Prem Rang Ras Audh Chadariya #8

Raghavdas! Truth is self-evident. It needs no other proof. Truth does not collect witnesses; it is its own witness. When you know truth, you won’t need to ask anyone whether it is true or not. When your head aches, do you ask someone, “Do I have a headache?” When love arises in the heart, do you ask anyone, “Has love arisen in my heart?”

If you have truly experienced that one can never find the Divine while living in the world, then why ask me? Your very question shows you doubt it. This “statement” of yours is not born of experience. In fact it isn’t even your statement—you heard it from someone else. It is secondhand, not firsthand. You say, “This is my statement.” One should say only what one knows.

You have not known it; you have only heard it. What is heard has no value compared to what is known. You haven’t known it—indeed you haven’t even thought about it, reflected on it. You have blindly swallowed a popular notion.

And I say you haven’t reflected on it because, other than the world, where else is there? If the Divine is to be found, it will be found in the world. Wherever he is found, that is the world. Whoever has found him, found him in the world. Do you think the marketplace is not his, and only the forest’s solitude is his? Do you imagine that the world is only the marketplace and the forest’s solitude is not another aspect of the world?

The mud is his, and the lotus is his; the crowd is his, and the solitude is his; the essential is his, and the inessential is his—because there is nothing apart from him. Wherever you find him, whenever you find him, you will find him here, now. This will be the time, this the sky. This same sun will pour down its rays, these same breezes will sing their songs as they pass by you.

But you have heard people repeating it; they too were repeating someone else, who in turn repeated someone else. Rumor breeds rumor: “You cannot find the Divine in the world.”

Hidden in this belief is a defense: “What can I do if the Divine is not found—after all, I’m still worldly. I have children, a wife, a home—what can I do? If he isn’t found, it’s my helplessness. It’s not my fault, not my sin. Where should I abandon these small children? Where should I dump this tender household and run away? If I go, that too will be a sin. Let the children grow up, study, let the household settle—then I’ll go to forests and caves. Then I’ll seek the Divine, then renunciation is certain.”

Because it postpones things till tomorrow, you accepted it quickly without even thinking. There is trickery in it. There is deceit in it. “The Divine is not found in the world—therefore I’m not finding him; it’s not my fault.” Notice how skilled we’ve become at shifting our own fault onto others. If we don’t know how to dance, we say, “The courtyard is crooked. How can I dance—the courtyard is crooked.” And for those who know how to dance, does a crooked courtyard make any difference? Crooked or not—but some people make the courtyard their excuse and hide behind it.

Often, in the name of fine principles, you invent very petty excuses. “The Divine is not found in the world—what can I do? I’m still in the world; someday I’ll surely leave it and then I’ll attain.” That day never comes, nor does the trouble of seeking arise. Many have finished their lives thinking this way. Many times you too have been born and died—and this has always been your view. It isn’t new. You have been entangled in this net for long, for lifetimes!

That’s why, when I say the Divine is to be found only in the world, your chest trembles. You feel fear, a panic—because now there is no facility to postpone. Where will you push it off now? How to slide it to tomorrow now? I say: here and now—right in the marketplace, at your shop, in your work, in your household, the Divine can be found. Only here can he be found; there is no other way and no other place!

Then the real question arises: If he can be found here, why am I not finding him? Then surely the fault is somewhere mine, the mistake somewhere mine. It will be great compassion on yourself if you don’t shift your mistakes elsewhere, don’t throw them on someone else. The greatest curse in this world is that we push our responsibility onto others—sometimes onto fate, sometimes onto God, sometimes onto the world, sometimes onto law, sometimes onto social order, or economic order—we keep shifting it. Only one thing we never accept: that the responsibility is mine, that I am accountable. And the day this feeling becomes intense within you—“The responsibility is mine. When I miss, it is I who miss; when I attain, it is I who attain”—from that very moment the revolution of religion begins in your life, the lamp of religion begins to glow.

“I am responsible”—this is the first ray of the lamp of religion. And for the flowering of this responsibility, the so-called world offers more opportunity than the caves of the Himalayas. Do you think the Divine is more foolish than you? He has given you the world, while your “mahatmas” keep advising, “Leave the world.” The Divine gives the world; the mahatmas say, “Abandon it.” Do you think your mahatmas are wiser than the Divine? Has the Divine so little sense that he doesn’t stop giving the world? Why trouble the mahatmas needlessly? Why put them to such inconvenience? Surely there is something to it. Gold is refined only by passing through fire; sannyas too is refined only by passing through the world. The world is the touchstone, the test, the challenge. Whoever rejects this challenge never grows; something within him remains dead.

Crystal-clear
and mirror-bright,
O block of ice, cool and resplendent,
you gleam as if moonlight has congealed,
as if molten silver has been cast
into your form.
Crystal-clear
and mirror-bright,
O block of ice, cool and resplendent—
until you melt and flow,
slide down and meet the earth,
you will never,
as grass-green, express
the thrill of the living soil;
nor, as her laughter,
will you bloom in colored buds and flowers;
nor, as the tears of her sorrow,
will you gather
on the morning lashes
of the petals.

Proud of dead renown,
lifeless fame,
and corpse-like epithets—
then you are no ideal of mine.
I am mud-stained,
blemished,
holding earth to my breast—
earth
that sings,
that weeps,
that wakes and sleeps,
that sinks in sin
and washes sin away,
that changes every moment,
in which the pulse of life quivers.
But you are conceited—
from the day time drew its first breath
you have been shining
like a crystal mirror.
Fool, when have you ever taken the test?
What the Creator gave—you threw away;
and clutching a single “virtue”
tight in your hands,
pressed to your chest,
thus you have always gone on—
is this your whole story?
What use did you make of it?
What did you truly live?
You will be asked.
Have you thought of an answer?

Come down
and smear yourself with earth;
be alive;
drop this disease;
bring color,
laugh out loud,
pour out fragrance.
When lovers pluck you,
count it as good fortune;
come into their hands,
go with them.

That snow that lies on the lofty Himalayan peaks, that has never melted—however pure it may seem—is dead, not alive. Not only roses, even grass cannot grow there. Nothing grows there. How will lotuses bloom there? How will flowers exude fragrance? There will be no jasmine, no champa, no bela. There will be no fragrance. If even grass won’t grow, how will flowers grow? Nothing grows there—only a dead hush prevails. Though that ever-frozen snow seems very pure, crystal-like, mirror-bright—yet the Divine has chosen soil, because in soil life sprouts.

Come down
and smear yourself with earth;
be alive;
drop this disease;
bring color,
laugh out loud,
pour out fragrance;
when lovers pluck you,
count it as good fortune;
come into their hands,
go with them.
O block of ice, cool and resplendent—
until you melt and flow,
slide down and meet the earth,
you will never,
as grass-green, express
the thrill of the living soil;
nor, as her laughter,
will you bloom in colored buds and flowers;
nor, as the tears of her sorrow,
will you gather
on the morning lashes
of the petals.

The concept of sannyas so far has been a dead concept—one of escapism and flight. Its foundation is fear. Run away from wherever there is fear you may get entangled, may fall into mud—run away from there. But by running you become only a coward. The old sannyas, at root, was cowardly. Therefore it could not transform the earth. The earth did not become religious; it remained as it was.

I give you the right understanding of sannyas: wherever you are, as you are, don’t run away. What the Divine has given, embrace it. Embrace it as good fortune, as grace. And take the tests—at every moment, take the test. Do not fail even a single one, because each test will make something within you denser, stronger, firmer. Each test will give birth to soul within you. Each challenge will become soul within you. Do not refuse a single challenge; face every challenge. Show no back to any storm—drop the very language of turning your back. Collide, and you will awaken. By wrestling with storms, the slumbering energies within you will awaken. There is no other way for them to awaken. Then your intelligence will gain sharpness and sheen.

But Raghavdas, you say: “A person, while living in this ocean of the world, can never attain the Divine.”

You have made it a doctrine—so firmly that you say, “This is my statement. Is it true?”

But such a statement is impotent—otherwise the question would not arise. If you had known, you would have known—what is there to ask now? You have not known; you have believed. And believed without reflection—without contemplation or inquiry. This is how we sit upon beliefs—accepting anything. We clasp to our chest the conditionings handed down to us. Our state is like that of a she-monkey whose baby has died, yet she still clutches the dead infant to her breast, leaping from tree to tree. What you call “conditioning” is dead, borrowed, stale—rotting for centuries—and still you carry it as if it were fresh, alive, breathing.

Do not say, “This is my statement.” It would be more honest to say, “I have heard this said—people say so. Is it true?” At least there would be honesty. You have signed your own name under someone else’s words—and this signature breeds great illusion. Behind it your ego will stand up: “It’s my statement!” Then you will have to fight for it, prove it. Your concern will no longer be “What is truth?” but “May my statement not be proved wrong!”

And your statement is wrong—wrong because you have neither known nor experienced. Wrong because all that exists is the world. The manifest form of the Divine is the world; his unmanifest form is liberation (moksha), and his manifest form is the world. Now, to attain liberation—one thing is certain: you are in the world, not yet in liberation. Wherever you are, you are in the world.

As the seed is unmanifest, the flower hidden within; then the flower appears, the seed breaks, and what was concealed expresses itself. As the raga sleeps in the veena; pluck the strings, and the melody awakens.

The Divine is the unmanifest state of the world; that unmanifestness is called moksha. And the world is the manifest state of the Divine. Only by moving from the manifest can you reach the unmanifest. Make a boat out of the manifest to reach the shore of the unmanifest. Do not deny the boat. If you deny the boat, there is no far shore for you. You will remain stuck on this shore.

That is why it often happens that those who live in the world begin to be free of it, while the so-called escapees do not become free—because they never get the opportunity to see the futility of the world. Their appetites remain attached; desires remain latent. Hopes remain awake—suppressed, but awake; pushed down, but not dead. If you could open the heart of your so-called renunciates, you would find the whole world there. And often, if you open the heart of one who has truly lived the world, you will find sannyas—because, by living it again and again, he has seen its emptiness. By experience he has known its futility. A thousand times he has descended into it and seen that it is futile.

Experience is liberating. And where will experience happen? Wherever experience happens, there liberation blossoms. Knowing is liberation. Whatever we truly know, we are free of. And when the inessentiality of something is known, it drops from our hand—we don’t have to renounce it; it falls away. I call that sannyas false which has to be done; the only true and right sannyas is that which happens.

I, against revolution! But there is no such thing as social revolution. I am in favor of revolution—of radical revolution. Yet “social revolution” as such does not exist; all revolution is individual. Revolution is only individual. “Social revolution” is a trick played upon revolution. Those who want to escape real revolution take shelter behind the slogan of social revolution. The same old disease: “When society changes, then we will change. How can we change right now? The whole society is wrong—how can we change?” When will society change? It hasn’t till now. Revolutions upon revolutions have happened, and man remains the same. Not a flicker of transformation has occurred in consciousness. Whether a man is Russian or American, Indian or Chinese—there is no difference: the same greed, the same lust, the same anger, the same everything. The same craving, the same desire. Man is as he was.

All revolutions have failed. When will you see this? Look closely— not a single revolution has succeeded. Drop this illusion that there can ever be a social revolution. Society has no soul—how can it be transformed? The soul belongs to the individual. Yes, it can happen that when many individuals are transformed, a glow will reflect upon society too. But not the other way round. Society is gross and external; the individual is inner and subtle. Revolution happens in the inner and spreads outward. The lamp is lit within and its light shines without. When many lamp-lit people are alive, you will see light in society, you will see color; you will sense the advent of a new consciousness in society. But it arrives through individuals. When people are beautiful, society becomes beautiful. When people are loving, society becomes loving.

How will you change “society”? What is society anyway? Society is only a dead mechanism, a mere arrangement. And yet for long people keep trusting it. Whenever a revolution takes place somewhere—whether in France, Russia, or China—great hopes arise. People begin to sing odes to revolution and dream great dreams: the moment of Ram Rajya has come; the problem is solved; now joy will reign.

“These dust-motes adorned the rough face of the earth’s beauty,
These very motes lit the lamps of civilization,
These motes turned the pale cheeks of history
Rose-bright with the glow of their own faces.
The gardens of kings and prophets flourished,
While these poor souls remained autumn-hued and withered.
Innumerable years passed like gusts of wind,
Spring never graced their shriveled lives.
Now darkness will never again ripple on the face of time,
Now man will no longer oppress man.
With the night has faded the glitter of moon and stars,
Now these very motes will shine in every direction.”

Whenever some event called revolution occurs, poets begin to sing.

“These dust-motes adorned the rough face of the earth’s beauty”—the beauty of the world was sustained by these poor and humble ones.
“These very motes lit the lamps of civilization”—these very poor ones lit the lamps of culture and civilization.
“These motes turned the pale cheeks of history
Rose-bright with the glow of their own faces”—they colored the pages of history with the luster of their faces.
“The gardens of kings and prophets flourished”—by them the gardens of emperors bloomed and blazed with color.
“While these poor souls remained autumn-hued and withered”—but their own state remained like a perpetual fall. Spring kept arriving in the royal gardens because of them—their flowers were nourished by the color of the people’s blood—yet their lives knew only autumn.
“Innumerable years passed like gusts of wind,
Spring never graced their shriveled lives”—years came and went, centuries passed, but spring’s grace never touched their withered lives. But now, revolution has happened in Russia, so now—
“Now darkness will never again ripple on the face of time,
Now man will no longer oppress man,
With the night has faded the glitter of moon and stars,
Now these very motes will shine in every direction.”

Poets indeed write songs—but reality never matches them. After the Russian revolution, the oppression inflicted on human beings surpassed anything before it. Joseph Stalin killed more people than all the czars combined.

The revolution happened. The hopes it kindled have long been extinguished, yet a few naïve souls still go on singing. Nowhere is slavery as great as in Russia—precisely because the greatest “revolution” occurred there, the greatest slavery followed. Yes, people got bread and a roof—but at a great price. The soul has been killed. No freedom of thought remains.

Be a little wary of poets! They are quick to sing—and they do not look at what is actually happening.

“Like a wounded bird the night writhed,
From horizon to horizon,
The first ray of the doomsday dawn glittered.
Tattered veils were removed from darkened eyes,
Lamps were lit,
At every stratum.
The gates of the heavens—
Thus opened—the seven skies became like a mirror.
From East to West the doors of all prisons
Opened today.
For the new design of the people’s palace
All old patterns were erased today.
From the chest of time all blood-soaked shrouds
Were safely lifted today.
Today the chains on the slaves’ feet
Clinked in such a way they became the ringing of a bell,
The link in the oppressed hand’s manacle
Shone such that it became the sword of fate.”

Like a wounded bird the night writhed—
From horizon to horizon...
The first rays of the great morning glittered—
Revolution dawned in Russia, the sky reddened from end to end.
The old, tattered veils were torn from darkened eyes.
Lamps were lit—
At every level...
The gates of the seven heavens opened.
From East to West, the doors of all prisons opened today.
The people’s palace blazed with a new order; the old marks were erased.
From time’s chest the blood-soaked shrouds were lifted.
The slaves’ ankle-chains clinked and became a temple bell;
The oppressed one’s handcuff shone and became the sword of destiny—
So it goes—in poetry. In reality it does not. Beware of poems! They may sound delightful, yet often become the concealment of truth. To date, no revolution has succeeded. And revolution cannot succeed unless the message of Buddhas is understood—of Kabirs and Christs—unless one thing is grasped: man has been failing, is failing, and will go on failing. That one thing is this: change must happen in the individual’s inner being.

And this inner change does not happen through changing ideas. It happens by leaping from thought to meditation. There is only one revolution in the world: to go from thought to no-thought; from a mind full of choices to a choiceless consciousness. The day the thinking mind dissolves into the emptiness of no-mind, that day doors open within you— the doors of the seven heavens open. That day indeed your chains become anklets. That day no prison can contain you, because for the first time you taste freedom—you experience moksha within. You know, “Even if handcuffs are put on the body, I am free—because I am not the body.” If such an event happens to innumerable people on this earth, perhaps there will be a radiance spread from horizon to horizon.

It has not happened yet. I am not “against” social revolution. Social revolution does not happen at all—so what could I be for or against? Even if I wanted to support it, how could I? Revolution is only the individual’s. I am in favor of the individual’s revolution, because it is the only revolution. Superficial changes can occur: one kind of structure is replaced by another. The prison gets a fresh coat of paint. Where the walls were red, they are painted white; where they were white, red is applied.

Perhaps the prisoners feel a great revolution is underway. “Look—the walls that were red are now white!” But what changes if walls turn red or white? What changes if the color on the doors is different? What changes if the guards’ uniforms change? The bayonets are the same, the handcuffs the same, the inner arrangements the same. Prisoners remain prisoners, the prison remains a prison, guards remain guards. Only the uniforms change—nothing else.

“From bad to worse the whole day will pass,
Their sun too has risen—blind and wayward.
No change in the season, no change in the cycles,
No welcome planned for springtimes.
The same autumn as ever, the same deceitful wind,
The same logic of temperature, the same murderous choke.
The same darkness dances merrily again—
Their sun too has risen—blind and wayward.
The lullaby is slowly turning into a dirge,
They had put on the noose—now they will pull the rope.
Life’s only condition now is: live somehow;
Shut your eyes and swallow all your rage in one breath.
The sky-river lies dull, the pole-star weeps—
Their sun too has risen—blind and wayward.
Every ray levels an accusation, every direction sobs;
Repentance knows no shore; vows have failed.
It feels as if the whole environment has defeated itself,
As if paralysis has struck the unborn dream.
Who knows when this body will shed our ill fate?
Their sun too has risen—blind and wayward.
If this is the free air—then free us from it;
Do not let liberation be maligned in vain—convince yourself.
Better the bondage than this, the winds begin to say;
One feels it would be better to die than to live like this.
Who knows what tomorrow holds for you and me?
Their sun too has risen—blind and wayward.
Half of life passed in sand, the rest in mire,
And generations wander lost in the thickets of slogans.
If the boatmen grow of bad character,
Whether the river be Ganga or Vaitarani—only God can ferry us across.
Perhaps we must make a new decision again—
Their sun too has risen—blind and wayward.”

So many times news has come, so many proclamations made that “the sun is rising”—but each time it is a blind sun, a dark sun, a stray sun. How many times will you be deceived? Perhaps we want to be deceived. Perhaps we do not want the bother of changing ourselves. So we say, “The revolution will come, society will change, the system will change, the order will change—and then we will change.”

People come to me and say, “How can we meditate? There is so much poverty in the world.” I ask them, “There is poverty in the world—do you sleep or not?” They say, “We certainly sleep.” “Do you eat?” “We do.” “Did you marry or not?” “We did.” “Do you have children?” “By your grace—plenty.” Only meditation meets an obstacle—because there is poverty in the world! And when you fall ill, do you take treatment or not? Do you go to the doctor or not? Do you think, “There is so much poverty in the world—how can I take treatment?”

Only meditation is obstructed by the world’s poverty! What kind of logic is this? What blindness! Yet the person speaking believes he is being very clever: “There is so much poverty—how can we meditate?” You can love, you can listen to music, play the flute, watch movies— all that is fine. Only meditation you cannot do.

A friend wrote yesterday: “When I see old people begging on the road, when I see small children begging, meditating feels like a luxury.”

Then what are your intentions—will you also beg? Will that help? And if you don’t meditate, will that old man stop begging? If you do meditate, will he stop begging? So many people are not meditating—he pays them no heed and goes on begging. Will one more person not meditating make him stop? And if you don’t meditate, what will you do? How will you help the old man? You will only escape meditation. Will you not run your shop? Not do your job? Not bathe? Do you think while bathing, “An old man is begging out there; my bath is luxury”? When eating, does that thought arise? At night in bed, does it arise?

Everything else goes on—because nothing else brings inner revolution. But meditation—you want to avoid it. It looks as if you want to avoid it. If a good excuse is found, you don’t miss the chance. “Meditation is luxury.”

I tell you: only if meditation grows in the world will old people stop begging on the streets. Only if meditation grows will children stop begging. Because with meditation, exploitation diminishes. With meditation, love grows, brotherhood grows, compassion grows. With meditation, anger decreases, enmity decreases, jealousy decreases, politics decreases, exploitation decreases. And you say meditation is a luxury!

Only meditation is revolution; understand this well. Understand what meditation means. Meditation means becoming quiet. A quiet person becomes the foundation of a quiet world. A restless person becomes the foundation of a restless society. If you are ill, you spread illness; you communicate what you are. At least become healthy—at least let no illness spread through you!

Meditation means the flames of ego and ambition burning within you go out. If there is no ambition in you, you inaugurate a different world. And if ambition disappears in many people, revolution has happened. Ambition is what creates the difficulty. “I must have more than others”—this is the foundation stone because of which some old man is begging.

And do not think the beggar is free of ambition—he competes with other beggars as fiercely as shopkeepers compete with shopkeepers and politicians with politicians.

A man didn’t see a beggar for a long time in his lane. One day he met him in the market and asked, “Brother, you haven’t been seen for a while. You used to beg in our street.” The beggar said, “I have given that street to my son-in-law.” The man couldn’t understand: “What do you mean you ‘gave’ the street?” The beggar said, “That street was mine. Who would dare beg there? I’d break his arms and legs. I was the sole king of that street. You had no idea this beggar was the king there—you thought you were the king and I was a poor beggar. When my daughter married, I gave that street to my son-in-law as dowry. Now he is king of that street; I have taken over this market.”

You think the beggar is just a beggar. And you think when you give him something he considers you compassionate. He only thinks, “Got hold of another fool!” He pities you when you give him something: “This fellow has no sense.” Beggars have bank balances too. They are in the same race.

I have heard: Andrew Carnegie, the American multimillionaire, was approached by a man who said, “I have written a book—A Hundred Ways to Become Rich.” Carnegie said, “I don’t need such books. I’m already rich. And judging by your condition, I doubt your methods work. Did you come by car—or by bus?” The man said, “I came on foot.” “You’ve written a hundred ways to become rich—off you go!” Later Carnegie saw the same man begging near a bus stop. He could not resist stopping. “My brother, aren’t you the one who wrote A Hundred Ways to Become Rich?” “Yes, I am.” “Then what are you doing?” “This is the hundredth way.”

In a society where ambition is so rampant—where beggars are ambitious and emperors are beggars—if you stop running for a while, it helps. The crowd of runners lessens by one. At least one person has stepped outside ambition.

And if the taste of meditation, the inner race, grips you—remember, when the inner race begins, the outer race weakens of itself. You don’t have to give it up—it begins to drop. When inner wealth starts to be found, who cares for outer potsherds? I am not saying don’t earn outer wealth—but to one who has found inner wealth, outer wealth loses value. Its utility remains, but not its worth; the madness disappears. A deep contentment arises; the more this aura spreads among people, the more the possibility of revolution.

Spread buddhahood. Spread meditation. Spread samadhi. And remember: you can give only what you have. If you have misery, you will give misery. If you have joy, you will give joy. And you say, “Meditation is luxury!” So be it—indulge a little in this “luxury.” You have indulged in many other luxuries; try this one too—the inner splendor, the inner sovereignty, the inner enjoyment. Once the inner ecstasy takes hold, all other dances lose their luster, all other songs grow flat.

As inner bliss grows, you will be amazed—you now have something to share; you can give. And as this bliss deepens, the strong urge to snatch from others withers. One who has, does not snatch; one who has, gives—because by giving, it grows. The arithmetic of the inner is opposite to the outer. Outside, if you snatch, it increases; inside, if you hoard, it decreases. Outside, if you don’t save, it decreases; inside, if you share, it increases—if you hoard, it dies. Enter the inner world and learn its new arithmetic.

Do not let the mind trick you with such dodges as, “If someone is begging, how can I meditate?” Precisely for that reason you must meditate. Had the world meditated, begging would long ago have vanished. Meditation has extraordinary consequences you cannot even imagine from the outside.

This happens again and again: sannyasins come to me—especially women sannyasins. They say, “Earlier we had a strong desire to become mothers. Since we have begun to taste meditation, we feel: first let meditation settle—and only then motherhood. We must have something to give that child. Otherwise we will only pass on our anger, jealousy, enmity—what else can we give? If we have joy, peace, inner dance—then we can give.” Generally, women have a powerful longing for motherhood—but with meditation, revolution happens. The urge to be a mother weakens; or, “Only become a mother when you have some spiritual wealth to offer.”

In my view, if meditation spreads in the world, the population will decrease. You see so many sannyasins here—how many children do you see? The young sannyasins naturally begin to refrain from having children. Not that they will refrain forever—one day will come when it is good and auspicious that from two meditative people a child is born. In that child, the ray of meditation will be present from the first; the seed and imprint of meditation will be there from the first. Then poverty decreases; population decreases.

Have you noticed here? If you see my sannyasins—you would not recognize them. The woman washing dishes in my kitchen is a PhD. What “madness” seized her! She once held a high post at a university—she could never have imagined she would be washing dishes. And she is more delighted than she ever was on her high post. Among my sannyasins there are at least two hundred PhDs and DLitts. Some sweep the paths, some wash the sannyasins’ clothes. At least five hundred are postgraduates; graduates are in the thousands. What happened to them? Some held high positions in America, Sweden, Switzerland, England—scientists, professors, writers, editors, journalists. What happened? As soon as they had a glimpse of meditation, the race of ambition became meaningless. The taste was gone. And you call meditation a luxury?

Look at the people meditating around me and you will understand: meditation brings a revolution—and a revolution that is not imposed from above. No one told these two hundred PhDs and DLitts to drop everything and take up small tasks. No one told them anything. They came of their own accord. Today you could not even recognize them. Had you seen them on their former posts, you would understand.

The German emperor’s grandson is here, my sannyasin. You would not recognize him as the German emperor’s grandson. You cannot even imagine it—his face, features, height—everything matches. I was reading a history of the Second World War and saw the emperor’s photograph; only then did Keerti come to mind—so similar! Yet you could not locate him here. He lived here for years and never told anyone. It became known only when the Queen of Greece came to see him here; people inquired, and even then he concealed it. There is not a royal family in Europe without ties to him—Queen Elizabeth of England is his aunt, the Queen of Greece his maternal aunt; royal families intermarry, so all are connected. And he hides away here.

Recently the Queen of Greece left Bombay and called him—“I want to see what has happened to you!” She went away pleased. A certain peace has descended; a new flavor has appeared—gentleness, equanimity.

And you say meditation is a luxury? Meditation is revolution. And it is the only revolution.

Ravindra Satyarthi! A single sutra is enough—“Do whatever Your heart desires.” If you can say only this with a full heart, with totality, with completeness, then nothing else remains to be done. Surrender has happened. And surrender is sannyas. If only we can say this—not just say it, but experience it, live it—if each moment becomes its proof, then nothing more is needed. Truth will descend of its own accord. The Divine will come seeking you, wherever you are.

Whatever there is in life, whatever there is,
I have gladly accepted;
for whatever is mine,
is dear to You.

This proud poverty, these grave experiences,
this wealth of thought;
this firmness, this inner, ever-new stream—
all is original, primal;
for in every waking, unwinking moment
the sensitivity is Yours.

Who knows what bond this is, what tie it is?
However much I pour out, it fills up again;
is there a spring in the heart,
a fount of sweet water?

As the moon smiles upon the earth all night,
so upon my face
Your countenance smiles.
Yours alone is my support,
for whatever is mine,
or seems as if it could be mine,
as if it might become possible,
all that is the orbit of Your causation,
the splendor of Your works.

Whatever there is in life, whatever there is,
I have gladly accepted,
for whatever is mine
is dear to You!

This is the devotee’s very mood. The devotee neither leaves nor breaks anything. The devotee neither runs away nor renounces. The devotee says: Whatever there is, it is all Yours. What is there to leave? What is there to grasp? If I grasp, even that is a claim. If I leave, that too is a claim—that it was mine and I left it. Whatever there is, is Yours. And if You have given it, then surely it is dear to You—why else give it? However You have made me, that must be dear to You. Your will—I will live wholly in Your will, without the slightest tampering. Whether I am bad or good, I am Yours. This state of the devotee is unparalleled.

Ravindra Satyarthi, the very first tidings of this are beginning to arrive. The seed is cracking; the first sprouts are breaking through. Guard these sprouts—nothing is more precious. Put a fence around them so they can grow strong and sturdy. From these will a great tree arise. Many flowers will bloom; many birds will come to nest.

Each sannyasin is to become such a tree that many birds can rest on its branches, many flowers can blossom upon it, many travelers can find shade beneath it. And once this is understood, life becomes an enactment. As in a Ramleela—if someone casts you as Ravana, you don’t instantly rush into a rage, “Ravana? Me? I’ll only be Rama!” You can be Ravana too, because you know it’s acting. The curtain will fall, and behind it all are one. Rama and Ravana sit together, having tea. You don’t insist, “I will be Rama only. How could I be Ravana?” If it’s play, then all is fine. If it’s leela, a divine game, then all is fine.

When you leave everything to the Divine, what remains? Only an enactment remains. And where there is enactment, the mind becomes weightless. Husband? That too is a role. Wife? That too is a role. Whatever work comes to hand, complete it—complete it with as much skill as you can. If you succeed, good; if you fail, good—there is no question of hankering for the fruit.

A tale in words is mine alone,
but the vessels of the songs are all Yours.
Whatever I received from You,
I showed as “mine”;
the ache of giving and receiving is mine alone,
but the melodies of merit that arise are Yours.

To walk itself I have known as the path,
You alone I have taken as the beginning;
the faltering slowness of these wandering feet is mine alone,
but when life reaches its goal, these limbs are all Yours.

How could You be lacking?
That is my delusion alone;
but the habit of saying and hearing is mine alone,
while the inspirers at every step—the scriptures—are all Yours.

Take it; do not refuse,
take even my pride;
let only the delusion break: the tale is not mine,
with me—the song, the tale, the vessels—are all Yours.

He alone is the One appearing in countless forms, in countless enactments—in the friend and in the foe; in one’s own and in the other; in life and in death. All are His forms. Do not forget. If only this much is remembered, that is sannyas. If only this much is remembered—that I am but an actor. Whatever role He would have played through me, let Him play. I am only a hollow bamboo reed; let Him sing whatever song He will. Who am I to place an obstacle in between? Let me not come in between at all. This is what I call sannyas.

But we keep forgetting. What to say of this life! We are living this life as if it were real; to remember here that it is a play is very difficult. We forget and forget again. Even while acting, people sometimes forget that it is acting and become “real.”

Such a thing happened in a Ramleela. The man cast as Ravana had quarreled a bit with the Ramleela manager. The quarrel was nothing big. Every night after the Ramleela they distributed prasada; he received a little less. So he said, “I’ll show you! I’ll teach you a lesson!” The manager never imagined what kind of lesson it would be. Next day, the Ramleela began. Sita’s swayamvara was staged; Ravana too comes to the swayamvara. Then a messenger comes running from Lanka, “Lanka is on fire, Ravana! Come!” And Ravana leaves. But that day things were off. Ravana said, “To hell with Lanka! Let it burn.” The whole audience, who were dozing—as people usually do—sat up with a start. “Is this a Ramleela?” Those who were sound asleep, snoring away, opened their eyes. The manager was trembling inside—“I’m done for! I never thought he’d take revenge like this.” The messenger too was puzzled—what to do? He said again, “Your Majesty, please come. Lanka is ablaze.” Ravana said, “Didn’t you hear me? Let it burn; let Lanka go up in flames! Today I will return only after marrying Sita.” And without more ado, he stood up and broke Shiva’s bow. A bow is a bow—who cares whose! It was only a stage prop. He picked it up, smashed it to pieces, and flung it away.

King Janak sat on his throne, watching—now he was in real trouble: what to do? Whatever lines he had remembered were of no use. Ravana stood there, beating his chest, “Janak! Bring out Sita!” “This Ramleela is finished,” thought Janak, “there won’t be another.” Janak was an old hand, years in the role; an idea struck him—something had to be done. He cried, “Attendants! Drop the curtain!” “This bow wasn’t really Shiva’s. They brought my children’s play-bow by mistake!” With the curtain down, in the pushing and shoving they somehow got Ravana offstage. It was hard, because they always cast Ravana as the strongest fellow—the village’s biggest wrestler. Somehow they dragged him out, quickly put another Ravana in place, lifted the curtain, and the Ramleela resumed properly.

Even in acting one can forget it is acting. Even in acting we can take things as real. And here is life itself, which we have taken as real. From childhood we have been taught, persuaded, have come to believe it is real. We have not thought of it as a play.

Initiation into sannyas means: now we will think of it as a play. We will see the earth as a vast stage. Everyone is an actor, each given his part; each must complete his role. But we will not drown ourselves in the role; we will stand a little apart, as the witness. That witnessing itself is meditation.

Since all is His, there is no worry for results; therefore there is no worry for tomorrow. And since all is enactment, the mind is without burden. If it turns out this way—fine; that way—fine. Victory—victory; defeat—defeat; all the same. When the sense that victory and defeat are no different becomes dense and total, then there remains no obstacle to meeting the Divine. All is His; whether “good” or “bad,” all is play. I am only the witness. I am surrendered. I am a tool in His hand. That’s all, Ravindra Satyarthi—only this much should be set right.

“Do whatever Your heart desires”—if you can say this with your whole heart. And one day you will be able to say it; I bless you.

Feeling has begun to surge; guard it. For it often happens that the nobler the feelings, the harder they are to bring forth—and the quicker they die. And the baser the feelings, the sooner they arise—and the harder they are to kill. Weeds spring up by themselves; roses do not.

A man bought a house next to Mulla Nasruddin. He wanted to plant a garden. Mulla’s garden was his pride. The neighbor asked, “I’ve sown seeds; they’ve begun to sprout—but the weeds are sprouting too. How am I to tell which are weeds and which are my plants?” Mulla said, “That’s easy. Uproot them both and throw them away—the ones that grow back again are the weeds.”

Weeds come up on their own. Uproot them, and they grow again. You don’t have to sow them. Even when you tear them out, they return. And flower-seeds—sown and sown—sprout with difficulty. The more precious the flower, the more difficult it becomes. And the flowers of consciousness are the most difficult of all.

Harihar! What is possible for one person is possible for all. What happened to Buddha can happen to you. What happened to Meera can happen to you as well. How it will be—no prediction can be made. What color it will take—no prediction can be made, because a human being is not a mechanism; a human being is freedom.

So I cannot say what color your flowers will be when they bloom—whether they will be jasmine, rose, or champa. Whether you will dance and fragrance like Meera, or fall silent like Mahavira, cannot be said. Only this much can be said: the flowers will certainly bloom. Bloom they will. Whether they bloom into silence or into song—about that no prediction is possible. But it makes no difference. The essential thing is the flowering. Whether champa blooms or jasmine blooms is not the point. Whether the flowers are yellow or white is not the point. The real event is the blossoming. What is hidden within you will blossom.

And there are only two kinds of people in this world: fifty percent like Mahavira, and fifty percent like Meera—only these two kinds. So it would be no surprise, Harihar, if a Meera-like dance awakens within you, because that too is a fifty-percent possibility. But only fifty percent. The other fifty percent possibility is also there. And do not think that Mahavira’s silence is in any way poorer than Meera’s song, nor that Meera’s songs are in any way less than Mahavira’s silence. The difference is only of mode. Silence also has flowers; silence also has song. Silence, too, has music, has nada. Silence also speaks; silence is eloquent. There are truths that can only be said through silence; whose only way of being sung is to fall utterly quiet.

So do not think there is any higher or lower between Meera and Mahavira. What was born within Meera expressed itself in words; what was born within Mahavira expressed itself in silence. Both expressed, both blossomed. Those who could understand Mahavira’s silence, heard and understood it. Those who could not understand his silence came to him and felt there was nothing there. Those who could understand Meera’s song had a melody stirred within them. Those who could not understand it thought, “Shameless! A queen, and she has chosen such a way—losing all regard for the world, dancing in the streets.” Those who could not understand did not understand Meera; those who could not understand did not understand Mahavira either. Those who could understand, understood both Mahavira and Meera.

But if within you there is that rustle, that you are drawn to Meera, stirred by her, then perhaps your possibility, too, is to dance and sing like Meera. Still, I will say only “possibility.” Tomorrow’s matter should neither be spoken today, nor can it be. One should wait for tomorrow. Whatever comes tomorrow will be auspicious.

When I begged alms from the deity of silence,
I received honey-brimming chalices of sound—resounding verse!
And sometimes it turns out the other way—you go to beg the alms of silence and you are given goblets brimming with song!

When I begged alms from the deity of silence,
I received honey-brimming chalices of sound—resounding verse!
He whose halo is lord of day and night—
whenever I beheld him, my eyes closed of themselves.
When the trident-bearer dances, mad with ecstasy,
flowers of virtue, restraint, and sadhana shower down.
Beads of sweat—science; the dust of his feet—the dignity of knowledge;
servant, yogi, ascetic—each longs for him.
Opposites reconciled—such are his two feet;
their shade is a maya beyond even supreme knowing.
Softer than clay is his tender heart;
adamantine the cosmos, golden the radiance of his body.
The two strings of breath are attraction and repulsion;
in sleep he dreams the creation of a hundred universes;
on motionless eyelids the play of worlds sports,
in keen wakefulness roars the dread dissolution.
Beg alms from such a god of silence,
and you receive honey-brimming chalices of sound—resounding verse!
He whose halo is lord of day and night—
whenever I beheld him, my eyes closed of themselves.

And it may happen that sitting with a silent master like Mahavira, songs arise; and it may happen that listening to Meera’s songs, you sink into silence. All these possibilities exist. But if there is a longing, a prayer in your heart, do not suppress it. Whatever is natural, whatever is your own spontaneity, allow it to manifest.

My veena is silent—when will you awaken into resonance?
O image of the love-lotus blossom!
O pure, chaste, sweet form of truth-filled beauty!
I bow like a worshipper—
will you not place your boon-bestowing hands upon my bowed head?
My veena is silent—when will you awaken into resonance?
O image of the love-lotus blossom!
In the night you shimmer like a distant nebula,
like a tiny star of tears in the eyes of a path-lost child.
I am the bee; you are the petal’s cooling shade—
distant, you keep descending into my tears.
You who chime the lament of compassion like the cuckoo’s call,
you are the immortal, luminous arati of this priest-poet’s hut.
When will you dispel the darkness of my heart?
My veena is silent—when will you awaken into resonance?
In my search I have kept picking flowers from the dust of the path;
from the silence of stones I have kept hearing the sound of footsteps.
In the water of my own eyes, I have grown like a lotus;
on the path of death and life, I have gone on as the very breath of motion.
Placing crackling steps, when will you fill this mute voice with resounding gait?
My veena is silent—when will you awaken into resonance?
O image of the love-lotus blossom!

Go on praying—My veena is silent; when will you awaken into resonance! At any moment the veena may resound. If it does, good, auspicious; and if only stillness remains, that too is auspicious. There is no difference in value between the two. There are those who have attained through emptiness, and those in whom a great music arose—these too attained. The experience is one, the realization one, the knowing one. Only, one sings and another remains silent. It depends on each person’s inner capacity.

Just as there is the difference of woman and man, so there is this difference. Those who are “masculine” in the state of their consciousness—I do not mean physically—will remain silent. Those whose consciousness is “feminine” will have great songs and meters break forth within. Don’t you see? Little girls speak earlier than little boys. They speak earlier, and they keep on speaking all their lives.

A friend once asked Mulla Nasruddin, “When your father died, what were his last words?” Mulla said, “Last words? My mother was with him till his very last breath—he never got a chance to speak.”

You have seen: little girls begin to talk a year earlier than boys, and with greater ease. The feminine mind has the capacity for expression; the masculine mind has the capacity for silence. Mahavira is the supreme refinement of the masculine mind, just as Meera is the supreme refinement of the feminine mind. And among men there have been people like Meera—like Chaitanya, like Kabir, like Sur, like Doolandas. And among women there have been those like men—like Rabia, like Lalla of Kashmir.

Among the Jain tirthankaras there was also a woman tirthankara—Mallibai. But in the Jain scriptures even Mallibai is called Mallinath; “bai” is not used. So most people suppose Mallinath was a man. There are reasons behind this: the Jain scriptures say liberation cannot happen from a woman’s body; it can happen only from a man’s body. Therefore they did not accept Mallibai as a woman. Since liberation happened, they considered her a man—hence Mallinath. This is the tradition of men; it is the tradition of the silencers.

This does not mean liberation cannot happen from a woman’s body. Otherwise, those who revere Meera might begin to say liberation cannot happen from a man’s body. That would be half a truth. Yes, in this tradition—Mahavira’s tradition—liberation through a woman’s body is very difficult; one should consider it almost impossible, because the entire process of that tradition is masculine: it is of resolve, not of surrender; of struggle, not of surrender; of indomitable struggle.

That is why Vardhaman received the name Mahavira—the Great Hero. His given name was Vardhaman, but he undertook an indomitable struggle. To be a kshatriya does not end by leaving the palace; kshatriya-ness is not dropped just by laying down the sword. Even if the sword is laid down, the hands remain those of a kshatriya, the life remains that of a kshatriya. And even if you give a sword to a brahmin, what will he do? He will harm himself, get himself into trouble. In a kshatriya’s hands even a stick can become a sword—his hands themselves can be swords. His inner nature is that of a warrior.

The Jain tradition is the tradition of kshatriyas; all twenty-four tirthankaras are kshatriyas. Its tone is struggle, and its practice is silence. In that sense, if Mallibai arrived, it is a miracle; one should say that inwardly she was male.

And then, you know, among Krishna-devotees there are people who say—as Meera did… When Meera went to a temple in Vrindavan where women were not allowed—because the priest was fanatically obsessed with celibacy. He would not even look at a woman. He would not come out of the temple, and did not allow women in. When Meera arrived, he had men posted at the door to keep her out. But Meera’s dance, her ecstasy! The doorkeepers forgot themselves, and Meera, dancing, entered within. By the time they remembered, she had already gone in. The priest was performing worship; at the sight of her, the plate fell from his hands in agitation. Those who repress their desires—this is their fate. At the sight of a woman, the tray fell—such weakness! He got very angry. He said to Meera, “Why did you come in? In my temple a woman may not enter.”

The words Meera spoke are worth remembering. Meera said, “I had thought there is no man other than Krishna. Are you another man? I have heard that all who belong to Krishna hold that apart from Krishna there is no other male. And what is this worship you are doing? Whom are you worshipping? Has the sakhi-bhava not arisen yet? Have you not become Radha? Are you still a man—still a man?”

Like an arrow, this must have pierced his heart—but a revolution happened. The priest fell at her feet. He said, “Forgive me. It never occurred to me that only Krishna is the male. On Krishna’s path, only Krishna is the male, because that path is of the feminine mind. The Divine is the sole male; all the rest are women.” This will be the path of surrender.

If you can walk the path of surrender, Harihar, songs will arise within you, your veena will play, you will dance. If you cannot walk the path of surrender, accept the path of resolve—if that appeals to you—then the flowers of silence will bloom within you. Both are beautiful, both are auspicious. And there is no need to choose between them. What is in tune with your nature will happen—and that alone is right. Walk according to your own nature. Do not impose your ambition upon your nature. Do not do this: that your nature is of resolve, but because you want song and dance you begin to impose surrender upon yourself; then you will become false. Your dance will remain on the surface, your song will remain on the surface. It will not soak you, will not moisten your being. It will be of no use; it will go to waste.

Each person should keep his own uniqueness in view. “Better to die in one’s own dharma; the dharma of another is fraught with fear.” What is Mahavira’s dharma is not Meera’s; what is Meera’s dharma is not Mahavira’s. If Mahavira were to walk Meera’s path, he would fall into great hypocrisy; if Meera were to walk Mahavira’s path, it would become false. So do not impose any ambition. Live your nature, your uniqueness, with simplicity. Whatever flowers come out of it will be auspicious. No one knows. Before the seed breaks open, no proclamation can be made as to how the flowers will be, what the leaves will be like!

And this is good—beautiful—that in relation to a human being, no prediction is possible. Such is human freedom. Yes, little predictions about you can be made—astrologers are doing these all the time—but they are pointless, outer matters. About inner matters, no prediction can be made. No astrologer can say at what hour, in what auspicious moment, meditation will ripen—no astrologer can say that. Yes, he can tell you whether you will win a lottery ticket or not; whether your horse will win or not; whether there will be profit in your business or not. Such petty matters he can tell, because these petty matters fall within calculation. But there is something vast that escapes calculation, that escapes logic—never comes within, and cannot come.

Therefore no one can say at what hour, in what moment, samadhi will ripen. And no one can say what flowers will bloom in your samadhi. No one can say. Only when they bloom will people know. Only when they bloom will you know. I can say only this much: if you keep walking, one day you will arrive; one day the flowers will surely bloom. And you too will be astonished, wonder-struck, because they will be utterly unknown, unfamiliar, new—for you too. You will meet them for the first time. You will stand face to face with yourself for the first time; you will see your supreme beauty for the first time. About that nothing can be said. But if it feels that prayer is your natural way, then by all means pray.

My veena is silent—when will you awaken into resonance?
O image of the love-lotus blossom!

Anand Maitreya! Serving the saints is only a pretext; the disciple wants to be near his master. He looks for a pretext—any pretext! It is not that the master’s feet are hurting and that is why he is massaging them. He massages because he wants to be near the master. Pressing the feet is just an excuse to linger here a little longer, to stay a little longer, to soak a little longer, to breathe this air a little longer, to behold this beauty a little longer, to drink a little more of the prasad. Pressing the feet is a pretext to do some small task for the master—sweep his courtyard, wash his clothes, cook his bread—these are all excuses.

Service to the saints is so important because being near them, tasting their presence, is the process of transformation. Being with them is a process of catching their contagion. Being with them is the way of being dyed in their color. And only near them does the strength slowly arise to fly with them. Only by sitting and rising in their presence does the capacity come to move into the unknown. To launch your boat upon the unknown ocean of truth you need great courage, a capacity to take great risks. Sitting by the true master, such strength arises, such a mighty roar wells up.

Spread your wings, spread your wings, O twice-born, mind-born bird; spread your wings;
Listen, the spell-charmed sky of flight is calling!

What does the true master’s presence say if not this—spread your wings, spread your wings, O twice-born, mind-born bird; spread your wings! You sit with your wings folded while the whole sky is yours.
Listen, the spell-charmed sky of flight is calling!

He who has flown in the sky, who has gone all the way to Manasarovar, reminds you that you are a swan; do not wander in muddy streams and drains. Manasarovar is yours. Manasarovar’s clear waters are yours. Manasarovar’s nectar is yours.

Spread your wings, spread your wings, O twice-born, mind-born bird; spread your wings;
Listen, the spell-charmed sky of flight is calling!

Your beak is day by day absorbed only in picking grains;
Your eyes stay forever fixed on blades of grass;
Night and day this trifling play’s small flame smolders in your heart,
Round tears of pain drip from your eyes—
Spread your wings, spread your wings, O twice-born, mind-born bird; spread your wings!

This bird-bewitchment of yours, this dwelling in nest and home,
This constant living close to the merely earthly—
These are not your nature; you are not their slave.
Behold the sky, turn upward, unknot the heart within!
Listen, listen to the spell-charmed sky of flight!

You think: your body, your wings are made of dust;
You think: the earth’s small sprout of grass is your parasol;
You must be saying that the earth-element pervades everywhere;
But simple one, why forget your priceless consciousness?
Spread your wings, spread your wings, O twice-born, mind-born bird; spread your wings!

Your forest, your trees, your nest are limited;
The span of breath, the means of life are limited;
But are not the feelings of the limitless hidden within?
Daily the playful wave of neti is soaking you;
Listen, listen to the spell-charmed sky of flight!

Today from the sky an immortal invitation has arrived;
Or a cloud has swelled forth from the boundless,
Whose sound—deep, intoxicating—has spread through the forests:
Fly, O fly, now leave the swing of the blade of grass!
Listen, listen to the spell-charmed sky of flight!

Near the true master, only the sky is resounding; the call from afar is arriving.
Daily the playful wave of neti is soaking you;
Listen, listen to the spell-charmed sky of flight.
Spread your wings, spread your wings, O twice-born, mind-born bird; spread your wings.

By some means or other, if only there could be a little more time to be near the true master. By this pretext if need be, by that pretext if need be. The longing to be near! Because in that nearness the Upanishad is born. In that nearness the mantras of the Vedas are heard. In that nearness the ayats of the Quran resound. In that nearness, far, far away, the star of the Infinite is seen—for the first time it is seen. Service is only a pretext. The real thing is simply this: to drink as much as can be drunk; to sit by the lake as long as one can sit!

That is all for today.