Prem Rang Ras Audh Chadariya #4

There is no proof of the Divine, and there cannot be; because apart from the Divine there is nothing that could stand as its proof. Only the Divine is; not even a speck of space remains where something like a proof could make its home. Whatever is, is the Divine. And if there were a proof, that too would be the Divine.

The mind certainly asks for proof, and there are deep reasons for that. In the very asking for proof the mind begins to sense that “perhaps there is no God.” For there is no proof of the Divine, none can be given, none has ever been given, and none ever will be. And those who have offered proofs have offered false ones—talk meant to pacify children. They do not truly satisfy the heart.

The theist does not have proof; he has love. The atheist has argument. That is the difference. Do not think the theist has proofs and the atheist has none. The theist has love and no proof. Love does not worry about proofs; proofs do not enter the language of love. The atheist has arguments, but he too has no proof—neither for nor against. Proof is not possible. But argument has one convenience: if God cannot be demonstrated, the mind gets a way to survive. If there is no light, darkness can remain; but if light is, darkness must vanish.

A theist is one whose mind has disappeared. An atheist is one who says, “First give me proof.” And since proofs won’t come, there will never be a reason for the mind to dissolve. To ask for proof about the Divine is a deep strategem of the mind.

Ask for proof that there is beauty in a flower—you won’t find it, yet beauty is! You too know it is. Have you seen a lotus bloom in the fresh rays of morning? Can you say beauty is not? Were you not overwhelmed? Did nothing stir in your heart? Has a night full of stars left you untouched? The sky brims with infinite mysteries—has your heart not danced? But what is the proof? What is the proof that the stars are beautiful? What is the proof that the lotus is beautiful?

Have you never fallen in love—with a woman, a man, a friend? Have your eyes never filled with enchantment? In form, have you never glimpsed the formless? In shape, have you not heard, here and there, the footfall of the shapeless? Peering into certain eyes, have you never felt the deep mystery of life? You have. Who is so unfortunate that life has never given them any experience that is beyond proof? And yet you did not ask for proof.

Had you asked for proof, the lotus would have remained—but only as mud; beauty would have vanished. Had you asked for proof, the sky would still be studded with stars, but the poetry of night, its mystery, its music would all be gone. Had you asked for proof, the woman would remain a body of flesh and bone; but the unknown that brimmed in her would have disappeared in that instant. Those who demand proof have neither beauty nor truth, neither God nor love, neither the auspicious nor joy. What remains for them? Nothing worth living for. Keep accounts, tally money, amass wealth—gather the useless junk of life. Because whatever is majestic slips from their hands. What you have denied, its doors close for you. The temple you negate is no longer a temple for you.

Proofs exist in life—for petty things, trivial things. Proofs do not exist—for the vast, the infinite, the eternal.

If you ask me, I would say: it is good that there is no proof of the Divine; otherwise how would you love it? Does anyone love mathematics? Two plus two make four—that’s certain; but will you fall in love with it? Will you dance with it on your head?

It is said that Schopenhauer, a great Western thinker, when he first read the Upanishads, danced with them on his head. His friends asked, “Have you gone mad? Who dances with books on his head!” Schopenhauer said, “If these were merely books, I would not dance either. I have seen many books. These are not that. There is something here that ordinary books do not contain—a hint from afar, a gleam of a very distant star. Because of these, for the first time, I have felt the majesty of life.”

But is there any proof for Schopenhauer’s dance? Could he have danced with a math book? With Einstein’s treatise on relativity? No. Where could dance arise in mathematics? The courtyard of math is too small for a dance. Where is there space for song? For song to be born, something of the mysterious is needed—something that both touches the hand and yet will not be held in the fist; a glimpse that comes, yet never fully clears. When the mysterious is sensed, then song is born, dance rises, hymn happens, prayer happens—and only then is the Divine.

You say: “When I listen to you, it seems that if you say so, then God must be.”

A feeling like that has no real substance. Listening to me, it will seem so; listening later to someone else, it will be lost. Can you trust talk? My words may make it seem so; your mind will find words to oppose them. Every statement can be countered. There is no statement that cannot be refuted. Every word has its opposite. Words are born out of duality. Love is because hate is. Compassion is because anger is. Day is because night is. Birth is because death is. Words are born of this polarity; what proves one proves the other too.

From birth, death is proven, is it not? If there were no birth, there would be no death. If birth is established, death is established. Friends turn into enemies, do they not? If no one became a friend, there would be no enemies. One’s own turn into strangers—precisely because they could be one’s own. The possibility of belonging is the possibility of estrangement.

So what can be argued for can be argued against. Arguments are like prostitutes; they have no loyalty. Arguments are like lawyers; they go with whoever pays them.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin went to his lawyer. He explained his entire case. As any lawyer would—and must, otherwise how would he manage?—the lawyer said, “Don’t worry at all. Your victory is assured. All arguments and all laws are on your side. There is no doubt the other party will lose. You will win a hundred percent.”

Mulla stood up. “Good day then, I’ll be going.” The lawyer said, “But where are you going?” Mulla said, “What I told you were the arguments from the other side. If my defeat is certain, then good day—why pay fees and get into trouble!”

Had you presented your case, the lawyer would have said the same to you. He has to. His job is not the truth; his job is what can be supported argumentatively. And anything can be supported by argument. There is not a single idea in the world for which arguments cannot be found—and equal arguments against it. The marvel is that arguments for and arguments against are evenly matched.

Therefore the wise do not enter into argument; they know the two sides balance and cancel each other. If fifty percent of argument supports, fifty percent opposes. Those who have eyes see this and drop argument. They say: decision will not come through argument.

How then does decision come? When not by argument, then by love. When not by intellect, then by heart. When not by thought, then by experience—by direct feeling.

If, on hearing my words, it seemed to you that God is, by the time you leave the ashram it will be gone, and by the time you reach home you will have forgotten. Words have no value. However sweet the words, they are only words. Do not stop because of words. Millions have—on the strength of words—and missed the Divine. Someone liked the theist’s words and missed; someone else liked the atheist’s words and missed. The one sitting in the Kaaba missed, and the one sitting in the Kremlin missed—because they liked certain words. But the relationship with the Divine does not form through words; it forms where words fall away.

Let me say it again: the Divine is not related to through thought, but through no-thought. Even my words give you a thought, stir a ripple, create a quandary. You begin to cogitate. But the Divine is not related to by cogitation or contemplation. Where both contemplation and cogitation stop, where they fall utterly still, where there is a pause—no thinking, no thought—only pure being: there the relationship with the Divine is. And then you do not ask for proofs. Then you have found the proof of proofs—the taste itself.

Tell a man who has tasted sweetness to offer proof—he will say, “Proof or no proof, but I have tasted.” Pile up a thousand counter-proofs; they cannot cancel his taste. And one who has tasted the bitterness of neem—you may gather a thousand proofs that neem is sweet, he will say, “Your proofs may be fine, but I know neem. I have experienced it. Neem is not sweet.”

Nothing decides except experience. And experience is easy; thought is difficult. The chain of thought has no end; it goes on. From one thought emerge branches, from branches sub-branches, and the web of thought spreads. One day you find yourself in such trouble you cannot even figure how to come back—let alone reach a conclusion. Having spread such a net, how to gather it up again?

No, there is no value in God seeming true after hearing me. Experience me; experience my presence. Experience the joy, peace, love of those sitting here. Let the dance of the dancers here enter you. Let the songs sung here strike your ears and wound your heart—perhaps then.

Ask these trees. These silent trees standing in the sun. Ask the sky, ask the sun. The sun has risen and you ask, “What is the proof of the sun?” We will simply say: open your eyes and see; there is no other proof. If you ask for proof of the sun when it is shining, it proves only one thing: either you are blind, or you have closed your eyes. And the second is true. No one is born blind in the spiritual sense. Spiritually we are not blind—we have merely closed our eyes and taken ourselves to be blind.

Are those on the branches
embers or blossoms, ablaze?
The palash forest smolders.
With a yellow scarf tied, the marigold preens,
flax flirts with mustard across the fields.
On the wheat’s ear
love-vows are being tightened;
Madana churns the heart.
The season wears a mango crown, peacocks their crest;
the cuckoo is the bridegroom, the bees’ shehnai sounds.
On the village square of the heart
this bride of beauty
is being welcomed with love.

In lotus bowers or poppies in bloom—
who objects to beloved, chosen “mistakes”?
On ripening cheeks
these Faguā adornments—
all golden dreams.
All are drenched in colors—why are you the only one blank?
A Holi that does not soak you to the core is shallow.
Why the furrows on your brow?
Why are the eyes brimming,
my saddened mind?

Ask only this. Your heart must be very sad, very divided, very disturbed to go out seeking a proof of God. It is a sign of disease. To a healthy heart, the Divine is visible! Only the Divine is visible; nothing else!

Are those on the branches
embers or blossoms?
Ask the flowers!
The palash woods are aflame,
the whole forest laden with palash—and you ask, “Where is beauty?”

With a yellow scarf tied, the marigold preens—
ask this dandy marigold!
Flax flirts with mustard across the fields.
On the wheat’s ear
love-vows are being tightened,
Madana churns the heart.
All around, an incomparable rasa of love is woven! Arrows of love are being loosed everywhere—flower to flower, bird to bird, beast to beast, star to star. Feel these arrows; feel their sweet sting!

The season wears a mango crown, peacocks their crest;
the cuckoo is the bridegroom, the bees’ shehnai.
On the village square of the heart
this bride of beauty
is being welcomed with love!

This all around—these forms embodied, this existence enraptured with form, this ecstatic nature—and you ask for a proof of God!

Someone asked Jesus: “What should we do?” Jesus said: Ask the fish. He must have been standing by a lake. “Ask the foxes.” Foxes were darting along the shore. “Ask the flowers. Why ask me?”

What are the flowers doing? Every moment they are immersed in worship. What are the fish doing? Diving in the sea—dive upon dive! We too are fish in the ocean of the Divine; we are flowers blooming on its shore. The same One who is rose in the rose and marigold in the marigold is the human in us. That which is yellow in the marigold and red in the rose—that is what blooms in us; we too are flowers of that One.

With a yellow scarf tied, the marigold preens;
flax flirts with mustard across the fields.
On the wheat’s ear
love-vows are being tightened;
Madana churns the heart.
The season wears a mango crown, peacocks their crest;
the cuckoo is the bridegroom, the bees’ shehnai.
On the village square of the heart
this bride of beauty
is being welcomed with love.

Listen—the shehnai of that One is sounding everywhere!

In lotus bowers or poppies in bloom,
who objects to beloved, chosen “mistakes”?
On ripening cheeks
these Faguā adornments—
all golden dreams.
All are drenched in colors—why are you the only one blank?
I ask you this. You ask for logic, for proof! Holi has come, the season of Fag has come, people have filled their syringes with color—and you are still asking whether colors exist! Fill your pichkari and play Holi!

All are drenched in colors—why are you the only one blank?
A Holi that does not soak you to the core is shallow.
Why the furrows on your brow?
Why are the eyes brimming,
my saddened mind?

The longing for logic rises from a sad, sick heart. The one who asks for proof has closed his eyes, laid rocks upon his heart, does not let the springs of feeling flow. Otherwise, only God is, only God. You would not ask for proof of the Divine; you would ask the reverse: there are so many proofs—where is God? Now you ask: there is no proof at all—where is God? If you open your eyes you will ask: there is proof upon proof at every door—where is the Divine? He who has so many signatures—where can he hide? How could he be hidden?

Look—the flowers of youth have bloomed,
the ecstasy of surrender;
the mahua of the heart is fragrant,
I am mad with my own perfume.
Silk wings have sprouted on the body,
pollen petals are strewn on my limbs;
my form glows like tesu aflame—
this is the first spring of youth.
The new moon braids my hair,
the full moon rubs in the ubtan;
evening and morning paint my palms with henna,
the Malayan breeze turns breath to sandal.
Clouds kohl my eyes—
the sky itself has shrunk into them.
The holy joy of silent surrender,
the sweet festival of offerings;
the heart’s earnest entreaty—
today the wine of love rains.
Now the backdrop of dreams
gives a glimpse of the Beloved.

Become just a little alert. Do not ask for logic; ask for a little consciousness. Become filled with awareness.

Now the backdrop of dreams
gives a glimpse of the Beloved.

And from everywhere you will begin to hear the footprints of that One; in every footprint you will see only his.

No, not logic; a little more de-hypnosis, more wakefulness. Meditation, not argument. Meditation, not proof. A little more love. Denser love. All are drenched in colors—why are you the only one blank?

You ask: “Still the mind asks for proof. What is the proof of God?”

The Divine is—there is no proof. I am not a philosopher, not a theologian. I do not gather proofs for God. I make the Divine available to you—straight, directly. Why such roundabout ways? Why go in through the back door when the temple has hung welcome garlands at the main gate, when the shehnai is playing? When an invitation has arrived, why enter like a thief?

No, I give no proofs. But an energy-field is indeed being created here. If you immerse in it, proofs will shower—so many that even if you wished to collect them, you could not.

Whoever comes here seeking proof will go back empty-handed. Yes, he may like my words—but what is the value of nice words? As much as reading a cookbook about delicious dishes—your hunger won’t be filled. Or as much as gazing intently at a picture of a lake—your thirst won’t be quenched. Living contact is needed.

Listen to these birds’ calls! In them is proof. Open your eyes, behold nature, and on every speck you will find his signature—his very signature!

God is the infinite energy of creation. Whatever is, is from That. Whatever is, is by That. Whatever is, is in That.

Yog Chinmaya! Love will, of course, be hazy—because love is a mystery. Lust will be clear, and prayer will also be clear. Love is the middle. Love is the liquid state. Love is neither lust nor prayer; love is the link between the two—the period of transition. And a transitional phase will inevitably be hazy. It is not so only for you; it is so for everyone.

Lust is plain to see: the pull of earth, a clamp upon the other, the race of nature, the blind grip of biology upon you—everything is straightforward. Nothing is entangled in lust. Lust is as clear as mathematics.

And prayer is clear too. Lust is for matter; prayer is for the Divine—both have a clear object. One arrow goes toward matter; its target is clear. Another arrow goes toward God; its target is clear. But the arrow of love is going nowhere—neither toward matter nor toward God. The arrow of love is still in the quiver. Hence the difficulty: What is the purpose of this arrow of love? What is its target? And when the target is not clear, love remains indistinct—vague, hazy. It feels like something is there, but what it is you cannot grasp; it won’t weigh on the scales; it won’t submit to measurement. Even lust yields to measurement.

That is why in this world the sensualist is clear and the renunciate is clear. Their mathematics is perfectly consistent and linear. The poet is vague. The poet is fluid, not solid—he stands between the two.

If science is lust, then religion is prayer, and poetry is love. And whoever would go from lust to prayer must pass through the hour of love.

A woman is not yet pregnant—everything is clear. Then one day a child is born—she is a mother—again everything becomes clear. But in the nine months in between, everything is indistinct and hazy. There is some feeling that “something is,” but what? Is it to be a son or a daughter? Beautiful or not? Foolish or intelligent? Dark or fair? Everything is unclear; nothing can be held.

The state of love is the state of pregnancy. When lust sets out to become prayer, this station appears. This station is auspicious. Do not be frightened.

And why must everything be made clear? Let some things remain unclear! What madness has seized the whole world—that everything must be crystal-clear! A great disease torments man: clarify everything. And when something will not be clarified, it makes us so restless that, instead of accepting its vagueness, we prefer to deny it altogether.

Hence science rejects many facts—not because they are not facts, nor because science has no inkling of them, but because they do not become clear; they remain hazy. And science will not hold a thing until it is clear. It has sworn an oath to clarity, accepted a binding commitment—that it must be clear. It has sacrificed everything on the altar of clarity. So what is not clear must be denied.

Love is a very vague happening—mysterious, shadowy, fluid. Its forms change—day by day, moment by moment. Only an intimation is experienced, a mere shadow is felt.

Yog Chinmaya, this is not only your difficulty; it is the difficulty of all seekers who move from lust toward prayer. And everyone must move—because everyone is born into lust, and everyone has to arrive at prayer. In between, this station will come—when lust has dropped and prayer has not yet arrived. That empty space in between—bearing it is what tapascharya is. To remain patient in that emptiness is tapascharya.

In that emptiness remain peaceful, unagitated; do not crave excessive clarity. If you crave clarity too much, you may turn back—fall again into lust—because lust is familiar. Then everything will be clear again. Prayer is wholly unfamiliar—an unknown land. But if one patiently remains for the full “nine months” in the womb of love, a new birth happens—the birth of prayer; the emergence of the devotee.

And prayer then is clear; everything is clear—like in the open sunlight, so clear that nothing is hidden, nothing is vague. Yet you will not be able to say it—that is the difference. The clarity of lust is such that it can be spoken. The clarity of prayer is so vast that you cannot speak it. Do not think that because Buddha did not say, he did not know. He knew, certainly—but he did not speak, because the knowing was greater than the knower. So he remained silent.

Lust can be stated with great ease—anyone can speak it. Animals and birds express it too, to say nothing of human beings. To express lust needs no great art, no special skill, no talent, no high intelligence. Even a fool can declare his lust. Lust is small, petty. Prayer is vast, like the sky. You will not be able to express it; yet remember, prayer is perfectly clear.

When you look at the sky, do you think it is unclear? It is clear—but in what words will you contain it? When you behold the beauty of millions upon millions of stars, is anything unclear? Everything is clear—what could be clearer? But how to bind it, how to tell it? How to define it, how to explain it? The tongue falters; the taste is so great that language stammers. Lust is clear—and small. Prayer is clear—and vast. Love is unclear. Love is in the middle—neither here nor there.

So, Yog Chinmaya, do not think that this haziness is only your experience. Do not make it, without reason, your personal problem. It is everyone’s problem. And blessed are those who experience it. Most feel that lust is everything. And it is not that these lust-ridden people do not pray; but their prayer is false, their temple only formal. They sometimes pray, but their prayer is just another name for lust. Under the pretext of prayer they ask God for this and that—grant me a job, money, position, prestige. Their prayer is a disguised form of lust. They know nothing. They are unfortunate.

In this world, the one who has known only lust—only begging—is the most unfortunate, for he is a beggar. His state is pitiable. He never tastes the experience of being an emperor. That happens in prayer, because in prayer the devotee is no longer other than God—he becomes one.

In lust, the lover and the beloved meet for a moment—a petty union—and then comes a long separation, and sorrow. In prayer, the union that happens is the great union—there is no more separation, no division; non-duality is fulfilled, unity is attained. Aham Brahmasmi! Only then can someone declare: Anal Haq! I am the Divine!

Between the two lies love. Love is an arrow that is going nowhere—neither in the direction of lust nor in the direction of prayer. It is a halted arrow. And surely, when you see a halted arrow, questions arise in your mind: Where does it want to go? What is it? What is its nature? What is its goal, its destination? A thousand questions arise—and no answer comes. Do not shoot this arrow—for if you shoot it, you will shoot it into lust. Let this arrow remain at rest. What is the panic, what the hurry? Learn a little patience.

In this century, if anything has been lost, the greatest virtue man has lost is patience. There is a great haste; everything must happen quickly, now, immediately.

People even come to meditate and ask, “Will it happen in a week, or will I have to stay two weeks?” As though by staying two weeks they were doing me a favor! You ask about meditation in terms of days! There must have been brave people in the old days; they asked in the language of lifetimes—how many lifetimes will it take? A single lifetime wasn’t even a question: how many lifetimes to meditation? They must have been courageous—big-hearted.

Today’s man has no chest at all. He is like instant coffee—made this very moment. He wants instant meditation—happening right away. Some trick in the hand so that, without doing anything, it happens. No time, no energy. And the greatest difficulty: he should not have to wait.

Waiting has been lost. And the day waiting is lost, God is lost. For it is into the vessel of waiting that God descends.

So, Yog Chinmaya, give prayer the opportunity of waiting. Love is rising—do not hurry to understand. What is the need to understand? Chinmaya has a habit—a bad habit—of wanting everything systematized. If he spends ten paise, he writes it in a diary. He cannot rest without writing. He keeps on writing. Most of his time goes in this—scribbling useless little things. He could have been a fine researcher; he would have earned a Ph.D. or a D.Litt. at some university. He has landed in the wrong place here. People of this kind get Ph.D.s and D.Litts—those who keep writing, writing anything. When they read a book, they seem to read less and take more notes—thinking they will be useful later. They keep writing comments—even on the tiniest matters!

By some mistake, a few papers of his once fell into my hands, and I was astonished: What is this work Chinmaya is doing! Now, if ten paise have been spent, what is there to write! But a certain disposition is there. And there are many fields where such a disposition is very useful—very useful in shopkeeping! In the world of accounts, in the world of researchers, it is very useful. There, the very work is to keep writing, to gather little things; then gather so much that no one can read it—and then you get a D.Litt. For who will bother to read—take the D.Litt.! The research tomes written in universities—does anyone read them? No one—who has the leisure, what is the point?

So love will give him trouble, will give Chinmaya trouble: How to note this love clearly? How to write it down? There should be a precise definition and exposition.

You will not be able to do it. It simply does not happen. It cannot happen. Experience this love. Dance in it, sway in it. Let it hum within you. As the bumblebee hums, let it hum. Do not hurry. Do not even ask—where are we going, what is the goal, what is the destination, what will be gained, what will not be gained? Ask nothing. Let this bee hum. Do not let it go anywhere. There is a moment when it will go on humming like this for no reason at all. When a definite force has gathered, then it will take flight.

Like an airplane flying into the sky: first it runs on the ground; it does not soar all at once. It speeds along the runway. Then at one point it seems to pause. That moment of pausing is very important. Then, after pausing, its engine begins to rev even more strongly. If at that moment you ask the pilot, “Where are we going?” he will say, “Right now, nowhere—we are still on the ground.” Some people, in their panic, think at that moment that they have already flown.

Mulla Nasruddin once went on a journey. When the engine began roaring furiously—brrr-brrr—he thought, “We have arrived!” Out of nervousness he had kept his eyes closed. He opened them and looked down; three tiny things looked like ants. He said to his neighbor, “It seems we have flown very high; people look like ants!” The man replied, “Those are not people; they are ants! We haven’t flown anywhere yet.” “Then why is the engine going so hard?” he began to ask.

You have to take on a momentum. A certain momentum is needed. At a particular speed—just as at one hundred degrees water becomes steam—the engine takes on a certain thrust, and only at that thrust can it leap.

In the same way, love gathers momentum in waiting. There will be buzzing, humming; energy keeps accumulating. In lust, energy is dissipated. Therefore, when you are freed from lust, you must give a little time for energy to collect. In lust, energy moves downward. Before the upward movement begins, you must allow a pause in between—when energy is gathered, becomes a reservoir. And the energy rises, and rises, and rises—until a moment comes when you suddenly find that the aircraft has lifted into the sky! You have slipped free of the earth of lust; you have found the sky of prayer. But in the middle there was a waiting. Do not avoid that waiting. And do not try to understand that waiting too soon; otherwise you will make a mistake.

It is an auspicious hour that you are experiencing the ineffable mystery of love. Let it be gathered. Very soon, the birth of prayer is certain.

Dharma Bharati! Aloneness is our ultimate destiny; there is no way to escape it. We are alone—and all the efforts we make to avoid it, that is what the world is. And when all those efforts to escape prove futile, that is renunciation. When we drop the very efforts to escape, that is meditation.

We are alone and we want not to be alone—this is where the mistake begins. Why? What is difficult about being alone? What is the restlessness in being alone? What is the fear, the wrongness, the sorrow in being alone? Who told you there is sorrow in aloneness? Those who know say quite the opposite. Ask Nanak, ask Kabir, ask Malukdas, ask Doolandas—those who know say: only in that supreme solitude does the rain of bliss fall! Clouds of nectar pour! A thousand suns rise—only in that supreme solitude!

But man is running, running; he is afraid of aloneness. From childhood we are infected with fear of being alone. Parents never leave a child alone; someone must always be present. Those very parents never consider that for nine months the child was utterly alone in the womb—never once did he cry, never once did he raise a commotion, never once did he say, “I am afraid.” For nine months he was completely alone; not only alone, he was in deep darkness—where not even a single ray of the sun enters.

Yet psychologists say those nine months are the most blissful days of the child’s life—and because of that memory man seeks liberation. This is psychology’s interpretation of the search for moksha: the nine months the child has known—absolute solitude, peace, and rest—their memory pursues him. In his unconscious that memory still glides. Those blissful moments still sway in his remembrance; that fragrance still surrounds him. And he is searching for that very experience.

According to psychologists, the search for moksha is the search for the womb’s solitude, emptiness, silence, repose. They also say: the beautiful homes we build are born of the same longing for the womb. We make good houses, lovely rooms, arrange ample furniture, mattresses and cushions—everything that seems welcoming, restful, seems best.

In America a new experiment is underway—its machines will soon be here too, and meditators will use them. It is an important experiment, one of the newest processes for meditation discovered in this century. Scientists have made a tank—modeled exactly on the womb. It is sunk below ground. Inside is total darkness. It is soundproof—no sound from outside enters. The water inside it is chemically the same as in the mother’s womb, in which the child floats. In the womb there is so much Epsom salt in the water that the child cannot sink.

You may have heard of the Dead Sea in the Middle East; it is called “dead” because no one can sink in it. There are no fish either, because even fish can’t stay within the water column there; to be fish you need to be able to submerge. The salinity is so high that even a non-swimmer tossed in will float—the density of the water is greater than the body, making the body lighter.

In the mother’s womb there is so much Epsom salt that the tiny child would surely sink otherwise. The womb is filled with fluid. Don’t imagine the belly looks big only because of the baby; the larger reason is the water.

And you may have noticed pregnant women crave salt! They begin to like salty things. The reason is simply that the amniotic fluid inside needs salt—more and more salt. Sometimes women even scrape lime off the walls to eat, or eat earth—loamy soil with a slightly salty taste. Village women often eat field soil.

In that tank the chemical composition is the same as in the womb. You are placed in it. You cannot sink—try as you may, you will float. There is deep darkness, and a small tube is connected to your nose—just as in the womb you are connected to the mother for breath; through this tube oxygen keeps coming. Two hours in this tank brings extraordinary experiences—of peace, emptiness, bodilessness. They have named it the “samadhi tank.” In the Western languages they found no better word. The name carries some scientific sense, and those who spend a couple of hours in it, for the first time remember again being in the mother’s womb—and that peace, that bliss.

Scientists say meditation processes lead to the same state—without external devices. The quest for moksha, for heaven, is the quest for that. Even in our homes we try to shape our rooms so they keep us warm, happy, cheerful, and quiet in every way. Yet nothing has ever fully, perfectly given the experience of the mother’s womb.

But in the womb the child stays alone for nine months—neither frightened nor anxious, not thinking of going to a club, or becoming a member of Rotary, or visiting a hotel, or at least playing cards to pass the time, or going to a movie, or gossiping with neighbors. Nothing! For nine months there is absolute silence.

So one thing is certain: by nature you are made to live in solitude; by nature there is taste, delight in solitude, not sorrow. But from birth the trouble starts. The moment the child is born he feels the need for the other. Without the mother he is hungry; he needs the mother, the mother’s breast. Hence, the waiting for the mother’s breast remains in the mind lifelong. Painters paint breasts, sculptors carve breasts—Khajuraho or Konark, everywhere breasts! And breasts such as do not exist—so big a woman could not even walk; if she tried she would fall! Poems about breasts. Everything revolves around breasts. There must be a reason, a deep reason.

The reason is: the child’s first experience of this world is the experience of the breast. The first experience is important; its imprint lingers throughout life.

I once went to see an old man. He was dying, about seventy-eight. No one was in the room except his wife. He asked her to step out, “I wish to speak privately.” She left. I wondered—perhaps some question about meditation or samadhi. He said, “I have only one question. I am close to death, but my fascination with a woman’s breasts does not fade! I am dying, yet when my lady doctor comes to see me I forget death and keep looking at her breasts. Tell me, why does this interest not leave me even at seventy-eight? What could be the reason? And I cannot ask anyone. Monks do come, but if I asked them they would be angry. I can ask only you.”

I said, “This is quite simple. The truth is, just as at birth the first memory is of the breast, so often at death the last memory is of the breast. Those who have inquired in the East say: at the last moment, remembering the breast, a man dies. That memory becomes his journey into a new womb. The circle completes.”

Yet the child needs the breast—food, warmth, love. It is also proof that the other cares, loves, is concerned. Slowly the other becomes important. If the mother does not come, the child is wet, he has peed—he is uncomfortable; he needs the other. The helpless child begins to experience the need for the other.

And parents enjoy this—that the child is dependent. When someone depends on you it feels good: “I have some place in the world.” When children stand on their own, parents are not truly happy. Outwardly they say, “We are pleased you are now on your own,” but look closely at their faces: they are saying, “So now you don’t need us anymore!” They marry off their children, but inside a resistance arises. Hence the perpetual quarrel between mother-in-law and daughter-in-law. A mother cannot tolerate that the son who always depended on her now depends on another woman: “It took me twenty-five years to make him intelligent; a woman made him a fool in five minutes!” How can a mother-in-law bear it? Fire burns—it is quite natural. They say, “Be happy; now you are independent.” But study their faces and tone—the words come as if under duress. Parents would still prefer the children to remain dependent—because in their dependence the ego is gratified.

So parents do their best to keep the child dependent—on everything. And we don’t stop at children; we make adults dependent too. Wives make husbands utterly dependent. Outwardly it seems, and perhaps they believe, they are serving—but they won’t let the husband even pick up a match or a cigarette; they will bring the cigarette and strike the match themselves. They make the husband so dependent that if the wife goes to her mother’s home for two days, the husband is helpless—he doesn’t know where the cigarettes are or where the matches are.

Mulla Nasruddin was searching in the kitchen. His wife yelled, “It’s taking so long—you can’t even find the salt!” He shouted back, “I’ve opened nearly every jar; there’s no sign of salt.” She said, “You’re blind! Without me you can’t move an inch. Right in front of you—the jar labeled ‘chili’—the salt is in that one.”

Women have their own ways: the label says “chili,” but the jar holds salt. It’s their secret code. The husband may bang his head against the wall, consult all dictionaries—“chili” is never “salt.”

Husbands, of course, make wives dependent in their own ways—bringing jewelry, new saris. This world lives on mutual dependence. We make one another dependent because it pleases us that many people rely on us. The more people depend on you, the bigger you appear. But remember: when you make others dependent, others will make you dependent. Here slavery is mutual. If you want to be free, don’t make anyone dependent, and don’t be dependent on anyone. But the structure of life is such that everyone is entangled in mutual dependence—and everyone wants it that way.

So, Dharma Bharati, you feel difficulty—“I feel so lonely that I panic.” There is no cause to panic. Nor am I telling you to go to the jungle and be alone. I say: live in the world, but do not fear aloneness—taste it. Whenever the chance arises—your husband goes fishing, wonderful that he’s gone; your wife goes to gossip with neighbors, wonderful—sit alone for a while. For a while be utterly still. Remain so alone that it is as if there is no one in the world, only you—your pristine aloneness.

You will be amazed: in that silent sitting, slowly you will taste a sweetness—the nectar of the self! The experience of yourself, so endearing, so delightful, so liberating! Then sadness will not surround you. Then in aloneness an inner joy will arise such as even in company you will not find. Then when you go into a crowd you will feel, “When will I be free?” For what is a crowd but disturbance? What are your parties, feasts, weddings, assemblies—other than noise and nuisance? Where is celebration? It is a strange state!

Just the other day the neighbors had a “celebration”—a son was born. They blared loudspeakers with vulgar film tunes—without rhyme or reason—leaping and cavorting. Indian films haven’t even reached human beings yet—still pre-Darwinian! Jumping, fighting, shouting—and this you call song, music, celebration? Then what is disturbance? You’d have to call a man sitting quietly a rioter: “Look, a public nuisance—sitting so still!”

We don’t know how to celebrate because we don’t know how to be alone. If we have no taste for solitude, how will we have taste for anything? Celebration can happen too—when a few people gather who all know the joy of aloneness, then even in celebration there is depth. Ten people can sit silently and drown in an ocean of bliss beyond your imagination.

Sadness must be surrounding you because you have mistaken disturbance for celebration. Learn the arithmetic of solitude. Learn the language of aloneness.

Life is a great riddle. The greatest paradox is that in this world the highest joy comes to those who learn the art of being alone; the greatest sorrow comes to those who don’t. Sannyas is the art of being alone.

And remember: by aloneness I don’t mean the physical, the external—going off to the mountains and sitting in a cave. That will do nothing. In a cave what will you do? You’ll sit there and think: who knows which films are running in Bombay, how is business, is the boy managing the shop well? What else will you think in the cave? Try it now at home: sit quietly, close the door, imagine you have reached a Himalayan cave—what will you think? You’ll be surprised: the same worldly thoughts. You have a marketplace mind—what will you do by taking it to the Himalayas? I say: create the Himalayan mind, then the marketplace too becomes the Himalayas. Create the Himalayas within.

Beloved! I am a riddle too.
As much honey, as much sweet laughter,
as much intoxication in your glance,
as much lament, as much desolation,
as much poison in the pulsing of the world—
drinking and drinking, I, the thirst of sorrow,
become the revelry of the river of joy!
From every pore of mine
cascade waterfalls and flames.
Detachment and attachment make love—
they awaken in my breath.
Beloved, I grew in the lap of the finite,
yet I have played with the infinite!

You are in the lap of the finite, but you are entitled to the infinite.

Beloved, I grew in the lap of the finite,
yet I have played with the infinite!

You are on the earth, yet you are lord of the sky. You are in the crowd, but do not lose your wealth of aloneness—otherwise sadness and great restlessness will be your lot. If you live only in crowds, live only by crowds, die in crowds, your life will be a long lament. You will keep weeping…

I am a water-laden cloud of sorrow!
In every pulsation the ever-still abides;
in every sob the wounded world laughs.
Lamps burn within my eyes;
on my lashes streams tremble.
Every step is filled with music;
from my breath falls the pollen of dreams.
The sky’s new hues weave rich fabrics;
in the shade the southern breeze is reared.
I gather, dim, on the brow of the horizon,
the ceaseless weight of worry;
then on dust my drops fall,
and new life-sprouts break forth.
I come without soiling the path,
leave without footprints.
The only remembrance of my coming—
a shiver of joy blooming at the end.
No corner of the vast sky
has ever become my very own—
this is my whole history, my identity:
I swelled yesterday, I fade today—
I am a water-laden cloud of sorrow!

If you spend life in bustle like this, one day you will find only this:

This much is my identity, this my history—
I swelled yesterday, I fade today—
I am a water-laden cloud of sorrow!

But this is not your destiny; it would be your misfortune, an accident. It need not be so. If you choose, life can be a joy-intoxicated celebration—and you can move from the small to the vast, from the finite to the infinite, from the mortal to the immortal. You are so vast:

Beloved, I grew in the lap of the finite,
yet I have played with the infinite!

But you must learn a key—the key that unlocks life’s secrets. That key is aloneness, inner solitude.

In the twenty-four hours, take a little time, Dharma Bharati. At first you will feel sad—let it be; it is an old habit. At first there will be unease—let it be. But one hour each day, sit quietly. Do not do anything. Do not chant, do not turn beads, do not recite a mantra, do not pray—nothing. Just sit. Thoughts will still go on—let them. Watch them with neutrality, as one watches passers-by on the road or clouds in the sky. Watch purposelessly, dispassionately—without attachment, without judgment; neither good nor bad. Let thoughts pass. If they come, they come; if not, not. Take no special interest in their coming or going. Slowly, one day the moment will arrive when thoughts have departed—silence remains.

When silence arrives for the first time, it is like an electric shock—your every hair will tremble. For you begin to enter that inner state in which you were during the days of the womb. It is a deep jolt. Your connection with the world begins to loosen, your ties with the crowd break. You begin to fly beyond relationships. The shock will be heavy—like the first lift of an airplane from earth. Do not be frightened. Once the wings open in the sky, once you are airborne—there is incomparable joy!

Then aloneness will never hurt. Not only aloneness—even the crowd will not hurt, because even in the crowd the aloneness abides. One who has learned to settle within can stand in the marketplace and be in meditation. Sitting in the shop, working, and inside the melody hums night and day. Even in sleep the hum continues.

For now, I understand—sadness comes, panic arises, aloneness scares. These are natural symptoms. Every human being has been given this wrong conditioning. If ever there is right education, we will teach every child to be alone. We will teach companionship too, and aloneness too. We will teach being with others in such a way that aloneness is not lost, and companionship also happens. Like a lotus in water—yet untouched by the water—so live in the crowd, and do not let the crowd touch you. Go into the crowd and come out clean. Return with your robe unstained. Then life has another taste altogether. Kabir has said: “As I received the cloth, so I have returned it, keeping it with great care.” Then even while living in the crowd, there are no stains on your robe. As it was, so it is returned into God’s hands: “Take your cloth. You gave it; I wore it with care, used it with care—but no stains fell.”

Which cloth is Kabir speaking of? This inner solitude, this inner emptiness, this inner silence—this inner meditation. If you hold the robe of meditation, you will taste life’s first true touch. It can happen.

And Dharma Bharati, if it does not happen sitting near me, understand that you yourself are placing obstacles in its way. Remove the obstructions. The boat has already left the shore—board it. The sails are open; the winds carry it. We are not rowing. Who needs to row when God Himself, in the winds, fills the sails and carries us to His shore? Why worry about oars?

And when I speak of the beyond, the other shore, the destination, I am not saying it will happen tomorrow, or the day after, or in the next life. I am saying: it can happen now! Here it can happen. It should happen. Gather yourself. Become one-pointed.

Do not stop me now, O pourer of wine!
We are not ones to turn back and go away!
Our thirst is endless—and your treasure
is inexhaustible, inexhaustible—O giver, keep pouring!

When you sit at His temple, do not speak of returning. If sadness comes, restlessness comes, pain comes, old habits assert—do not worry.

Do not stop me now, O pourer of wine!
We are not ones to turn back and go away!
Our thirst is endless—and your treasure
is inexhaustible, inexhaustible—O giver, keep pouring!
We have come to awaken the Unseen at your door!
We have come to be dissolved at your door!

Fill this empty cup—fill it, fill it, fill it!
Make us intoxicated—make us, make us!
We have been standing at the gate with hands outstretched—
Make us immortal, O Immortal, give us your boon!
In a single drop the ocean of life is contained—
Fill to the brim this mind’s emptiness!

From here on, gaining is losing;
hidden in laughter at drinking is the sob of thirst.
Let the rounds of bliss go on—let them go on!
Let every corner of the heart be filled, even with sorrow!
Reveal to us your boundless Presence!
Teach us only to dissolve, to disappear!
We are mad for every drop of your wine!
We do not know how to withdraw our hand!
This path has no meaning, nor an ending:
it is movement, movement—only moving on!

Which way to go? From where did we come?
Who has known? Who has known himself?
Granted—there is imagination and knowledge—granted—
but doubt and delusion find their home right here.
There is a veil, woven with
day and night, and the warp and weft of joy and sorrow.
That beyond? Let this futile effort go!
Let us find—let us find our freedom right here!

I tell you: it can happen here and now. You must become integrated. There must be such urgency within that every hair is filled with thirst, every hair with call. Once you sit in His temple, don’t get up. This resolve not to move, I call sannyas.

Do not stop me now, O pourer of wine!
We are not ones to turn back and go away!
Our thirst is endless—and your treasure
is inexhaustible, inexhaustible—O giver, keep pouring!
We have come to awaken the Unseen at your door!
We have come to be dissolved at your door!

We have reached your threshold; if we must be annihilated, we will—return we will not. With this resolve whoever sits in meditation, his meditation is bound to flower. It is assured. No obstacle can hinder it.

Existence longs to shower meditation upon you. Existence is not miserly. Existence is ready to give even to the unworthy—but we are such unworthy ones that we sit with our cup turned upside down. At least turn the cup upright.

We are mad for every drop of your wine!
We do not know how to withdraw our hand!
This path has no meaning, nor an ending:
it is movement, movement—only moving on!

Go on in meditation. It has no beginning and no end. Lose yourself on this endless journey. In meditating, let the meditator disappear; let only meditation remain. In singing, let the singer vanish—only song remain. In dancing, let the dancer be lost—only dance remain. In that very moment, the meeting happens. Your empty cup is filled.

Fill this empty cup—fill it, fill it, fill it!
Make us intoxicated—make us, make us!
We have been standing at the gate with hands outstretched—
Make us immortal, O Immortal, give us your boon!
In a single drop the ocean of life is contained—
Fill to the brim this mind’s emptiness!

In a single moment the ocean can pour down; in a single moment the drop can become the ocean. But it depends on you. Do not make half-hearted attempts, do not make lukewarm efforts. Burn like a torch lit at both ends—burn totally. Even if only for a single moment, burn fully—and in that moment the happening happens.

That beyond? Let this futile effort go!
Let us find—let us find our freedom right here!

I tell you: liberation is here, moksha is here. Moksha is a psychology. Liberation is an extraordinary state of mind. Hell is here—it is your wrong way of living. Heaven is here—it is your right way of living. And moksha is here—it is living in God. One who loses himself and lives in God—that one is free.

Sing, hum, dance, weep!

O Vibhavari!
The moonlight’s rouge,
pollen set in your parting,
bind threads of rays into the weight of your soft tresses!

O Vibhavari!
The breeze roams from land to land,
bringing the Beloved’s message—
scatter, again and again, the treasure of pearl-like blossoms!

O Vibhavari!
Take up the gentle wave-lute,
some sweet, plaintive, new notes;
drunk on the Beloved’s footfalls, sing Malar!

O Vibhavari!
Let the burden of darkness flow away,
let this ember be extinguished;
wear a robe of fragrance and a vakula garland!

When joy rises, when grace wells up—then sing, pluck the ektara. Don’t worry about meter or measures. If there is ecstasy, that is enough. If you sing, don’t bother whether your voice is like a cuckoo’s or not. If there is feeling, that is enough. If you dance, don’t fret about whether you know how to dance. If there is abandon, that is enough.

And the one to whom we go to give thanks is no stranger—it is your own innermost. The Divine dwells within you.

You are within me, Beloved! Then what need of introductions!

In the star your beauty, in my breath your memory,
upon the eyelids the silent motion of your feet,
within this little heart a universe of thrill—
I have brought your quicksilver fullness;
what more shall I gather in the world?

Your face—a smiling dawn,
its shadow—a night steeped in sorrow;
this is waking, that sleep made of dreams—
let them play, grow weary, and sleep;
why should I ponder creation and dissolution?

The cup kissed by your lips,
the wine blended with your smile,
your very mind the winehouse—
then why ask, O my cupbearer,
whether you pour nectar or poison?

Pore by pore, Eden thrills;
in every breath, life a hundredfold;
in dream after dream, an unfamiliar world,
ever forming and dissolving within me, Beloved—
what care I for heaven, or for inert dissolution?

If I lose, I lose my “mine-ness”;
if I attain, it is exile in the Beloved;
if I win, I become your very bond—
I bring the ocean into a shell:
Beloved, what are loss and victory to me now?

You the image, I the sequence of lines;
you the sweet raga, I the confluence of notes;
you the infinite, I the illusion of boundary—
mystery of body and shadow:
what novelty remains between lover and beloved?

The same is the dear one, the same the beloved! The same is the singer, the same the song!
You are within me, Beloved! Then what need of introductions!

To whom shall we make our offering? At whose feet shall we lay flowers? The feet are his, the flowers his, the one who offers is his. And yet, when the Ah! of wonder arises, it longs to express itself. So sing, dance, hum...

O Vibhavari!
The moonlight’s rouge,
pollen set in your parting,
bind threads of rays into the weight of your soft tresses!

O Vibhavari!
The breeze roams from land to land,
bringing the Beloved’s message—
scatter, again and again, the flower-treasuries of pearls!

O Vibhavari!
Take up the gentle wave-lute,
some sweet, plaintive, new notes;
drunk on the Beloved’s footfalls, sing Malar!

O Vibhavari!
Let the burden of darkness flow,
let this ember be quenched;
wear a robe of fragrance and a vakula garland!

That’s all for today.