Prem Rang Ras Audh Chadariya #10

Prayer is a feeling. And feeling cannot be bound in words. Therefore, the deeper the prayer, the more wordless it is. You will want to say much, yet you will not be able to say anything. Prayer is a helplessness, such an utter state of surrender, that even words won’t form. Tears may flow. Perhaps tears can speak, but words will not be able to say anything. Yet we have great trust in words. We live by their support. Our whole life is language.

So naturally the thought arises: we should also say something before God—as though there is some need to say anything to God! Yes, with someone else you must speak; without speaking you cannot say. To relate to another, dialogue is needed. To relate to the Divine, emptiness is needed. Not dialogue—there, silence is the language. The one who tries to say will miss. The one who cannot say—that one will truly say.

Let this settle very deeply in the heart; otherwise you will go on repeating parroted words. Someone will recite the Gayatri, someone the Namokar. The lips will go on repeating mantras, and inside nothing at all will be happening—because had anything been happening within, the lips would have fallen silent. If something were happening within, where would the Gayatri be, where the Namokar, where the Quran? They would have long since vanished. The inner void would have drunk the words. In the inner void words dissolve. As long as the Gayatri is not forgotten, the Gayatri is not complete. As long as the Namokar is still remembered, the Namokar is not yet truly remembered. As long as you keep reciting verses of the Quran, know that your connection with the world of the Quran has not yet happened. It descends into emptiness; it speaks in silence.

Only one bond can exist between us and God, only one bridge—and that is silence. God knows no other language. On earth thousands of languages are spoken. And it is not just one earth. Scientists say: life must exist on at least five thousand earths. It must, on at least five thousand; it could be more, but not less. Then there will be thousands upon thousands more languages there too. How could God possibly know all these languages? One language is enough to unhinge one. So many languages, and one solitary God! It would become too burdensome.

Language is a social phenomenon; it is not a natural one. Language is not a phenomenon of nature; it is an invention of man. A great invention, an important one—but in the realm of prayer it has no use. As a boat is fine when you sail it on water, but if you drag it over land you are mad. A boat is right on water; drag it over land and you only carry a useless load. Likewise, do not take language into prayer. Do not drag the boat over land. Drop language. And you are fortunate—this is happening by itself. It is not something accomplished by doing.

You ask: When I sit in prayer, I just become silent. This is exactly what prayer is. Recognize it; acknowledge it. This becoming silent is prayer. I understand your hitch. You must be thinking, “Shall I recite the Gayatri, the Namokar, the Quran—say something? Should I praise the Lord, offer some homage to God, present some petition of the heart?” And you cannot present it; as if chains have been put on your tongue, as if someone has stitched your lips. Then anxiety arises: What kind of prayer is this! If neither speech nor movement, how will the voice reach him? There is no need to send your voice to him.

Doolandas said only a few days ago that God is not deaf! There is no need to shout. The truth is, before the feeling arises in your heart, it has already reached him. Before the prayer is uttered, it is heard. There is no method of saying—before you can say it, it has arrived. The thing must be there: a dense feeling in the heart, drenched in love! Be absorbed in feeling and fall into silence—prayer has happened. In that very silence, the petition will be made. That silence itself is the petition. In that silence, what cannot be said, what has never been said, what will never be said—will be said.

Call me close just once,
then I won’t ask again—
I speak the truth.
I was asleep—why did you wake me from my sleep?
Why, tinting me with vermilion dreams,
did you show me a golden world?
What a pain you have stirred—now the whole world seems false.
A golden vessel brimming with nectar
seems to have burst at my very lips.
Now your waterside alone draws me,
where the nectar never runs dry.
At this your infinite well,
just once, dip my pitcher—
then I won’t ask again—
I speak the truth.

With just a faint intimation
the waters of the mind’s lake rippled;
taking you as my only deity,
I dashed against your shore.
Yet it seems somehow I shall not attain you;
from so far, even flying, I won’t arrive.
All say it is hard,
that union is not found in this world.
Grant death itself to the Great Union—
embrace me just once,
then I won’t ask again—
I speak the truth.

I don’t know what has happened to the heart—everything feels yours alone.
Without finding you, this life feels empty and vain.
Such is the heart’s restlessness—without you I can no longer endure.
Even finding you in remembrance, the pain of separation cannot be borne.
O dweller of my remembrances,
embodiment of love, deathless, imperishable,
accept my devotion—
make me yours just once,
then I won’t ask again—
I speak the truth.

But let this be feeling only; let it not become words. Let it be a dense inner knowing within you. Words make everything shallow. However great, however precious the words, suppose you have fallen in love—when you say, “I am in love,” don’t you feel the word “love” does not carry what has happened to you? The word love falls short. How will these two and a half syllables express the epic of life? Its depths are vast. The Pacific Ocean is not as deep as the heart’s love. Nor is Everest as high as the height of love’s peak that rises in the heart. The Pacific is shallow, and Everest itself is but a hillock. How will you fill that height and that depth into this little two-and-a-half-syllable word—love? No, it won’t hold.

And then we use this same word love for a thousand other things. Someone says, “I really love ice cream.” Another says, “I love my car.” Someone else says, “I love money.” The very word love gets used for the most trivial matters. And this same word love is used when your longing is joined with God. Now what connection can you make between ice cream and God? What connection between Coca-Cola and liberation? Yet, love for Coca-Cola, and love for moksha!

Our words are very few, very small, very paltry—just makeshift. Fine, they do for social dealings. But prayer is not a social transaction. Prayer is an inward offering—a surrender at the feet of existence without words. Bow! In your bowing, the thing will happen. Become silent. Let the eyes close. For there are things that are seen with open eyes, and there are others seen only with closed eyes. For some things, a closed eye is the only open eye.

And if tears begin to flow, understand that you have offered flowers at his feet. If you sway in ecstasy, as if you had drunk wine—your feet landing anywhere—understand that the thing has happened. If a redness comes over the eyes, an intoxication descends, if life becomes nectar-drunk, if the birds of the life-breath flutter their wings, preparing to fly—this is all wordless; there is no need of words anywhere in it. And you will be astonished: when not a single word forms within you, the whole existence begins to pour something into you. Because you become an empty pitcher. To become an empty pitcher is prayer. And then the oceans descend. Then even in a pitcher the sea is contained. Then into a drop the ocean comes down.

Kabir has said:
Searching and searching, O friend, Kabir was lost;
the drop merged in the ocean—how can it be found now?

But the next day he corrected it—changed it a little and worked a wonder. A tiny alteration, and a miracle happened. The next day he wrote, “No, no—this is not quite right”:

Searching and searching, O friend, Kabir was lost;
the ocean merged in the drop—how can it be found now?

The first day he said: the drop merged in the ocean, how can we bring it back? The next day: no, no—the ocean has merged in the drop; how can we bring that back? In prayer, into your small drop of life-breath the ocean of God descends. In prayer you do not go to God; God comes to you. You simply become nothing, become silence. You are not. And where you are not, there God appears—in infinite forms: in every flower his fragrance, in the breeze his touch, in all greenness that very green, in moon and stars the same, in the sun the same, in people the same; in the laughter of a child, the same; in the leap of a deer, the same; in the bird that has flown into the sky, the same. When you become utterly silent, life drops all its veils before you. You have become a vessel.

Therefore do not say, “I fall silent; what should I do? Words don’t form. What should I say to God, what not?” There is nothing to say. He knows. He has known since before you were; he will know even when you are no more. God is the state of knowing. He is the supreme knowing. Become silent. Sink into stillness. Disappear; become no one—and then see the miracle. Then see God happening all around.

Like the Malayan breeze, some fragrant breath brushes my heart!
This honeyed smile, as though soft moonlight
has spread across the empty sky;
this peerless beauty, as though
an endless silver raga were sounding;
this inexhaustible fount of beauty—where is
its ancient source?
Some ocean-like joy is carrying me away!
Like the Malayan breeze, some fragrant breath brushes my heart!

In whose perimeter of form do
moon and stars roam all night?
Toward what crest of loveliness do these
moth-like life-breaths, impassioned, seek to kiss?
In my eyes who is it casts a shadow,
an age-old dream-enchantment of form?
Whose springtime is blooming, hundredfold, these flowers of delight?
Like the Malayan breeze, some fragrant breath brushes my heart!

This deathless vine unfurling—
as if without beginning, without end;
this undying stream of nectar welling up,
as if flooding everything;
a dreamlike music, whose resonance
echoes through each pore—
as though someone were binding body and mind
with a spell of enchantment!
Like the Malayan breeze, some fragrant breath brushes my heart!

Every pore today is a petition—
flowers, songs, soft sounds of homage,
a new love, like the flame of an aarti-lamp—
twinkling, shimmering, gently bright.
This entire existence itself
is becoming a mute surrender,
and someone’s nectarous smile
is gifting me with deathless life!
Like the Malayan breeze, some fragrant breath brushes my heart!

Fall silent, and you will feel his breaths touching you. Fall silent, and you will hear his heartbeat. Fall silent, and you will sense the sound of his footsteps drawing near.

You ask me: “Please show the way, explain the path.”
You are on the path. Simply remain on it. Do not form words; do not bring language in between. Language stands like a mountain between the devotee and God. To speak with human beings, language is needed; to speak with God, there is no need of any language at all.

Sannyas means: stepping into insecurity. Sannyas means: placing your feet in the unknown. Sannyas means: leaving the known, falling in love with the unknowable.

How can I reassure you? The whirlwind will arise. My reassurance would be a lie. I can only say this much: the whirlwind is certain to arise—it should arise. If it does not, how will sannyas ripen? If there is no sun, no heat, how will the fruit ripen? If no wind blows, no storm arises, the trees will lose their spine. Only by bearing the gusts of storm and gale does a tree grow sturdy.

The whirlwind will arise. I can assure you of at least this much: be absolutely certain, don’t worry in the least—the whirlwind will arise. And it will be far greater than you imagine. Nor will it be that it comes today and is gone tomorrow. As long as you live, whirlwinds will keep arising, and day by day they will grow larger. That is how sannyas attains maturity. It is in challenges that the soul is born. The greater the challenges, the greater the birth of the soul. The soul doesn’t just appear by itself. Protect yourself in every way, keep yourself safe, and the soul will not be born; a thin, flimsy hollowness will be born within you. In struggle something dense is forged within. In struggle something strong is born within. So those who raise whirlwinds against you are not enemies, they are friends. Do not mistake them for foes—they are your friends. Abuse will be hurled; stones may also be thrown. But count all of it as good fortune; take it as a blessing, as prasad from the Divine. Only thus is a person born into soulfulness.

People are wonderfully compassionate: whenever they see a soul being born somewhere, they all collaborate from every side. And they do so in the way they know, the way they can. But it is not to your harm.

You ask: “I want to take sannyas, but I am very frightened of the world.”

If sannyas were such that not a trace of fear were felt, what would be the point of taking it? It would just be a new security, a new bank balance.

No—obstacles will come, many will come. Inconceivable obstacles will come. They will come from directions you never imagined they could. They will come from those you took to be your own. And remember: do not be offended, do not be upset, do not be restless, do not be disturbed, do not be enraged. Because in the end you will find that all those very challenges gave you life, honed it, sharpened its edge, polished your brilliance.

That current which does not stop even before rocks,
only the ocean welcomes it.
A paper boat
floats upon the water only for two moments.
A wick that burns without oil
burns only for two moments.
When the storm gathers and moves,
countless burning lamps go out.
Those that burn only to burn
are smothered beneath the dark.
The lamps that do not go out even in storms—
their radiance burns as the very flame.
Feet that do not stop even amid obstacles—
only the mountain bows before them.
To walk, to fall, to walk again—
this is the sequence of the steps of ascent.
To keep walking and to dissolve while walking—
this is life’s sacred confluence.
His very manliness is the abode of virtue
in whose breath there are pilgrimages.
In whom there is a mass of the fire of resolve—
he alone is Bhagirath of the Ganga.
Every goal is made only for him
who undertakes the austerity of trust.
Every flower is a garland for him
who is not a slave of spring.
That which reflects no courage
is only a mirror’s surface.
He whose lips know no thirst—
for him the water-place is but a cremation ground.
The thirst that does not quench even upon perishing—
only his lips are graced by nectar.

There is a price to be paid. And the larger the truth you set out to seek, the higher the price you must pay. Truth is not obtained free. For the Supreme Truth, everything must be staked. And sannyas is the effort to attain the Supreme Truth. It is longing, aspiration—to invite the Infinite into your courtyard. It is yearning, prayer—to let the Vastness be absorbed into your very life-breath. Preparation will be needed. You will have to be a gambler. A businessman cannot be a sannyasin. One who calculates down to the last penny, who always thinks only of profit, cannot be a sannyasin. This is a matter of staking everything. Therefore I say again: only a gambler can be a sannyasin—one who puts everything on the line: this shore or the other.

You say: “I want to take sannyas.”

If you want to take it, then take it. There will be hindrances, there will be obstacles. But often it turns out that the real obstacle is within you. It is not the outer obstacles that stop you; the inner ones do. Often this fear is only a pretext. Magnifying this fear is just a device to escape. “How can I take sannyas? I do want to take it, but whirlwinds will rise.” You have explained it to yourself: “I want to take it,” and you have also found excuses for why you don’t. It is merely sophistry. One who has to take it, takes it—and the consequences be what they may.

In this world—what whirlwinds! What can they snatch from you? What do you have as it is? Position will go, prestige will go, wealth will go, honor and respectability will go—they are bound to go. What death will snatch anyway, drop with your own hands. Death will snatch it—in that case even the joy of relinquishing will not be yours. You will miss the glory, the dignity of letting go. Since death will take it, why not leave it yourself?

And what is the value of respectability? Lines drawn upon water. And honor and homage! From whom are you receiving honor and homage? From those who are themselves blind, themselves unconscious—what is the value of their honor and homage! Even if the insane garland you with flowers, what value do those garlands have? The mad have garlanded you. If a single wise man, a buddha, looks upon you with love once—that is enough. Even if the whole world puts garlands on you, it is futile. Those who do not even know themselves—what honor can they bestow on you? They are honoring you as part of a mutual give-and-take. Through honor they are fastening shackles to your feet, chains to your hands. Through honor they are binding you.

And sannyas is freedom. Sannyas is the declaration that I will live my life in my own way. I will live according to my inner inspiration. I will not live by others’ dictates. I will not live by imitating others. My life will not be a mere performance. My life will be authentic, it will be mine; it will be born of my own privacy of being; it will be spontaneous. And what does sannyas mean? I will live in my own way so that when I stand before the Divine I can say: I lived according to the inspiration you gave me. I did not bend, I did not compromise. And the day you know this, you will be amazed that whirlwinds, storms, opposition—all have supported you.

I am not in love with flowers; I am a lover of thorns.
I am not a lamp that burns—I am the moth that burns.
Let the lips not be coddled by comfort,
let the mind not be numbed by sorrow.
“All hopes will be fulfilled”—
I have no such belief.
I weave life into beauty—warp and weft of deeds.
I am the current that cannot be dammed,
the mercury that cannot be held up.
For the sake of humanity, love, and peace—
I am the call of a great revolution.
A wayfarer whom mountains cannot stop—
that carefree wanderer am I.
I am not a seed that can be destroyed,
not a thing that can be sold.
A charm that grants everyone’s wishes—
I am not that copper amulet.
Lost in my own ecstasy,
I am an unsung melody.

Sannyas means: such a declaration that I will sing my own song; I will not sing a borrowed song. I will live my own life; I will not imitate anyone. I will walk on a footpath, not on highways. Highways are for crowds. Crowds are always of sheep. I will make my own path. I will seek the Divine in my own way. Even if I wander, even if it takes longer, I will reach by carving out my own footpath. Then the joy is of a different order. The one who reaches the Divine on his own path—his bliss is boundless. And the crowd neither ever reaches nor ever can. The gate opens for lions, not for sheep. Drop the herd instinct.

What whirlwinds! Who will raise whirlwinds? What will they snatch, what will perish? Give it away laughing. If the longing to take sannyas has arisen, do not bend at any price. Yes—if the longing has not arisen, then do not take it at any price. Even if someone insists a thousand times—even if I insist a thousand times—do not, by mistake, take it. Because if you take it on my say-so, you become a sheep. If you take it out of your own longing, the lion’s roar will arise within you. The difference is small, so subtle it is hardly visible. If you take it because I said so, it is worthless. If you take it from your own understanding, your own insight, your own inner wisdom, then revolution happens. Appo deepo bhava—be a light unto yourself. How many have walked in borrowed light; where have they reached! For how many births you have followed scriptures and saints—what has been attained? You remain empty. Your breath is not filled, flowers have not blossomed, fruit has not come to the branch, wings have not opened. Not only are you empty, you languish in a prison. By living by others’ dictates your life has been locked behind bars. Do not take sannyas on my word. I may say it a thousand times—that is my joy to say. Let it be your joy to take it. When your joy and my joy meet—there is the meeting.

That current which does not stop even before rocks,
only the ocean welcomes it.
I too will welcome you that very moment
when you become a current that does not halt before rocks.
The lamps that do not go out even in storms—
their radiance burns as the very flame.
Buddhas can relate only to those lamps
that do not go out even in storms. Otherwise people have no souls at all. People are impotent. Within them there is no dignity, no grandeur, no fire, no brilliance, no intelligence. Intelligence never arises by obeying others.

In a small school a teacher asked a student—since the boy’s family kept sheep, he framed the question accordingly: “There are ten sheep in your garden. One jumps over the fence and goes out—how many remain behind?” The boy said, “Not a single sheep will be left behind.” The teacher said, “Do you know arithmetic or not?” The boy replied, “Whether I know arithmetic or not, I know sheep very well. If one sheep jumps, all the sheep will jump. And your arithmetic is not known to sheep. I know my sheep.”

People are going just like that. The herd of Hindus, the herd of Muslims, the herd of Jains! If you joined by your own choice, that is one thing. If you were included by the accident of birth, that is another. By chance you were born into some home—and became Muslim or Hindu or Jain; your father and mother took you to the temple, so you went to the temple; if they took you to the mosque, then not the temple but the mosque you went; if they took you to the gurudwara, you went to the gurudwara. Thus others conditioned you. When will you make your own declaration? When will you say that I will choose for myself? The day you choose your religion yourself, that day your connection with religion is made; your very life-breath becomes joined to it.

Feet that do not stop even amid obstacles—
only the mountain bows before them.
To walk, to fall, to walk again—
this is the sequence of the steps of ascent.
To keep walking and to dissolve while walking—
this is life’s sacred confluence.
His very manliness is the abode of virtue
in whose breath there are pilgrimages.
In whom there is a mass of the fire of resolve—
he alone is Bhagirath of the Ganga.
The Ganga is ready to descend—become Bhagirath!

Every goal is made only for him
who undertakes the austerity of trust.
Every flower is a garland for him
who is not a slave of spring.
That which reflects no courage
is only a mirror’s surface.
He whose lips know no thirst—
for him the water-place is but a cremation ground.
You have lived in the cremation ground long enough—now become the water-place. Let your thirst awaken, let your call awaken, let your prayer awaken. Say to the world: I will live in my own way. If I live, I will live in my own way; otherwise, better to die.

The thirst that does not quench even upon perishing—
only his lips are graced by nectar.
The nectar is ready. The honeyed chalice sits full, waiting for you to become a little soul-full so that it may pour. So I say only this to you: if you are to take sannyas, take it out of your own will, your own joy, your own awe. Do not refrain because someone says so, and do not take it because someone says so. Because both things can happen—you may refrain because someone says so, you may take it because someone says so. In both cases all is wasted. Remember—

I am not in love with flowers; I am a lover of thorns.
I am not a lamp that burns—I am the moth that burns.
I am the current that cannot be dammed,
the mercury that cannot be held up.
I am not a seed that can be destroyed,
not a thing that can be sold.
A charm that grants everyone’s wishes—
I am not that copper amulet.
Lost in my own ecstasy,
I am an unsung melody.

Sannyas is the song of your life-breath, the fragrance of your very being. Bloom—but not by believing someone else; by believing yourself. Let it arise from your life-breath. That fragrance itself is freedom, the ultimate liberation, truth, nirvana.

The saints have not been singing for centuries; through the saints, One has been singing for centuries. Not the saints—the Divine has been singing. As long as the saint sings, he is a poet; the day the Divine sings through the saint, he is a seer. As long as the saint speaks his own words, his own thinking and conjectures, his net of arguments, his doctrines and scriptures—as long as the saint’s intellect stands in between—he is not truly a saint. However sweet his words, however honeyed his voice, it remains human, man-made; it has not come from beyond, therefore it cannot liberate. When the saint is only a vehicle, only a hollow reed of bamboo—placed upon the Divine’s lips—you hear the notes as if they arise from the flute, but the song belongs to the Divine. When the saint is not speaking, when he has become a void and allows the Divine to speak, then the Vedas are born, the Upanishads are born, the Gita, the Quran, the Bible are born; wondrous songs descend. But the saint does not sign them; they bear the signature of God.

So first: there have been many saints, but the singer is one. Many flutes, but one flutist.

Second: Those songs that belong to the eternal and the timeless cannot be sung by man. Man is momentary. How can the song of the eternal arise in the ephemeral? Only when the human dissolves can the song of the eternal be born. When man forgets altogether that “I am.” In that forgetfulness, the timeless glimmers.

A devotee is one who becomes so intoxicated with God’s love that he forgets—like a drunkard forgets—he forgets the whole world. He retains neither the awareness of the other nor of himself. In such ecstasy the eternal and the timeless surely sing; they certainly descend.

You ask: “I am astonished to see it—this Ganges, the unbroken Ganges has gone on flowing.”

Because this is God’s Ganges, it will go on flowing. The material Ganges may one day dry up, but this celestial Ganges will not. As long as flowers bloom on trees, as long as stars shine in the sky, as long as birds spread their wings and fly; as long as man is, and the longing for the Infinite stirs within him, as long as prayer arises—somewhere, in some corner, on some part of the earth, a tirtha will come into being, a Kaaba will be built. Someone will sing the eternal, the timeless. The Divine is unbroken, therefore His Ganges is unbroken. And we are fortunate that despite us, every now and then some throat causes the Divine to resound within us, among us.

One note of Yours I caught,
and I became a flute.
Mute, like a dried, voiceless reed of bamboo,
I lay insensate, unknown.
But when You touched my body and soul,
You claimed me without my claiming.
To drink Your pain,
I have become a cupped palm.

When Your lips met mine,
my feelings turned to nectar.
In the seven notes, uncountable songs,
all my wounds began to sing.
Touched by Your honeyed lips,
I have become a honey-gatherer.

Had You not given pain,
how would feeling be born?
Words would have remained mere words,
had thought not given them rhythm.
Imagination, becoming Yours,
I have become a sky-farer.

If even one of His notes descends, even one glimpse strikes; if for a little while a window opens and one ray of His enters you, then within you there will be a rainfall of songs. When you rise there will be song; when you sit, there will be song. When you sleep there will be song. Whether or not you sing, your very being will be songful. Around you there will be a constant silvering of song, a fine drizzle. Your existence will become poetry.

One note of Yours I caught,
and I became a flute.

Just one note is enough. Even one note is much. One drop from His honey-cup is enough. It drowns you so completely that there is no chance of surfacing again. It intoxicates so that the intoxication never breaks. And when even a slight connection forms with the Divine—when even a fragile thread ties you—creativity begins to flow in your life, in limitless streams. Why? Because God is Creator. The very sign of being connected to Him is that the creator is born within you; the energy of creation begins to ripple within you. If connecting with God no creativity is born in you, know that you are not truly connected—something has gone amiss. You are in delusion; either you have deceived yourself, or you are deceiving others.

That is why I say many of your so-called monks and saints are either deluded or are deluding. There is no creativity visible in their lives—no song seems to be forming, no dance arises. There is no joy in their lives, no rejoicing, no color, no flavor. As Dulandas says: “Wrap the sheet dyed in love’s color and savor!” How many of your holy men can say this? They will drape themselves in a sheet printed with “Ram-Ram,” but how many can say they wear a sheet dyed in the color and juice of love?

And not only say it—how many lives prove it? Until someone begins to dance, to hum; until the prasad of creativity begins to fall from his very rising and sitting; until the sparkle of moon and stars enters his eyes, the depth of oceans, the loftiness of peaks; until it seems the sky is cradled in his hands—until then, know that something is missing.

But for centuries we have become negative. We count someone a holy man because he has performed many fasts. How many festivals has he celebrated? No one keeps that count.

I met a Jain monk. His followers said, “This year, Master has done one hundred and twenty fasts.” I looked at the master; his spine straightened, pride came upon his face. I asked, “And how many festivals have you held?” The laymen could not even understand that such a question is possible. Festivals! A monk and festivals! He only fasts. And fasting—I told his followers—needs no proclamation; it is written on his face. I have scarcely seen a face more funereal than his.

In the name of religion there is mourning—as if someone has died in the house, as if a bier is being prepared. People have become negative. “How many fasts?”—meaning, how many days he died hungry! How much has he tormented himself! One who sleeps on a bed of thorns is bowed to. This is madness, derangement. Man was not made to sleep on thorns.

Have you seen any animal or bird make a bed of thorns and sleep on it? Even animals and birds make comfort for themselves. The bird makes a nest and fits it with a cushion of grass. The animal digs a den in the ground, warm against the cold. It hides in the bushes to sleep.

Have you seen any animal or bird make a bed of thorns and lie upon it? Only man is so mad. But we worship this. And thus some foolish, unbalanced people agree to do even this. People will do whatever earns them worship. If standing on the head brings worship, people will stand on their heads—though it is dangerous to do it for long. For a moment, fine; but standing long destroys the brain. The fibers of the brain are extremely delicate. If the blood, pulled by gravity, rushes strongly into the head, fibers snap. They are very fine. Consider: a hundred thousand brain fibers placed one atop the other are as thick as a single hair. Consider their fineness—within this small skull there are seven billion fibers. The earth’s population is smaller—four billion still. The population in your brain is larger—seven billion!

These delicate, ultra-delicate fibers, invisible to the naked eye—when you stand on your head and blood, by gravity’s pull, pours toward the skull, your face may look delightfully flushed for a while, but you will lose your brain. Therefore it is difficult to find truly intelligent people among your hatha-yogis. Among those who stand on their heads you will not find acute intelligence.

Scientists say that man developed intelligence because he rose to stand on two feet; otherwise it would not have arisen. This is the difference between monkey and man. Intelligence did not develop in the monkey because blood flow to his brain is too great; such fine fibers cannot form. Man stood upright; less blood flowed to the head—gravity draws things earthward. The flow to the brain lessened, became minimal. The less blood, the finer the fibers that formed; the finer the fibers, the subtler the intelligence that could be born and expressed.

But if those who stand on their heads are honored, people will stand on their heads. They will lose their brains, forgo their intelligence, but gain respect. One lashes himself, one stands naked in the sun, one stands naked in the cold, one goes to stand naked on ice while snow falls—we honor them all. This is to honor non-creativity. The result is that in the name of religion crowds of deranged people have gathered. If you want to see them, go to the Kumbh fair. You will see groups of madmen of every kind—people who should be in asylums, in psychiatric care. But they have become your holy men.

We must change our basic interpretation of religion. Our very criterion must be creativity—constructive, not negative. Who has given how much beauty to life—this should be the standard. Who has given life how many songs; how much festival; who has given life love and the possibility of love. If you leave life a little more beautiful than you found it, I will call you religious. If you add a little more color to life, coax even a flower or two to bloom, I will call you religious. If you add something to life—one more raga, one more Malhar—I will call you religious. Because whenever you create, then and only then are you connected to God. Or, when you are connected to God, then and only then is creativity born within you.

You have heard that God is the Creator—you have heard it again and again—but you have drawn no exact, logical conclusion from it. If God is Creator, then creation is prayer. If God is Creator, creation is sadhana. For the Creator will understand only the language of creation. If God has fashioned this vast existence, fashion something too! Small—of course within our limits it will be small; our hands are small, our capacity small. But sculpt a statue! With chisel and hammer reveal the form hidden in a stone! Bind words into meter! Lift a brush and pour color into a picture! In life, within relationships, infuse a breeze of love. Make life a little more festive, a little more danceful! Play the vina. Play the flute. Dance! Let the mridang resound—I will call you religious.

A life of celebration is religiosity.

The moment speech met the life-breath in silence,
creation melted and took form upon the earth!

Some strings lay scattered—
all said—they were the beginnings, the ends, the closures—who knows what—
how many notes slept within them,
how many resonances lay motionless.
On those strings let me sing a little—
let me delight Your heart too, O Lord!
You gave me a small veena;
and once again,
the moment the veena met the life-breath in silence,
worship melted and took form upon the earth!

What do I know—of path or decree?
I am the dawn that is about to set foot
upon the flame-crest of the future,
whose legislative power is devotion filled with feeling.
I am a single blink—I am a single song,
a single sigh—a single trust.
I was the brush in Your hands, O Lord,
upon which faith grew fond.
And once again,
the moment faith met the life-breath in silence,
sadhana melted and took form upon the earth!

The moment speech met the life-breath in silence,
creation melted and took form upon the earth!

Bring Him down; let the Divine, a little, descend through you upon the earth. Become a bridge, His doorway. Become the steps by which the dancing Divine can descend to earth through you. Enough of this talk of some heaven elsewhere. Make this earth a heaven. If heaven is elsewhere, and you have made hell here—what else could you do? Either there will be heaven or there will be hell—you cannot be neutral between the two.

Either something beautiful will be created through you, or else something will be destroyed—something beautiful will be ruined. You cannot be neutral. Life does not admit neutrality. In life there is no neutrality. Either you create beauty or you fashion ugliness. Either you move forward, otherwise you will fall back; you cannot remain where you are. Either sing, or curses will begin to fall from your lips. That life-energy will either become a song or a slur.

And because we imagined heaven to be somewhere beyond the seven skies, what did we do here? We made the earth a hell. In three thousand years man has fought five thousand wars. Even in hell I doubt there are so many wars—no scripture states so. Three thousand years—five thousand wars! Nearly two great wars a year! Man has gone on killing and cutting. Seventy percent of each nation’s wealth is devoted to destruction. Make more atom bombs, more hydrogen bombs. Even as it stands, more than needed are ready. Five years ago each person could be killed seven times over; seven earths could be destroyed—so many hydrogen bombs existed. Now it is seven hundred times. In five years—what progress! Remember, a man dies only once. There is no need to kill him seven hundred times. But politicians make complete arrangements—why risk a slip! Arrangements have been made to destroy the earth seven hundred times. And preparations have not stopped; they continue. Piles of bombs mount.

What will happen? Such insistence on destruction! When millions are dying hungry, when countless people cannot get medicine, when how many children will die without milk—and even the poorest countries, ours too—which lives under the illusion of nonviolence, which is proud of being religious, which declares itself a land of merit because all avatars were born here—even this country spends seventy percent of its wealth on destruction, on war and armies. What derangement is this! What has happened to man? With this much energy, we could make heaven here, unmistakably. And such a heaven that gods would yearn to be born on earth. The stories say that in the old days gods longed for it. I don’t think so; the conditions were the same then—perhaps worse, not better.

Ram and Ravan were fighting then. And remember, the one who wins hires the historians. If Ravan had won, you would be burning the effigies of Ram, for Ravan would write the history. If Hitler had won, think a bit—who would write history, what would be written? There would still be trials—as at Nuremberg—but in those trials the accused would be Roosevelt, Churchill, Truman, Stalin. History would still be written, but since Hitler would be commissioning it, history would be something else—Hitler the savior, rescuing mankind from sinners.

Wars happened then; the Mahabharata happened then. Destruction was ongoing then too. People were as dishonest, as thieving, as wicked as they are today—no less. Perhaps a bit more decent, maybe. For Buddha spent forty-two years, morning and noon and evening and night, telling people the same things: do not steal, do not be violent, do not be jealous, do not hurt others. Surely people were engaged in exactly these acts—why else would Buddha speak for forty-two years? Was his mind unhinged?

Mahavira too preached for forty years: do not be violent. Surely people were immersed in violence. Do not steal, do not cheat. The five great vows of the Jains... After all, the principle of non-stealing arises in a world of thieves, and talk of merit is needed in a world of sinners.

And be careful in boasting that all avatars were born here. The reason may be that the most troublesome men were here. Because doctors go where the sick are. In your neighborhood, if doctors visit a house daily—doctors, vaidyas, hakims—would you think the people in that house are very healthy? Where all the physicians of every kind keep coming, and the householder boasts, “This is a blessed house—there isn’t a single doctor who hasn’t come here, not a single vaidya, not a single hakim—all flourish here.” Your claim is similar. So many avatars came... They had to come! Krishna says in the Gita: “Whenever dharma declines, I will come.” Calculate how many times dharma must have declined in your land—so many times Krishna had to come! And yet you take yourself to be a land of merit.

No land has yet become a land of true religion, because no science of making such a land has yet been found. Give religion creativity. Make religion constructive. Save religion from being life-denying; place it in love with life. Wrap religion in the sheet of love, of color, of savor. Let all rainbows be on that sheet. Let all songs, all lamps be on that sheet. Let it be Holi, let it be spring revelry on that sheet. No escapism, no flight. Let there be acceptance of life with a cry of awe.

This is the vision of religion I am trying to give. Religion should be love of life; not opposition to life, not negation. Religion should be reverence and hospitality toward this astonishing life. And there should arise a sense of gratitude: O Divine! You have given so lovely a life—now what shall we do? How shall we worship You? How shall we pray? There is only one way: if we can make life a little more beautiful, add a few more colors, a few more songs—then that is prayer, that is sadhana.

The moment speech met the life-breath in silence,
creation melted and took form upon the earth!

Whenever prayer arises within you, there will be silence, peace, meditation—and creation will melt and take form upon the earth!

Some strings lay scattered—
all said—they were the beginnings, the ends, the closures, who knows what—
how many notes slept within them,
how many resonances lay motionless.
On those strings let me sing a little—
let me delight Your heart too, O Lord!—
what more can a devotee say? Only this.

On those strings let me sing a little—
let me delight Your heart too, O Lord!
You gave me a small veena;
and once again,
the moment the veena met the life-breath in silence,
worship melted and took form upon the earth!

You have been given a veena by the Divine. Your heart is a veena—pluck its strings. Tune it! Astonishing notes can rise from this veena. Call them forth. Do not let this veena lie as it is.

I have heard: In one house there was an old instrument. People had forgotten how to play it. For centuries it was kept, by tradition. The ancestors had left it, so it remained. The household grew crowded, children increased. There was no place to keep that instrument, so they kept pushing it back. From the drawing room to a back room, from the back room to the junk room. But in the junk room it sometimes made trouble. A cat would leap on it at night and the strings would jangle. A mouse would twang it and break a string—the sound would wake the house. Their sleep began to be disturbed. At last they decided: Why keep it? What use is it? It takes up space—why not throw it away?

They picked it up and threw it into the rubbish yard. They hadn’t even reached home when they halted. A beggar passing by had plucked that wondrous instrument’s strings. They turned back. Passersby stopped. No one could go on. A crowd stood spellbound. Such incomparable music none had ever heard. The beggar, carefree, played that marvelous instrument.

When the music ended and merged into silence, the householders came to their senses. They said to the beggar, “Give us back the instrument. It is ours.” Today they realized its value. But the beggar said, “If it was yours, why did you throw it in the rubbish? The moment you threw it away, it ceased to be yours. And let me tell you: the instrument belongs to the one who can play it. What will you do with it? The cat will leap again, the mouse nibble again, the children will pluck at the strings. From that which yields sublime music, only noise will come. What will you do? It is not yours—you are not its masters. Master is he who can play it.”

Until you learn to play your heart, you are not its master. Until then the heart lies wasted. The veena is there—say to the Divine—

On those strings let me sing a little—
let me delight Your heart too, O Lord!
You gave me a small veena;
and once again,
the moment the veena met the life-breath in silence,
worship melted and took form upon the earth!

What do I know—of path or decree?
I am the dawn about to set foot
upon the flame-crest of the future,
whose legislative power is devotion filled with feeling.
Devotion is nothing else but a constructive sap in life.

I am a single blink—I am a single song,
a single sigh—a single trust.
I was the brush in Your hands, O Lord,
upon which faith grew fond.
And once again,
the moment faith met the life-breath in silence,
sadhana melted and took form upon the earth!

The moment speech met the life-breath in silence,
creation melted and took form upon the earth!

You ask: “Where is the source of the saints’ creativity?”

God is the source of creativity. The source of all creativity is the Divine. And when you connect with Him, it will flow through you too. And only when it flows through you should you know you are connected. If your face remains long and funereal, and you keep to fasts and vows and rules, to burning and wasting and troubling yourself—then understand: perhaps you have been in satsang with the devil, not with God. God is celebration. Look at these green trees. Look at the sun’s rays filtering through their leaves. Listen to the birds’ voices. God is celebration. God is a great festival. And when celebration comes into your life, songs will be born, statues will be shaped, temples will rise, colors will spread, spring revelry will come, red powder will fly.

And when such rejoicing comes into your life, only then know you have met religion, true religion. Es dhammo sanantano! Such is the eternal religion—the one that brings celebration.

But the sickly man has made religion sick. In my view, the negative man is an atheist. I call the theist the one who is affirmative; who says a total “yes” to life—I call him theist. Whether he believes in God or not has no value; living has value. One who lives in such a way that his relationship with life is a “yes”—he is theist. The atheist is one whose relationship is “no,” negation—who is breaking everything, fragmenting everything; who is in the service of death; who complains to God: “Why did you give me birth? For what sin are you punishing me? What fruits of what sins am I reaping?” One who complains to God is atheist. This is not the fruit of sins; you are not being punished for wrongdoings—this is God’s prasad. Receive it as prasad, so that gratitude may arise within you. And where gratitude arises, prayer arises. Gratitude itself is prayer.

If you are sad, it cannot be without cause. Somewhere there is a mistake in your philosophy of life. Your life-view must be colored by sadness. Whether you know it consciously or not, your way of living is not healthy. You are dragging life the way one drags a burden.

I have heard: a sannyasin went on a pilgrimage to the Himalayas. It was blazing noon, a steep, straight ascent. He was dripping with sweat, exhausted, panting, hauling his small bedroll on his shoulder. Just ahead of him a little hill-girl was climbing too, her small brother riding on her shoulder. She too was drenched in sweat, she too was panting. Out of sympathy the sannyasin said, “Daughter, you must be carrying a heavy load.” The girl lifted her eyes and looked at him and said, “Swamiji, you are carrying a load; this is my little brother.”

There is a difference between a load and a little brother. On a scale there may not be. What does a scale know of brothers and bedrolls! On the scale it might even be that the little brother weighs more. The monk’s bundle could hardly be so heavy. The mountain child would be heavier. The scale might declare the child weighs more. Scales have their own logic—but the heart has another.

The sannyasin later wrote in his autobiography—his name was Bhavani Dayal—that he felt struck to the core: “How did I fail to see such a simple thing till now? This innocent girl said something immense within something small. A little brother is not a burden. Where there is love, life becomes weightless.”

Surely you are living without love. Your life-view is mistaken; therefore you are sad. Though when you asked your question you probably hoped I would give you some consoling answer. That I would say, “No—mistakes were made in your past lives; you must now bear their fruit. Somehow carry the load and get it over with.”

Such things bring relief. For what can you do now about a past life? What’s done is done. A burden is there—drag it, pull it along. I do not say that your sadness is the fruit of some error in a past life. You are making an error now; the mistake is presently in your outlook on life. We have evolved clever tactics by shifting things onto past lives. In fact, once you shove it to the past, nothing remains to be done; you are as you are. The past cannot be brought back. What has been done cannot be undone. So then you must simply carry it, pull it along, and remain sad.

No—there is no need to remain sad, no compulsion whatsoever. Let me tell you: in God’s world there is no credit system. If you made a mistake in a past life, you bore it in that past life. God does not keep ledgers for tomorrow. It is not “cash today, credit tomorrow.” It is cash only—today cash, tomorrow cash. If you put your hand in fire, will it burn now or in your next birth? If you drink water, will your thirst be quenched now or in your next birth? It does not take that long, neither for thirst to be quenched nor for a hand to be burned.

In my experience, whenever you do something auspicious, instantly there is a shower of joy upon you—instantly! There is no sooner or later. You have heard the saying that in His world there may be delay but there is no darkness. I tell you, if there is delay, there will be darkness. There is neither delay nor darkness; it is all cash.

Reconsider your way of living; examine it a little. A man who believes that family life is sin—tell me, how can he be happy living in a family? Tell me, how could he? If a man believes this is sin, he will be waiting for release—this wife, these children, this house, this world! When will that fortunate hour come when I can go to some cave in the Himalayas and give up all the illusion of the world! A man who believes so—and this is what people believe. In this country everyone believes it. The one riding on the horse as the bridegroom to his wedding, with shehnais playing, he too believes he is stepping into sin. The shehnai goes flat right then; the flowers wilt at once. He brings the bride home in a palanquin, but in his heart she already seems a corpse, a bier entering the house. The very springs of your consciousness have been poisoned. You have been taught so many wrong things.

Young men come to me and ask, “Should I marry or not—what do you say? My parents are after me; they want to entangle me in sin.” They don’t know I am of a different stripe. When they go to other ascetics and saints, those men are delighted: “Son, you are so sattvic, so religious. Don’t listen to your parents; they want to entangle you in illusion. A great awakening has arisen in you.”

When someone says to me, “They are pushing me into sin,” I think a bit. If this young man marries, he’ll be in trouble; if he does not marry, he’ll be in trouble. Sadness will become his fate. If he does not marry, his nature will take its revenge. The natural longings of his life will remain unfulfilled; the mind will be depressed. He will suppress his desires; they will rise again and again. Life will become an inner conflict, an inner civil war. He will fight himself twenty-four hours a day—and one who fights himself cannot be happy. His energy gets depleted in the fight; nothing remains to blossom. The thousand-petaled lotus within never opens, cannot open. And if he does marry while already believing it is sin, he will carry it as a burden—this wife, these children, this household—and remain sad.

Somewhere our method of looking at life contains a basic error. Our arithmetic is wrong.

You ask, “Why am I sad?”
You are sad because your philosophy—your belief systems—are making you sad. The religions you have clung to are making you sad. Get free of these lenses. Begin to live a little more simply; do not hide behind doctrines and scriptures. Live simply, naturally, spontaneously—and exuberance will arise in your life too. If a rose were to think that blooming is sin, then even if it blooms it will bloom sadly. If it does not bloom, its very life will ache for not having blossomed. The bud will want to open, the flower to unfold; if the tree suppresses it, refuses to let it open, it will become suicidal. And if it does open, it will open sadly—without fragrance, without life; the stamp of death will be upon it.

Wrong viewpoints have killed you from birth. But those viewpoints are ancient, honored by tradition, venerable. You don’t even remember that you are clutching wrong ideas. And when you become sad, naturally you ask, “Why am I sad?” Then you go to the very saints who sowed all the seeds of your sorrow. They console you: “Because of sins in past lives you are sad. Don’t commit them in this life, or in the next you will be sad again.” Because of their words you are sad in this life; because of their words you will remain sad in the next.

When will you free yourself from your saints? Listen to God—free yourself from the saints. And if you want to listen to God, remove all saints from between. In the motionless clarity within you, His voice will resound. Meditate there. Sit in silence there. Let the proclamation arise from there; let the guidance come from there; follow that alone. And I tell you, joy will spread across your life—joy upon joy. From this corner to that corner it will be Diwali everywhere; lamps will be lit everywhere.

You say, “I have everything—comforts and conveniences—yet the sadness does not diminish; it keeps increasing.”
Joy has no intrinsic relation to comforts and conveniences. Sometimes those who have none are also found to be joyous. There is no necessary link that if you have wealth you must be happy. Joy is an art. Cheerfulness is an art, a secret. One who knows it is happy even without wealth—and if wealth is there, certainly he is happy too.

Listen carefully. I am not saying that only without wealth can one be happy. Nor am I saying that only with wealth can one be happy. Both statements are half-truths. One who knows how to be joyous can be joyous anywhere.

One who knows how to dance can dance even in a crooked courtyard. One who knows how to dance can dance even in the dark cell of a prison. One who knows how to play the flute can play it on the darkest new-moon night. And if you don’t know how to play the flute and you are seated in a palace—what will you do? You were sad in the hut; in the palace you will be even more sad. Why more sad? Because in the hut there was hope: “If I had a palace, I would be happy.” Now even that hope is gone; even that support is lost. Now there is the palace—and sadness.

Understand: sadness and happiness have no relation to the outer; their relation is inner. Therefore I do not say: renounce, abandon, escape. No—learn the inner art. If there is wealth, one who knows the inner art will use it well; he will live it. Usually, those who lack the inner art, when they have wealth, do only this: they create anxieties for themselves. They become petty, miserly. They clutch money tighter, get trapped in the “one-more” loop. Those who don’t have money often at least spend what little they have. They say, “We have nothing anyway; if this goes, let it go. What is there?” So the poor man can show a little courage to spend; the rich man won’t spend. He says, “If I could save this much more, then I’d have a bit more. If I could save a little more, then a bit more.” As a man gets richer, he gets more miserly.

In this country we call such misers “so simple, so saintly.” They are misers, not simple at all—crooked, calculating. But we say, “How simple they are! What a saintly life!” If you wanted to live like a saint, kindly give your money to someone who will live it—then you be a saint. You sit coiled upon wealth like a serpent and live like a saint. Such stupidity has been honored. It is sheer foolishness. If you have wealth, live it. When you don’t, then live poverty. Right now there is wealth; sing the song of wealth. When there isn’t, sing the song of poverty. What’s the hurry! But people cannot even enjoy wealth—because enjoyment itself has been condemned.

You say, “I have all comforts…”
You may—but you have nothing within. Even amidst comforts you must be thinking, “All this is indulgence. Where have I gotten entangled! How blissful the fakirs must be!”

Often city-dwellers think villagers are enjoying life; villagers think city people are. In truth, wherever you are not, it seems joy is there.

Village folk all want to go to Bombay. No one wants to stop. Otherwise how does Bombay keep swelling? All the villages want to come to Bombay; and if they cannot live there, at least they want to visit. And the people of Bombay hear of villages and their hearts swell—“Ah, village life! What comfort! Natural beauty, fresh air—how can Bombay’s filthy air compare!”

I was in Kashmir with some Bombay friends. We were guests on a houseboat on Dal Lake. My Bombay friends praised and praised—fresh breezes, the trees, the chinar, the moon and stars, Kashmir! Hearing them, the boatman kept staring, astonished. I watched him, and finally asked, “You seem startled by their words.” He said, “How could I not be? My life has gone by right here—this lake, this boat, beating my head against it all my life. This boat, these chinars! Hearing them, I too try to see what beauty there is in the chinar—but I don’t see it.” He called me Baba. When we were about to leave, he caught my feet: “Baba, grant me one blessing—let me have darshan of Bombay once.” I said to my Bombay friends, “Do you hear? This boatman of Dal Lake says he has just one wish in life—only one—not even a big one: to see Bombay once. He has seen it in films; he says, ‘What bliss people must be enjoying there!’”

The city man praises the village—but he does not go. Who is stopping you? Go—taste the mud, the mosquitoes, the smells, the filth. Go! He stays in the city and fantasizes. The man in the palace thinks, “Ah, those who have nothing sleep like kings. What ecstasy in a fakir’s sleep! And we worry all night.” And the fakir imagines, “In the palace they must be living it up—music and song!” The world is upside-down.

I have heard: In Banaras a saint died one day, and a prostitute also died that same day. They lived opposite each other. Saints and prostitutes often live face to face. They have a long-standing partnership. Without saints there can be no prostitutes, and without prostitutes there can be no saints. The day there are no saints, prostitutes will vanish. How will you produce prostitutes otherwise? The saint teaches suppression of sexuality; when his lesson is learned, the prostitute is born. If you want to eliminate prostitution, first eliminate the saints.

So the story seems quite logical. The saint and the prostitute died together. Angels came to take them. The saint became very angry because they led him towards hell—towards the netherworld, where, these days, America is. And they led the prostitute towards heaven, towards the sky. The saint said, “Stop! This is injustice. I am a saint. There must be some clerical error. I should be taken to heaven.”

The angels laughed: “We too suspected as much, so we asked God, ‘Has there been a mistake—that the saint goes to hell and the prostitute to heaven?’ We were new to the job; better to check. It was good we asked. God said, ‘No mistake; this is the eternal law.’ ‘Eternal law?’ we said. ‘We are novices; we know nothing of eternal laws. What do you mean?’ God said, ‘The saint spent his whole life thinking the fun was happening at the prostitute’s house. And the prostitute spent her life weeping, thinking that joy and bliss were in the saint’s hut. The saint rang bells and worshiped before Me, but his heart was there—towards the prostitute. He stood at the window muttering “Ram, Ram,” fingering his rosary, while gazing at the prostitute. At night he would get up, call to Me and wake Me too—but the dancing, singing, the veena, the applause at the prostitute’s house gnawed at his heart. “What have I gotten entangled in! What kind of sainthood is this! The fun is there; here there is only gloom.” And whenever the prostitute had a free moment she would weep. When the saint rang the bell in the temple and the incense rose, and the fragrance reached her, she wept, “Unfortunate me! Will life go by like this? When will I call to God?” She never called, but her tears reached Me. He called Me every day, but there was no call in his call—no invocation of his life. Take him to hell; bring the prostitute to heaven.’”

Such is the human mind. Wherever he is not, there he wants to be. You say you have comforts—but you are not in them. You keep thinking that fakirs, sannyasins, saints are the ones enjoying. So jealousy burns within. And jealousy brings sadness. Wherever you are, you can be at ease. As you are—there is a way to live life. You are missing the art of living.

And you say, “This sadness keeps growing; it doesn’t lessen.” It will grow. As age advances, you will feel more defeated: so many days gone, so few left. Evening is coming, the sun is setting. Death has begun to knock. Hands and feet tremble; old age approaches; nothing has been gained. Panic will increase, and sadness will grow.

But do not think, “Is my destiny to end uselessly like this?” No—no one’s destiny is to end in vain. Destiny is to become sat-chit-ananda: truth, consciousness, bliss. Destiny is supreme bliss. But to fulfill destiny, you must do something too. Plant the seed in the soil, and it will sprout. Place it on a stone—what can it do, how will it sprout? And even if you put it in soil and never water it—what can it do? And even if you water it but deny it sunlight, hold an umbrella over it—what can it do? Create the right conditions. Create the conditions for sat-chit-ananda to happen. Let the seed fall into the earth; water it; let the sun in. Then you need do nothing more. You do not have to tug out the leaves—they will emerge on their own. You will not have to pry open the buds—they will open on their own. You need only remove the obstructions.

So let me give you a few sutras.
First: This life is God’s gift. You are fortunate to be alive. Make this your foundation. Life is not punishment for sins; it is a gift from God. If anything, it is the fruit of merit. Such a lovely life, so wondrous, such a mysterious cosmos—punishment for sins? Remove that stone, and your seed will fall into the soil.

Second: Wherever you are, endeavor to live joyfully there. Drop thoughts of where you are not. Such thoughts only waste your time. There is not a single person, not a single situation, in which some joy is not possible. Whatever is possible for you where you are—live that much joyfully.

Jesus has a marvelous saying: To those who have, more will be given; and from those who have not, even what they have will be taken away. If you want joy, be a little joyful—and more joy will be given to you. You have heard that money attracts money? True. Meditation attracts meditation—equally true. Joy attracts joy—just as true. One who becomes a little joyful becomes more and more joyful. However sad you are, you can be a little joyful. Change your angle a little. Look at life with hope, not despair.

I have heard: An optimist once fell from a New York building—down from the seventieth floor, dropping fast. He was such an optimist that no one had ever heard a gloomy word from his mouth. He would find something good in everything; it was his habit to see the bright side. People had always found him cheerful. As he fell, people leaned out from the windows, asking, “How are you?” Surely today he would say, “I’m finished!” Do you know what he said? “So far, so good—so far it’s all delight.” So far! He’s falling toward the ground. We all are falling toward the ground; death is waiting below. But “so far,” he said, “it’s all delight.”

Look at life through hope. Drop habits of despair. In every dark night there are glittering stars. In every black cloud a bolt of lightning is set like a jewel. Don’t count the thorns on the rosebush—count the flowers. And if you learn to count the flowers, slowly you’ll find even the thorns turn into flowers. To those who have, more will be given; to those who have not, even what they have will be taken. Those who count thorns—their flowers will also become thorns. Change your counting, your arithmetic—and you have poured water on the seed.

Third: Don’t just think and mull it over—express joy. Thus you let the sunshine in. Express joy. People do not express joy. They can hurl abuse, but they don’t sing. Laugh, smile, dance, hum. Whatever you express, whatever you share and spread—fresh streams of energy begin to flow within you for that. As when you draw water from a well, fresh springs feed the well—so too we are all connected to the ocean of God. Pour out! Pour out with both hands. Share whatever you have. Scatter your ecstasy. And you will be amazed—new energies, new currents, new springs keep bursting forth. Once you discover this secret, this key—that by giving it grows, by sharing it increases, by expressing it more and more comes—then that’s it! Complete these three sutras, and sadness is gone, the night is over, morning has come.

Sadness is not destiny; it is misfortune, an accident—the result of so-called wrong life-views and wrong life-scriptures. There is a noose around your neck. But because a saint has placed it there, you cannot break it, thinking, “A saint would not hang a noose; he must have placed a garland on me.” Look closely: your religion has not given you life; it has robbed you of it. A new religiosity is needed.

Across the whole earth a new religiousness is needed. In the coming future there will be religiosity—not Hindu, not Muslim, not Christian—one religiousness: a sense of awe toward life, a thanksgiving toward God. My sannyas is a preparation for the advent of that new human being.

That’s all for today.