Prem Panth Aiso Kathin #15

Anand! Open your eyes. You are trying to see with your eyes shut, trying to hear with your ears closed, with the doors of the heart barred—then it is impossible to see God. When the eye is open, there is light. The very opening of the eye is light. Keep the eye closed and even if not one but a thousand suns were to rise, there will still be darkness, a moonless night.

But this is not only your mistake; it is almost everyone’s. When God does not appear, people conclude: perhaps there is no God—hence He is not seen. Rarely does someone wonder: perhaps my eyes are closed—hence I do not see. Those rare ones, sooner or later, become able to see the Divine.

So the first and the last sutra is this: drop the search for God; learn the alchemy of opening your eyes.

Eyes open in two ways. Either by meditation... and the delightful paradox is that the meditator sits with eyes closed—he closes the outer eyes. The eyes that look outside cannot see God, because God is seated in your inmost core. To see Him you must close the eyes that look outside. When the outer eyes close, the inner eye opens. The same light which was scattering outward gathers within. As that light grows dense, your inner sanctum becomes visible.

God is not someone else; the one seated within you as the seer is God. The witness within you is God. Yes, it is true that one who has seen the Divine within begins to see Him without as well. One who has recognized Him within recognizes Him within all. Leave aside people—even in stones and mountains He appears. But the first vision must happen within oneself. Often, though, people get so entangled in searching for God that they forget to remember to open their eyes.

So one way is meditation, which opens the eye; and another way is love, which opens the eye. Either drown in meditation or drown in love. One of these two is certainly your capacity. It has never happened, will never happen, that a person is born lacking both. In this world, fifty percent will arrive through meditation and fifty percent through love. There is a balance in existence: as there are fifty percent women and fifty percent men; as there is night and there is day; as there is birth and there is death; as everything is held in poise by its opposite—so it is with love and meditation. Love is feminine; meditation is masculine.

Do not conclude from this that those who are physically male will attain only through meditation. This is not about physiology. Many men have attained through love. Nor is it about women’s bodies—many women have attained through meditation. I am not talking biology. This polarity is etched into your very soul.

Try to understand yourself rightly. Try both experiments! Immerse in devotion and feeling; drown in song and singing; dance, intoxicated with love. And if the tune catches, the note aligns, the rasa begins to flow, know that this is your path.

If you dance and no rasa flows, if you sing and the song stays on your lips and does not communicate to your life-breath, does not sensitize your being, then understand that love is not your way. Then immerse in meditation. Close your eyes and remain only a witness. Be a witness to your breath. Watching the breath come and go is the simplest meditation—Vipassana. The breath comes in: see it—“in.” The breath goes out: see it—“out.” Gradually, as you watch the breath, you will begin to see that which is seeing. And the day the seer is seen, God is experienced.

In the realm of love, the day you dance and sing so utterly that you are drowned and your I-ness disappears, your ego dissolves; the dance remains but the dancer is lost—on that day you will know God.

At every step His destination was there,
but the fever of seeking never left my head.

He is everywhere; but you are obsessed with the search. You are so busy searching, Anand, that your very busyness keeps you from seeing. Your search itself has made you blind. You run so fast that you pass by Him and do not see. You are so eager to see that even when He stands before you, your very eagerness veils your life-breath, and you miss.

Our heart is jammed in one place; otherwise
the same Reality would be seen in all.

We are stuck somewhere. Someone is stuck in wealth, someone in status, someone in knowledge, someone in renunciation. We are stuck. Otherwise, in everything—from stones to moon and stars—that One alone is the Reality, manifesting.

I saw rose and nightingale in the spring;
I saw You shining in a thousand.

When seeing awakens, He is in every flower, in every leaf. He is in the birds’ song. He is in the silence; He is in the music. And one glimpse of Him transforms you; you are no longer what you were; you are bathed in that glimpse; the dust of many lives is washed away, the rubbish swept off as by a flood.

Ask not about the manner of His gaze—
only the heart can know it; ask not with a sigh.

And the day you see, it won’t be only you who see. You will see—and He will see. Two eyes become four. It is not only the lonely man who sees God! He is already seeing; it is you who are averting your eyes. Either you are entangled somewhere, or stuck somewhere, or your eyes are shut, or you are asleep in deep slumber, or caught in dreams. He is watching you.

Friedrich Nietzsche told a most wondrous parable. A madman came down from the mountains and in broad daylight ran into the marketplace with a lit lantern, searching here and there. He peered under parked carts, looked behind trees, peeped around people; wherever there was a crowd he pushed into the middle. People asked, “What are you looking for? What have you lost? And a lantern—at noon!”

He seemed mad. And the madman said, “I am looking for God.”

People laughed. “We’ve seen many God-seekers. You’ve invented quite a way! Which God are you looking for? Is God lost? Is God a child who got separated from his parents in the fair? What God are you talking about? How would you recognize Him?”

The madman dashed his lantern to the ground and cried, “It seems you have not yet heard: God is dead! I have come to bring you the news.”

Someone, joking, asked, “How did God die?”

The madman replied, “You don’t know even this? You killed Him—and you don’t yet know! Perhaps the news will take time to reach you—it is news from afar; it takes time to travel. Perhaps I have come before my time.”

And then someone in the crowd asked, “Why did we kill Him?”

The madman said, “You killed Him because He was always watching you. His eyes were fixed on you, and you grew more and more uneasy. You could not hide from Him. He was your witness. You could not tolerate the witness; you could not bear that eternal Seer—so you murdered Him.”

Nietzsche has said something astonishing: man has killed God because God is man’s witness. His eyes are always upon you. It is unpleasant to have eyes fixed on you forever. And He has a thousand eyes—seeing you from all sides. He peers from everywhere. Perhaps you are afraid to see Him—or afraid that He might be seeing you; so you stand with eyes closed.

Open your eyes! God is present every instant. And once you so much as crack an eyelid—just a glimmer, just a glimpse—you will never be able to stop. Then you are caught—in the net of His love.

Where is that in wine which lies in the sight of You?
Whoever fell by that vision, I never saw stand steady again.

What is in wine compared to a single glimpse of Him! What is in His seeing, in His darshan!

Where is that in wine which lies in the sight of You?
Whoever fell by that vision, I never saw stand steady again.

One who falls once, falls; he never quite recovers. One who is once intoxicated, is intoxicated; he never returns to ordinary sobriety. And His intoxication is wondrous, paradoxical: one who becomes “drunk” with Him becomes filled in this world with an awareness beyond measure. One who has not known the divine intoxication is actually the one asleep, unaware in this world. Understand it this way: whoever is unconscious here has not yet known God’s intoxication; one who has known it becomes utterly awake in this world.

Nectar and poison, drunk with bliss—fair, dark, gem-bright;
at a single glance, one lives and dies, bowing again and again
whoever is beheld but once by those eyes.

In His eyes there is nectar and there is poison. The poison kills you—as you are; the nectar revives you—as you ought to be. In those fair, dark, jewel-like eyes, nectar and venom are strangely blended, for whoever once meets their gaze, whoever is seen by those eyes even once—dies in one sense and lives forever in another. The ego dies; eternal life is experienced.

But He has been standing to see you for so long—so long. It is you who keep averting your eyes. Anand, do not ask, “God does not appear to me anywhere.” Ask instead, “How do I open my eyes? How are my eyes closed? By what causes are they shut? What stones have I placed upon them? What veils have I drawn over them?” Ask only this. And the whole arrangement here is for removing those veils. Sannyas is the name of breaking those veils. Sannyas is the process of removing those stones. When the stones are gone, the curtains torn away, you will be astonished—the One you were seeking never needed to be sought; He was always following you. Wherever you went, He went with you—like your shadow. Sometimes even the shadow deserts you—when you stand in shade, the shadow leaves—but He never leaves you. Go to hell—He is with you in hell. Commit sin—He is with you in sin. Do virtue—He is with you in virtue. He cannot leave you, because He is your inner nature. How could He?

Do not make God the question. Make your eyes, your way of seeing, your process of opening the heart—make that your problem.

If you yearn to prostrate at the Beloved’s door,
forge a head at which even the Throne would bow.

If you wish to bow at the Beloved’s threshold—

If you yearn to prostrate at the Beloved’s door,
forge a head at which even the Throne would bow.

If you want to bow your head there, then create such a head that the very heavens would bow before it. If you wish to see Him, then fashion such eyes that He Himself comes before you. If you want to experience Him, awaken such sensitivity that He Himself becomes eager, moved to unite with your heart.

If you yearn to prostrate at the Beloved’s door,
forge a head at which even the Throne would bow.

What if your nights have remained strangers to dreams?
Create the dawn from which Beauty wakes.

Do not worry, do not fret, that your nights are dreamless and no sweet dream comes—

What if your nights have remained strangers to dreams?
Create the dawn from which Beauty wakes.

Create such a morning that Beauty itself becomes eager to shower upon you.

By the shattered stars of love’s sky, I swear—
bring forth a new assembly of sun and moon.

A new sky, new suns, new stars, new constellations must be born—within you! A way of seeing, a heart that can experience, eyes filled with love, or awareness awakened in meditation—these are the stars, the constellations, the suns that must arise within you. Then it is God and only God everywhere. Even if you try to escape, you will not be able to. Run as you will, you won’t get away. For He alone is, only He.

But people usually ask about God; they do not ask about their eyes. The question goes wrong there; illusion begins there. If a blind man asks about light, the mistake has already happened. A blind man should ask: how can my eyes be treated? How can the film be cut from my eye? If the blind ask about rainbows, they will be in trouble. If they ask about colors, they will be in trouble. Then there is only one consolation left to the blind: to declare there are no colors and no light—so the whole bother ends; so this useless fuss is over.

That is why many people have denied that God exists. Because if God is, then one must take the trouble to open one’s eyes. If God is, one must prepare to open the doors of the heart. The courage is lacking. Atheism is the cover of cowardice. Atheism is a clever device, a beautiful argument, to hide one’s inner cowardice.

And remember, when I call the atheist a coward, do not think that you who go to temple, mosque, gurdwara—the so-called theists—are brave. Your theism is also cowardice. You are theists out of fear. And some are atheists out of fear. One, out of fear, has denied God: “No flute if there is no bamboo”—no God, no bother. Then there is no question of searching, no question of seeking. Now, carefree, run your shop, gather wealth, gain position—this little life is all there is: eat, drink, make merry! The great anxiety of God is ended—by a simple statement: God isn’t.

On the other side are the so-called theists: they quietly accepted God—without searching, without seeing. They too have not opened their eyes; they too do not know. They say, “He must be—why get into trouble! If He is, fine; someday we will drop by the temple, on Sunday to the church, sometimes bang our head before an idol, offer a couple of flowers—and that’s that!”

The theists have ended the bother in their way; the atheists in theirs—both are cowards.

A religious person is neither theist nor atheist. A religious person is a traveler on a great journey, engaged in the search for his own eyes.

I want you to be religious—not a theist, not an atheist. Do not deny out of fear, do not accept out of fear. Until you know, say, “I do not know; I am ignorant.” When you know, only then affirm. Before that, do not believe. And when I say do not believe, I am not saying deny—because denial is also belief. One believes “God is”; another believes “God is not.” Both are beliefs; both are faith-positions—and both belong to the blind. One who knows neither believes nor disbelieves. One who knows—knows. How can he believe now? How can he disbelieve? One who knows drinks, lives.

God can be lived. And only when God is lived does life have meaning. But one must prepare—refine the vessel.

Do not ask where God is; do not ask whether God is or is not. Ask only this: how do my eyes open?

And there are two experiments: of meditation and of love—do both! Whichever resonates, settles in your heart, brings you into tune—choose it and stake everything. You will surely know. It has always been known this way. It is known this way. It can only be known this way.

Haribhajan! Do you see the ego hidden in this question—that you will take sannyas only when God calls you? Sannyas is to call to God. You call to God! Or are you waiting for God to call you? Though I say: you call, yet even before that, God is already calling you. God has been calling, day and night. God is a name for the call itself. The whole existence is calling: Come, return! Come back home! Where have you gone so far? How did you get lost? The trees are more joyous than you. The animals and birds are more joyous than you. This whole existence is immersed in a festival. Only man seems astray, sad, full of melancholy, anxious, afflicted. This whole existence is saying: Return, come back—the celebration is yours too; such flowers will blossom in you as well, such greenery will be in you too, such sap will flow in you too. God is indeed calling.

But this does not mean that you first settle the matter—get a guarantee of whether or not God has called—and only then you will take sannyas! Who will give the guarantee?
And is such a demand even auspicious? It is enough that you call to God. Or do you want God to call you? The ego finds very subtle ways. It says, “Until he calls me, how can I take sannyas?”

People come to me and ask, “We will take sannyas—but have you called us?”
They want the responsibility to be mine. Even if you take sannyas, still there will be no surrender: “God has called, therefore we came.” You want even from God that the invitation card arrive first, then you will go. Will you not go to God’s door even uninvited? Such ego! Then, Haribhajan, you will go on missing forever.

Tell me truthfully:
Was it you who called me,
or was it
merely my illusion?

The winds that pass through the forest of deception
come very close
and give
whistling signals;
startled, on guard, the fawns
of our lame desires begin to run—
paths nailed down,
bodies slack,
bearing like a cross
the ruins of our beliefs.
Where can the poor fawns go?
We have never truly seen the musk-deer,
yet we went on living.

Call it whatever you like—
seeking or wandering;
weave, if you wish, a meaningless magic of words.
We know the truth:
all our lives we never managed
to search for our own self.

Weary, weary,
moment after moment drained away,
and
in that emptying
there was more a law of depletion,
very little purpose—

like the meaningless sequence of waves
slipping and scattering
on the moss
clinging to the black rocks
of a deserted pond,
reaching the edge
only to break and break again—
nothing else, it seems,
but our own defeated ego!

Tell me truthfully:
Was it you who called me,
or was it
merely my illusion?

Man wants to make it certain:
Tell me truthfully—
Was it you who called me,
or merely my illusion?

What is the need of a call? Does no longing arise within you to know what this existence is? Does no inquiry arise within you to recognize who I am? Does no turmoil arise within you: from where have we come, where are we going? Why, after all, are we? Does the mystery of life not touch you? Does it not leave you wonderstruck? Speechless? Astonished?

Why should God call? You call! And if you call, I tell you this for certain: you will call only because he has already called you. Otherwise it is beyond your capacity to call him at all.

You say, “I am ready for sannyas. But how can I know that God has called me?”
Dive into sannyas, and you will know. Some things can be known only by living them—like love. Only one who loves knows. So it is with sannyas. Sannyas means love for God—supreme love. Live it, experience it, and you will know. One day you will certainly find that he had called you—only then did you begin to move toward him. But today, without moving, no assurance can be given, no certificate can be handed to you.

But if the readiness for sannyas has happened—you say, Haribhajan, that you are ready—then why set even this condition? To set conditions is not right. One should not put conditions upon God. Toward that side one must go unconditionally. Prayer can only be unconditional. If there is a condition, it is a bargain; and where there is bargaining, there is no love. Yes, if you jump—if you take the leap—thousands of proofs will come, not one but thousands.

Who has come that a gleam awoke in my eyes?
The long-sleeping strings of the heart began to ring.
What winds arrived bearing news of whose coming?
From the body rose the cries of flowers bursting open.
The soul began to bloom, a fragrance stirred in the breath.
Who, seeing my glance, opened wide their arms?
Playful feelings opened their eyes within my chest.
Lips began to burn, a sway awoke in the tresses.
Whose hands have asked something of my hands?
Whose dreams have asked something of my dreams?
The heart began to flutter, a tinkling stirred in the veil.
Who has come that a gleam awoke in my eyes?
The long-sleeping strings of the heart began to ring.

In ordinary love this happens. Someone falls in love with a woman, someone with a man; in ordinary love it happens—
Who has come that a gleam awoke in the eyes,
the long-sleeping strings of the heart began to ring.
Then when you relate with that Supreme Beloved, do you think there will be no proofs? There will be thousands. The strings of your life will start to vibrate. Songs will arise. A dance will surge. Light will begin to shower from your eyes. An unprecedented coolness will be born in your very life-breath. You will become new; you will be reborn. You will again see the eternity of life. Your connection with this brief, fleeting life hemmed in between birth and death will break. You will know that life which is before birth and after death. There will be thousands of proofs—but only if you take the leap.

If there is readiness, do not set conditions. If you set conditions, there is no readiness. Does anyone in love speak of conditions? And God is silent. Who will answer? Silence is his language. You will keep asking, “Did you call me?” The sky will remain quiet; no answer will come. You will die sitting and waiting.

If a feeling has arisen in the heart, take the leap. What will you lose? What do you have to lose? You can gain; there is nothing to lose.

The founder of communism, Karl Marx, ended his important book, The Communist Manifesto, like this: Workers of the world, unite! Because you have nothing to lose but your chains, and everything to gain.
Whether this is true about the workers or not, I tell you: whoever has to take the leap into sannyas, let them take it; for you have nothing to lose but your chains, and everything to gain—everything, including God himself.

Yog Manik! If this sutra is understood—that whatever comes, goes—then everything is understood. Neither joy endures nor sorrow. Neither birth endures nor death. Nothing abides. The world is a flux. As the Ganges rushes along, so in life the events are in a constant hurry. But amidst all these events there is one that is steady: the witness, the watcher.

Two years ago you were in sorrow—you saw sorrow. Now you are in happiness—now you are seeing happiness. Sorrow is gone; happiness will also not remain. But one remains: the watcher. It has seen sorrow and it has seen happiness. It saw childhood, it saw youth, it will see old age. It saw birth; it will also see death. That witness is eternal. Just sink, slowly, into that witness; sink into it, become one with it, dissolve into it—and everything is attained. All the wealth and all the empires of this world are futile. Whoever has found the witness has found the kingdom of God. And the sutras to attain it are: live in the present; live with awareness. The witness means awareness.

And witnessing is possible only of the present. How will you witness that which is no more? It has gone. And that which has not yet come—you cannot witness that either; it has not yet arrived. You can be a witness only to the present. These three are joined. To be a witness means to live in awareness. To live in awareness means to live in the present. And whoever is in awareness and in the present will be connected with that which is beyond time—the witness.

Yog Manik, the witness seated within you is the divine. It is the supreme bliss. It is neither pleasure nor pain. It is beyond sorrow and beyond happiness, yet it is sat-chit-anand—truth, consciousness, bliss. The thread is in your hand; do not miss. Because when there is suffering we want it to go; we do not cling—who clings to suffering? But when there is happiness, quietly inside the mind some sweet longing slips in: let it stay, let it stay, may it not go. Who does not want to stop happiness from leaving? Therefore it is easy to be awake in sorrow; it is difficult to be awake in happiness.

You say, two years ago you were much in the shadow of sorrow. That hour was not so dangerous. The dangerous hour is now. Then I told you: This too will pass. Even now I tell you: This too will pass. Hearing me then, you must have felt consoled. Hearing me now, your heart may tremble a little: This too will pass. Here, everything is to pass. Here, nothing is to remain. This world is a bubble on water—formed and gone.

Just as sorrow passed and you remained unperturbed, so when this happiness also passes, remain unperturbed. Joy and sorrow will keep coming like day and night... Time is woven from the warp and weft of day and night; likewise the cloth of life is woven from the warp and weft of joy and sorrow. But you are not the cloth. Sometimes you drape sorrow, sometimes you drape happiness, but you are not the garment. You are the one who wears it. Sometimes you wear illness, sometimes health; sometimes beauty, sometimes ugliness; sometimes cheerfulness, sometimes sadness. These are all garments. You are separate from them, distinct, other. Do not take yourself to be one with them—and then the golden thread is in your hand. With this golden thread, the door of the divine can open!

Ramswaroop! It is natural. So much hypocrisy has spread in the name of truth, so much cheating in the name of God, so many nets of words and scriptures in the name of light, that it is quite natural one gets fed up, grows weary, even turns one’s back in sheer disgust. But however dense the web of words and scriptures around light, do not stop seeking light! However many frauds are running in the name of God, however much marketplace has sprung up, however much the temples and mosques are plundering, however much dishonesty is being done in God’s name—still, do not abandon the search for God!

The truth is: so much dishonesty exists precisely because God must be. False coins circulate only where real coins exist. If there were no real coins at all, how could false coins pass? Just think: if the government declared all coins void and recalled them to the mint, the fake coins would be in serious trouble. The real ones would go back to the mint; the fake would be worthless. A counterfeit note can circulate only because a genuine note exists. The counterfeit itself testifies that somewhere the real must be—otherwise how would it pass?

The false needs the support of the real in order to function. Falsehood has no legs of its own; it is lame. It always borrows the legs of truth to walk. That is why every lie claims, “I am the truth,” and it can go on only so long as you take it to be true. The moment you recognize it as false, it collapses. A lie can be worshipped only as long as it maintains the prestige of being truth.

But one thing is certain: even when you worship the false, in fact you are worshipping truth. Granted that truth is not present there—but the claim to truth certainly is. There are claimants of truth there. So much web-spinning has gone on in the name of religion that religion ought to have been destroyed; so much dishonesty has been done in the name of faith that by now faith’s grave should have been dug. And yet something is there, a secret, that despite so much cheating, so much fraud, so much bloodshed—the earth reddened, stained with blood! Hindus and Muslims fought, Christians and Muslims fought—people kept fighting. In the name of religion love was preached, and swords flashed. In the name of religion God was invoked, and human beings were murdered. All this kept happening, and still religion did not perish. There is something there, some secret. Even if ninety-nine things are false, somewhere one truth remains on whose support the ninety-nine falsehoods stand.

So your feeling is natural—that you are tired, fed up, seeing the web of hypocrisy. Who would not be? But if hypocrisy has spread, then somewhere truth must be hidden. Seek it! Muslims may not be true, but Muhammad is true; Sikhs may not be true, but Nanak is true; Jains may not be true, but Mahavira is true. Hindus may or may not be true, but Krishna is true. And in Krishna’s name it is natural that priests and pundits will gather. Wherever an extraordinary being like Krishna descends and brings the truths of the sky down to earth, the clever, the crafty, the calculating will not miss their chance. They will set up shop. They will say: How long will Krishna remain? Today or tomorrow he will depart, and then we will be the masters.

You will be surprised to know: all twenty-four Tirthankaras of the Jains were Kshatriyas. Mahavira himself, who revived Jainism, was a Kshatriya; the twenty-three before him were Kshatriyas—but Mahavira’s entire group of ganadharas, his chief disciples, were Brahmin scholars. It is striking: the chief disciples were all pundits.

The pundit never misses such an opportunity. Wherever truth is born, the pundit is the first to arrive—because truth can become a great base for exploitation.

An old story: A disciple of the devil came running and said, “Why are you sitting here beating your tambourine? A man has attained truth! I have just come from the earth. His samadhi is complete; he has realized the truth. And you sit here playing your tambourine! Your ruin is at hand!” The devil kept playing and laughing, “Don’t worry! You are a new disciple; you have no experience yet. We’ve been in this trade for centuries. Don’t worry. We have already set the priests in motion. The one who has found truth will soon be surrounded by priests and pundits. They will stand between him and the people—and that’s that. We have murdered truth. Nothing more needs to be done. We need not go directly; we have our servants—priests and pundits—they do our work.”

It’s a remarkable story. Its meaning: in the temple the idol may be God’s, but the priest belongs to the devil—because the priest exploits the idol, exploits in the name of the idol. Beware of priests!

But this does not mean you turn your back on religion. Being wary of counterfeit coins does not mean you throw away the genuine. Otherwise it is like that English proverb: with the bathwater you throw out the baby too. The water was dirty—throw it away—but save the baby.

What you say is natural, Ramswaroop!

Light deceived me so much
I fell in love with darkness.
Caught in the fold of a single ray
I went very far,
through desolate ravines’ silences,
into the blind jungles of taut contentions.
In my clenched fists
nothing but sand—
nothing...
...nothing was found.
Light deceived me so much
I fell in love with darkness.
Seeing the drawn bowstrings
twanging at the wrong place, in vain,
inside volcanoes about to burst,
who knows when, between countless slabs of ice,
the fire had gone to sleep—
where all did I call to fire?
Light deceived me so much
I fell in love with darkness.
Aggrieved by the treachery of fire,
what can I say?
Enough to say that I am...
and now even being
has sown pain!
Light deceived me so much
I fell in love with darkness.

Many have become irreligious because of the hypocrisy of priests and pundits, because of the fraud of so-called sadhus, saints, and mahatmas. In my view people have not turned irreligious under the influence of atheists; it is the cheating of the believers that has made people irreligious. The believers have so badly misused the name of religion that those who had even a little discernment broke their ties.

Ramswaroop, you are right. And yet I say: do not break the tie. Break with the priest and pundit; break with scripture, dogma, words—but let the search for truth continue. And truth is within you. No priest, no pundit can give it; no mullah can give it. No one can give you truth. Let alone priests and pundits—even Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna cannot give you truth. Yes, they can give you thirst. They can point the way. But you will have to walk. You will have to arrive. In the realm of truth there is no borrowing. Truth is cash, not on credit. It comes through one’s own experience. It is personal. And only when it is personal is it liberating.

You say: “I am unfamiliar with light; I know only darkness.”
Darkness is not all bad. After all, light is born from darkness. It is in the womb of the dark night that the dawn is born. The dark night is the mother, the bearer of the morning. And the darker the night, the closer the dawn. Just before daybreak, the night is darkest. So there is no need to be hostile to darkness. Learn to love darkness too—because darkness is also a form of light.

That is why the owl can see even at night—because darkness too is a form of light. Our eyes are not sharp enough to see in the dark. The owl’s eyes are keener than yours; therefore it sees in darkness. In many countries the owl is a symbol of wisdom. Not so in our land: here when we abuse someone we say, “son of an owl!”—meaning fool. But in the West the owl is taken as a symbol of knowledge—and I think they are right. One who can see in the dark—what else will you call him but wise? One for whom even darkness appears as light, he is the enlightened one, the possessor of prajna.

In ancient India too there was once a tradition that took the owl as a symbol of knowledge. Among our six darshanas, one school was called Aulūkya-darshana—the “philosophy of the owls.” So surely at some time the owl was held in esteem. How it fell into disrepute—perhaps because it cannot see in the day. At night it sees; if we focus on that, the owl seems extraordinary. But in the day it cannot see. Those who noted that the owl cannot see in the day coined the abuse: “son of an owl!”—for those who cannot see even in broad daylight. When someone bumps into you at high noon on a crowded street, you say, “You son of an owl! Have you any sense? Can’t you see? Are you blind?”

We began to call the blind “sons of owls.” That the owl cannot see in the day is one aspect. But that it can see in the night is another. Those who stressed that aspect took it as a symbol of knowledge.

In truth, one who attains knowledge can see both by night and by day. His witnessing has awakened. There is light in the dark as well. In light there is light, and in darkness too there is light—because darkness is not other than light. As cold and heat are two forms of one thing, so darkness and brightness are two forms of one reality.

Do not despise darkness. In darkness the supreme experiences of life arise—indeed, in darkness. All the buddhas who have flowered on earth have emerged out of life’s dark night. They wandered and stumbled as you do; they too, through who knows how many lifetimes, passed through sins; they suffered the pains you suffer; they walked thorn-strewn paths with bleeding feet. They did not become enlightened all of a sudden. They too undertook a long journey, as you are doing. But from all that darkness they lived through, one day the dawn was born.

In the depths of night, songs awaken.
Sweet the dreams, sweet the night,
sweet every whisper of sleep;
within my life sweet callings awaken—
in the depths of night, songs awaken.
With eyes closed the birds sleep,
the world sunk in deep slumber;
in this silent mango-grove life awakens—
in the depths of night, songs awaken.
Awake, O veena; awake, O singer;
awake, O age’s silent seekers;
taking a hundred forms, deathless longings awaken—
in the depths of night, songs awaken.
Awake, O moments of devotion,
awake, O moments of expression;
awake, my sadhana—let blessings awaken—
in the depths of night, songs awaken.

The deepening of night is a sign the morning is near.

You say: “I know only darkness.”
Do not be afraid. If you know darkness, your hand has already caught the hem of light. If you know darkness, knowing light is not far. Two steps more! Or who knows—one step! Or perhaps only the opening of the eyes—just that much distance!

You ask: “Give me a path, give me vision, give me light!”
I cannot give you light, nor can I give you vision. I can give you a path. From the path, vision will arise; from vision, light will come. I am giving the path. Sannyas is the path.

Sannyas means: to live in the world with awareness. Not to escape, but to awaken. Sannyas means: to live in the state of witnessing. To take life as a vast stage of play-acting—a drama in which you are performing a role. Do not identify with the role. If in the Ramleela you play Rama, do not bring the bow and arrows home! Your wife may plead, “Now put the bow down,” and you insist, “How can I? I am Rama!” Then you will have to be taken to the asylum.

It happens—often. People identify with their roles. I used to stay as a guest in a Calcutta home—the home of a High Court judge. His wife said to me, “My husband respects you so much that if you tell him something he might listen; he listens to no one else!” I asked, “What’s the trouble?” She said, “It’s serious. He comes home, but his manner remains that of the judge. Even at night in bed with me, that judicial stiffness—he cannot drop it! The children fear his coming home. The moment he enters, silence falls; everyone is on guard. His manner is always legalistic, finding faults in everything, and imagining himself enthroned—he never climbs down! We are exhausted. Please tell him: in court, be a judge; at home, be a husband if you are a husband, a father if you are a father.”

The art of acting means: do what is to be done where it is to be done—but do not become one with it. You must have the capacity to put it down. In twenty-four hours you perform countless functions. Because you identify with them all, a crowd gathers within you. To some you are a husband, to others a father, to others a brother, to someone a servant, to someone a master—so many roles—and the whole crowd accumulates inside. You get entangled in this web. This web is called the world—not the shop, not the bazaar, but this inner web. The one who breaks this web—who does everything that needs to be done yet remains unattached, like the lotus in water—is the sannyasin. If the work is Rama’s, he plays Rama. If Ravan falls ill and the Ramleela needs him, he plays Ravan as well. You don’t say, “I play Rama; how can I be Ravan? I am Rama!” Whatever is needed.

When the curtain rises, stand as Rama; when it falls, move the chairs, put away the props. Not, “I am Rama; I will stand only with bow and arrows—Sita behind me, Lakshman behind her—and I can do nothing else!” Curtain down: all that is over. Curtain up: it begins. Curtain down: Rama and Ravan sit together having tea, chatting away—though when the curtain was up, they were ready to cut each other’s throats.

Take life as play—that is the path. A vast stage on which you have to enact a part. Enact it. Enact it totally. If you are a husband, then totally; a wife, then totally; a father, then totally. Whatever you do, do it totally. And all the while know: I am not the doer; I am the witness. Let this awareness remain, and slowly this very awareness will become light within you. Darkness will go; the dawn will come. The dawn is your due—your birthright.

Bharataram! The question is important. In childhood there are certain kinds of desires—children’s desires for games and toys; fantasies and dreams of the future. A child lives in the future; the whole future lies ahead. Every child ties great hopes and expectations to it—“I will do this, I will do that. I will accomplish what no one has ever done.”

A little boy sits on the floor with paper spread out, a box of colors, making a picture. He is the son of a priest. The priest is leaving for church; as he passes by he stops for a moment to see what the boy is doing. The boy is coloring away furiously. “Son, what are you doing?” he asks.

The boy says, “I am making a picture of God.”

The priest laughs: “A picture of God? No one has ever seen God—how will you make a picture?”

The boy says, “Don’t worry. Let me finish my drawing once, then everyone will experience and know—here, this is God’s picture. No one has made it yet; that is exactly why I am making it.”

Children aspire to do what no one has done—“We will fly in the sky, pluck the moon and stars.”

Naturally, with childhood those desires evaporate; they are desires of unripe years. In youth, other kinds of desires arise—more gross, more material. There are fewer dreams and more “reality”; less long-range soaring, more physicality. Passions—for wealth, for sex, for position. And by the time youth passes, the futility of those desires also becomes clear. Women have been enjoyed, men have been enjoyed, wealth obtained, position gained—but nothing truly lands in the hands. Then in old age a desire arises—let me attain liberation, let me attain God.

So your question is truly important: is it not possible that this too is just an old-age desire? As there were desires in childhood, and desires in youth, this too may be a desire of old age.

It can be an old-age desire—and it need not be. Everything depends on you. If, merely from the drabness of life, life’s troubles, life’s failures, life’s defeats you have turned to seeking God, then it is an old-age desire. It has no value. It is an old man’s toy. Then take up a rosary and go on chanting Ram-Ram; wrap yourself in the blanket of the divine name and sit in a corner. It is only a way to keep old age occupied. It has no value.

But if from the experiences of your whole life a slight process of awakening has begun within you, if a little awareness has started to be born, if you have begun to have faint glimpses of the soul hidden within, if the witness has stirred—and out of that witnessing this desire is arising—then it has nothing to do with old age. The witness has no relation to youth, childhood, or old age. Some people became witnesses in childhood.

For example, the story of Shankara—Shankaracharya—who became a witness at the age of nine. You must have heard the story; it is pleasing, and important. He wanted to renounce. At nine, what mother will give permission? Even at ninety a mother does not grant permission for sannyas—so at nine! For a mother, a ninety-year-old son is still nine. The child of nine wants to be a renunciate! The mother said, “Are you mad?” And there was only this one son; the husband was already dead—this boy was her entire support, the apple of her eye, the prop for her old age; call it what you will—this one—and he wants to be a sannyasin at nine! The mother said, “When I die, do as you wish. As long as I live, there will be no sannyas.”

Shankara went to bathe in the river. The story says a crocodile caught his leg. A crowd gathered on the bank. The mother also came running. Shankara said, “Now please say it! If you give your word that I may take sannyas, I have the trust that this crocodile will release me. I trust because I desire to take sannyas—God will at least help me this much. I have faith that if you grant me permission, God will save me; the crocodile will let me go. And if you do not give permission, then that’s that—the crocodile is dragging me away.”

There was no time to think and deliberate. Better the son become a sannyasin than die—at least he will be alive; we will see him sometimes, meet sometimes. In panic the mother blurted out, “All right, take sannyas, but somehow save yourself.”

And the story says the crocodile released his leg. Shankara was saved. Later the mother regretted it greatly, but she had given her word—given it before the villagers.

Whether the story is fact or not—it cannot be factual; crocodiles do not let go so easily. Mahatmas do not let go; why would crocodiles? But the symbol is deep. The symbol is that the mother granted permission for sannyas only when the alternatives became death or sannyas. She consented only when she saw it as either death or renunciation. In my view the story is emblematic: Shankara must have made the mother aware of death—“Look, I could die tomorrow. Father died. Look, that man in the neighborhood died, that person’s child died. I too could die tomorrow—what will you do then? Since death is certain, it can come any time.” He must have invoked in her an exact remembrance of death. On that basis she agreed: “Then all right, become a renunciate.”

This has been recast into a little parable. It is a teaching story, not history.

If the awareness of death comes even at nine, then the desire that arises to attain God is fundamentally different. It cannot be compared to any desire of life. There is a qualitative difference between that and other desires. Because all the desires of life are the ego’s race—assaults of the ego, efforts to fill the ego. And the desire to attain God is a surrender of the ego, the dissolution of the ego. That is a qualitative difference.

The same can happen in youth as well. Buddha was twenty-nine when he dropped everything. He had everything that could be had at that time—comforts, luxuries, all. Shankara was the son of a poor Brahmin; Buddha the son of an emperor. Shankara perhaps learned from suffering; Buddha knew pleasure and learned from it. The real issue is to learn from experience. You can learn through suffering—or through pleasure. The experience is one: witnessing.

Buddha too saw: everything comes and goes; only one thing remains—the inner seer. Who is this seer? Who am I? This churning, this contemplation seized his very life. He staked everything on it.

So in youth people have felt the urge to attain the divine, to know truth; in old age too it has arisen. The question is yours: Bharataram, from what cause is this desire arising? Having seen life’s sorrows and pleasures, has the witness within you shifted a little? Has it begun to awaken slightly? Has sleep broken a bit? Then the desire for God is a right desire. But if it is only because death is drawing near, because you have done what was to be done and nothing now remains to do—legs are shaking, hands trembling—who knows whether God exists or not? At least at the time of death let me do some prayer and worship—this is a kind of bribe. Praise—flattery of a sort. The word stuti means flattery. People then flatter; it does not matter whom they flatter. Where there is flattery, there is ego; there is a desire to save oneself.

Now you think, death will come; this body will go; I will have to stand before God—what answer will I give? I never took the name of Ram, never turned a rosary, never went to a temple—I never had the time! And whenever there was time, there were cards to play, the club to attend, dances to watch. I never turned my attention toward Ram. Now when I stand before him, how will I raise my eyes? With what face will I stand? And who knows—he may actually exist! If he does not, fine, the bother is over. But who knows? It’s not certain. He might. Then to stand empty-handed will look very bad. So let me fill my hands a little—collect a few coins of merit. Give some charity, perform a pilgrimage, bathe at the Kumbh, massage the feet of sadhus, give some donations, get a Satyanarayan story read now and then, listen to Ram-katha, start going to the temple or church—at least there will be something to claim: “Well, I did what I could! I started late, but I did something.” There will be readiness to demand a return—a deal will be struck. Even if I don’t get great bliss, at least in some corner of heaven I’ll find a place. If not a house right next to God, no matter—but rotting in hell would not be good.

If the desire for God arises from such fear, such cowardice, it is false. It is merely time’s play. Just as children delight in toys, old people delight in God. It has no value. These are toys of old age. As death approaches, these toys look alluring, pleasing.

I have an old friend, now about eighty. He has been listening to Krishnamurti for forty or fifty years. He does no bhajan, no kirtan, because Krishnamurti says: there is nothing in bhajan or kirtan. He does not meditate either, because Krishnamurti says: what meditation? Mere awareness is enough.

And awareness is meditation! But Krishnamurti does not like to use the word meditation; it is an old word—he uses awareness. And his listeners find this a great relief—no kirtan, no bhajan, no meditation—nothing to do; all will happen without doing. Yet inside they are afraid too: “It has not happened to those who did, and for us it will happen without doing?”

These gentlemen used to come to me; I would tell them, “Take a dip in meditation.” They would say, “But I follow Krishnamurti. He says: no meditation—awareness.” I would ask, “Krishnamurti has been telling you awareness for forty years; how much awareness have you cultivated?” They would say, “It is true that I haven’t cultivated awareness yet—but awareness is what is to be cultivated.” When will you cultivate it? And meditation and awareness are not different—meditation is the method of awareness. But they would say, “Krishnamurti says no method is needed.”

One day their son came running: “Please come quickly; father has had a heart attack. Your presence will comfort him.”

I went. I entered the room softly so there would be no sound, because his eyes were closed and the doctors had said not to disturb him. I was amazed—his lips were moving. I went close. “Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram…” I said, “To hell with the heart attack!” I shook him. “What are you doing? All your life you avoided this—no shame now, in old age?”

He said, “Please don’t interrupt!”

I said, “I used to say, ‘Meditate,’ and you would quote Krishnamurti: no method.”

He said, “Leave Krishnamurti aside! Death stands before me! Don’t disturb me now—I don’t want a theoretical discussion.”

I said, “Now is precisely the time for it—because death is at the door; the matter should be settled. What are you doing? Ram-Ram?”

He said, “Seeing death before me, I have panicked; I think, who knows—maybe he does exist. And Krishnamurti will not come along there! If Ramchandra turns up, I’ll be in great trouble! If I say, ‘Krishnamurti said…,’ he will say, ‘Who told you to follow Krishnamurti?’”

A man wants to hedge his bets. So now he is chanting Ram-Ram…

He recovered. And when he got well, he again began talking Krishnamurti. A year later I met him. I asked, “What now?”

He said, “Krishnamurti is right.”

I said, “Who knows—you may have been saved by chanting Ram-Ram.”

He said, “Sometimes I suspect that too—the doctors said it was a dangerous attack, hard to survive.”

I said, “Then be careful now!”

He said, “But still—Krishnamurti seems right.”

“Krishnamurti seems right!” I said. “If you have another attack, will you assure me you won’t say Ram-Ram?”

He said, “That assurance I cannot give.”

But what value will that Ram-Ram have? It is timidity. It is cowardice. If there is a God, he will never forgive such a man. At least stand by your own understanding! Say, “What seemed right to me, I did. Now do as you think right. I am ready to bear the fruit of what I have done. If I had no trust, how could I have done otherwise? If there was no faith, how could I practice it?”

But no—people become religious in old age. Go to temples and mosques; you will find old men and women sitting there. Where do the young go? They have no time for that. You will find young people here with me—because I do not see life and religion as opposites; I see them as one. Life and religion are so one that children can be religious, the young can be religious. There is no need to wait for old age.

But the clever ones do their arithmetic. They divided society into four varnas and a man’s life into four ashramas. They are dividers. The last ashram—sannyas! At the end. When will that end come—who knows? The end can come tomorrow. If you go by their scheme you will never be a sannyasin. They assumed a hundred-year lifespan. Twenty-five years brahmacharya; then twenty-five householder; then twenty-five vanaprastha; between fifty and seventy-five, still no sannyas—only the idea of sannyas, face toward the forest—not yet going, only preparing for departure. Actual departure at seventy-five.

How many live to seventy-five? In India the average is around thirty-two. So the matter is settled. Divide by thirty-two: eight years brahmacharya, eight householder, eight vanaprastha, eight sannyas. If you reach twenty-four or twenty-six, that’s plenty—start preparing. The average age is only that much. Who decided on a hundred? Even then, the average was not a hundred. If it had been, the rishis would not have blessed, “Live a hundred years.” If a hundred were average and someone said, “Live a hundred,” he would reply, “Are you trying to kill me early?”

You see, even when the average is thirty-two, some live to eighty. If the average had been a hundred, some would live to three hundred. So if someone were blessed, “May you live a hundred,” he would grab a stick: “Sir, take your words back. What do you take me for—an average man?” So when the rishis blessed, “Live a hundred years,” understand that the average lifespan was not more than thirty or forty. And science corroborates this: in ancient remains, the bone-ages rarely exceed forty. We have not found the skeleton of a man who lived a hundred. The oldest bones are of people who lived up to forty, at most. It is plausible that forty was the average. If forty is average, some will reach a hundred—because that average includes those who die at birth, in the womb, within a year. In India, out of ten children, nine often died—those ages pull the average down.

People think: sannyas after seventy-five! When hands and feet can barely move, when the mind itself has curdled—then sannyas? When you are good for nothing, fit only to be thrown on the garbage heap—then sannyas? Will that be sannyas? When the world itself says, “Brother, now you go—enough is enough,” then you will renounce? Will that be sannyas? When sannyas is forced upon you—when people beg you, “Please become a renunciate now! Don’t torment the family anymore—go to the forest”—then you will take sannyas?

If that is the kind of sannyas you are awaiting or imagining, Bharataram, then there is no difference between this desire and the desires of children or youths; then it is all a matter of time.

“Clasping to my chest the corpse of hope
For ages I have rendered life joyless.
You shattered me with a single shock—
I have ruined my heart in every possible way.
Whenever on the road I glimpsed a silk-draped figure,
With cold sighs I remembered you.
And now, in the vastness of my soul,
A desolate, sorrowful hue has settled.
You come, rays flashing from your shining cheeks,
To rekindle extinguished lamps.
My beloved! This tumult of renewed fidelity
Does not befit my withered youth.
The flowers I had gathered for your feet—
Not even their dim memory remains with me.”

The lover says:
“Clasping to my chest the corpse of hope
For ages I have rendered life joyless.”
Waiting for the beloved—hugging the corpse of hope to his chest—he sat, filling life with grief, darkness, desolation.

“You shattered me with a single shock—”
Perhaps you appeared only once, and I was broken into pieces.

“I have ruined my heart in every possible way.”

“Whenever on the road I glimpsed a silk-draped figure…”
Whenever on the path a beauty appeared, draped in silks…

“With cold sighs I remembered you.”

“And now, in the vastness of my soul…”
In the wide expanse of my being…

“A desolate, sorrowful hue has settled—”
Now I have become utterly forlorn, disheartened; I have let go even of hopes; I have broken my ties with delight.

“And now, in the vastness of my soul
A desolate, sorrowful hue has settled,
You come, rays flashing from your shining cheeks…”
Now you come with your beauty, your glowing cheeks…

“To rekindle extinguished lamps—”
You have come to light the lamps that have gone out?

“My beloved!…”
My beloved!

“…this tumult of renewed fidelity
Does not befit my withered youth.”
My youth has withered. Your return no longer suits me or brings solace.

“The flowers I had gathered for your feet…”
I had collected many flowers to lay at your feet.

“Not even their dim memory remains with me.”
Not to speak of the flowers, not even the memory of those flowers is with me. Now I have nothing to offer at your feet.

The dreams of youth do not even remain in memory in old age. Childhood’s toys are not even remembered when one becomes young.

Little children sleep with toys clutched to their chests. If you take their toy away, they won’t sleep. Only after they have fallen asleep can you separate them from their toy. They carry their toys twenty-four hours a day. And then one day, suddenly, there comes a moment of ripening—adolescence—and the toy lies in a corner, in the trash somewhere, and the child pays it no heed.

So too with the games of youth. They seem very dear. When youth keeps the mind intoxicated, when sexual passions cover the mind, then everywhere we see a world constructed by those passions, a world projected by our imagination.

But one day old age will come.

“My beloved! This tumult of renewed fidelity
Does not befit my withered youth.
The flowers I had gathered for your feet—
Not even their dim memory remains with me.”

Then, in life, even if the longings of youth were to come true in old age, you would beg to be excused. You would say: No more! Too late now; I have gone beyond those toys. I have moved away from those desires.

But if this moving away has happened in witnessing, then within you will arise the longing for the divine. It has no relation to time. Then a true aspiration is born to attain God. It has no connection with old age; it could have arisen anytime—in childhood, in youth, in old age. It has nothing to do with age.

So, Bharataram, it depends on you. Your question is important, but I cannot give the answer. You will have to search it in your own heart. Why do you want God now? From fear? Or from understanding? Is it that death is frightening you—or that, having seen life and found nothing, a grip has come upon the seer? Having seen so much, so much, a remembrance of the one who sees has dawned?

When you go to a cinema, while the film rolls—colored images on the screen, the plot entangles you—in that entanglement you forget yourself; the story becomes everything. Sometimes you are so gripped that even if someone picks your pocket you don’t notice. That is why pockets are picked in theaters. You are so eager, so absorbed that the pocket is cut and you don’t know.

But when the film ends and the screen is empty, the first remembrance that comes—notice—is of yourself: “Ah, now I should go, get up. The film is over, the story finished, time to go home.”

In this life too there are many games, many stories, many tales—one after another in a chain. If amidst all these sequences a remembrance keeps returning—of oneself, “Now I should go, get up; the story is over; time to go home”—if this remembrance of God is a remembrance of going home, then it is true. Then there is a qualitative difference. But if it arises from cowardice, timidity, fear—death is coming, let me make arrangements ahead—then it is only a mark of old age, nothing more. It has no religious value.

You must reflect. I cannot answer it for you. You must seek the answer in your own heart. And if you seek, you will surely find it. The truth is, you already know the answer. In this whole discussion, by now it will have become clear within you. In analyzing and probing your question, you must be seeing the reason why you have become eager for God today.

Suppose you are seventy, and I bless you, “You can live another seventy years.” What will happen? Will your desire for God remain? Or will you say, “We’ll see later. Now that I have gotten a few more days, it’s moonlit nights again, taverns again—let me enjoy a little more; God can wait another seventy years—what’s the hurry?” Think carefully—if some miracle happened and you were told you could live another seventy years, would your desire for God vanish? Or grow stronger? Would you say, “Ah! I have this opportunity—now I will devote all seventy years to the search for God. The past seventy are gone; I will not let these seventy pass”? If such a feeling arises, know that a true longing has arisen.

But if, hearing of another seventy, you say, “Good! That business I started—let me complete it. Elections are coming in ’82; horses, donkeys, mules—everyone is standing; I should not miss the chance. As for God—he can wait. Where’s the hurry? Later. When death knocks again, I will remember.” If such a feeling arises, then know that this longing of yours is the same as childhood’s toys, youth’s desires—no difference; it is an old-age game.

Make it clear within. If it is an old-age game, it is futile. But if it is the flower of life’s maturity, it is supreme good fortune—you are blessed! Thank God. Late or very late—still, you have remembered your way home.

And the one who loses his way in the morning, if he returns home by evening, is not called lost.

Enough for today.