Prem Panth Aiso Kathin #7

Ajit Saraswati! I am a witness that much has happened. But much yet remains to happen. What has happened is far less than what is still to happen. This journey is not one that comes to an end.

Sannyas is not a means that, after attaining some goal, becomes complete. Sannyas is both the means and the goal. Sannyas is not a destination; it is a journey—a pilgrimage. This journey has no end. It begins, but it does not conclude. It has a beginning, but not a finality. And that is its beauty: each day a new challenge; each day new peaks call; each day new paths open; day after day new experiences knock at the door. One joy is hardly tasted when a whole queue of joys stands ready. It is not a single lamp; it is a whole garland of lamps, a whole festival of lights.

Understand this truth well, otherwise needless pain will arise.

The mind’s longing is that what has begun should be completed. That is the mind’s nature. The incomplete does not suit the mind; it wants to finish it. Hence, leave something unfinished and the mind keeps returning—when shall I finish, how shall I finish? The mind is a lover of completion; it lives in that love.

On the journey of sannyas, the mind will trail along like a shadow and say: when will everything be complete? When will perfection arrive? When will that last moment come beyond which nothing remains?

If you enter the psychology of this longing of the mind, many important insights will be found. Dive a little deeper and great pearls will be in your hands. The longing for completion is a longing for self-annihilation. This is not visible on the surface. When you want to complete something, it means that in that relationship you want to die—for after completion, no life remains. Life is in incompleteness. As soon as a flower has fully bloomed, the time to fall has arrived; as soon as a river reaches the ocean, it is finished. As long as the ocean is far and its call summons, and the river runs, crossing mountains, valleys, caverns and gorges—till then the river has life. A song that is complete is also a song that is over; the song that is incomplete will still ring, still dance, still hum; the urge to become whole will continue.

There are things in life that are never completed, because they are eternal; they do not die, therefore they are never finished. In life, love is never completed—because if love were completed it would die, and love does not know how to die. In life, sannyas is never complete—if it were complete it would become futile. However complete you make it, something remains; it always remains. The Isha Upanishad says rightly: from that Whole, even if we take away the whole, the Whole still remains.

And as the depth of sannyas grows, new doors of bliss will open; a drizzle of nectar will begin. Along with that, the yearning will intensify: when will it all be complete? How can drops satisfy the mind? How can I have the ocean—the whole ocean at once? But I want to tell you, Ajit Saraswati: even if the ocean is obtained, it will still prove to be a drop—because beyond oceans there are great oceans. From that Whole, even if we take away the whole, the Whole remains. This journey is not one that ends; that is why I call it a pilgrimage. A journey that ends is not a pilgrimage; the journey that is endless is the pilgrimage.

Your question is meaningful. You say: “Six years have passed since I took sannyas. By giving sannyas you have given a new life.”

I did not give a new life. By taking sannyas you accepted a new life. If I want to give, I cannot. If you want to take, you can. I may want to give a thousand times, but if you keep your doors and windows shut, nothing of mine will happen. I may knock on your door as much as I like, and you may be stone-deaf; I may call out and you may hear and ignore. There are such friends who hear and yet ignore; at whose doors I keep knocking and not even a louse stirs on their ears; who remain just as they are. In them, sannyas has only happened on the surface. They have dyed their clothes, but are careful to save their souls from being dyed. They think that dyeing the robe finishes the work. Dyeing the robe is only your declaration that now you are ready to have your soul dyed too—that you surrender yourself into the hands of the dyer: “The cloth I have dyed; dye my soul as well!”

If I wish to give, I cannot give you a new life; no one can give anyone a new life. Yes, if you wish to receive, you can. There is a saying: we can take a horse to the river, but we cannot force it to drink. Even if, dragging you along, I bring you to the river, if you do not cup your hands, do not bow, do not fill your palms with water, do not drink—then even water that has risen up to your throat can be turned back.

And such is the misfortune of many: they even send back the water that has come up to the throat. It was all but about to happen, and they miss. There was an inch of distance—perhaps not even an inch—and they miss. One more step and the destination would be reached, but that one step does not get taken; they remain stuck.

You had the courage; you accepted my indication—you trusted; through that trust you received a new life. If you must give thanks, give it to yourself. Honor yourself, respect yourself—for through that respect more courage will grow, more acceptance will grow, more trust will grow.

You say: “How shall I express gratitude to you for the bliss I am receiving?”

Know this: when thanks cannot be offered, only then understand that something worth thanking for has been received. Those things for which thanks can easily be given have no great value. Value belongs to those moments where the tongue falters in gratitude, the voice falls silent, words cannot be found; whatever you say seems too small; if you do not speak, there is a restlessness, and if you speak, it feels meaningless. Only when something like that happens, know that something has happened. Gratitude cannot truly be expressed—because gratitude has a limit, and bliss has none.

But I am a witness that bliss is happening. And when bliss happens, a further yearning for bliss arises; the more the taste, the more the craving. As much as light appears, so much the prayer arises: may I become more filled with light. Tamaso ma jyotir gamaya! With a small glimpse, then the prayer arises that my whole life be filled with light. That prayer, that song is natural. That very song is rising—do not call it a thorn; count it too as good fortune. One sip has gone down, the taste has come; now the desire to drink the whole ocean is arising—that too is natural.

You say: “Only one thorn pricks me—that despite such opportunity and nearness I am not able to drink you completely.”

The closer you come, the more this pain will be—because the nearer you come, the more the urge to come even nearer will arise; and the nearer you come, the clearer will be the sense that you can come still nearer—and then even a small distance will hurt.

The distances will also melt. If they chafe, then they must melt. If they cause pain, they cannot last long. But this pain is sweet; this pain is also a good fortune; only the blessed know it. There is no obstruction.

You ask: “What is the obstacle? It is not clear.”

There is no obstacle at all. This is the natural unfolding of life. Everything grows with its own specific pace. Seasonal flowers grow quickly—but they also end quickly. Deodars that touch the sky grow very, very slowly. Every experience has its own speed. However much we may want it to happen quickly, our wanting will not hasten it; our wanting may even delay it—because the energy that could have gone into growth gets consumed in wanting. That much energy will not be available for growth.

The plant of love is the highest in this world; it touches the sky. Sannyas is the preparation, the soil, for the plant of love. If in the soil of sannyas the plant of love takes root, then a relationship with the divine is formed. When the flowers of love blossom in the sky, that very blossoming is prayer; that is our worship at the divine feet. It will take time. There is no obstacle. Every thing has its own order of growth.

In the mother’s womb the child will be ready for birth in nine months. There is no obstacle. It is not that the mother thinks, “It is taking too long—three months have passed and the child has not yet been born; four months and still not born—why is it taking so long?” It will take nine months.

There is a lovely story about Lao Tzu: that he remained in his mother’s womb for eighty-two years. As it is, it cannot be; it is not history, it is myth; yet it is priceless. And myth is always more valuable than history—remember this; never forget it. History is fact; myth is truth. History gathers petty events: the footprints that remain on the sands of time are what history collects; myth gathers the resonances that resound in the eternal.

If a son like Lao Tzu is to be born, so mature, then even eighty-two years in the mother’s womb are few—that is the meaning of the tale. Ordinary children ripen in nine months; anyone can ripen in nine months; but for a child like Lao Tzu to be born, even eighty-two years are insufficient. Surely Lao Tzu must have remained in the womb for eighty-two years; only then did he take birth so mature.

It is said that people are born crying; about Zarathustra it is told that he alone is the child who was born laughing. To be born crying is perfectly natural; to die crying is perfectly natural. To be born laughing and to die laughing is a very rare phenomenon. Now a child like Zarathustra, who was born laughing, who brought so much awareness with him that life appeared to him worthy of laughter—if he had to remain long in the mother’s womb, it is no wonder.

About Lao Tzu there is also the story that when he was born all his hair was white. If he remained in the womb for eighty-two years, his hair would indeed have turned white.

White hair is a symbol of wisdom, of ripeness—so much wisdom, such deep experience, such awareness, as if the peaks of the Himalayas were covered with snow; so Lao Tzu was born covered with snow-white hair.

Everything has its time; every growth has its own pace; everything has its own rhythm.

Ajit, there is no thorn. There is pain, but not the pain of a thorn. It is the pain that more is possible—why is it not happening? This is not the pain of the poor; it is of the rich. Not of the wretched or sorrowful, but of the joyful: bliss is happening—more can happen—why is it not? This is not a thorn-like pain; it is a flower-like pain—beautiful like a flower.

And there is no obstruction. There is a natural rhythm to growth. One should take one step at a time. If steps are taken in haste, we remain unripe. The processes of life must be fulfilled. Hurry, impatience, can be fatal.

In school, children take exams; they can also cheat, peep into another’s notebook; then they may write the right answers, but the method will be missing. Without the method the answer is meaningless; they will be caught. A math book has the mathematics inside, and at the back are printed the answers. You may read the mathematics and look at the answers at the back—by that you will not become a mathematician. What about the method? Method takes time. If you want to reach the conclusion, you must pass through the process.

There is no obstruction. Yet the Ganga will flow from Gangotri; even if no obstruction arises, it will still take time to reach the ocean at Ganga Sagar. And those things that we take to be obstacles—are they obstacles? No, they are not. If we remove them all, the entire beauty of the Ganga will be lost. If there were no mountains in the middle, no caverns, no gorges, no rocks; if from Gangotri to Ganga Sagar there were a level road, a royal highway with no heights or depths, no winding curves, a straight line—then there would be a canal; the Ganga would not remain.

And have you seen the difference between a canal and a river?

A canal has no beauty—because a canal is like a train running on rails: there is no nature in it; it is artificial. The joy of the Ganga is that sometimes she descends from high mountains, falls into deep ravines; sometimes she runs through the plains; sometimes to the left, sometimes to the right; sometimes down, sometimes up. Passing through all those experiences is precisely the Ganga’s purity, her beauty, her uniqueness, her intimacy, her soul. Canals have no soul; all canals are alike. Rivers have souls, and all rivers are not alike.

If I were teaching you character here, then you would become canal-like people. I am not teaching you character; I am teaching you reverence for nature. I am not giving you an outer code of conduct; I am calling your inner being—find your own path; descend from the mountains; move in search of the ocean. But let your path be your own. Do not imitate anyone. Do not walk behind anyone. Those who walk behind do not arrive anywhere; those who follow are blind and remain blind.

There is no obstruction, Ajit. What is happening, and the pace at which it is happening, is right. But I understand your discomfort too. There is longing, a craving that it happen quickly. Who knows about tomorrow? Life may or may not remain in hand!

And your pain is the pain of all who have tasted bliss. When the taste comes, one wants not merely to come near but to drown completely. But the happening of total drowning will arrive at a particular moment of ripeness; we cannot bring it about. It will come by itself—come unannounced, stand at the door suddenly so that you are taken aback, speechless. It is not to come by your expectation.

Often it happens that when you have no expectation at all, no awareness at all, then suddenly the guest arrives—because when there is no expectation, no craving, your heart is open in its fullness. In expectation it closes a little; the stronger the expectation the narrower it becomes. Tension is created; duality is formed. When you are without conflict, when you gratefully accept life as it is being given today, content with just that much and do not demand more—on that very day, the more will also happen. Remember this arithmetic well: do not demand, and the “more” will happen day by day; demand, and hindrance will arise, obstruction will be created.

You say: “Now the heart wants, not merely to be near, but to drown completely in your celebration.”

You are already drowning. You go on drowning. The happening is so natural that it is not being noticed. Trees grow day by day; it is not noticed. Right now as we sit here talking, the trees are growing. When you came and now—a difference has occurred: some buds may have opened; some sprouts may have burst; some leaves may have come out; some old leaves may have fallen. Every moment they are growing. But it will not be recognized. Yes, if you come here after two or four years, you will be amazed to see how big the trees have become.

A child grows daily, but the mother does not notice. When guests come to the house after a year or two, they say, “The boy has grown so much.” The mother saw him every day.

Such is the condition of every seeker. You look at yourself every day; it seems nothing is happening, not happening fast enough. Everything is happening—but gradually, slowly. Others will recognize; you may not. Many times it will happen that the revolution that takes place in you you will notice later; others will notice it earlier, because you do not stand fully revealed before others, are not available always; they see you only sometimes.

But I am watching closely. When I give sannyas, it means precisely this: that I will follow you, remain your witness like a shadow. Auspicious things are happening. Drowning in the celebration is also happening. This longing is itself a part of that drowning. Duality is chafing—the preparation to efface it is on. It is to be erased. One is to drown in that celebration which is being created here—so that there remains not the slightest difference between this and you; that this be your dance, your celebration, your song. And only then will you become worthy to go and invite the many who are thirsty.

Each of my sannyasins is not only to drown himself, but one day, through his own ecstasy, is to bring invitation to many. His ecstasy will itself invite.

This world is waiting for a new human being. You are fortunate, because in your hands is an opportunity that comes into the hands of humanity only once in a while. Only once in twenty-five centuries does such an opportunity come, when humanity takes a new step, climbs a new rung. Those twenty-five centuries are completing. The good fortune that belonged to the people of Buddha’s time—those who sat in the sangha of Buddha and experienced bliss—you too have that effortless capacity. Unmerited is your good fortune. Those who sat with Buddha did not know either what great revolution they were joining. You too do not exactly know. As you awaken it will become clear that you are not part of any beaten tradition; you are neither Hindu, nor Muslim, nor Christian. You have no link with the past. You are a herald of the future: of a new human being, of a new religiosity. If you drown, you will be able to drown others too.

And Ajit has that pain too. In this question you have not written it, but in other questions you have written many times: how to carry my word to others? How to tell others that treasure is being poured out and why are you deprived?

You will drown in the celebration! And you will speak to others as well! You will drown others too!

Behind the veil there are still so many scenes;
beyond the horizon, thousands of constellations dance.

Behind the curtain many things are still hidden.
The veil has to be lifted. Eyes must be created that can see beyond the horizon. If a few sannyasins grow such eyes, then we will begin to spread like a contagious disease.

Just as diseases are contagious, so too is health contagious—more contagious than disease. Otherwise, in Buddha’s time there were neither means nor media of propaganda, yet Buddha encompassed the whole of Asia. In Jesus’ time there were no means either, yet the whole earth resounded with Jesus’ voice. Today the earth has become very small—a tiny village. There are means and media. Today we can touch the nerve of every being; veils can be lifted; horizons can be removed.

Behind the veil there are still so many scenes;
beyond the horizon, thousands of constellations dance.

Step forward—step a little faster, my friend,
for the caravan of longing is still slow-going.

Man is creeping very slowly, walking like a corpse. Therefore, friends, step a little faster!

Step forward—step a little faster, my friend,
for the caravan of longing is still slow-going.

On the sun’s brow lies the grime of darkness;
in the frame of dawn the colors of dusk still roll.

Centuries of dust have settled upon the sun. And what a morning this is, that evening is still mixed into it.

On the sun’s brow lies the grime of darkness;
in the frame of dawn the colors of dusk still roll.

The spring of tulip and rose still roams with autumn upon its back;
the playful tresses of the fairy are still captive in the snare.

The world must be changed! Even now autumn rides on the shoulders of spring. The world must be changed! Those who have wings have forgotten their wings; they sit shrunk within cages. Those who can fly in the sky have forgotten that they have the capacity to fly.

The spring of tulip and rose still roams with autumn upon its back;
the playful tresses of the fairy are still captive in the snare.

Life even today toils under boundaries and fetters;
reason is still unripe, and passion too is still unripe.

Life is confined within many limits—of Hindu, of Muslim, of Jain, of Buddhist; of Brahmin, of Kshatriya, of Shudra; of Indian, of Chinese, of Japanese—life is enclosed within countless boundaries. Man’s intellect is still raw, and his heart is even more so.

Life even today toils under boundaries and fetters;
reason is still unripe, and passion too is still unripe.

Intellect is unripe, and so is ecstasy; love is unripe. They must be ripened. These limits must be broken.

A thousand centuries have left many-colored imprints,
yet the tale of existence is still unfinished.

And through the centuries, wondrous beings have appeared—sometimes a Buddha, sometimes a Zarathustra, sometimes a Mohammed, sometimes a Kabir, sometimes a Nanak. The centuries have flung many radiant colors, lit many lamps. Yet there is something strange: when lamps are lit, man turns his back to them; when they are extinguished, he worships them.

A thousand centuries have left many-colored imprints,
yet the tale of existence is still unfinished.

And yet man remains incomplete, unripe, half-cooked.

A new world, a new life, a new human:
we still have to arrange heaven upon the earth.

Heaven must be brought down to the earth. It has not yet been brought down; the talk has gone on, but it has not been brought. It is great work. And because it is great work, fill yourselves with great joy. Small tasks cannot make you vast. The greatest work in this world is still to be done: to bring heaven to the earth; to teach human beings the ways of love and joy. But only those will be able to teach these lessons who drown in love and in bliss.

Your longing, Ajit, is beautiful. But do not turn longing into demand. Do not turn longing into expectation. Do not force your life’s growth to hasten beyond its rhythm. Let it ripen. Let it mature in its own way.

I am happy. I am pleased. I rejoice in your pace.

Ranjan Bharti! The greatest lesson of life is hidden in understanding life’s polarities. Where there is day, there is night. Where there is birth, there is death. Where there is success, there is failure. And both can be present together. Whoever tries to choose one and reject the other will fall into needless trouble. Life will become surrounded by anxieties. There is only one way to be free of anxiety: accept both. Both are. Both are together.

On the rose there are flowers and thorns. The mind says, “Let there be only flowers.” The mind says, “Let there be only day.” The mind says, “Let there be only pleasure.” But existence does not run by the mind’s rules. Existence’s laws are as they are. Existence will not bend to our minds—but we can bring our minds into harmony with existence. What is possible is to understand the law of existence and live accordingly. I call living in accord with it sannyas.

Whoever fights the law of existence is ignorant, because he will be defeated. One cannot conquer existence. For a wave to try to conquer the ocean, a leaf to conquer the tree, a strand of your hair to conquer you—just so impossible is the idea of conquering existence.

Yet, with existence there are two options:
We can be against it, or we can be with it. We can fight, but we will not win. In fighting we ourselves will break and be destroyed. If we are with existence, victory happens without conquering. In surrender there is victory. The law of existence is that where there is pleasure there is also pain. We do not want to accept this. We say, “We are willing to choose pleasure, but we are not willing to choose pain.” We want to choose one face of the coin and not the other. But where will the other face go? Choose one, and the other comes along.

So first, Ranjan, you say: “Living in the ashram I feel very blissful; but sometimes, suddenly, I become sad. What is this sadness that comes and goes?”

It is the shadow of that bliss—the other face of it. Accept bliss, and accept sadness too. Let there be no split in your acceptance. Accept choicelessly. When bliss comes, let there be bliss; when sadness comes, let there be sadness. Do not say, “When bliss comes, let it stay, never leave,” and do not say, “Sadness has come—let it go, let it not stay.” When bliss arrives, let it be a guest—welcome it. And when sadness arrives, welcome sadness as well—just as you welcomed bliss. Then a revolution will happen in your life.

What kind of revolution? Which revolution?

The most significant happening in your life will take place: the birth of the witness within you. You will see bliss come, and sadness come; you will see bliss go, and sadness go. And it will become clear within you: I am neither bliss nor sadness. I am the seer of both, the witness. Before me they come, they dance, and they depart. I remain untouched, like a mirror. To experience this witnessing is the very essence of all religions.

Ranjan, your difficulty is that when bliss comes, you press it to your chest. You grip it tight—“Let it not slip away! Last time it came and went; this time let it not go! This time we won’t let it leave!” You draw circles around it, bind alliances, draw a protective line around it—“Do not step beyond this!” And in all that, bliss is destroyed. When will you have time to enjoy bliss? All your time goes in saving it.

Then sadness comes and the mind frets: “Sadness again!” Sadness itself does not make you as sad as the thought, “Sadness has come.”

Sadness has its own virtues, its own mysteries. If sadness is accepted, it has its own delight. Let me say it plainly: sadness, too, has its own joy. For in sadness there is a peace, a still emptiness. In sadness there is depth. Bliss is shallow; it is on the surface. Bliss is like the froth upon a rushing river. Sadness is like the river’s depth—dark and black. Bliss is like light; sadness is like darkness. Have you savored the delight of a dark night? Have you tasted the mystery of the new-moon night? Have you seen its depth?

But the one who fears the dark closes his eyes, refuses to look at the new moon night. He shuts doors and windows and lights all the lamps. He denies the darkness. Have you seen the stars glittering in the new-moon sky? In the day they are not there. They cannot be. Day does not have that capacity. Stars reveal themselves only in the darkness of night, in its silence. They arise and dance in the sky only against the backdrop of night.

Just so, sadness has its own delights, its own flavors, its own rasa. Ranjan, it is not only in bliss that there is joy—there is joy in sadness as well. But it is found by the witness. The witness extracts juice from everything—presses flowers out of thorns, makes diamonds of stones. The magic of the witness is immense. In this one word—witness—lies the magic of all magics. So be a witness. When bliss comes, see it: it has come. And remember, whatever comes will go. There is no need to cling. If it comes, fine—welcome it; if it goes, fine—bid it farewell. Do not weave attachment at its arrival, and do not be tormented by clinging at its departure. And welcome sadness the same way. If it comes, welcome; if it goes, farewell.

Drop the division between sadness and bliss. Drop choosing. With choiceless, steady awareness, watch both. Then the wonder of wonders happens: there is joy in joy, of course—but new springs of joy begin to gush even in sadness. Joy remains joy, and sadness too begins to taste like a new kind of joy—because it is but joy’s other face. Then nothing can torment you.

And do not worry, “Why does this happen?” It is natural. Day follows night, night follows day. There is no “reason.” It is life’s law. The law of life is duality; your inner law is freedom from duality. Watch life’s duality from the non-dual witness within.

And Ranjan, you have left your house and come here. You left your husband, your son. You came for a few days, and then it became impossible to go back. You drowned—and drowned deeply. Your husband waits in Los Angeles, far away in America. You may not know—he writes letters to me! And in them he says, “Don’t tell Ranjan.” You must, at times, remember home. Granted, this is your home now; still, the past does not get erased in a single stroke. Erasing takes time. You have left everything behind; their traces remain. You left all comforts and live here amid the ashram’s discomforts. Your love for me is deep, and your search for truth is intense—hence you could do all this. But sometimes, in certain moments, memories of home and household will arise. You set up a home, brought beautiful furniture, hung pictures, draped curtains—with much feeling and love. You left your husband, your son. Naturally, waves will sometimes arise and make you sad. And going back is also not possible.

But these inner wounds will heal slowly. It takes time. And we should allow time. Granted, what you left was a dream—but dreams are dear too. Not all dreams end in tragedy.

The night had flowed into dreams,
the night had been nursed on dreams;
when morning came I saw:
the night had deceived me with dreams.
The dream that kept the whole night half-awake—
that dream too, at last, remained incomplete.

A dream is a dream,
and a dream it will ever remain;
helpless, the human heart
through the ages will softly say:
the dream that kept the whole night half-awake—
that dream too, at last, remained incomplete.

The night is forever drowsy,
the eyes forever heavy with sleep;
these restless, age-old yearnings
whisper the same old refrain:
the dream that kept the whole night half-awake—
that dream too, at last, remained incomplete.

You have left behind an unfinished dream. Because it was a dream, you could leave it. But you saw it for so long that it had begun to feel almost true. Husband and wife—living together—become so “true”! All bonds here are chance meetings—like river and boat. Who belongs to whom? Yet how intimate they begin to feel! Sometimes even in a train journey of ten or five hours, such friendship forms that when your station arrives and the time to part comes, there is pain. It was a companionship of an hour or two, yet a bond formed, an attachment grew. Fellow travelers on the way exchange addresses, promise to write!

This life too is a caravan of travelers moving along the road. Someone walked alongside and became a husband; someone walked alongside and became a son; someone walked alongside and became a friend. And there is great sweetness in these dreams. Otherwise, why would so many keep dreaming? Granted they are false, yet they preoccupy the mind, they enchant it.

Old memories will come to you. This is completely natural. Watch them with witnessing. Since you have left the family, the memories of family will also gradually fall away.

Remember, I tell no one to leave their family. I do not preach, “Abandon your home.” But in your case it was beyond your power to go back. It would have been unjust for me to force you. So I gave you permission to stay. My rules are not rigid. With each person my “rule” can take a different form. I keep no fixed formulas. To someone I say, “Go back, return home, care for the family,” because I see their attachment and taste remain so strong that staying here will bring only suffering. And someone else appears to be a born sannyasin—as if whether there is a home behind them or not makes no difference. To force such a one back would be an excess, a kind of violence.

In Ranjan I saw just this. She came for two, four, ten days—only to see. That is why her husband keeps writing to me, “What is this? She went for a few days; now it’s been ten months. Is she coming back or not?” But when I look into Ranjan’s eyes, it seems that ninety-nine percent of her has no attachment. Ninety-nine percent she is free. For the sake of the remaining one percent, one cannot sacrifice the ninety-nine. Yes, had it been the opposite—if I had seen one percent wanting to stay here and ninety-nine percent in the home—I would certainly have counseled her to return. I have not confined my sannyas within such petty boundaries. My sannyasin may live at home, in the family. But that does not mean my sannyasin must live at home. If someone’s inner being is moved to let the house fall away, I will surely bless that freedom.

The husband is not particularly distressed either—not in his heart. His letters do not suggest any heartfelt pain. Otherwise, if a wife did not return for ten months, he would have come running. There is no heartache—there is managerial discomfort: “Who will take care of the house?” The letters do not say, “How can I live without my wife? I am missing her. Without her I cannot sleep or eat.” Nothing like that. It’s, “Who will look after the home? Who will manage the household?” This is not a bond of love; it is an arrangement. The wife was a manager. Perhaps the bond of affection was not there between them—only a social formality. Otherwise, after ten months the husband would have come! He was more attached to the son, so he had the boy called back. The son has gone.

Even so, Ranjan will sometimes remember. The husband may not remember. In America, a husband whose wife has gone off to India—will he remember! For him it’s like the cat’s luck finding the cream pot open. He must be tasting freedom. But Ranjan—she has a woman’s heart—sometimes worry will come, and sadness will seize her. Watch that sadness with witnessing. Gradually it will disappear.

And if ever you do go back home, go only as a witness. Do not go before that. So that there, too, you can see it all as a dream—whether sweet or bitter. Whatever happens outside in this world has no ultimate value. What happens within is the only value. Ranjan, look to the inner!

Unfurl, O petals—open your fragrant doors.
On the little couch of the far horizon
dawn has awakened, the sky has smiled.
The splendor of the rising sun
is scattered on the river’s wavering drops;
the whole world, corner to corner, is luminous, O my tender one.
Unfurl, O petals—open your fragrant doors.

Bind the languid night in gentle bonds,
dew-drenched lotuses sway upon the waves.
Anxious, the little bee sits a bit soiled,
thirst upon its lips;
with your fresh drops of nectar, flood the world.
Unfurl, O petals—open your fragrant doors.

The hour has come to open the lotus of the heart. Morning has come—open the lotus of the heart. And the lotus of the heart opens on only one condition: as the sun rises, the lotus on the lake blooms; just so, when witnessing is born within you, your heart-lotus blooms. Watch joy, and watch sorrow; success and failure; love and anger. Whatever unfolds around you—go on watching. A whole fair is spread; the mind has countless layers of feelings, countless forms—how many colors the mind wears, how many disguises it assumes. Keep watching, watching, watching.

Let one understanding settle unmoving within: I am the seer, I am the witness. In that very attitude the gate of liberation opens. In that very attitude the lotus of the heart opens. The attainment of that very state is what is called Buddhahood, awakening, samadhi.

Ramdas, death is certain—whether you fear it or not. Fear will only do one thing: it won’t let you live rightly. You’ll die before you die. The brave die once, the proverb says; the coward dies every day, dies a thousand deaths. Death is a natural event, like birth. When there is a beginning, there will be an end. And what is the fear about? What will be lost? What do you possess that death could snatch from you? What have you truly attained that death could rob? What are you doing that death could interrupt?

You rise in the morning, earn your bread, come back in the evening, go to sleep, and then rise again—this circling like the ox at the oil-press you take to be life? And if death comes and halts this oil-press ox, why be so afraid? In truth, if you look closely at your life, you will say: “Thank you, Death, that you have come! Had you not come, I would have kept circling and circling. This oil-press ox would have gone on and on. Who knows how much oil would have to be crushed out—result would still be nothing, nothing would be in hand.”

There is a well-known story: when Alexander came on his campaign to India, great Greek sages told him they had heard, somewhere in the Indian mountains, hidden in a cave, there was a spring of nectar—whoever drank it became immortal.

Who would not want to be immortal? If I told you, “Yes, such a spring exists,” then tomorrow not one of you would be seen here! All of you would set out in search of that spring.

Alexander searched long, and finally reached it. He left his soldiers and generals outside. A twinge of jealousy had seized him: if they all drank, what would be special about my immortality? I alone will drink. Naked swords barred the cave door. Alexander went in alone. There was the spring! Such fragrance rose from its water, such crystal clarity—he had never seen such water, as if light had melted down from the moon and stars! He halted, astonished; his hands were just about to cup the water when a crow sitting by the rock said, “Stop! Stop! Wait a minute!”

A crow speaking! But that could pass, Alexander thought—for where the spring of immortality is, anything can happen. Crows might speak too. But since the crow had called out, he held back. He asked, “What is the reason? Why do you want me to stop?”

The crow said, “I want to stop you because I drank from this spring. Ages upon ages have passed, and I cannot die. I fall from cliffs, I put a noose round my neck, I drink poison, I thrust a blade into my chest—but death does not occur. And I am tired. I am very tired. The same work every day…the same caw-caw, the same caw-caw, the same caw-caw…every feather of mine is weary. I want to die. You are a great traveler; perhaps on your way somewhere you know of a place where there is an antidote to this nectar, some spring of poison that can end the effect of immortality? Give me its whereabouts! Then do as you please—drink, or don’t drink. But if you’ll take my advice, think it over! Do not be hasty, sit down and consider! Because once you drink, there is no release.”

And the story says Alexander stood there a moment, thought, and then ran fast out of the cave. The crow asked, “Why are you running?”

He said, “I’m afraid that in some sudden excitement I might drink after all. Your words have reached me. Caw-caw, caw-caw…how long would that go on? Then there would be no end.”

Just think, Ramdas: if you became immortal, how long would you keep cawing? Why be so panic-stricken? Death is rest. Death is simply release from futile running about. Why see death as an enemy? There is no enemy here at all. This whole existence is ours; we belong to it. It gave us birth; it gives us death. That which gave birth cannot be an enemy. And from the same source that gave birth comes death—so death too must bring auspiciousness, must be a blessing.

This existence is filled with benediction. Here, in truth, the inauspicious does not happen. Yes, if you label something “inauspicious,” then the trouble begins. It is all a matter of attitude.

You say, “I am afraid of death.”
This bitter wine too must be drunk one day.
Bitter, granted, is the wine of death, but one day it must be drunk.

This bitter wine too must be drunk one day.
Death is real enough, but it is not the purpose of life;
It is not the destination of the caravan of longing and love.
How many tangled paths we still must pass through,
We still have to bring to completion life’s campaign.
Life, darkened by death, becomes fearful, oppressive—
A heavy, stifled climate of constraint.
In this black house, my friend, let us light a candle;
Let us set a gathering for the people’s freedom, my friend.
With the moon’s blood we must build the dawn;
We must bring the palace of darkness crashing down.
Let us gather what it takes to shape a new world;
So long as we live, why yearn for death?
Death will come; it is bound to come one day.

So neither fear death nor desire it.
Death will come; it is bound to come one day.
Death arrived the very day you were born. On that day, everything was set—half the work was done, half remains to unfold; it will unfold, it is bound to. There is no way to escape it. So do not worry about avoiding death; nor call death early by longing for it. These few days of life you have—use them for something! Turn this life into some light! Engage this life in the search for that which never dies. That element is present within you.

In this black house, my friend, let us light a candle—
Yes, it is dark; yes, this is a house of darkness; but in it a candle can be lit.
In this black house, my friend, let us light a candle;
Let us set a gathering for the people’s freedom, my friend.
Here there are only bonds—of birth, of death; of this, of that—but even amidst all these bonds, freedom can arise. In the span between birth and death that you have been given, if you search within yourself, then neither birth nor death will remain. Because by seeking within, you will find that which was before birth and will remain after death.

Bear in mind: what you will find is not “you”; it is the divine. You were born, and you will die; but within you there is more than you. Within you, not only you exist; the Vast is present.

Only when the Vast is realized does the fear of death disappear. When a little of the shadow of the Eternal falls upon you, what death can there be?

One day I shall lose myself in the darkness of history,
On life’s road I shall be trampled.
These dusk-stained evenings, this soft and delicate air—
Nature’s splendor has poured itself into my verses.
I have sung such multicolored songs upon the lute of love,
I have recited many an ode in Beauty’s court.
To the people of the garden I have told the tale of lightning and spark,
In the halls of the wealthy I have narrated the story of the poor.
I have given the good news of morning to the darkness-struck human,
The heartbeat of a new age lives within my thoughts.
My far-reaching thought is intimate with nature’s secrets,
Often it has reached the sable depths of the fixed and wandering stars.
My poems cannot die with my dying,
Nor can my books, my thoughts, die with me.

You will die—as you presently take yourself to be, you will die. But within you a song can be born—the song that was born in Buddha, that was born in Krishna. That song lies within you as well. The instrument is there; it is only a matter of plucking the strings. That song never dies. Within you, a Gita can be born, a Quran can be born. Such recognition never dies. Within you there is the possibility of recognizing the Eternal.

Ramdas, if you go on only fearing death, you will squander life! People are squandering it just so—trembling at death! Someone is running after wealth, thinking money might save him from death. Someone strives to reach high office, thinking if he becomes president, death won’t so easily take him away. People are making a thousand arrangements. But death will come, it will come. Death cannot be avoided; it is an inescapable part of life. And yet I still tell you: you do not die. You die, and still you don’t. There are two within you. One is what you have taken to be yourself—the “I,” the ego. And one is your soul. Ah, if only you were free of the ego and could see your soul even for a single instant! Meditation is nothing other than this. Dissolve the ego, and if for a moment a glimpse of the soul dawns—death is gone. Not only death, birth too is gone.

For centuries the seers of this land have prayed: “Deliver us from coming and going.” Understand, they did not ask for release from death alone; they asked also for release from birth—from the round of birth and death. Neither to come, nor to go—freedom from both. Let there be no birth again, then how could there be death?

You cling fiercely to life and do not wish to die. But the one who clings fiercely to life will have to die badly. You want birth, Ramdas…

Only a few days ago a man with cancer was brought to me. His last days—physicians have said a month or two at most. He has known me for at least ten years, has been listening for ten years. Many times he decided to take sannyas, but doubts arose, anxieties arose, worldly concerns arose—and he turned back. This time he came and said, “I have only one prayer. Doctors say death is certain; in a month or two I’ll be gone. My only prayer is: may my next birth be in a sannyasin’s home.”

He hasn’t died yet, and he is arranging the next birth. Could not take sannyas himself, and now wants to be born in some sannyasin’s house.

I said, “At least you take sannyas now! And now there isn’t much time left.”

He said, “I will think about it.”

I said, “You have been thinking for ten years. Now cancer is at the door; there isn’t much scope left for thinking, no leisure to race your thoughts.”

“No,” he said, “nothing is final; some doctors say perhaps I may yet be saved. And miracles happen. I am going around now to saints and sannyasins for blessings. I have come to you in this hope. So either bless me that I do not die, that this illness be averted now—or, if this illness must be, if you see it cannot be averted, then at least bless me that my next birth be in a sannyasin’s house.”

You want to escape death, and yet you long for birth! How will that be? The arithmetic won’t work. Birth is the beginning of death. If you truly want to be free of death, then drop the longing for birth. Drop the thirst for life. Seek within for that which witnesses life. In one sense that is you, and in another sense it is not you. The ego is not there; there is pure consciousness. That consciousness the seers called “Tat tvam asi”—Thou art That. It is the Supreme, the Divine. After that experience, the seers proclaimed: “Aham Brahmasmi”—I am Brahman. The true meaning is: I am not; Brahman is.

What, in fact, is the fear of death about? Ramdas, have you seen death? Do you recognize death? What you have neither seen nor recognized—why fear it? How would you fear the unknown? You have seen others die. But seeing others die is not seeing death—remember this. In another person what do you see? Only this much: a moment ago breath was moving; now it is not. And in breath not moving, what is there to panic about? At night you sleep; you don’t even know whether your breath moves or not.

Researchers now say men’s breath at night often stops and starts. And now Ramdas will be more distressed! This is why men die more often at night of heart attacks than women. Women’s breath doesn’t cut off—women are sturdier; at night their breathing stays regulated. Men’s sometimes falters; men at night once or twice forget—stumble for half a minute or a minute. So more men die at night of heart attacks; women do not.

At night you forget your breathing; whether it moves or not—who knows?

When you saw someone die, you saw only that the breath stopped. It could even be those good people were practicing yoga—lying in corpse pose. Speech stopped. You have seen the surface events, but what is happening within that person—how will you see it? Within, it may be that he is entering supreme bliss.

And something like that does happen. For those a little versed in meditation, death comes as supreme bliss. Because in the moment of death they begin to sink into meditation. The body is dropping off—what more auspicious moment for meditation? Thoughts are falling away, the mind is receding—what more incomparable moment could there be?

When Buddha was about to die, this is what he told his disciples: “If you have anything to ask, ask now; otherwise I will make preparation for death.”

Ananda asked, “Preparation for death! Do you wish to mount the pyre? Do you mean to take your life with your own hand?”

“No,” Buddha said, “preparation for death means that as death approaches, I shall descend step by step into meditation. When death comes to seize the body, I shall drop the body from meditation itself—let death not have to snatch it. If death moves to seize, I will have already let go. If death tries to take the mind, I will release the mind first. Let it not be said that death had to labor. With me, there will be no labor. I know the art of living and the art of dying. For I am beyond life and beyond death.”

And that is what he did. He closed his eyes, let go the body. He did not even give death the chance—let death not be made to toil. He let go the mind; he let go feeling. On three planes he released. And on the fourth plane, the plane of asmitā—“I-am-ness”—he relinquished the last: even “I am.” He became a zero.

What can death take from you if you know how to be nothing? If you know how to be nothing, the Whole will descend into you. Death will not be able to take anything from you.

Yes—but if, Ramdas, you have piled up wealth, filled your coffers, built houses, and invested everything in that, then of course you will fear: death will come, it will snatch the wealth, it will take the house. If you have only been adorning the body, you will panic: death will take the body; all your endeavor will turn to dust.

Do something that death cannot take! Death cannot take the zero. Death cannot take meditation. The one who earns meditation goes beyond death.

Samadhi! The Sadguru is a symbol. It means that meditation awakens in you, awareness awakens in you; that you do not live in a stupor—just that much. In your getting up, sitting down, walking, there is wakefulness, discernment. Within you a lamp of alertness keeps burning. Whatever you do, do it with awareness. If someone abuses you, let anger not arise in unconsciousness. Let it not happen that afterward you have to repent—“Oh, what did I do? Why didn’t I remember?” If someone abuses you, respond to that too with awareness—calm, cool, descending within, seated in your inmost core, respond.
And you will be amazed: then the response to abuse cannot be anger; it will be compassion. Wherever awareness comes, the embers of anger are extinguished. The very embers of anger become flowers of compassion.
Right now, whatever you are doing is in unawareness. Walking, getting up, sitting—everything is mechanical.
To break this entire mechanicalness is what it means to find the inner Sadguru. While walking, keep aware that you are walking. While speaking, keep aware that you are speaking. While listening, keep aware that you are listening. Whatever you do, behind the act awareness must be standing. Even in the smallest tasks. Because the question is not of the act; the question is of awareness. Then a day comes when not only in the day does awareness remain—at night, even in sleep, the current of awareness begins to flow. A light of awareness remains. In dreams too there is awareness that “this is a dream.” And the moment you become aware that it is a dream, the dream ceases. Then even in sleep—no matter how deep—you are a witness to your deep sleep (sushupti): the body is asleep.
Therefore Krishna has said: ya nisha sarvabhutanam tasyam jagarti samyami. That which is night to all beings—there the self-controlled one is awake. What is utter unconsciousness to the sensualist—there too the yogi is awake.
First be awake in waking; then be awake in sleep. Slowly the flavor of wakefulness pervades the whole twenty-four hours—then, Sadguru!
Do you take samadhi to mean that some Sadguru is seated inside? Within you lies the potential for awareness. Your inner self is there. But the inner self is buried beneath thoughts imposed from outside. Who knows how many thoughts have been thrust upon you! Parents have thrust them, teachers have thrust them, society has thrust them, pundits–priests–politicians have thrust them—who knows how many! Who is within you—you have lost all recognition. There are so many veils, veil upon veil, that you would grow tired lifting them. Faces upon faces, masks—so that removing mask after mask you grow tired and still cannot discover where the real face is! You are like an onion bulb: peel layer after layer and a new layer emerges. And this is precisely what the meditator has to do—peel yourself like an onion bulb. Keep removing layer upon layer until only the zero, the void, remains in your hand.
The day the zero remains in your hand, when all the layers have fallen—on that day your Sadguru has awakened. And on that day the inner Sadguru will speak exactly what the outer Sadgurus have always spoken. Because in the Sadguru there is no inner–outer divide. As the Buddha speaks, so will your own awakened nature speak—the same, exactly the same. Buddha has said: Taste me from anywhere; my flavor is one. Just as the ocean—taste it anywhere, it is salty. Wherever you taste wakefulness, its flavor is one.

O indwelling One of my heart,
say something!
I have come for just two moments
away from the clamor
of the world, of my own mind!
It is not always possible so—
say a little of yourself,
and listen a little to me!
O indwelling One, speak!

Walking and walking I grow weary
on the world’s roads,
listening and listening I grow weary
of the world’s talk,
speaking and speaking I grow weary
of talking to the world;
today I have found a chance to say
something of my own to you,
and to listen also to something of yours.
O indwelling One of my heart,
say something!

Your company removes my weariness,
your company shows the path,
and yet I cannot remain in your company—
why is it so?
O indwelling One of my heart,
say something!

Again the world’s clamor
is pulling me,
again the mind’s clamor
is pulling me,
again the world’s roads
are pulling me!
Even unspoken, you have given me
a new strength.
Ever grateful am I;
accept my bowed-head salutation,
O indwelling One!

That inner Sadguru does not speak. There, realization arises only in silence. There is no movement of words there; it is soundless, eternally soundless.
End the clamor of the mind. End the uproar of the mind.
First descend from mind to feeling, then from feeling descend into being, and then from being descend into non-being. These are the four steps. That non-being is what Buddha called anatta; Nagarjuna called it shunya; Patanjali called it samadhi. In that samadhi, the God hidden within you is revealed—as though thousands upon thousands of suns were to rise at once; as though millions upon millions of lotuses were to bloom at once; the unstruck sound resounds; Om begins to echo within you.
The inner Sadguru is only a symbol. To know what you are is to know the inner Sadguru. To find the answer to “Who am I?” is to know the inner Sadguru.

Spread the living—
one single word
is more than enough
to be meaningful.
That living word
will not only quicken you,
it will pour life
around you;
it will turn
the withered
whole environment
green again.
That word
is “love.”
Go within,
deeper than
your own depth;
then bring up
the pearl
of this living word,
and open
the lip-sealed shell—
the pearl of “love” will emerge,
whose radiance
is greater than the sun.
No doubt your own
idea of yourself
as someone great
becomes an obstacle
to receiving
and spreading
this living word.
Make yourself small;
make this living word great,
and spread it
together,
open like the sky,
flowing like air and water,
abiding like a ray!

One word is mine: love. Spread it! But you can spread love only when you become loving. And love is what I call the flame. For there is no other light than love. All other lights are outer; love is the inner light—without wick, without oil. Yet there is an obstacle. When the sun of love rises, it is deep, its radiance incomparable.

The pearl of “love” will emerge,
whose radiance
is greater than the sun.
No doubt your own
idea of yourself
as someone great
becomes an obstacle
to receiving
and spreading
this living word.
But there is just one obstacle: as long as there is ego, there is no love. As long as there is the sense of “I,” there is no love. And without love there is no light.

You ask what my message is?
My message is short: spread love, spread light.

If by my doing something
even one heart blossomed,
how much I received.
If by my saying something
even a single eye
filled with joy,
what a rich
hour I spent.
If, in the stream of water,
to some insect being swept away,
I offered the support of a straw,
then through that straw
how much, and what kind of,
support I received.
If even one hour
in a day passes so,
then days no longer feel
empty and bare.
Doing just this,
I become
fulfilled in my being—
sowing all around
small joys,
little supports.

Do the same. Sow small joys all around you. If even one such hour comes in life, life will not remain empty.

If even one hour
in a day passes so,
then days no longer feel
empty and bare.
Doing just this,
I become
fulfilled in my being—
sowing all around
small joys,
little supports.

Become luminous, and sow small supports for light—tiny straws will do! And your life will fill with a rare fulfillment. You will be blessed. The more you share, the more you receive. This is the eternal law of the Divine: to the giver it is given. As much as you give, a millionfold will return. Give! And you have so much love that no matter how much you give, it will not be exhausted.

Do not be stingy. Do not be miserly. Share love. Share light. The world is in great need. People’s hearts are empty of love. Their eyes have ceased to experience light.

But you will be able to do this only… this is not the kind of message where I tell you and you go and tell someone else… you will be able to do it only when you can become my message.

My message can be conveyed only by becoming my message.

That’s all for today.