Sahaj Yog #10

Anand Maitreya! They don’t just seem opposed, they are opposed. But no ultimate truth of life can manifest without contradiction. Life is made of opposites—darkness and light, day and night, woman and man, negative electricity and positive electricity, birth and death.

The very structure of life is woven of opposites. Hence the opposites are not only opposed; they are complementary to each other. If you have labored hard all day, you will be able to sleep deeply. Labor and rest are opposites, yet only the one who has worked can rest deeply—and the one who has not worked cannot. So the opposites are not only opposed, they complete each other. And only the one who has rested deeply at night can rise in the morning and engage in work again. One who has not rested through the night will not be able to work in the morning.

Look closely at life. Everywhere you will find opposites. If a tree is to go upward, its roots must go downward. The higher the tree rises, the deeper its roots must descend toward the netherworld. If the tree insists on going only upward and thinks, “Sending roots downward is contrary; since I want to go up, why send roots down? Let me take the roots up as well,” then the tree will never rise. The life of the branches that reach upward rests in the roots that go down.

When the contradictions of life begin to appear as complementary, know that the third eye has been born in you. This third eye unites all opposites; it makes the two eyes one.

Sahaj Yoga is the name for yoking this very contradiction of life. Sahaj means non-doing, non-action, repose. Yoga means effort, action, striving, endeavor. But the two must meet; they must be joined. And wherever word and emptiness meet, there is the great music. Where yoga and sahaj become one, there the descent of the ultimate takes place in life.

Lao Tzu called this wu-wei. Wu-wei means action through non-action, or non-action through action.

Buddha practiced tireless yoga for six years; then he attained to sahaj. One day he became exhausted—exhausted from practice. He thought and reflected to the utmost, tried every method possible. Whatever anyone suggested, he did. He walked all the paths. Yet the goal did not come. One day he became tired and hopeless; it all appeared futile. In that moment yoga dropped, effort dropped. That very night nirvana happened. That very night samadhi bore fruit.

Now the question is: could that night have come without those six years of labor? If so, then you too could attain nirvana this very night. That night was special. What was its specialness? It came after six years of effort. Although it is also true that you cannot call that night the mere conclusion of six years. It did not come because of those six years; if it had been caused by them, it would have come during the days of labor—there was plenty of effort. It did not come in effort; it came in relaxation. But relaxation is not possible without labor. So labor becomes the preparation for rest.

Buddha got tired. In that tiredness, thinking went, thought went, yoga went—everything ended. That night he became utterly natural, as animals are natural—with only one difference: animals have no awareness; Buddha had total awareness. That very night the ultimate event happened.

Buddha realized sahaj, but reaching sahaj was a long journey. From effort he reached effortlessness. Hence Buddha’s process can be called Sahaj Yoga. Saraha is part of Buddha’s very lineage; Saraha too is a buddha.

Those who live by logic get into great difficulty. They say, “Either yoga or sahaj—how can both be together?” Logic is one-sided—and that is logic’s fallacy, its futility. Logic says: either this or that; choose one. But existence does not function according to logic.

This lamp is glowing with electricity; within it negative and positive are joined. Logic will say, “Put negative with negative or positive with positive; why connect negative and positive? They are opposites.” But electricity does not listen to logic. Electricity is dialectical; it is born of duality—there is friction in the dual, as when two flints strike and fire is born. Someone may say, “Why not create fire with a single flint?”

From the meeting of woman and man the stream of life flows; a child is born. Let men finish it among themselves, or women among themselves—no, it cannot be. And man and woman are opposites.

In the same way, yoga is masculine; sahaj is feminine. Yoga is labor; sahaj is rest. Yoga is aggressive; sahaj is receptive. Yoga moves outward; sahaj moves inward. Yoga is activity; sahaj is passivity. The one who practices only yoga will go deranged, because he will never find rest. He will not receive the shade of sahaj; he will live only in the sun and burn to death. And the one who practices only sahaj will become sluggish, lazy, inert, dull. He will remain only in the shade; he will not receive the sunlight—then how will life grow? Sunlight is needed and shade is needed. Both are needed; both are life’s gifts.

It happened that a farmer became very troubled. Every year something would go wrong—sometimes floods, sometimes storms and tempests, sometimes frost, sometimes hail; sometimes too little rain, sometimes too much. The farmer was tired. One day he said to God, “You don’t know farming. Have you ever farmed? Have you ever studied agriculture? My life has passed, and I am tired of watching your mistakes. Give me one year; I will show you how farming is done!”

This is an old story. In those days God was very near. There weren’t such distances; one could talk directly. Man has erected the distances; now direct talk is difficult. Direct talk can happen in faith. That farmer, with great faith, lifted his face to the sky and said, “Give me one chance—this year. All my life I have given you the chance, and whatever you did, there was no rhyme or reason. The crop is lush and standing, and frost falls; hail falls; too much rain or too little. There should be some measure.”

God said, “All right—take charge in the coming year.” And the next year the farmer took charge—and managed it logically. There was neither too much rain nor too little, no hail, no storms, no gales. Everything went very peacefully. And the crop grew such that the farmer’s chest swelled with pride. Such big plants had never been—twice as tall; a man could hide among them! No obstacle had come. The farmer said, “Now I will show God! This is a harvest!” The ears were huge, and he thought the grains themselves would be two or three times as big. “I’ll show God—you have made a mess of life; you should have asked those who know.”

Then the harvest was cut, and the farmer beat his chest and wept. The ears were big, but there were no grains. He asked God, “What is this?” God said, “You gave coolness; you gave peace; but you gave no storms. Without storms how can grains form? Without pain, how birth? You gave every comfort, but in comfort alone life could not be born. You tried to produce fire with a single flint. Thus the plants grew big—but useless. Storms are needed, and gales, and frost, and sometimes hail, and sometimes too much rain, and sometimes scorching sun—so that challenge remains. These ears never had to struggle. No duality entered their lives.”

You see, don’t you, that the sons of the wealthy often do not become very intelligent? The reason is just this: no storms, no gales, no frost. All comfort, all security—so consciousness gets no opportunity to awaken. Consciousness flares up as fire is born from flint. Duality is needed; the acceptance of duality is needed.

That is why I have called it Sahaj Yoga. Yoga must be yoked. You have to labor. Only keep this much in mind: labor is not the goal; it is the path. The goal is sahaj. The goal is your nature. Arrival is in rest. Therefore whatever you do, do it to arrive at that rest—and also remember that it will not come directly through your doing; but through your doing the occasion is created in which the flowers of rest bloom.

For example, you may exert yourself greatly to meditate, yet meditation will not happen; but your exertion will prepare the road along which one day meditation will descend. Often when you sit to meditate, meditation does not come; but keep sitting, keep sitting, keep sitting—and one day suddenly you will find you had not even sat to meditate, and meditation happened! It may be that you were working in the garden, or out for a morning walk, or sitting alone doing nothing, no one at home, there was silence—and suddenly a cluster of light surrounded you. Suddenly energy within began to leap. Suddenly the Guest arrived at the door. Suddenly you heard his knock for the first time; footsteps were heard; the inner sound arose. And you will be startled, because just then you had not even sat to meditate. But without those many sittings, this event would not have happened. And many times you had sat and it had not happened.

Understand it like this: on the road you see a man and feel, “The face seems familiar; the name is on the tip of the tongue,” but it does not come. You try hard. The recognition feels certain: each line of the face familiar, each wrinkle familiar; his gait known, his voice known; the name is on the tip of the tongue—but it doesn’t come. You exert yourself and it doesn’t come. Then you say, “Let it be; what can I do?” Think of that dilemma—when something seems on the tip of the tongue and does not come—what a crisis you enter! You know that you know, and yet you don’t. Then you get tired; you cannot remain long in that state—it is very restless. You drop it; you begin reading the newspaper, or pick up your hookah, or step outside, stroll into the garden, look at the flowers—and suddenly, as the hookah gurgles here, in that very instant the name flashes! But when you were trying to remember, it did not come—and now it came. Do you think that had you never tried to remember, it would still have come? How would it?

Understand this paradox clearly: the one who tried to remember worked hard and yet could not recall, because the more he tried, the more the mind grew taut—tense. A tense mind becomes narrow. From a constricted mind nothing can rise; there is no space. Then he gave that same state rest; he went into the garden, began to gurgle his hookah, read the paper, played with a child. The mind relaxed; tension went; narrowness dissolved; the mind became a little vast—and instantly a wave arose from the unconscious and the conscious was bathed in it. The memory returned.

Madame Curie tried to solve a mathematical problem for three years and could not. What happened to Buddha happened to her; what has always happened to everyone. Everything depended on that problem. If it were solved, it would be a great scientific achievement. In fact, on the solution of that very problem Madame Curie received the Nobel Prize. But for three years she put all her intelligence into it; nothing worked. One evening—these stories sound alike because a single principle runs through them—she was exhausted. She dropped the problem: “Enough—three years have been wasted; it seems this is not going to happen.” Thinking thus, that night she slept; and in the middle of the night she woke in a dream. In sleep, in the dream, the answer came. She went to the table in her sleep, wrote down the solution, and returned to bed. In the morning, when she got up and was tidying her table, she was astonished: the answer was there! Where had it come from? She could not even remember. No one else had been in the room—and even if there had been, who could have solved what Madame Curie could not solve in three years? The door had been locked from the inside when she slept; it was still locked. No one could have entered. Then she looked closely: the handwriting was a little disordered, but it was her own. Then she tried to remember, closing her eyes, and recalled a dream—that in the dream she had risen and written something. Then it all came back. The answer had arisen from within herself. It did not come through three years of relentless effort; why did it come tonight? For three years yoga was practiced; tonight sahaj flowered. But yoga is the manure; from that manure the flower of sahaj blossoms.

That is why I have said “Sahaj Yoga.” It is contradictory. It is not merely an appearance—it is in fact a contradiction. Sahaj and yoga are opposed. Sahaj is rest; yoga is labor. Yet it is through labor that one reaches rest. As life leads into death, so labor leads into repose.

Work—but keep in mind rest. Keep just that much remembrance. Do not take labor to be all, otherwise you will get stuck in yoga; and do not take sahaj to be all, otherwise the journey will not even begin—you will remain lying in laziness. Both wings are needed for you to fly. Both legs are needed for you to walk.

Therefore you will find paradoxical statements in the words of all the saints of the world. Jesus said: He who saves himself will lose himself; he who loses himself—only he is saved. And Jesus said: The last shall be first, and the first shall be last. And Jesus said: Blessed are the poor, the meek, for theirs is the kingdom of God. In this land we too have said: The strength of the weak is Rama! The power of the powerless is Rama!

People know that there are moments in life when defeat becomes victory. That is what we call the moment of love. That is the magic of love: where defeat turns into victory.

Now defeat itself, within the heart,
is turning into victory!

Those very incomplete dreams
that could not become real
return to nestle once again in these eyes,
bringing a dear benediction.

Now the very discipline of the heart
is becoming my beloved!
Now defeat itself, within the heart,
is turning into victory!

I have lost my separate being,
and now I’ve found another’s support.
Even in losing, the heart says,
“I am not defeated, I am not defeated.”

Today some deep love
is happening with life!
Now defeat itself, within the heart,
is turning into victory!

My once-unfettered life
has itself been bound in bonds.
Dearer to me than freedom
is the sweet bondage of imagination.
The immortal pain of the heart
is turning into music!

Now defeat itself, within the heart,
is turning into victory!

Defeat turns into victory—that is the magic of love. And yoga becomes sahaj—that is the alchemy of understanding.

Just as I have just said to you regarding sahaja-yoga. Crying and laughing appear contradictory—they are—but in the depths they are conjoined. Deep down all opposites are linked, unified. The two branches that part above are joined below at the root. In some unfathomable depth, tears and smiles are one.

And the devotee’s state passes through every mood and posture. Sometimes he certainly weeps, sometimes he laughs. At times the sky is overcast with clouds, a great sadness settles in, and there is no glimpse of the sun anywhere; and at other times the sky rains down the sun’s gold, there is not a trace of clouds, the sky is spotless, and there is the intoxication of joy. Sometimes the devotee is drowned in the pain of separation, and sometimes he leaps in the ecstasy of union. Sometimes he weeps; sometimes he laughs.

Devotion has many facets, and the devotee passes through them all—at times sad, at times exuberant; sometimes defeated and tired, sometimes greatly inspired, wildly ecstatic; sometimes utterly broken, as if life itself cannot go on; and sometimes as if nectar-life has been found! These are all moods of the heart. They are all different forms of prayer to the divine. But the devotee knows one art: he dedicates everything to That. Sadness is His, enthusiasm is His; life is His, death is His. So the devotee goes on offering everything at His feet. Strange experiences do come. And it is not only that from the outside—you have asked from the outside—that the devotee, in separation, sometimes weeps and sometimes laughs, and you feel this to be a contradiction; even within, the devotee wonders: What is this matter—have I gone mad? And sometimes it so happens that tears stream from the eyes while a smile plays on the lips. Sometimes he is weeping and dancing at once. Sometimes both happen together. Then the devotee seems outright crazy. That is why people have called devotees mad.

When life passed in such a way, O Lord!
Would we even remember we once had God?

Sometimes there are days of deep sadness, of great grief and melancholy.

When life passed in such a way, O Lord!
Would we even remember we once had God?

Each single moment becomes hard to live. Each moment turns into a great crisis. How will this moment pass—one cannot fathom it; such is the weight of sorrow, such is the blazing fire of longing! The devotee writhes, like a fish flung from the ocean onto the shore—but these hours come, and they pass.

Whether delusion or reality, it is this that soothes the heart.
I feel You, too, are restless for me.

There are moments when even God does not seem visible to the devotee—nights of dark new moons. Yet even in that, a great ease, a great peace, a deep consolation arises. Whether delusion or reality...and let people say what they like. People say it is all delusion, illusion, your mental projections.

Whether delusion or reality, it is this that soothes the heart.
I feel You, too, are restless for me.

God may not be visible anywhere, yet the devotee has the sense that the divine is as restless for him as he is for the divine. And then a great peace comes to him. The saddest of nights suddenly becomes dawn. The darkest new moon turns at once into a full moon. After that, the devotee no longer bothers whether it is delusion or reality.

I hear them speak unreason, yet I do not say, “You are right.”
After all, I am human too—not a wall.

At times he even sits down to wrestle with God. Only a lover can fight; who else has that strength?

I hear them speak unreason, yet I do not say, “You are right.”
After all, I am human too—not a wall.

In anger, sometimes he does not even worship, he closes his doors to God. Sometimes he does not pray at all, and a thousand kinds of complaints arise.

Let not my flowers wither on the branch.
If You must pluck them, then pluck now—do not make me wait.

After all, there is a limit!

Or tell me outright that relief is not in my fate.
If You must give, then give today—not on the Day of Judgment.

How long is one to wait? And yet he knows too, he understands too—

To complain to Him is futile, Seemab:
It is you who are not yet worthy of His gracious glance.

He knows this as well: What cause for complaint? What is my worthiness? I am not yet even fit for His compassion!

So wearied am I by these mirage-like thoughts,
My heart wishes even you would not come into thought.

Exasperated, I would break this enchantment of thought—
Or make me certain that it is You who dwell in my thought.

Sometimes he becomes so harried by remembering and remembering, by weeping and weeping, that he says: I am so tired, so afflicted...so wearied am I by these mirage-like thoughts—by thoughts of you, by meditation on you, by your remembrance I have become so anguished that now my heart wishes even you would not come into thought. But this holds only for a moment; in the very next instant he says:

Exasperated, I would break this enchantment of thought—
Or make me certain that it is You who dwell in my thought.

Give me the assurance that it is truly You who comes into my thought. Otherwise I will shatter this whole sorcery of ideas. If you are not there, then there is nothing.

Has the One who made me somehow forgotten me,
That everything about me keeps going awry?

Has He never seen Death’s grim mien?
Life keeps strutting on and on, defiant!

A thousand hues has devotion. A thousand ways has devotion. All the seasons belong to devotion. Sometimes spring, sometimes fall. Sometimes monsoon, sometimes sun. Sometimes winter, sometimes summer.

On which a thousand mornings of luxury are gladly sacrificed—
In my life there is such a night of sorrow too.

And the devotee also says, with pride, that the night spent in your remembrance, the night spent in your separation, is such that a thousand mornings of pleasure are sacrificed in its honor—thousands of mornings of comfort, success, indulgence, splendor—on that one night spent in your memory. For your remembrance brings pain, yes, but the pain is very sweet. Your remembrance is very bitter, and very intoxicating. Wine is bitter; its taste is not exactly delightful. The experience is something else, the taste something else.

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife was very troubled by his habit of drinking. She had tried everything. No other idea occurred to her, so she made a last move. Mulla had gone to the tavern; she went there too. A woman who always wore a veil. She thought this would be the final blow—to go straight into the tavern. She threw off her veil, took a chair by Mulla’s table, and sat down. Mulla trembled: What will people say—this is the limit! Women in the tavern! Veiled women in a tavern! And he couldn’t very well say, “What are you doing here?” because all his life she had been telling him, “Don’t go there.” And the wife said, “Today I will drink too.” Before Mulla could stop her, she poured a glass and took the first sip. No sooner had she tasted it than she put down the glass, spat out what she had sipped, and said, “Ah, so bitter, so harsh!” Mulla said, “And you always thought we were enjoying ourselves! Now do you understand?”

The taste is bitter. The taste of separation is bitter. Separation is like wine—but the experience is deeply intoxicating, deeply blissful.

How would I dare to submit my heart to you?
I saw the untroubled brow—and found the nerve to speak.

May my long-thirsting eyes not be deceiving me—
Are you truly before me, or is it some image out of dream?

Only devotees can understand the devotee’s experiences. For others, these are tales of dreams, mental games. How would I have dared to submit my heart to you—to tell you my heart’s tale, my complaint, my prayer, my plea?

How would I dare to submit my heart to you?
I saw your untroubled brow and found the courage to speak.

I saw your brow unwrinkled by worry; you seemed pleased, and it felt like the right moment—to speak now. May my long-thirsting eyes not be deceiving me. This is what I must say: my eyes have ached so long to see you, they might deceive me.

May my long-thirsting eyes not be deceiving me—
Are you truly before me, or is it some image out of dream?

Perhaps I am dreaming again... For the devotee often dreams. What you remember ceaselessly appears even in dreams. What you remember intensely shows up even by day with open eyes; yet it remains a dream.

The devotee moves through dreams. Passing through dreams, peeling away the layers of dreams, one day Truth appears. And the devotee is in great difficulty, because God seems so near to him. How will those understand who do not even know there is a God? And how will those understand who believe God exists but is very far away, who say He will happen sometime in lifetimes, after death, in the beyond?

What a veil—that They sit pressed to the screen,
Neither fully hidden, nor do They come forth.

They sit close behind the screen: so it seems to the devotee. They are visible too—glimpsed through the gauze, through the screen.

What a veil—that They sit pressed to the screen,
Neither fully hidden, nor do They come forth.

So there is the devotee’s anguish—and there is his joy.

A single glance is enough for the people of love.
Tell me where to bow the brow of longing, and I will.

He waits only for your gesture—if the neck must be offered, he will offer it. He weeps, but he knows: What power is there in my weeping!

O sorrow of love, is there any fire in your vessel?
He asks himself—

O sorrow of love, is there any fire in your depth?
For tears could not heal the fever of the heart.

The burning heart could not be cured by tears. I have wept and wept to no avail. Now he asks himself: O my heart’s chalice! Have you any fire? If there is fire, then burn now.

O sorrow of love, is there any fire in your depth?
For tears could not heal the fever of the heart.

He has wept enough—now he seeks fire within his heart. And one day the fire is found. Longing thickens, deepens, and becomes fire; intensifying, it blazes forth. In that blazing flame the devotee is consumed, like a moth in the lamp. And the moth’s death is its liberation. The devotee’s dying is his moksha. When the devotee dies, there are no more tears and no more laughter, no dance and no song, no sorrow and no joy. When the devotee dies, then there is the great bliss, the eternal bliss. Where the ego has gone, only God remains; the devotee does not remain—only the divine remains. Until that moment arrives, the devotee must pass through all these moods.

The devotee’s world is richly hued. The knower’s world is not so colorful; it has only one color. The knower’s world is like a single-stringed instrument—one note, one string. The devotee’s instrument has all the strings. The devotee has all kinds of instruments. The devotee is the collective chord arising amid all instruments. The devotee contains all seven colors—he is a rainbow.

Understand the variegatedness of devotion. The knower does not have many colors. That is why knowers could not give the world beautiful poetry. Meditators could not give the world beautiful music. Devotees gave the music. Devotees gave the songs. Devotees gave the images and breathed life into stone! They put soul into stone. Songs began to rise from stone.

Devotees have bestowed great beauty upon this world, because the devotee has variety. And only in diversity can the current of rasa flow. The knower is like a desert; the devotee is like a garden where all kinds of flowers bloom and all fragrances arise.

How many caravans lost their way in the light of dogma.
Blessed were those who came beneath the shade of love.

That heart could never again grow dark
In which He lit the lamp with His own glance.

How many caravans lost their way in the supposed light of faith! A marvelous saying. In the so-called light of bigotry, how many bands of travelers have gone astray—some in the light of the Hindu, some in the light of the Muslim, some in the light of the Christian. They are called “lights,” and yet travelers lost their way in them—lost in broad daylight.

How many caravans lost their way in the light of dogma.
Blessed were those who came beneath the shade of love.

But blessed are those who entered the darkness of love! If these are lamps—the lamps lit in temples and mosques—then the lover wants nothing to do with such lamps. The lover says: Better we, and better our darkness of love. The darkness of our love is better than your light, for in your light we have watched travelers go astray, and in our darkness we have watched travelers arrive.

How many caravans lost their way in the light of creed.
Blessed were those who came beneath the shade of love.

That heart could never again grow dark
In which He lit the lamp with His own glance.

The heart in which the lamp of divine love has been lit—there, darkness never returns. All others who borrow lamps from outside have gone astray—and will go astray, and will lead others astray too.

That heart could never again grow dark
In which He lit the lamp with His own glance.

The devotee takes His eye itself as the lamp. Until eye meets eye, the devotee holds it all to be darkness. And the devotee prefers this darkness of love to the brightness of scriptures, for in the forests of scripture people have only lost their way, entangled in nets of words.

Love is the only way—if one is to reach God, the most Beloved. Accept love’s madness. Accept the darkness of love, because even the new moon night of love can one day become the full moon. The so-called light of scriptures only keeps you tangled, keeps giving you the illusion of light. Devotees are mad. They have their own ways, their own style.

The stone of the threshold is on my head; it is no longer my head at His door.
O experts of the Kaaba, behold the manner of my prostrations!

Those who are connoisseurs of temples and mosques—let them see my way too, my etiquette! We have not placed our heads on the divine threshold; we have lifted His threshold stone onto our heads. Why knock our heads anywhere? We carry Him on our head as we go!

The stone of the threshold is on my head; it is no longer my head at His door.
O keepers of the Kaaba, see the style of my prostrations!

And let those who are learned in the Kaaba, in mosques, in scriptures—let them look at the lovers’ style too, the lovers’ moods, the lovers’ ways! Let them behold the wondrous mad courtesy of lovers! The lover’s way of living is different, his way of being is different. Madness is the essence of his life. But only the mad can join the extremes. Only the mad can unite contradictions. Only the mad can build a bridge between tears and smiles. Only the mad can know life and death as one. The logician is left deprived; the lover comes to know. Love is not logic. And those stuffed with logic remain deprived of love. They are the unfortunate ones. Blessed is the one who can become mad in the realm of love, for the divine belongs to such a one.

Krishnanand, this was bound to happen; this is how it always happens. Nothing surprising has happened. Whenever an individual begins to be different from the crowd, the crowd gets angry, because your difference puts a question mark over its way of life. If you are right, they are wrong; if they are right, then you must be wrong. The crowd cannot tolerate the one who declares his individuality. The crowd wants sheep, not lions. And sannyas is a lion’s roar.

Sannyas means: I have left the beaten tracks; I am no longer a slave to the rut. Now I will walk in my own delight, by my own will. Now I will seek the divine in my own way, in my own style. Keep your traditions if you wish; I have none now. I will walk and make my own footpath.

Sannyas means I have set out in the search for truth as an individual—not as a part of any crowd. I am no longer a Hindu, no longer a Muslim, no longer a Christian, no longer a Jain. Now all religions are mine, and no religion is mine.

And then all those whom you thought were your own will instantly become strangers. They will be the first, because your conflict begins with them first. It is not that you go to fight them, but this posture of yours, this declaration of individuality, will look like a crime in their eyes.

Krishnanand! They did exactly what was to be expected. You did not expect it—that is why you were startled, surprised. The crowd has always done this. And those whom you call your caste and community—what was your connection with them? A coincidental one. A river-boat coincidence. It was only a chance that you were born in a certain house, and that house belonged to a caste, a community. It was a matter of social convention. And they will be the first to be annoyed, because they had not imagined that you would have such strength, such courage. This is rebellion. This is revolt.

Test your strength and weigh your arms.
If you would fly in the firmament of Being, then spread your wings wide.

Test your strength and weigh your arms.
If you would fly in the firmament of Being, then spread your wings wide.

Only those fly in the sky of life; otherwise people merely creep along the ground. The crowd belongs to such people. And the crowd will not tolerate you. So when it hurts you, do not be disturbed. Accept it. It is natural. It has not happened only to you; it has happened to all. It happened even to men like Jesus.

Jesus went to his own village, and they took him to a hill, planning to push him off and kill him—his own village, his own people. That day his famous saying arose: “A prophet is not honored by his own people in his own village.” He never went back. There was no point.

Once a Patel decided to go on a pilgrimage—and on foot. As he was about to leave home, he saw that while friends and relatives were bidding him farewell, his pet dog was also looking at him, overwhelmed. He thought, “Since I am going on foot anyway, why not take this dog along?” With everyone’s consent he made the dog his companion in the journey. Two are better than one!

Wherever the Patel stayed during the pilgrimage, the villagers welcomed him, garlanded him, and offered good hospitality. Some of it reached the dog as well; sometimes they even garlanded the dog and fed it delicacies. The journey continued for many months and finally concluded with great celebration.

At the closing ceremony, people touched the Patel’s feet and also showed respect to the dog. After the ceremony, the other dogs of the lane asked that traveling dog for news of the journey—especially whether the master had caused him any hardship.

With tears in his eyes the traveling dog said, “Brothers! My master served me very well. All along the way he took care that I neither went hungry nor got lost. He fulfilled my needs, even at risk to himself. The hardship did not come from my master—it came from my own fraternity. Wherever I went, the dogs of that village would pounce on me, thirsty for my blood. If the master had not been with me, these brethren would neither have left me alive nor let me partake of the merit of the pilgrimage.”

All the dogs then excommunicated him from the clan for the crime of criticizing the fraternity—because no one can tolerate criticism of the brotherhood.

The priests and pundits—your own relatives—beat you and cast you out: you are fortunate. By this they have acknowledged that your sannyas is real.

Lao Tzu has a famous saying: If a wise man speaks and the ignorant are not offended, know that the wise man has said nothing. If a wise man speaks and the ignorant do not laugh, know that what he said was not true. When words of wisdom are uttered, the ignorant will inevitably mistake them for foolishness. They beat you—by that they accepted your uniqueness. They admitted that something has happened in your life. They became eager to wipe it out. Your life forced them to think about their own lives—and no one wants to think. Thinking seems painful. Why get into the hassle? Everything was moving quietly and smoothly; then you appeared in ochre! Life was flowing in a single current; you stood there in ochre and startled them. Now, for them, it is a matter of self-protection. They have not attacked you; your very presence shook them so much that, in self-defense, they attacked. It is not an assault; it is self-defense. They are saying, “We will teach you a lesson, we will bring you back to the path.” If you come back to their path, they will be delighted; their joy will have no end. They may even hold a reception, arrange a feast—the very people who beat you.

But if you keep walking on your own path, their opposition will only increase. Your presence is a cause of anxiety. “What if he is right?”—that is the worry. Perhaps you are right and they are wrong—this doubt has arisen in them. To hide that doubt they beat you and create noise. Laugh, and accept it joyously, so their doubt deepens. If you accept their opposition with joy, you will awaken even more doubts within them: “When, even after our beating, this person remains so cheerful and not the least disturbed, then surely something has happened to him—something valuable!”

This is the way to challenge them. Go on meditating. Be lost in your own ecstasy! Soon… their opposition will continue up to a point, but everything has a limit; beyond that limit, even opposition can turn into respect. Everything depends on you—on whether you can remain patient. And a sannyasin must learn patience, because he has to live in society.

My sannyasin is not an escapist; otherwise it would be easy. You could run away to the Himalayas; they would not be troubled, you would not be troubled. But you will remain right where you are—that is the trouble. You will sit in your shop, work in the market. You will have a wife, children, a home! That is the trouble. They are telling you: if you must take sannyas, then go to the Himalayas, renounce everything. Then all is fine; you have followed their tradition.

Deliberately I have told my sannyasin, do not renounce—because renunciation is now a beaten path; it has no value, it has become a two-penny thing. When people first renounced, there was value—because they were beaten for it.

Understand me. When, for the first time, sannyasins left their homes and families, they were beaten. Now it has become accepted, and there is no substance in it. So I told you: do not leave; remain in the marketplace. Meditate there, live there. I have again created a hurdle for tradition. The goal is the same. The one who left also stepped off the rut; but now even leaving has become a rut. We are breaking the rut of leaving as well. The renouncer had one convenience: he withdrew from society. Then he came only occasionally—once in two, four, or ten years—so society was not much disturbed. He would stay a day or two—there was even a rule for a sannyasin not to stay more than three days in one place—and then move on. He did not disturb the flow of life.

Now my sannyasin will plant his feet and stand right there. He will disturb life. In their running routine he will raise obstacles everywhere. So they will be angry—this is natural. Do not worry. Take their annoyance and opposition as part of your discipline. Consider it a challenge. Keep your peace steady within it. When they beat you, just sit silently and endure it—as if God were showering flowers. Let them experience your stillness, your blossomed joy; let there not be the slightest ripple in your grace. Offer them only your thanks. Soon there will be transformation. Some eyes will begin to open. Some of them—at night, in secrecy—will come to meet you. Those very ones who beat you can also be seekers. After all, by beating you they have revealed one fact: you cannot be ignored. That is what matters. Whoever cannot ignore you must either hate you or love you. And no one derives any juice from hatred—how long can one hate? If you keep patience, hatred turns, by itself, into love.

This has been the experience of all the rebels of humanity: hatred transforms into love—only keep patience. Those who were “yours” and have become strangers were never yours; it was only appearance. Now, for the first time, you will find your own. Be patient. Even strangers will become your own. You will find only a few, but with those few there will be friendship, a flowing rasa, a drunkenness—satsang will gather.

Do not stop, whatever happens—do not stop. The journey must continue.

Unfurl the sail and sing, O boatman,
The shore is still far!

Do not spread the fickle wings
Of pitiless, gasping moments.
Do not scatter the diamond-dust
Of nameless, aching breaths.
Moments of forgotten dreams
Keep coming and going;
Barter-moments of wonder-play
Fill the eyes with honey.

Stir fragrance through your breathing, boatman—
Sing, the bank is still afar.
Unfurl the sail and sing, O boatman,
The shore is still far!

But the journey must be completed by song. No one can obstruct your sannyas. Neither by beating can it be killed, nor by cutting can it be cut. And what dies by blows and is cut by cutting is not sannyas at all; understand it was a two-penny thing, of no worth. They are giving you the touchstone, the test.

The tears of the eyes may stop,
The sigh upon the lips may stop;
But not by anyone’s forbidding
Does the heart’s restless song stop.

Before steep and towering peaks,
The cloud’s path may be blocked;
But it is not life’s gift that halts—
It is the longing that will not stop.

For ages the thirsting pied cuckoo
Has tried to check its thirst;
But on seeing the cloud,
Its call does not stop.

The desire for union may stop,
But the inner burning will not;
When has the moth’s self-offering
Stopped because someone said “stop”?

The heart-waves of the ocean
May forcibly hide the flame—
Yet not for their forbidding
Does the frantic storm stop.

The tears of the eyes may stop,
The sigh upon the lips may stop;
But not by anyone’s forbidding
Does the heart’s restless song stop.

This sannyas is the song of the heart. It will not stop.

The tears of the eyes may stop,
The sigh upon the lips may stop;
But not by anyone’s forbidding
Does the heart’s restless song stop.

This sannyas is the moth’s love for the flame. It cannot stop.

The desire for union may stop,
But the inner burning will not;
When has the moth’s sacrifice
Ever stopped because someone tried to stop it?

Has the moth ever stopped? Stop it as you will—once it moves toward the light, it moves. Sannyas is the search for the Light: “From darkness, lead me to light!” It is the journey of the moths. Now there is no way to stop it. Therefore thank those who try to stop you, because through their opposition something within you will gather and become strong.

Remember that farmer of whom I just told you the story. Let storms come, tempests blow, rains pour or the sun blaze, hailstones fall and lightning crack—out of all of it the seed of wheat ripens and is born. In the life where no lightning has flashed and no clouds have thundered, there the soul never begins. It remains asleep.

How could that be? There are so many kinds of people, so many colors of people! How can there be just one religion? Some will meditate like Buddha, and some will dance like Krishna.

Religions will be different because people are different. There are so many types of people. Existence has created such variety! You are talking as if the world should have only one kind of flower: only roses everywhere—no jasmine, no juhi, no ketaki, no kewda. The world would become very dull—only roses! And the rose is lovely, but its loveliness exists only because ketaki is also there, and kewda, and juhi, and jasmine, and madhumalati, and tuberose. The juice and joy of the rose exist against the background of such diversity. Just imagine a place where there are only roses—who will even see a rose then? All the charm of the rose will be gone; it will become like grass. Cows will graze it, buffaloes will graze it. What else will you do with it?

After all, what is the value of the Kohinoor? Only that it is special, unique of its kind. If the whole world were strewn with Kohinoors along the roadside like pebbles and stones, what value would they have? Do you think the Queen of England would wear it in her crown then? There would be no value at all; it would be just another stone. The Kohinoor is so priceless because it stands alone, unique, incomparable.

Mulla Nasruddin presented a diamond ring to his soon-to-be wife. She was delighted. She put it on and asked, “Mulla, the diamond is real, isn’t it?” Mulla said, “If it isn’t real, my three rupees are wasted.” Where do you get real diamonds for three rupees? These days you don’t even get good fakes for three rupees! That would be a fake of a fake. But in Mulla’s mind, he has spent three rupees—so he says, “If it isn’t real, my three rupees are wasted!” Real diamonds don’t come cheap. And the more unique a thing is, the more valuable it is.

Value lies in diversity. If there were only one note in the world, you would be bored to death. Mulla Nasruddin was learning to play the sitar, but he kept doing only one twang… twang… twang… over and over. He just kept rubbing the same string, again and again and again. The neighbors got fed up, his wife got fed up, his children got fed up. One day the whole neighborhood gathered and said, “Nasruddin, we have seen many musicians, but you are astonishing—just this twang-twang-twang, a single note! Don’t you get tired of scraping the same string? We’re all exhausted. Play some other strings, raise some other notes! We’ve seen many players; they move their hands all over.”

Nasruddin said, “They are searching for their note; I’ve found mine! Their search is still on. I’ve found it—why should I search anymore?”

Look closely at the world: everything here is diverse. Each thing is unique. There should be infinite religions, because there are infinite kinds of people. But the existence of many religions does not mean they must fight. After all, a lover of juhi does not cut off the head of a lover of roses. And the lover of roses does not say, “Until you love the rose, there is no heaven for you.” Even if the lover of roses says, “I dislike juhi,” the lover of juhi does not stand up with a stick shouting, “My religious sentiments have been hurt!” This is a matter of taste. One likes a rose, another likes a lotus, another something else. Why should that injure anyone’s feelings? If your feelings are so easily hurt, then your feelings are what need to be questioned.

Feelings are private. Your feelings deserve respect within you, certainly. And someone else’s taste in something else is equally fine.

Let people be joyous; let people be surrendered to the Divine—by whatever excuse, whatever doorway. Someone gets intoxicated reading the Gita—good, intoxication is the point. Someone else hums the Quran till he drowns in its flavor—drowning in flavor is the point.

But you say, “Wouldn’t it be good if there were only one religion on earth?” No, that would not be good at all. The world would become impoverished. Imagine it—only the Quran in the world; no Gita, no Dhammapada, no Tao Te Ching, no Vedas, no Upanishads. Imagine only the Bible—everyone carrying a Bible. The world would become dreary, colorless. Religion would no longer be a living phenomenon—it would be dead. A village needs a temple and a mosque and a gurdwara and a church. Together they bring flavor to life; they bring many colors. All are beautiful. And your idea that one religion would enhance brotherhood and end violence, enmity, and argument—you’re mistaken.

As long as man wants to fight, he will find ever-new pretexts. A fighter only needs excuses; fighting is the real thing.

You know, before 1947 India was one. Hindus and Muslims used to fight—there were riots. People thought, “Let’s separate; let Pakistan and Hindustan be two countries; the riots will subside.” Until then Hindus never fought Hindus, and Muslims never fought Muslims, because while Hindus and Muslims were fighting, people were getting their fill of fighting. Why would Hindus fight Hindus? But as soon as the partition happened, astonishing things began. Gujaratis versus Marathis. North Indians versus South Indians. Hindi-speakers and non-Hindi-speakers took to stabbing each other. New excuses! Any excuse will do. Should Bombay be in Gujarat or Maharashtra—start stabbing. Bombay hasn’t moved an inch, but people began stabbing. Should a district go to Karnataka or Maharashtra—start stabbing.

The same happened in Pakistan. Bengali Muslims began fighting Punjabi Muslims. Pakistan split in two. Even now Punjabi Muslims and Sindhi Muslims quarrel. No one had imagined Punjabi Muslims and Sindhi Muslims would fight, or Punjabi Muslims and Bengali Muslims would fight! They all accept the Quran, they all go to the same mosque, they all have the same Prophet—yet one speaks Bengali, the other Punjabi, and a fight erupts. And look at the bloodshed in Bangladesh! Muslims slaughtered Muslims. If you thought fights happen only between Muslims and Hindus, you’re mistaken. And just as it happened in Pakistan—Bangladesh separated and Muslims slaughtered Muslims—if in your country the South tries to separate from the North someday, you will see Hindus slaughtering Hindus. Then no one will worry that they go to the same temple, believe in the same Gita—who cares then!

For a fight, man will find a pretext. Political ideologies will become the battleground. Fascists, communists, socialists—they also fight and kill. This will solve nothing. Understanding is needed. Even if religions were unified, fights would erupt over something else. Man can fight over anything. You’d be astonished to know how small the causes can be: in a village with two football teams, people fight. The followers of one team stab the followers of the other. What is the difference between them? One supports the team in green jerseys, the other the team in blue. And when the two teams compete, their fans gather—then there will be brawls and stabbings.

Such petty causes, and yet fights! Look closely and you will see the real point: man wants to fight—that is the root. Any pretext will do. It isn’t that religion causes fights; the tendency to fight is within man, and religion becomes the excuse.

So even if there is one religion, fighting won’t end. And if you try to make religion one in order to end fighting, first you will have to fight a great deal to make it one—remember that. First there will be plenty of bloodshed. That is exactly what has been happening. Muslims try to make it all one religion, Christians try to make it one religion, Buddhists too—and all of them are trying exactly what you are asking. Their efforts differ only in content; the intention is the same. The Muslim wants one religion worldwide—Islam, one God, one Prophet, one religion—and then there will be peace. But that is a mistake. Shias and Sunnis fight, there are stabbings, murders, arson.

And first of all, how will one religion be achieved at all? For five thousand years people have been trying to make it one. How many killings have taken place in the attempt at that One! Who will do the unifying? And if, having unified it, you find even one person who says, “I will not join,” what will you do with him? In a world of four billion, if one person says, “I won’t be included,” what then? Kill him! Cut him down!

Besides, not everyone is religious. Take Russia, take China: these are atheistic countries. They say that only if religion does not exist at all will unity be possible. Not one religion—no religion. That is their idea. They say religion causes trouble; drop the trouble. Bid farewell to all religions. But the irony is that in China, Mao’s book is worshiped the way Muslims worship the Quran and Hindus the Gita. You’ll be surprised to know that Mao’s Little Red Book is the most printed book in the world after the Bible. And in Russia, Marx’s book Das Kapital is honored the same way the Gita is in India and the Quran in Arabia. The same reverence!

And mind you, no one reads the Quran out of reverence, nor the Vedas, nor Das Kapital. I know many communists who have never read Das Kapital—just as many Hindus have never read the Vedas. Even those called Chaturvedi do not know the four Vedas; they only bear the name. Communists know the name Das Kapital, but not what is written in it. Nor do Hindus know what the Vedas say. You would be startled to learn what the Vedas actually say—just as a communist would be startled to learn what Das Kapital actually says. These books have become objects of worship. Now fights arise over them. The Kremlin has become a place of pilgrimage just like the Kaaba, like Kashi, like Girnar, like Jerusalem. No difference.

So who will make everything one? How will anyone make it one? Who has the right to make it one? No, there is no need for that either. Brotherhood must exist in multiplicity—only then it is brotherhood! It must exist in diversity—only then it is brotherhood. Let all religions live, let them live joyfully, and let them help each other to live—only then is there brotherhood. Brotherhood is a greater thing. Brotherhood means the tendency to fight has left the mind. Changing outer forms will not create brotherhood—the inner being must change.

In fact, as I see it, the more variety the better. I would like there to be more religions. In truth, I would like each person to have his own religion. If there are four billion people, there should be four billion religions. Nothing less will do. Then the world will be filled with fragrance.

“In the vast banquet of the world, we shall never accept
that there be only one cupbearer and one cup.”

In the vast expanse, under such an immense sky, in this infinite existence—one cupbearer, one tavern, one cup—and life would become very petty.

Everyone their own paths,
and from all paths together
is formed that highway
on which the feet of the age are advancing!
Do not stop the advancing steps—
life’s ocean is boundless.
Life’s truth is not confined
to one person.
Do not stop the advancing steps—
life’s ocean is unfathomable,
life’s truth is not confined
to one vision!
Let multicolored flowers bloom here,
with multicolored flowers
is adorned that platter
which worships life,
which is great!
Life’s truth is not confined
to one color!
Let everyone sing
their own song of creation, freely!
From all songs together is formed
that great raga
which bows to life,
which is vast!
Life’s truth is not confined
to one song!

Never confine life’s truth—to one song or to one Gita! Not to one color, one way, one style. It is the violent tendency in man that wants others to walk exactly as he walks; that wants others to see the world exactly as he sees it. That is not the mark of a good man. It is not the mark of a virtuous man to insist, “All should see as I see; if they don’t, put out their eyes.”

A Muslim caliph attacked Alexandria. At that time Alexandria had the world’s greatest library. It held so many books that it is said the loss to humanity from its destruction has no parallel. There were so many handwritten manuscripts that, once the caliph set it on fire, the blaze burned for six months before it died out. That library held records of civilizations that have vanished. There was mention of a continent named Atlantis that sank into the sea. It held the accumulated secrets of the past, discovered over centuries and then forgotten again. It was an immense treasure of humankind. But the caliph who burned it must have been just like you. He took a torch in one hand and the Quran in the other, went to the librarian and said, “I ask you: Is what is in your library the same as what is in the Quran? If you answer yes, then there is no need for this library; the Quran is enough. I will burn it. And if you say that your library contains what is not in the Quran, then there is absolutely no need for it, because anything not in the Quran must surely be false; if it were true, it would be in the Quran. Then too I will burn it. Now tell me, what do you say?”

Just think—what could the librarian say? There were only two possible answers: one, that the library contains what is in the Quran—in which case the caliph says, “Then I’ll burn it.” Or two, that the library contains much that is different from the Quran—in which case the caliph says, “Then I’ll burn it even sooner.” There was no answer. Tears rolled from the librarian’s eyes. What answer can you give to such stupidity? The fire was lit. It burned for six months, and an immeasurable treasure of humankind was destroyed.

No, that is not the mark of a religious person. A truly religious person rejoices that someone is intoxicated by the Quran, someone by the Gita, someone by the Bible. Let ecstasy remain alive in the world! From which bottle you drink—let the drinkers remain; which cup you use—what does that matter? Let the tavern of the heart remain open. Let people keep drawing near to God—some from the East, some from the West, some on foot, some by bullock cart, some by flying in the sky—how you come is your affair, your joy, choose your own vehicle; what matters is that people keep coming to the Divine. Not everything is contained in one vision, or in one song, or in one color. Existence is vast. Do not make this vastness small.

Let the lamps be separate,
but the light is one in all.
Together they are cutting through
the web of darkness.
May no one’s inner
tenderness run dry;
may the radiant host
never bow its head to night.

Let only this be our care. Let such goodwill arise. One religion will do nothing—let goodwill arise. Today you fight over religion; tomorrow you will fight over music—“We believe in classical, not in modern”—and then you will say, “There should be only one music.” Then tomorrow you will fight over language and say, “There should be only one language.” And the next day you will fight that some people are taller and some shorter—“Everyone should be the same height.” Then you will fight that some have long noses, some flat, some hair like this, some like that, some white hair, some black hair, some another color—everything must be made one. What will you do then? In this way you will wipe out humanity.

No—accept the human being in his uniqueness. Honor each person—whether his color is dark or fair, whether he goes to a mosque or a temple—make no distinction. Do not let your private preferences become an obstruction. Your preference is your private matter. Your attachment is yours; do not impose it on another, nor bend so far that another can impose his attachment on you. Let the respect for each person’s privacy and uniqueness deepen—then there will be brotherhood. Then religions will remain, languages will remain, songs will remain different—and yet a great symphony will arise! There can be many footpaths, and all together can form a royal highway.

The acknowledgment that all sins are in me is the beginning of religion. It is the first step, the first rung. It is auspicious to accept, “I am a sinner.” With this very acceptance, your connection with the Divine begins.

How many sins can you have? His compassion is vast! Your sins are small things. What value do they have before the ocean of His compassion? They will be carried away like straws—provided there is acceptance. If you hide them, they will persist. Whoever hides his sins will preserve them—and they will grow.

It is just like going to a physician and concealing your wounds. Hidden wounds will worsen, turn into ulcers, fill with pus, rot. With a physician you must uncover everything and tell it all.

In the same way, God is the supreme physician. Lay everything bare before Him—your lust, your greed, your ego. He already knows it all. There is no point in hiding. Say, “This is how I am; as I am, accept me. For better or worse, let me have the dust of your feet.”

And you ask, “Will my worship and prayer ever be accepted?”
What do you mean by accepted? Do you want some result from your worship and prayer? Some reward? Some certificate? Then you are mistaken. Then you have not yet understood worship and prayer. The fruit of prayer lies in prayer itself. The reward is within the praying itself, not outside it. Renounce the hankering for fruit.

If you are asking for something, you are in a great error. Do not ask God for anything. If He gives, give thanks—and do not ask. Then much will shower upon you. If you ask, the relationship breaks—for whenever someone asks something of God, he is in effect saying: “I have nothing to do with you; I am concerned only with my demand. I want to use you, exploit you. Since I can’t get it without you, I’m asking you; if I could get it directly, I would.” It is an insult to God whenever you ask for anything.

Remember, a most essential foundation of religion is this: religion is not a race for rewards; it is not a chase after outcomes. Religion is not a search for a destination. Religion is making the journey itself the destination; making prayer itself the prize.

O eyes of longing! Behold, such is the scene, worth seeing:
Centuries of distance lie between my evenings and my dawns.
There are a million consolations, yet the visage of repose
Is neither in my gaze nor in the healer’s heart.
O friend, do not complain of my slow pace—
For me, my destination itself lies in the journey.

The day your destination becomes the journey—on that day, the very act of worship is your bliss; beyond that you have no demand. You give thanks to God: “You gave me an opportunity to pray today; I am grateful for that,” knowing not how many unfortunate ones did not pray today; how many have no awareness of prayer; how many, though aware, postpone it to tomorrow; how many say they have no time, or, having time, get entangled in futility; how many think this surface life is everything, with no inner search, no thirst. I am blessed that You gave me today the chance to pray; blessed that You gave me the chance to lift my eyes to the stars.

Do not ask. Asking creates obstacles. The one who asks is not religious. There is no difference between a worldly person who asks and a renunciate who asks. A renunciate gives thanks for what is given; the worldly man does not speak of what he has, he pines for what he thinks he should get. The worldly lives in craving; the sannyasin lives in gratitude.

One is short-sighted, another a bit far-seeing;
There is no real difference in the intent of the ascetic and the wine-drinker.

The one drinking wine in the tavern, and the one going to temple or mosque praying, “O Lord, call me to paradise where streams of wine flow—call me soon”—what is the difference between them? One asks for wine here, the other asks for wine there. One is short-sighted; the other sees a little farther—into the hereafter. What is the difference? One’s greed is small, the other’s greed is large. One says, “A mugful here will do”; the other says, “That won’t satisfy me; I want cascading fountains.”

One is short-sighted, another a bit far-seeing;
There is no real difference in the intent of the ascetic and the wine-drinker.

There is no difference in the outlook of your so-called ascetic and your so-called indulger. Whoever asks is an indulger; whoever gives thanks is a renunciate. Give thanks for what is given—it is so much! This golden existence! This honey-sweet existence! Each breath so precious! This life, this rain, these green trees, the music of the drizzle! The wind dancing through the trees! This moment! Each moment is so valuable—when will you give thanks for it?

Prayer should be thanksgiving. Prayer truly happens only when it carries nothing but the fragrance of gratitude.

A lamp is burning, sustained by someone’s love!
It was the moth’s devotion
That taught the lamp to burn.
It was the wick’s renunciation
That brought light into the dark.
The radiant flame is awake,
Receiving love’s gift.
A lamp is burning, sustained by someone’s love!

Holding a cherished memory,
Propped on a single hope,
The river roams the ten directions,
Her thirsty veil outspread.
Somewhere she will lose herself,
Finding the boundless sea of life.
A lamp is burning, sustained by someone’s love!

Dear to them are tears
To whom fate grants no smile.
They treasure even curses,
Whom fate grants no boons.
The heart cannot contain itself,
Wooed by love’s tenderness.
A lamp is burning, sustained by someone’s love!

Whether or not
My worship is ever accepted—
Who can snatch away
My right to adore?
No seeking remains,
Having gained this immortal right.
A lamp is burning, sustained by someone’s love!

Now that the sense of prayer has dawned on you, what more is needed? All rewards are gained; heaven has poured down.

Whether or not
My worship is ever accepted—
Who worries now about acceptance!

Whether or not
My worship is ever accepted—
Who can snatch away
My right to adore?

That is the great thing—the right to adore; the opportunity to adore; the awareness of adoration.

Who can snatch away
My right to adore?
No seeking remains,
Having gained this immortal right.

Those who understand ask nothing in prayer; their prayer carries no demand. In prayer they do not become petitioners. They simply become blissful—celebrate life. A lamp is burning, sustained by someone’s love!

He has already given the rewards; without Him you could not be for even a moment. He is showering life upon you. He is lighting the wick of your life. It is He who burns in you, He who moves in you, He who speaks in you, He who hears in you. Other than Him, there is no one here. Then even tears become dear.

Dear to them are tears
To whom fate grants no smile…

Who then cares for smiles? Even tears begin to smile when this understanding of gratitude arises.

They treasure even curses,
Whom fate grants no boons.

They adorn even a curse, press it to their heart. They place even a curse upon their head.

They treasure even curses,
Whom fate grants no boons.
The heart cannot contain itself,
Wooed by love’s tenderness.
A lamp is burning, sustained by someone’s love!

It is His love that keeps your lamp burning. Ask no more. Do not say now, “Will my worship and prayer ever be accepted?” Accepted they already are. Accepted first—only then could you pray; only then could you call. He called you first; only then could you call Him. He chose you first; only then could you bow. Otherwise, where was your strength?

And do not think yourself poor and weak. Such a great right is yours—the right to pray. What more strength do you need? In this very right all liberation is hidden. This seed will one day become freedom. Do not worry about weakness; do not worry about lust, greed, ego. Dive into prayer—and ego will go, lust will go, greed will go. Do not talk upside down. Do not say, “First greed goes, lust goes, ego goes, then I will pray.” Then prayer will never happen.

I tell you the opposite. I say: Pray—and ego will go, greed will go, delusion will go. These are not conditions to be met before praying. It would be madness to say, “First remove the darkness; then the lamp will be lit.”

No—first light the lamp; the darkness disappears the moment the lamp is lit.

That is all for today.