son asked, “Who is this?” The mother said, “Oh, don’t you recognize him? This is your papa.” The boy said, “This is my papa? Then who is that bald man living in our house?”

Pictures stop; they get stuck in one place. Pictures do not go bald. Pictures stay where they are. Life does not stop; life keeps flowing. Life is the Ganga, not the Ganga’s picture.

I do not know what I said to you yesterday or the day before. I only know what I am saying to you now. Though it will be the same, because I sing only one song. There may be new facets, new angles, new words, but what I am saying—the message—is one.

You ask: “You have been speaking for years. You speak every day—morning and evening. Yet whatever you say always feels new. What is the secret?”

There is no secret. It is very simple. I say only what is my realization. I am no pundit. Pundits are parrots. I am no pundit. I simply say only as much as I can see. However much I say, I cannot say it—and that is why I must speak day after day. And as long as I live, I will keep speaking. Even if I remain silent, my silence will point to the same; if I speak, it points to the same. Say it this way or that—many contradictions you will find in my statements, yet from every side I am pointing to the same. Sometimes from the north, sometimes from the east, sometimes from the west—but my finger is raised toward the one moon.

There is no secret at all! I am not an orator. I know no art of speaking. This is not some speaking style. Is this any way to speak—the way I speak? Speaking styles belong to politicians.

Satyapriya has sent a little joke.

Once a brand-new leader, Budh Singh, stood in an election. He had no experience with speeches. When the lecture tour began, his comrades said, “You too say something—whatever arises in your heart.” He said, “Brother, I don’t know how to speak; I have no experience.” His friend said, “A leader’s speaking is very simple. Just keep pulling one thing out of another.”

So the new leader said this—

“Brothers and sisters, I am neither a speaker nor a loudspeaker. The ‘speaker’ used to be Kallan Miyan of our neighborhood, who these days is in the grave. Two kinds of flowers were offered on his grave: marigolds and roses. And as you know, from roses one makes gulkand. And gulkand is the root of all diseases. And you must also know that among roots, the longest roots are of the muskmelon. And it is common knowledge that one muskmelon changes color by seeing another muskmelon. And colors are very famous in Germany. And it was in Germany that Hitler was born, who fought the Second World War. And wars are of many kinds—like Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday. And I am Budh Singh. Therefore, vote for me.”

That is the art of spinning one thing out of another!

Orators are politicians—secrets of speaking belong to them. I am not an orator; there is no secret to my speaking. A song has been born within that wants to spread—inevitably, just as when you throw a pebble into a still lake, ripples arise and travel far, touching the shores—inevitably. Just as birds sing in the morning because the sun has risen—they must sing to welcome it. If you ask them their secret, the birds will be astonished. Just as flowers bloom—if you ask them the secret of blooming, flowers too will be in a fix; they cannot answer.

I too have no secret. In my speaking there is no method, no scheme, no style. But whatever is in my heart, I pour it out. And whoever is willing to bear it in their heart will be stirred by it; they cannot but be stirred. Yes, those who sit completely closed, hiding behind walls—walls of iron—and the walls of logic are stronger than walls of iron; those who are imprisoned in the dock of their own mind; those who cannot set aside their notions even for a little while; who cannot open a window to see whether morning has come; who cannot lift the curtain to see whether the moon has risen—they will not be able to understand me, will not be able even to hear me. Their ears may hear, but if the words do not reach the heart, they have not been heard. The heart listens. When the ear connects with the heart, a shravaka is born—a true listener is born. And if there is right listening, my words will feel fresh to you every day. Though they are as ancient as this universe. I am saying what the seers of the Vedas said; what is in the Bible, in the Quran, in the Gita, in the Dhammapada. My message is as old as existence—and as new as this morning’s dew. This is the paradox of the Divine—eternal and ever-new!

But you will understand me only when you set aside your understanding. There is a kind of understanding that is not understanding; and there is a kind of not-knowing that is understanding.

Tertullian, a great and wondrous fakir of the West, has a famous saying: there is a knowledge in the world that is worse than ignorance—a knowledge that does not know and cannot know. That is what I call the pundit’s knowledge. And Tertullian also said: there is a kind of ignorance that knows—a kind of ignorance higher than all knowledges.

When I speak the language of the heart, I am speaking of that ignorance. Like little children—ignorant, innocent, simple, like a mirror, blank; no dust has settled yet. If you understand me like that, you will be transformed even while understanding; revolution will happen even while listening. Sitting here with me, one day suddenly you will find: you have been dyed in a color you had never imagined, never even dreamed.

But if you come carrying your notions—your cleverness, your arguments, your doctrines, your scriptures—then it is very difficult. I cannot reach you. I try in a thousand ways to feel my way to your heart, but no door is found, no path is found. Then I will say something, you will understand something else, and what you understand you will go out and proclaim as my words. That will be your understanding.

Husband called his wife
near,
lovingly,
and explained the meaning of love—
“Though love
is a flame,
it is fire,
it is smoke,
it is a spark,
yet the yearning of love
is so sweet,
so dear.”
The wife said—
“Why don’t you say it simply—
love is a brazier.”

The husband must have been a poet. So the poet says—

Husband called his wife
near,
lovingly,
and explained the meaning of love—
“Though love
is a flame,
it is fire,
it is smoke,
it is a spark,
yet the yearning of love
is so sweet.”
The wife said—
“Why don’t you say it simply—
love is a brazier.”

The wife has her own kind of understanding. Where flames, fire, smoke, and sparks are being spoken of—why drag it on so long? Say “brazier” and the matter is finished! If you understand through your preconceptions, I will say “flame,” I will say “spark,” I will say “fire”—and you will understand “brazier.” Love is not a brazier. It is indeed a flame, a spark, smoke, a blaze, a conflagration—but not a brazier.

What I say—if you understand exactly that—you will find it both eternal, ancient, timeless, and also just-born, new, fresh, newly bathed. But if you hear through your notions, there will be difficulty. Then you will either find support for your beliefs or opposition to them. In both cases you will miss. Some people think what I said supported their beliefs—sometimes it may happen. They go away pleased; their ego is gratified: what we believed was right. Of course they already know it is right; they rope me in as further proof. Others will be hurt by what I say because their belief breaks. They go away annoyed. They say I am wrong—they, of course, are right. Therefore, if I do not fit them, I am wrong.

The one who thinks, “He matched me; therefore he is right,” and the one who thinks, “He didn’t match me; therefore he is wrong”—both have missed. Don’t try to align me with right and wrong at all. What is the hurry? When you listen to music, you don’t think “right or wrong,” “according to scripture or not.” When you listen to music you are delighted—you fall in rhythm, you begin to sway. Listen to me as music is listened to—sway! In that very swaying, a bridge of love will bind my heart and your heart. A thin thread of affection will tie my heart to yours. My emptiness and your emptiness will draw near. The coming close of two emptinesses is called satsang. And where there is satsang, every day it will feel as if a new sun has risen, new flowers have bloomed, a new spring has come—such as never was before and such as will never come again.

Satsang is a blessing.

But such blessing has been growing rarer on this earth with each passing day. People listen as mere auditors. Satsang is a coming a little closer. Heard in the head—you are a listener; taken into the heart—that is satsang. And in the head there are huge walls—someone is a Hindu, someone a Muslim, someone a Christian, someone a Jain, someone a Buddhist, someone a Communist; someone an atheist, someone a theist; someone believes this, someone that. If you truly know, then I have no obstacle with you. If you have known, there is nothing to worry about. Then you need not listen to me either. Who needs to listen after knowing? One who has known—has known. The matter is finished; he has reached home; the journey is complete. If you know, then there is no difficulty at all. But you do not know, and you believe that you know—then a wall stands there.

Walls
in front,
behind,
to the right,
to the left—
walls,
behind the walls, more walls,
behind walls, behind, behind…
more, and more, and more…
walls, walls, walls…
Whom to call?
How long to call??

Many times on seeing someone it feels—whom to call? How long to call? And I cannot remove your walls. You built them; you alone will have to remove them. You are their owner. No one can interfere. Who am I to break your walls? And if your walls are dear to you, congratulations—keep them.

But within those walls you have become a prisoner; you are restless, you want to get out, you flutter; yet you do not come out, because you have built those walls with great effort—across many lives. Many times you are about to set out on the path and you miss again. Many times you stand at a crossroads and keep thinking where to go. The opportunity passes while you go on thinking!

The mirror of life
has shattered,
the light of trust
has lost its way!
To wake, to rise, to walk, to move—
the heart urges it;
hope asks despair,
“Now in which direction is your intention?”

Only intentions go on being asked—Where to go now? Where to head? Why go? Why choose this direction? And one who keeps brooding like this will go on thinking for lives upon lives and will not move even an inch, will not change even an inch. In this way many people have remained lying like stones. Those who could have been roses have remained lying like rocks. Startle yourself a little, gather a little awareness, look closely—have you not, perhaps, left your heart lying like a stone? It holds vast possibilities. It holds the ultimate possibility. In it the Divine can be revealed.

Jagdish! Have you found the light? Have you become illumined?
If you had become illumined, you wouldn’t ask this question. Because one who is illumined doesn’t have to ask how to show light. Light begins to pour from him. When a lamp is lit, the lamp does not ask, “Now how should I light up the room?” The lamp is lit—there is light. The lamp is lit—light begins to fall on people’s paths. The lamp is lit—and even those wandering in distant darkness begin to see. Someone lost in a far-off forest can also see the lamp in someone’s hut.
Once the lamp is lit, light flows of its own nature. You simply do not ask.

Your lamp has not yet been lit. Yes, you want the pleasure of showing light! And such a delusion arises because your so‑called sadhus and saints keep telling you: Serve! Work for people’s welfare! Do charity! These things have been said so often that you have forgotten that if your own good has not yet happened, how will you do good for others? If you have not yet served yourself, whom will you serve? Your own lamp is extinguished—how will you light another’s lamp? Yet people have kept teaching you this.

I do not say that to you. I teach you the supreme self-interest.

The word “self-interest” is very dear to me! Its etymology is wondrous: swarth comes from swa + arth—realizing the meaning of oneself; attaining one’s own intent. Mahavira is self-interested, Buddha is self-interested, Krishna is self-interested. And your so‑called monks and mahatmas tell you to be altruistic, to live for others! Yes, with Buddha altruism happened—but that is secondary. It was not done; it happened. He fulfilled self-interest, and altruism happened. He lit his own lamp, and from it others received light.
Jagdish, just as you have asked me, one day a man went and asked Buddha the very same thing. He was extremely rich, a multimillionaire. It is said he had so much wealth—boundless—that the garden in which he had housed Buddha… Buddha liked it and said, “Turn this garden into a monastery! So that whenever monks pass by they may stay here.” The rich man said, “But this garden belongs to a friend of mine; I’ll have to buy it.” He asked the friend. The friend was obstinate; he was anti‑Buddha. And he said, “If you want to buy it you’ll have to pay whatever price I ask.” The rich man wanted to offer the garden at Buddha’s feet, so he said, “I’ll pay whatever you ask; how much do you want?” The price he named perhaps no one had ever named. He said, “Pave the land with gold coins. As much land as you can cover with gold coins will be yours. Lay down gold coins—that is the price.” It was a big garden, three to four hundred acres. But that rich man bought that three‑ to four‑hundred‑acre garden by spreading gold coins, and donated it to Buddha. He had plenty—boundless plenty. He had no son, no children.
He asked Buddha, “I have a lot of wealth. I want to use it for the welfare of the world. Please command me—what welfare should I do?” And it is said, Buddha’s eyes filled with tears and he looked down. The man asked, “Why have you become sad? And why do I see tears in your eyes?” Tears in Buddha’s eyes! Buddha said, “They are for you. Because you have not yet done your own welfare, your own benediction—how will you do someone else’s? You will go to light lamps; my fear is that you may put out someone’s already lit lamp.”

And this is exactly what often happens with missionaries: lit lamps get snuffed out. Off they go!…

Sometimes Christian missionaries come to see me: “We have come to put people on the path of Jesus.” I ask them, “Are you yourselves on Jesus’ path? Put your hand on your heart and swear by Jesus!” They are afraid—they cannot even swear by Jesus. If they swear falsely, then on Judgment Day… that fear sits inside them, learned from the book: that on the Day of Judgment Jesus will separate—his sheep on one side, and those who are not his sheep will be thrown into hell. Better not get into that mess! I tell them, “Remember Judgment Day: if you swear a false oath by Jesus you will land in trouble. And I will also be present on Judgment Day; I will be a witness that this man swore!” Then they say, “No, I have not yet had the experience.” And you have gone to give experience to others!

I lived for many years in Jabalpur. There is a very famous Christian seminary there where they train missionaries: Leonard Theological College. After six years of education they become competent to make others Christians! The college principal took me to show me around. I was astonished. Everything is taught there. In one class they were teaching: when you read from the Bible and explain to people, on which word to raise your hand, on which word to pause, which word to say loudly, which softly; what kind of gestures to make, how your eyes should be, what expression your face should carry.

On the way back I said to the principal, “Shall I tell you a joke?” He said, “A joke? Why?” I said, “If you hear it you’ll understand.”

In a theological college a teacher was instructing the students—soon to become missionaries; their convocation was near. He was giving them the final keys: “See, wherever Jesus says ‘the Kingdom of God,’ your face must instantly bloom with joy, your eyes fill with light, your lips with a smile; your face must open like a flower. The Kingdom of God! There should be a glimpse of it on your face.” A student stood up and asked, “And when Jesus speaks of hell?” The priest said, “Then your ordinary face will do. Nothing to be done.”

An ordinary face already announces hell. And that face which gives a glimpse of heaven will be false—mere acting.

“You are producing actors,” I told him. “These will initiate people into Christianity? They themselves are false; they will drag others into an even greater abyss of falsity. Give them an experience of God in their own lives! With such hollow training you are producing paper flowers—there will be no fragrance. And these paper flowers will produce more paper flowers still; thus continues a chain of the false.”

Buddha said rightly to that man, “I feel great compassion for you. You have much wealth—but how much meditation? Without meditation, yes, you will give, you will distribute; but your ego will become stronger. You will say, ‘See! I too am someone—one in a thousand, one in a million! Is there any donor like me?’”

Buddha said, “I remember well: when you bought this garden and laid gold coins upon the land, and afterwards you came and offered it at my feet—then the ego I saw within you, the fierce flame of ego—‘Is there anyone else who buys land by laying gold coins?’ In that moment I felt I had made a mistake telling you to turn this garden into a monastery. I did you no good; I harmed you. Your ego blazed up. Now you want to serve the world. You know death will come, wealth will be taken away. You have no children. So, all right—do service! This wealth will go; if you carry the coin of merit with you, you will even stand stiff‑necked before God.”

“No,” Buddha said, “I cannot tell you to serve. First I will tell you: meditate. First light the lamp within you!”

That is exactly what I say to you too, Jagdish!

You say, “I want to show light to the world!”

Why? Has the world harmed you somehow? If people are sitting happily in their darkness, why will you show light? If people are blissful in their darkness, do you want to spoil their bliss? Will you not even let people sit peacefully in the dark? Each his own darkness, each her own delight. If someone wants to live in darkness, that is his right. It is his birthright. It is his freedom. Who are you to show light? It is like two lovers sitting in the dark and you arrive with a torch: “We are bringing light!” Don’t do that. You are not a policeman, are you? That wherever you see anyone, you reach there with a flashlight.

You are not filled with the longing to light your own lamp!

This often happens. People listen to me. I sing again and again the songs of meditation, the glory of meditation. What arises in their minds is not “Let me meditate,” but they come to me and say, “How can we spread meditation?”

It’s like this: In a village there was a great miser. He had never given charity to anyone—ever. Not a single roti to a beggar. He was so well‑known that if some beggar came asking at his door, other beggars would know, “This one is new, must be from another village.” People would simply bypass his house; nothing could be gotten there. But a flood hit the village; many houses were washed away. Homes had to be rebuilt for the poor. Those collecting contributions said, “Let’s try once—even he may feel compassion! The suffering is great: people’s homes have been swept away, someone’s wife drowned, another’s livestock, someone’s husband, someone’s children—and they sit homeless. Perhaps he’ll melt! Even stone can melt. Let’s try; at worst, he will refuse.”

So they went, prepared with their best persuasion. They sang the great glory of charity. Little by little they became hopeful, because the Seth, hearing the praise of charity, grew eager, keen, delighted. They felt sure now something would come. Seeing his face, they hoped. And when they had finished their entire hymn of praise, the Seth stood up and said, “What you say appeals to me. Absolutely right—charity has great glory.” They said, “Then give us something.” He said, “What is this ‘give’? I will come with you; I too will beg for charity, just as you beg. The glory of charity has won me over! Count me yours, one of you. As you go asking, so will I go asking. Charity is such a great thing—I am ready. We will explain to people; we will have them give.”

Just imagine the plight of those collectors! As the saying goes, we came to sing the Lord’s praises and ended up carding cotton. We were singing the glory of charity so that he would give; and what he understood from the glory of charity was that from today he too will beg! If charity is so great, we will have people give!

After hearing about meditation, will you meditate? Or will you make others meditate?

I certainly want you to be illumined—but you first! Yet there is less fun in being illumined oneself; there is more fun in enlightening others. Why? Because in trying to improve the other there is a certain flavor of violence. Understand this; it is subtle. In correcting others you become the master; his neck is in your hands. That is why people give so much advice—asked or unasked. Advice is the thing most given in the world, and the least taken. Still, people go on giving. Who takes whose advice? Did you take your father’s advice? He died giving advice—did you ever take it? And the same advice you are now giving your son, well knowing he won’t take it either—he’ll give it to his son! These things are never taken; they are only given. You know very well you never listened, your son won’t either—and yet you go on giving. There is a certain pleasure in giving advice.

What is that pleasure? In giving advice you are up, the other down. You are the wise one; the other is ignorant. You are sensible; the other is foolish.

Now you say, “I want to show light to the world.”

In this you have already assumed one thing: that you have the light; that your lamp is lit. You have assumed that.

I want to tell you: if your lamp were lit, you would never ask this question. Light begins to spread on its own. When a flower blossoms, fragrance starts on its own. When clouds gather, rain happens. Do clouds come and ask, “Shall we rain? Shall we quench someone’s dry fields? The earth is thirsty—shall we give her ecstasy?” Clouds don’t ask; they rain. A lamp doesn’t ask, “Is a traveler lost—should I give light?” Light falls on the path; a lost one sees the way. A man wandering from afar, seeing the lamp, comes to it.

But if I tell you, “Go show people the light,” there is danger. You will start searching for people. Someone will get caught in your net; you will start dosing him with sermons—whether he wants them or not!

You know this type very well. When you meet them on the street, your heart starts pounding: “Now I’m done for! Caught! Here comes the wise man! Where can I escape?” If there is a side alley, you duck into it. But the wise don’t let go so easily; they also give chase and catch you. Because if you let the ignorant go like this, the world will remain ignorant.

The wise give chase. They catch people and start explaining. There is a pleasure in explaining, in waking another. But when will you wake up? Start with yourself!

Why do shadows of grief stretch to the right and left? You tell me.
With hopes so dim, how will they give the world a flame? You tell me.
The old are gone; the new messiahs speak the same old things—
How long shall we embrace promises of equality? You tell me.
The people in the settlement cry from their own pains—
Which wall of which house should they bang their heads against? You tell me.
Leaving the noisy market, we embraced silence—
Bitten by silence, whom should we now embrace? You tell me.
Then too there was talk of equality; now too there is talk of equality—
How long shall we clasp promises of equality to our throats? You tell me.
We thought, sold into your hands, we would stay with you—
Whom shall we tell the tale of being sold in every lane? You tell me.

The same talk goes on, century after century.

Then too there was talk of equality; now too there is talk of equality—
How long shall we clasp promises of equality to our throats? You tell me.

For centuries people have been waking each other; no one wakes up! The asleep cannot wake the asleep. Only one who is awake can awaken another. How will a sleeper wake a sleeper? Yes, he can dream that he is waking the sleeping. But the sleepers in his dream belong only to his dream. As for those who are actually asleep—he cannot know them at all. He does not even know yet that he is asleep.

The greatest delusion in this world is precisely this: we don’t know that we are asleep, that we are dreaming, that we know nothing. To the simple question “Who am I?” we have no answer—and we are ready to answer every other question.

Someone asks you, “Who created the world?” and you are ready to answer. Think a little! Remember a little honesty! In the name of God you go on telling lies. For thousands of people, “God” is nothing but a lie. Do you know that God made the world?

When your little child asks, “Father, who made the world?” if you have even a little honesty, a little religiosity, a little reverence, a little good sense, you will tell him, “I don’t know. I am searching; you search too. If you find out first, tell me. If I find out first, I will tell you. But for now, I don’t know who made the world—whether anyone made it at all. Perhaps it arose unmade. Perhaps it was never made. I don’t know. These are conjectures I have heard. I can tell you what people say, but I have no experience, because I was not present. I do not even have awareness of myself yet; how will I know when, ages ago, the world was made? I have forgotten yesterday; I cannot remember what happened ten years ago. I don’t even recall whether I was in a past life or not—so how can I say who made the world!”

If only you could answer your children honestly, their reverence would never be destroyed.

People come to me and ask, “Why is children’s reverence for parents crumbling? Why is their respect declining?”

You are the reason. Because sooner or later children will find out. How long will you deceive them? That you didn’t know and yet kept claiming you did! If their reverence does not break, what else will happen? Your dishonesty shatters their reverence.

The father, the mother, the teacher who says to children only as much as he truly knows—children’s reverence for such a person grows day by day. When they become adults, their reverence will be boundless. They will understand: we had the company of an honest person; we were fortunate!

But how many lies you tell! “God made the world.” You tell children, “You’ll go to hell”—and you have no clue about hell. “Do this and you will get heaven”—and you have no clue about heaven. “The evil reap evil, the good reap good”—you say so, but you have no certain experience. Your experience is the opposite.

Your experience is that those who do the most evil here enjoy the most; those who do good starve. Here the wicked sit on your chest. Who cares for the virtuous? Try living morally—you will face obstacle upon obstacle. Live immorally—conveniences upon conveniences.

And who knows: those who, by tricks, get ahead here—will they not play tricks in heaven too? Those who reach Delhi here by cunning—won’t they manage some schemes in heaven as well? And even if they didn’t earlier, now they surely will, because so many bribe‑takers are becoming “heavenly.” Whoever dies in Delhi becomes “late and heavenly.” So many politicians have reached there before you; they must have set up their dens. Very likely, if you are a good man you’ll land in hell. Who will let a good man enter heaven? Let a truly good man try to enter Delhi—then he will know it is impossible.

Your lived experience is one thing; you say another. You know one thing; you tell another. If your children’s reverence does not break—what else can happen?

If people’s faith in religion is being uprooted—has been uprooted—the sole reason is this: religion is being propagated by people in whose lives there is no aura of religion, not even its shadow; no relation, not even from a great distance.

No, Jagdish, do not ask, “I want to show the world the light; how should I begin this great work?”

We set out to fix everyone’s broken things—
And discovered that we too were mad.
There is dust, there is sand, there is a desert here—
Why did we set out to quench thirst?
So much glitter that the heart sinks—
We set out to kick up dust in the city.
Everywhere the uproar of doomsday—
And we set out to sing songs.
When we searched for a ray in these darknesses—
We found everyone laughing for an excuse.
Last night the moon had died—
We set out to carry the corpse in daylight.
Life we wasted on such lovely dreams—
Hassan, how many dreams turned out so sweet.

Do not waste your life in such beautiful dreams.

One thing is important—most important: Wake up! Seek the answer to the question “Who am I?” And until you find that answer, none of your other answers can be right. Until then, don’t build houses of cards—gusts of wind will bring them down. When you find the answer to “Who am I?” you have laid a foundation stone—then a temple can rise. In that temple, whoever is thirsty will come. Whoever’s longing is kindled will come.

The truth is, an awakened person need not go anywhere. Lao Tzu has said: he does not even go outside the walls of his house. Yet his fragrance begins to be felt far and wide, and people come from afar. News of him reaches those who are thirsty. You will not need to go anywhere. Light your lamp; neighbors who wish to light their own will come to you: “Let us light ours from yours.”

But this is not “to start some great mission.” To begin a great mission is only the ego wanting its taste. Do not become a leader. If you truly want to be a sannyasin, the path is exactly the opposite. The path to leadership is precisely the reverse. The leader gives answers to what he does not know; he gives promises about what cannot be. The leader lives by lies; lies are his food.

But the sannyasin’s very first step is toward truth.

Everyone asks, “Where did those promises go?
Where did those sky‑measuring resolves go?
The ones whose every move we had long been proud of—
Where did the horses go, where did the footmen go?
They used to say they’d strip these off as well—
Where have the old robes of politics gone?
We had, at least, a single fire we could trust—
Where did the lovers of light and their demands go?
Those who set out with the winds, crying revolution—
Let someone come close and tell us: where did they go?”

Politicians speak lofty words—of great works. They call petty tinkering “revolutions,” even “great revolutions.” A politician lives on big slogans. A neighborhood gathering is called an “international conference.” A meeting of two or four people—“grand assembly.” The leader inflates big balloons of words.

“We had, at least, a single fire we could trust—
Where did the lovers of light and their demands go?
Those who set out with the winds, crying revolution—
Let someone come close and tell us: where did they go?”

Every day such leaders disappear. They talk of great works, and not even petty works get done. They want to change the sky, while the condition of the earth worsens day by day. They give you big dreams, big fantasies—and from the mesh of those fantasies your chains are forged.

Jagdish, if you want to be a politician, then engage in this “great work” of showing light to the world. If you want to be a sannyasin, become illumined yourself—that is enough. The rest will happen by itself; you will not have to do. Your very presence will do. Wherever you sit, temples will arise. Wherever you walk, places of pilgrimage will come into being. Whomever you touch will turn to gold. This will not be your doing; it will happen. And when it happens on its own, its taste—its beauty—is of another order!

Let there be killings, and let’s decorate the crosses and see.
Let us light a few lamps with our own blood and see.
Perhaps in this way some old incident will be remembered—
Let us pick up a stone from that lane and see.
People say, “If you seek, you find God”—
Today, we too will go and knock at some door and see.
So many splinters pierce the body—
Today I thought I would pick up the mirror and see.
The image of that coquettish one must still be safe—
Let us wipe the dust from the mirror’s face and see.
Our house turned to ash, our lane to cinders—
Come, let us now go and set fire somewhere else and see.

But first, let your own house be reduced to ash.

People say, “Seek, and you find God”—
Today we too will go and knock at some door and see.
Our house turned to ash, our lane to cinders—
Come, let us now go and set fire somewhere else and see.

Kabir has said:
“Kabir stands in the marketplace, torch in hand;
Whoever burns his own house may come with me.”

But Kabir stands there having burned his own house. Whoever burns his mind and his ego—within him, light arises. Make your ego the wick, make your attachments the oil, light the flame of meditation—let your lamp be lit. In the burning of this lamp, in the flame of this meditation, the ego will burn away. Attachment, possessiveness, illusion will burn away. One day only light will remain. Then, by your very being, you will be of use to others. Service is not done. And the kind of “service” that is done only creates nuisance. Service happens; it is the natural flowering of the awakened one. As your shadow follows you, so compassion follows meditation—service follows it.

Wake up! First, wake up yourself!

Dinesh Bharati! No one is stopping you! Who is putting an obstacle in your dissolving? No one but you. I want your thirst to be quenched. I am ready to pour—I sit with the pitcher of nectar in my hands. But you don’t even make a cup with your palms. Far from cupping your hands, you stand with your back turned.

You say: “Prostrations no longer quench my thirst...”
Whose thirst ever got quenched by that? How will yours be? Has anyone’s thirst been quenched by touching feet? It will be quenched only if you drink. Yes, touching the feet can be a first step toward drinking, but touching the feet is not drinking. Touching the feet may be a necessary stage, even indispensable, but touching the feet is not the same as quenching the thirst. If you drink me, your thirst will be quenched.

You say rightly:
“Prostrations no longer quench my thirst,
Let me dissolve at your threshold, Rajneesh.”
Who is stopping you? The doors are open. I have already called you.

And I have given Dinesh a place in the ashram many times too. But then your own doings make you run away! Many times I have taken you near me, and again and again I have forgiven your mistakes. Because I do not put much value on mistakes. Mistakes are natural. If one is human, there will be errors. But this does not mean you should keep making the same mistakes over and over. One mistake once is enough. Make a new mistake every day and I am ready to forgive you—at least there will be growth, a new mistake! But you don’t even make new mistakes; you have become so rigid that you keep repeating the same ones.

You yourself are stopping yourself, Dinesh! I am not stopping you here; nor is anyone else.

Whoever goes away empty from this door should remember: the responsibility is his. He came to the lake, but did not bend; he did not make the cup of his palms. The lake is not going to leap and enter your throat! Nor will the lake violate your freedom in that way.

I cannot grab you and force-feed you a medicine! And this is not a medicine that can be administered by force. You will drink this out of your own willingness, in freedom, with gratitude...

And you do have the longing to drink; you even want to drink. But your old habits are creating trouble. You want to manage it so that you get what is available here and yet you don’t have to drop what you’ve been clinging to till now. You are riding two boats—that is your difficulty. You will have to board one boat. Because these two boats are traveling in two opposite directions. Your boat and my boat journey in opposite ways. If you try to ride both, you will be in great difficulty; you will be torn, fragmented; within you there will be a great conflict.

Either ride your own boat. For now, exhaust your own boat! There is nothing to fear. Because if you really exhaust your own boat, you will have to come to mine. But even that you are doing half-and-half, out of fear, because you also want to keep one foot in my boat.

You drink alcohol, you smoke cannabis, and I am to make you meditate! How can these two things go together? Cannabis and alcohol make you unconscious; meditation awakens awareness. And since you want to awaken, you cannot even intoxicate properly—you do it timidly, half-and-half. And since you keep intoxicating yourself, you cannot wake up; you cannot come to awareness. You have created the obstacle for yourself.

You will have to decide.

If the old habits are dear, I am the last person to tell you to drop them. I have no condemnation in my mind. I do not say you are a sinner. Complete your old habits. Go into them totally; forget me, erase me from your memory—let me be as if I am not. Because I will be an obstacle to you. If I come to mind, you will not be able to drown fully. Whatever you want to do, do it completely.

Why do I say with such confidence: do whatever you want, do it completely? No monk or saint will talk to you like this. I say it with confidence because no matter how much alcohol you drink, how much cannabis you smoke, how much you gamble, how much you do of anything—today or tomorrow you will get bored of it, because it is futile. Its futility is so proven to me that I can say with such assurance: do whatever you want! Do it completely. You will get bored. And the sooner you finish it, the sooner you will tire of it. And once you are tired, then I am here. Then you can board my boat. Then you will not look back.

Right now you are caught in a bind. Right now you want to hold both. And in holding both there is great difficulty. In a dilemma, both are lost—you get neither the world nor God!

“Only a few ruins remain now in the capital of the heart;
Where did you come and get entangled in my story!
Traveler, do not stay here! Move far away from here—
The water of this city is mixed with poison.
Do not measure a person’s age by dates;
A single moment of love is enough for a lifetime!
All the words together cannot say as much
As the unspoken that lives in the eyes!
All my life we never slept even a single night in peace;
Some mistake like that was made in the fullness of youth!
‘At the last hour, how on earth will we be sober,’
When the whole life was spent in frivolous chatter.”

People spend their whole lives cultivating wrong habits, and then in the end they want to be freed from them all at once. That cannot happen.

But you are fortunate, Dinesh—you are still young and you have come to me. There is still energy, strength, resolve. If you can pick thorns, you can pick flowers too. But these two things will not go together.

I am not stopping you—your habits are becoming your obstacle. Make a single decision. You will have to come to one clear resolve! If the old habits still have taste in them, then forget me for two or four years! I will wait! Dive into them completely for two or four years. I know you will come out. I trust your intelligence, your understanding. I know your capacity is great; you are not going to destroy yourself doing these small things. I can see your future; your tomorrow is very beautiful. But today you are weighed down by your yesterday.

So either decide that you will do what is old, and do it fully. Do not be half-and-half. Whatever you do half-and-half does not bring freedom.

In my understanding, once any experience is fully completed, one is freed from it. Therefore, if someone’s sexual desire remains incomplete, there will be no liberation—complete it and you will be freed. Upon the fullness of sexuality, the flower of celibacy blooms. If the race for wealth remains incomplete in the mind, then complete it. Only when the race for wealth is complete does one discover that wealth does not remove inner poverty. Wealth makes the poverty more intense, more apparent. In the background of wealth, the poverty within begins to hurt deeply. And when poverty hurts so much, stings so much, and wealth does not fill it, then the remembrance of meditation arises. Before that, the remembrance of meditation cannot arise.

If you want intoxication, then intoxicate. Why does a man want intoxication? Because life is full of suffering, he wants to forget. But no matter how many times you forget, suffering returns again and again, and returns thicker. Suffering is not removed by forgetting. Forgetting is not a method of removal. Slowly you will come to understand: by forgetting and forgetting you are increasing it, not erasing it.

The path of erasing is something else. The path is not self-forgetfulness; the path is self-remembering.

Buddha said: sammasati. Mahavira said: vivek. Krishnamurti calls it awareness. Gurdjieff called it self-remembering. Kabir and Nanak called it surati—self-remembrance. Let the awareness of “Who am I?” become so profound, as if a lamp is lit within you—steady, unmoving—then no sorrow will remain in your life. And if there is no sorrow, there will be nothing to forget. If there is no reed, there will be no flute.

This life is a rare opportunity—to recognize the futile and to live the meaningful; to see the insubstantial as insubstantial, so that the substantial can be known as substantial.

“Bearing the curse of light, I burn like a lamp.
This life has come to me like a festival of burning;
On a blazing ember the bud of life has bloomed;
In Rudra’s fiery eyes I live like a dream.
Bearing the curse of light, I burn like a lamp.

I would have lain an inert clod of clay, unseen,
But by the consciousness of a spark of light
I shine among thousands;
My small, radiant existence irks the storms.
Bearing the curse of light, I burn like a lamp.

My upward, once-unwavering flame
Today keeps trembling;
The power of the breath is tired,
Staggering, panting;
The fog keeps seeking to hide me under its veil.
Bearing the curse of light, I burn like a lamp.

The stars are singing honeyed songs—alas, am I not stone?
Might I lay my head upon the breast of the sweet night and sleep?
But saying, ‘Sleep is death, friend!’ I deceive myself.
Bearing the curse of light, I burn like a lamp.

Kissing my burning, a moth-maiden burned and died;
In vain that mad one nursed an infatuation with this heat.
In her memory, the unlucky lamp melts drop by drop.
Bearing the curse of light, I burn like a lamp.

Why should I not take this curse of light as a boon?
In the gentle flame of the body’s burning, the traveler goes on, advancing;
And I have ever been the support of so many wayfarers.
Bearing the curse of light, I burn like a lamp.

In that great radiance this night ebbs, dissolving;
Life, by your love alone the lamp of practice burns;
Even within the wing of darkness I have always remained bright.
Bearing the curse of light, I burn like a lamp.”

This life is an opportunity—where, if you choose, everything is a curse; and where, if you choose, everything is a blessing. The same energy becomes a curse; the same energy becomes a benediction. It all depends on you.

You will have to bring a decisive moment, Dinesh. I should have said this to you long ago; I have been waiting for the right time. It has been some ten years that you have been connected with me. But in these ten years I never told you this. I accepted you as you are. I never even said you are wrong. I have given you the chance to understand for yourself, to know for yourself. I do not want to interfere in your life even a little. Who am I? Whatever decision you make is auspicious. But now the moment has come that you make a decision.

Half-and-half, split and divided, you will belong nowhere. The washerman’s donkey—neither of the house nor of the riverbank. Do not let that be your state. Ten years is quite a long time. You come here again and again. Then again and again you go. You cannot stay there, and you cannot stay here. When you are there, you remember me; when you are here, your old habits slowly catch hold of you again.

With a single stroke of the sword, decide. Cut it in two. Either this or that. And I will bless you for both. Remember at least that much.

Do not think that if you decide to break from me and live only in your old habits, I will be angry. No, not in the least. I will bless you that whatever decision you make, that decision bring the auspicious into your life. If you decide to go away, I will let you go with the same joy with which I call you near. Because I have a single trust—and that trust is fundamental—that within each person God has given so much discernment that he cannot remain long in mistake.

Just ten or fifteen days ago, Vedant came to India from America. He left a big post there. He was the dean of the Asia Institute in San Francisco—every facility, a high position, a great job, big prestige, a name in the world of education, a double Ph.D.—he left it all and came, wanting to stay here with me. When he was there, only I, only I was in his memory. When he came here, the memory of there began to arise. When he came here, thoughts must have begun—leaving so much: position, prestige, family, order. And here, to join my vagabonds, who have no fixed place—today here, tomorrow there. Because if the government doesn’t let us stay here, somewhere else. It’s not even certain it will be this country; it could be another country. Nothing can be said. With me, everything is insecurity. To be connected with me is not without danger. He became torn in thought—should I go back or what should I do?

He wrote to me, so I said: absolutely go back! Go back with my blessings. Go back with the same joy with which you came.

Vedant could not believe I would let him go so quickly! When Lakshmi gave him the message, he could not believe it. He asked, Did Osho say that—go back? He really said go back? He said it so readily?

Somewhere in Vedant’s mind there must have been a hidden expectation that I would say, “Go? But how will he let me go? He’ll say, No, stay, where are you going? Are you mad!” He would explain, persuade. That expectation must have been inside.

But my ways of working are my own. Now even if Vedant wants to stay, I will not let him. Once, he will have to go! Because if this half-and-half mind remains, then being with me has no meaning. The plunge cannot happen. Once, he will have to go! And now when he wants to come again, I will not let him come as easily as I let him come this time. I have now sent him a clear message: come only if you can come one hundred percent—without a grain less. Because this path is for the mad in love; it is not for the calculating. Nothing about tomorrow is fixed; there is no guarantee about tomorrow. I can give no security. My sannyasins live like emperors—because if you are living, live like emperors! But there is no security; nothing about tomorrow is certain. Today there is emperorship; tomorrow it can be fakirhood. Today there is a palace; tomorrow it can be the streets.

Only the one who is prepared to that extent—one hundred percent, not a hair less—will be transformed by joining with me.

Dinesh, that is what I am saying to you. Either go completely—forget me. How did I happen to come into your life! How did I become a hindrance in your life! Consider it a slip; forgive me; do whatever you wish to do. And my full blessings are with you. Because my trust is in the intelligence hidden within each person. Every person is born carrying the seed of the ultimate awakening. Therefore, if not today then tomorrow—there can be a delay, but awakening will come. And only when awakening comes will you be able to join with me.

You say:
“Prostrations no longer quench my thirst;
Let me dissolve at your threshold, Rajneesh.”
My door is open. But have the courage to dissolve! When a drop falls into the ocean, do you understand its courage? The courage to be annihilated, to become nothing—the courage to be a zero—is the foundation stone of sannyas. The courage to be nothing is sannyas.

That’s all for today.