Sahaj Yog #13

Anand Maitreya, neti-neti is the quintessence of the search for religion. Not this, not this—by testing and discarding in this way, what is, remains. There is no need to say it.
Negation is the right method for the search for true religion.
Ritual is not religion, pilgrimage is not religion, worship and prayer are not religion. Naturally the question arises: you have told us what is not religion—but then what is religion? Scriptures are not religion, doctrines are not religion; temples, mosques, churches, gurdwaras are not religion—then what is religion? Religion is the negation of all that can be negated. Go on negating as long as negation is possible. The negation will grow deeper—this body too is not religion; this mind, the process of thought, is not religion. Keep negating, and what will remain is only the witness, only the seer. Neither the worshipper will remain, nor the doer; neither body will remain, nor mind—only the witness will remain. And the witness cannot be negated; it is the one element that is indubitable.
No one can truly say “I am not,” for that would be a contradiction. Like knocking on a man’s door and from inside he calls out, “I am not at home.” What would that mean? His declaration, “I am not at home,” is proof that he is. He can say, “My wife is not at home, my son is not at home”—he can deny everyone but not himself. He cannot say, “I am not at home.” That would turn upside down; it would prove he is there. You would start knocking even harder.
In the same way, you can negate everything except the inner witness; that witness is your nature, your very form. That witness is your spontaneity. Therefore Saraha and Tilopa demolish, they do not adorn. They tell you what to drop, but they do not tell you what to grasp—because whatever you grasp will be wrong; whatever you grasp is not you. That which can be grasped—how could it be you? That which can be done—how could it be you? You are that which watches every doing—only sees. The capacity to see, to witness—that is you.
You are a mirror. Whatever comes before the mirror is not the mirror. If a mirror were to ask, “Who am I?” what would you do? A woman is arranging her hair in front of it, and the mirror starts feeling, “I am a woman, this very woman! She is beautiful, enchanting,” and the mirror is seduced. If the mirror asks you, “Who am I? Am I not this woman?” what will you say? You will say, “No, this woman is not you.” Then a man shaves before it—strong, powerful—and again the mirror is tempted: “This must be me; if not a woman, then a man.” Naturally, people swing to the opposite: “If I am not a woman, I must be a man.” And you will say, “No, that too is not you.” Then the mirror will ask, “Who, then, am I?”
What answer will you give? You will say: You are the capacity to reflect. All forms will appear in you, all shapes will be formed in you. You yourself are neither form nor shape; you have no name. You are that empty state before which everything passes; before which all scenes come and go. Worlds arise and collapse. Creation happens and dissolution comes. You are that which always goes on seeing. You are the seer. About this seer nothing more can be said, because the moment you ascribe anything—any form, any shape, any name—the error has already happened.
Hence the supreme knowers have always given a negational exposition of religion.
I understand your difficulty. This has always been man’s difficulty. Man wants an affirmative, and the buddhas give negation. Man says, “Say something positive; tell us what religion is so we can do it. If going on Hajj is religion, we will go on Hajj. If a pilgrimage to Kashi is religion, we will go to Kashi. If worship in the temple is religion, we will worship there. If offering flowers is religion, we will offer flowers. If breaking a coconut is religion, we will break coconuts. All this we can do. But tell us something to do! Should we wear the sacred thread? Should we keep a tuft of hair or cut it off? Should we break the sacred thread? Tell us something positive… Should we apply sandal paste? What kind of sandal, what kind of tilak? Tell us something to do. When should we rise from sleep, when should we go to bed? Which prayer shall we repeat—the Vedas’ or the Quran’s? Which words should we utter? Should we call upon Allah or upon Rama? Tell us something to do.”
We want to hold onto something, and the awakened ones say: Not this, not this. Therefore there is no meeting, no harmony between the buddhas and us. With the pandits our harmony happens. The pandit gives a prescriptive religion. He says: Here is religion. Worship this idol exactly in this way and you will certainly arrive. And the joke is: you never will arrive, and the pandit will say, “You did not worship correctly.” Never will the worship be perfect, and never will you arrive. Has anyone ever arrived by worship? But there is a trick in it: you never did it quite right… What else can you do? Had you done it right you would surely have arrived. There was a flaw in your worship. Behind your worship there was doubt. Your faith was not full. Questions kept arising in your mind; that is why you missed. Recite this mantra—if you recite it correctly, you will surely arrive.
But no one can recite a mantra “correctly.” If someone sits to chant mantras, is he not already dull-witted? Otherwise, would he be sitting to chant? How will he chant “correctly”? And then such conditions are attached to the mantra… You have heard the famous Tibetan story. A man served a fakir. He served him long and kept pestering him for just one thing: “Give me a mantra such that, on reciting it, powers will be attained—so that whatever I wish happens. Give me the wish-fulfilling tree so that whatever I hope for is instantly fulfilled.” His service was fine—he massaged the feet, brought water, cooked bread—but his question returned again and again. The fakir got tired. He said, “All right, one day… You won’t give up—take this mantra. Chant it for five minutes and the siddhi will happen; then whatever you want you will get.” For this the man had served three years. People serve even to get the goodies, the reward. Now that the sweets were given, he left the fakir and ran home. As he was descending the temple steps, the fakir called out, “Listen, brother! I forgot one thing. While you chant the mantra for five minutes, remember: no thought of a monkey should arise.”
The man said, “What nonsense! I haven’t thought of a monkey in all my life—why would it come now?”
But he hadn’t even reached home when thoughts of monkeys began to appear. He scolded himself, “What am I doing?” But the monkeys kept multiplying; they peeped within, giggled and laughed, made faces! He was terrified: “If this was the condition, the foolish fakir should have kept quiet!” Not a single animal was coming to mind, but these monkeys… He reached home, bathed and washed, but nothing helped. The monkeys kept trailing him in long lines. Whenever he closed his eyes there were monkeys and more monkeys. He struggled all night to chant the mantra five minutes without monkeys—he could not. By morning it was clear: even if he tried for a lifetime, he would not be free of monkeys, because they kept increasing through the night. He returned the mantra to the fakir and said, “You are something! You troubled me for three years, and after three years this is what you gave me—with this condition. If this was the condition, you should have kept quiet. I could have guaranteed that monkeys would never have come to mind.”
The fakir said, “What can I do? The condition has to be stated. Without the condition the mantra will not yield siddhi. Behind every mantra there is a condition—whether you know it or not, whether it is said clearly or hinted at—behind every mantra the condition is: faith must be complete.”
Will a man of complete faith chant a mantra? One whose faith is complete attains the divine in the very completeness of faith. When all doubt has fallen away, what is left to attain? The state of an undoubting mind—that is godliness. Only one whose faith is not complete will chant a mantra. And mantras do not work without complete faith. Do you see the arithmetic?
One in whom the feeling of worship has arisen does not perform worship. The feeling is enough. The flowers of feeling are enough. One in whom the feeling of worship is absent—he goes to the temple to ring bells, sprinkle water, offer flowers, light incense and lamps. The feeling of worship is not there; hence he acts out the worship. It is an enactment. And you want to be told what religion is—prescriptive: what to do, what food to eat, what clothes to wear, how to get up, how to sit—give us straight rules.
Rules have been given to you many times—and whenever rules were given, the givers were insincere and the takers were insincere. Nothing was resolved by rules. The earth remains as irreligious as ever. Is there any lack of rules? Everywhere rules are being followed, yet nowhere does the sun of religion seem to rise. There is no blush on the horizon. Man’s sky is filled utterly with darkness; not even a single star shines. And there are so many religions and so many prescriptive rules, and the pandits keep proliferating them!
How many commandments and orders have been given to you! And it isn’t that you haven’t kept them. As much as you could, as much as was within human capacity… That man chanted the mantra all night, bathing again and again, but what is not within human capacity—how could he forget the monkey? Whatever you try to forget cannot be forgotten, because in the very effort to forget it, it returns all the more. The more you try to forget, the more it comes. The more it comes, the harder it is to forget. The more it comes, the more you want to forget; and the more you want to forget, the more it comes. You are entangled in a duality. Now you will never be beyond this duality.
But the pandit satisfies you. You ask for cheap religion, he gives you cheap religion. Prescriptive religion is cheap religion. It contains very simple things: strain your water before drinking; keep the fast on the eleventh day; go to the temple; perform the worship; when Ramadan comes, fast during the day. Simple things that anyone can do—things that don’t mean much, that have nothing to do with religion.
But the awakened ones always give a negative religion. Neti-neti is its nature, its very form. Not this, not that. Come, let’s cut. Keep denying. Come to the place where nothing remains to deny. Keep cutting until you arrive at the place where nothing remains to cut. Then what remains—the uncut, which no sword can pierce and no fire can burn, which you cannot even deny because there is no way to deny it—if once you taste that, if there is even a small glimpse of that witness, then the sun of religion has risen, morning has come, the long night of many lives is over, all darkness has vanished, death has been erased, and the nectar has begun to rain!
Saraha and Tilopa do not call rites and rituals religion. You ask: Please tell us, according to them, what is religion? It is that consciousness in which there are no rites, no rituals, no thoughts, no concepts, no doctrines, no scriptures. It is that mirror in which no reflection is forming—neither of woman nor of man, neither of trees nor of animals nor of birds. A blank mirror, a blank sheet, a blank mind… that pristine blankness is religion. The name of that blankness is meditation. The supreme experience of that blankness is samadhi. And one who has known that blankness has known God.
And it is not that God will be found standing outside—as an object—but as your innermost. That very witness is another name for God. The day you have known the witness hidden within you, you have known the witness hidden within all. You have caught hold of the source of consciousness hidden within this universe. You have come to the center of the world.
Doers are many; the witness is one. The seen are many; the seer is one.

Love has happened to you; religion has happened to you. You have begun to come toward your home. You have turned back. You have set out toward your source. The Ganges has started flowing back toward Gangotri. The current has reversed. Your first steps have begun to fall in the direction from which you came.

And when the first steps fall that way, dance is born. The farther you go from the divine, the more dance is lost; gloom, frustration, melancholy spread through life. When you are very miserable, understand that you are very far from the divine.

The rishis have described the divine as sat-chit-ananda—being, consciousness, bliss. Saraha says, Tilopa says: it is mahāsukha, the great bliss. That means the more you are in sorrow, the farther you are from it. The proportion of your sorrow is the proportion of your distance. The measure of your sorrow is the measure of your separation. The less the sorrow, the nearer you are. When you cannot dance at all, when all inner streams have dried, when you cannot sing, when you cannot be ecstatic, when you become like stone—then know you have fallen far from the divine. As you come closer, the fragrance of its flowers will arrive; you will hear the note of its vīṇā, the beat upon its mṛdaṅga, the touch of its flute upon your ears. Then how will you hold back? Then dance will be unavoidable. Ecstasy will be inevitable. When the divine draws near, there is no way not to dance.

If you think Meera attained the divine by dancing, you are mistaken. As Meera came closer to the divine, her dance went on increasing. If someone thinks God is found by dancing, then every dancer would find him. But when the divine is found, dance surely arises. Here you must grasp the distinction. If you think dancing brings the divine, dance will become a ritual. It won’t be dance, only swaying. No one will be dancing within; inside there will be silence of a barren kind. You will remain what you were. You will shake the body about; a kind of exercise will happen. You will get only what exercise can give.

But there is another dance—the dance that is not ritual; that is an inner upsurge; that is elation; that is celebration. That dance is born only when you begin to draw near to the divine.

You say: I am dancing here. Blessed you are! Dance. Do not be stingy, do not be miserly.

People have become miserly in everything. They tiptoe through everything, controlling everything. Even when they smile, it is as if it costs dearly. Even when they are glad, it is after much calculation. Yet to be glad costs nothing; nothing is lost. To love costs nothing; nothing is lost. Much is received, much is gained. But people have become so miserly they can neither smile nor dance nor sing.

And it is not their fault. This is what they have been taught. The conditioning of centuries says: religion means seriousness—ultra-seriousness. Therefore your sadhus and sannyasins appear utterly grave, stony, desert-like—as if there were no oasis in their hearts, no spring of life’s nectar flowing there. Meanwhile, all around, existence is dancing. Look: everything is whirling in circles. The great rasa is on. The earth you sit upon is racing at great speed—dancing. It is not still; it is full of movement. It circles the sun—its dance goes on near the sun. The sun is its lover. The sun is its Krishna; the earth is the gopī. And the moon too is dancing. The moon circles the earth, and with the earth circles the sun. The planets and satellites are dancing; all the stars are dancing. You see this festival of endless stars! Everything is dancing. Even the sun, the greatest of our sight, is dancing around some great super-sun. Scientists are searching for that super-sun around whose center our sun is dancing. If there is dance, there must be a center. If there is a circumference, there must be a center. The search for that sun is on. It must be very far. Who knows—perhaps that is the center of this existence; or perhaps it too dances around yet another center! Rows upon rows: Krishna in the middle, a circle of gopīs, then another circle, then a third. Rows upon rows. Garlands of lamps upon garlands of lamps.

Do you know the meaning of the word “Krishna”? Krishna means the one who attracts. Its meaning is the same as gravitation—ākarṣaṇa—karṣaṇa—Kṛṣṇa. Krishna means: the center of all attraction, around whom all the dancing whirls. The moment you dance, no matter how far Krishna may be, he becomes your center. You can only truly dance near the divine. For whatever reason you dance, a gust of the divine will blow into your life. You danced, falling in love with a woman—that too is a gust of the divine, a wave of the wind that has come. A son was born in your house and you danced—that too is a wave of the same. A rose bloomed in your garden and you danced—that is news of him!

The sound of ankle-bells came—jhan-jhan,
life-breath was drawn, the ears brimmed;
the sound of ankle-bells came—jhan-jhan!

A rippling wind of bliss arose,
the firm breast of the sky trembled,
a yearning entered the ears,
the world’s pure ache awoke—
when the sound came run-jhunan-jhunan, when the intoxicating anklets rang!

Dream fled across the horizons!
The world forgot its ego-sense!
Even the earthen turned utterly absorbed!
A canopy of humming vibration stretched!
The Malaya breeze swelled with tone!
The anklets sounded—jhan-jhan!

That old refrain, “Who am I?”
my ancient, unanswered bewilderment—
now, in the hum of anklets,
found its ocean-mate: “So’ham.”
We found a kind of assurance:
the anklets sounded—jhan-jhan!

This sheer wail of the heart
that life was wrapped in till today—
why should it not now grow calm, still?
Why should the mind still wander and reel,
when this new sound fell on the ear—
the anklets sounded—jhan-jhan!

Jhan-jhan—wind-waves audible to the ear;
jhan-jhan—the deep, unstruck sound;
jhan-jhan—these eddies of the river of melody;
jhan-jhan-jhan—the deathless letters of love;
jhan-jhan-jhan—the courtyard of the heart resounded;
the anklets sounded—jhan-jhan!

Right and left, fore and aft,
outside-inside, above-below—
the same humming everywhere;
the sound drenched water, earth, and sky;
the unmoored life-breath, the mind, absorbed in resonance—
the anklets sounded—jhan-jhan!

They came—those steps that kindle fire in the world,
that give the unmoving river motion and step,
grasping the hem of restlessness,
they came placing gentle feet;
creation thrilled, each particle rang—
the anklets sounded—jhan-jhan!

The earth danced; the sky danced;
the garland of stars danced, swift;
ta-thai, ta-thai, they leapt in dance,
innumerable solar-systems trembled—
when Those Feet began their dance;
the anklets sounded—jhan-jhan!

Filled with delight, with divine frenzy,
with intoxication and even with sweet ache,
we ask Them today:
how could anyone still dispute,
when anklets speak jhanan-jhanan,
when breath and mind go un-selfed?

When the seven steps are fulfilled,
when vanished is the distance of duality,
when the Beloved throws arms around our neck,
when His consent is given—
then we shall become the sound of His anklets,
resounding jhan-jhan, jhanan-jhanan.

A journey has begun. The pilgrimage of dance. Wherever you dance, a place of pilgrimage is born. Wherever you dance, there is Krishna. Wherever you dance, there is the divine. If you dance with your whole being, you become the bells on His feet. If you sing with your whole heart, it is He who sings in your throat. If you become musical, it is He who has plucked the string of your heart. Only when He plucks do these notes arise.

You say: “I am dancing here. I, who never danced!”

Dance has been lost—not only yours; the dance of all humanity has been lost. Man is caught in thinking, in debate—who has time to dance! And when there is no dance in life, we look for excuses. We say: the courtyard is crooked—how can we dance? We say: we do not yet have enough money to dance, not enough position to dance; how can we dance when what we want has not yet come? We lay conditions upon dance. Those conditions are never fulfilled; they are not meant to be fulfilled. You will never dance. And the one who never danced was unfortunate. He stayed very near the divine and yet remained far.

Dance! You say: “Far from dancing, I had never even thought I would dance. I am astonished at myself.” When, for the first time, religion dawns in the heart, everyone is astonished, amazed. For we were mad after wealth—how could we ever go mad after meditation? We were mad after status—how could we ever become intoxicated with the Lord? We were gatherers of rubbish—how could we ever come to recognize the treasure within? Had someone told us this a thousand times, we still would not have believed.

And they have told us. Ask those who have awakened. They say the kingdom of God is within you. We even hear it, but the mind does not trust. We even bow. We go and pay our respects at the feet of Buddhas and Christs—and return just the same. No bathing happens, no meditation happens, no taste of the Supreme is born in our lives.

Here a living religion is being born—a dancing religion, a laughing religion. I am in deep love with life, and that is what I am teaching you. I am not anti-life. I am not teaching you renunciation of life; I am teaching you how to relish life. This is the priest’s difficulty with me, because they think I am a hedonist. In a way they are right. My understanding is that the divine is the supreme enjoyer. He is enjoying the greenness of these trees, the light of these moon and stars. The divine is immensely affluent; this entire splendor is His. That is why we call Him Īśvara—the One to whom all sovereignty belongs.

God is not an ascetic. Do not even by mistake imagine that when you meet Him He will be wearing a loincloth. By mistake, do not think so. It may be that He wears a garland of flowers—He has nothing to do with loincloths. It may be that He wears a necklace of moon and stars, that suns are set in His crown, that in His hand is a flute and the unstruck sound resounds. That may well be—but loincloths have no connection with Him.

Do you think a loincloth-wearing God could create so lovely a world? Would a loincloth-wearer make roses, open lotuses, fill jasmine with fragrance, paint the wings of butterflies? Think a little. Would an ascetic God create such a beautiful world? Why? Only a supremely enjoying God could do this. This world is the eternal proof of His enjoyment.

And I do not want to make you renouncers. I want to give you the art of enjoyment—how to enjoy so deeply that you come to union with that Supreme Enjoyer. Dance in such a way that you are lost in the dance, and only He remains; you disappear. Sing in such a way that you do not even know when your song became His. And such a moment does come: as you sing, self-forgetfulness descends; then the song is no longer yours. As you dance, when you no longer remember who is dancing, when only the dance remains and the dancer is gone—then know: it is He who dances within you.

This is a fine, subtle, delicate matter. Only the one who experiences will know. From the outside, it cannot be seen. From outside, how will you distinguish Meera from a performer? It may be that the performer dances better, more trained. In Meera’s dance there may be a little roughness, a little wildness—as there should be. People so intoxicated, why would they care for rules! Meera is not going to count her steps to see if some foot falls out of place. She will dance in ecstasy; some missteps may happen. The performer will dance by arithmetic; there will be no mistake. From the outside you may find more art in the performer’s dance—but inside, the performer is present, calculating. Her eyes are on your money. There is purpose in her dance; there is the gratification of ego.

Meera knows nothing—having dropped concern for public opinion. She does not even know when her scarf slips. She is dancing in the marketplace—what will people say! Where is awareness! Where is the sense of “I”! Inside, no one remains now.

So when Meera dances, know that Krishna dances. When the devotee dances, know that God dances. But this is a flavor known within. You will know it as you dance. A moment will come: until then you are there—and suddenly, you are not. And from the very point where you are not, dance becomes religious; from there, dance becomes meditation.

Dance! Do not think, do not brood. More and more moments of astonishment will happen. More and more wonders are waiting for you.

Life is not only suffering. Who told you that? Yes, there is suffering here, but suffering is only in the service of joy. Like the thorns beside a flower: they are the flower’s protection. Thorns are not the enemies of flowers; they are their guardians, their watchmen—servants of the flower.

Life is not all suffering. Though suffering is here, every sorrow polishes you; without being refined, you would not be able to taste happiness. Every sorrow is an examination. Every sorrow is training. Think of a veena player tightening the strings. If the strings had consciousness, they would feel he is hurting them—twisting, stretching, causing pain! But the veena player is not inflicting pain; he is arranging for supreme music to arise from within them. Or a tabla player hammers the drum-head. If the drum had awareness, it would cry, “So much suffering—only suffering! Every moment a hammer, no peace at all.” Yet the drummer is only preparing it so that sound can be born.

Suffering is not what you think it is. Existence is preparing you. This is the endless journey of bliss. But on the journey a price must be paid, a cost given. Gold must pass through fire to be pure. A seed must break to become a tree. A river must lose itself to become the ocean. Will you call all this suffering? If you do, you miss the point. It is not suffering at all. Only one who knows, knows this. Here there is sorrow; here there is joy. But every sorrow serves joy. There are thorns and there are flowers; yet every thorn serves the flower.

Even if there are tears in the eyes,
there is a smile upon the lips.

And the eyes that have never wept—such smiles are stale. You will find dust settled upon them. They have no freshness, no sparkle. The one who has never cried, from whose eyes no tears have ever flowed—his lips are soiled. When tears often flow from the eyes, the lips remain fresh, newly bathed. One who can weep—when he laughs, flowers shower from his laughter. And one who knows the art of weeping—flowers begin to shower even from his tears. When one is fully adept, his tears are beautiful and his smile is beautiful.

If you understand, then when you string a garland of flowers, with awareness you can even use the thorns. You need the eye that can see.

Do you see? In the new age the cactus has become more honored than the rose. One needs the seeing eye. People no longer only plant roses at home; they keep cacti. Cacti! Two or three centuries ago, if anyone had kept cacti in his house, people would have thought him mad: “Your mind is deranged! Why bring this thorny, poisonous plant inside? Its spikes might pierce someone and kill him.” Such hedges were planted only along field boundaries, to keep animals out and thieves away. Who would bring them into the home?

But human sensitivity has developed, refinement has grown. Now we can see that even a cactus has beauty—indeed a distinct beauty. The beauty of the cactus is now becoming visible. Something similar happens within. One who has eyes begins to see beauty in sorrow too—begins to see joy.

Even if there are tears in the eyes,
there is a smile upon the lips.

O priestess of the hour of prayer,
why does your body tremble?
Here there is neglect, yes,
but there is also benediction.

Even if there are tears in the eyes,
there is a smile upon the lips.

Why do your steps waver,
when the goal beckons you?
Look—on this unfamiliar path
there is an ancient, intimate knowing.

Even if there are tears in the eyes,
there is a smile upon the lips.

Is man weak or strong?
This is the heart’s timeless riddle.
If here there is hope of attainment,
here too is the gift in return.

Even if there are tears in the eyes,
there is a smile upon the lips.

Upon the ripples of tears
the lotus of laughter blooms.
In the heart there is plaintive sobbing,
yet in the voice there is song.

Even if there are tears in the eyes,
there is a smile upon the lips.

Awaken a little. Search a little. Who told you life is nothing but sorrow? Your so-called renouncers and ascetics keep saying such futile things: “Life is only suffering, only thorns—everything is bad. Renounce it. Run away. Leave it.”

But be careful: whoever renounces life, whoever leaves life, insults God. He is an atheist, not a theist. Why do I say this? I say it after deep reflection. If you love the painter, how can you renounce his painting? If you love the sculptor, how can you renounce his sculpture? If you love the musician, you will carry his veena upon your head in reverence. If God created this existence, how can you renounce it? In renunciation there is complaint against God: “What have you made?” In renunciation is the declaration: “We know better than you what the world should be like—given a chance, we would have made a better world. What is this you’ve created—only suffering?”

No—there is not only suffering. Sorrow is the background of joy. Just as stars are seen only at night—during the day the sky is also full of stars; they have not gone anywhere, they have not taken sannyas in the day! The sky is full of stars in daylight too, but we cannot see them because the background is missing. Darkness is needed as a backdrop. The darker the night, the brighter the stars. On the new moon night the stars have a radiance they never have otherwise. We write on a blackboard with white chalk; write on a white wall and nothing is visible. The writing may be there, but you will not see it. A background is needed. Sorrow is the background of joy. Thorns are the background of flowers. Tears are the background of smiles. If you remove the background, your life will become flat, dull, disordered; its very foundation will crumble. Yet the renouncer-ascetic has kept teaching you: “Run away.” He keeps jabbing his fingers into your eyes, pointing: “See—this sorrow, that sorrow!” He has made you count your sufferings. No one has made you count your joys till now.

And I tell you: there is no sorrow that is not arranging for a joy. Every sorrow is a background for bliss; it is the new-moon night for the stars of happiness. To know this is what I call the art of living. Then this whole world appears filled with incomparable beauty—and in that beauty the first glimpse of God is found.

Remember: a life without the challenges of sorrow becomes impotent. A life in which great questions do not arise never gives birth to great awareness.

That path of life is barren
where the wires of thorns are not,
that human mind is barren
where no outcry ever stirs.

A lump of dust is that human heart
in which no fire ever blazed,
that music of life is empty
where compassion’s raga is not.

They are shards of glass, those eyes
in which no stream of tears flows,
that life is like the beasts
which knows no boundless love.

That sleep is mere stupor
in which there are no dreaming worlds,
what triumph-joy, what triumph-pride,
that has never looked upon defeat?

Where is perfection in true love
that has never tasted separation?
Call it not life but death
where there is no pain and sadness.

Where is bliss in that life
that despair has never struck?
If on the silent stage of lips
there hangs no garland of sighs—

If you have not borne the ache of waiting,
what worth is there in attaining?
He whose eyes have not met with sorrow
has never truly seen the world.

Transform sorrow. Put sorrow in the service of joy. Make sorrow the refinement of joy. Do not run from sorrow. To run is unintelligent. To awaken is wisdom. And remember: if there were no sorrow, you would never awaken.

Notice this: if in the night a sweet, delicious dream is running, your sleep never breaks. You become an emperor—golden palaces, beautiful women, wine flowing, dancers dancing—why would sleep break? Everything is sweet; why would you wake up? But if you see a nightmare: a lion is after you, coming closer and closer; you run for your life—over hills, leaping great distances, striking rocks, falling, rising, thorns piercing you, your feet bleeding, and the lion’s roar nearer and nearer—at last he places his paw on your back. Will your sleep continue? It will snap open at once. And when you wake you find: there is no lion—only your wife has placed her hand upon your back. No lion at all—only your wife. Even in sleep she worries that you might run off somewhere, so she keeps her hand there—lest you dream wrongly!

A painful dream breaks sleep immediately. The sorrows of this world are devices to awaken you. Without sorrow, this world would be fast asleep. Consider: if there had been no sorrow, there would have been no Buddha. Buddhahood happened because sorrow exists. Because there is suffering, man has reflected, pondered, meditated. Because there is pain, man has searched, inquired. Thorns prick; and because they prick, the quest for flowers begins. Because there is death, the search for immortality begins. So do not think of death as an enemy.

You have heard the story of Buddha. Riding in his chariot he saw an old, sick man and asked the charioteer, “What has happened to him?” He had never seen sickness or old age. His father had arranged it so, because at Buddha’s birth astrologers had predicted: “Guard him carefully; he will become either a world-conquering emperor or a great Buddha.” What father wishes his son to become a Buddha! Every father wants an emperor. The father said, “This is dangerous. How can I prevent my son from becoming a Buddha and keep him an emperor?” The wise men advised: “Never let him know of old age, sickness, or death. These are the blows that awaken a man. Keep him asleep—lulled by dreams of pleasure.”

So palaces were built for every season, and in each palace the most beautiful women of the kingdom were gathered so that only beauty would be seen—nothing but sweetness. Gardeners were ordered to pluck any leaf before it withered, lest, seeing a withered leaf, the thought arise that life too might wither. At night, from the gardens all flowers nearing their end were removed—Buddha never saw a faded flower. No old person could enter the palace. When Buddha went out into the city, the streets were cleared: no old, no sick, no ugly, no maimed—no trace of death was to reach him.

By the time he was grown he did not know that death existed. So when, for the first time, he saw an old man, he was startled. The charioteer said, “Nothing special has happened—everyone becomes old.” Buddha asked at once, “Will I also grow old?” “You must,” said the charioteer, “there is no exception.” Then Buddha saw a corpse. “What is this?” he asked. “Why are people carrying him on their shoulders?” “This man has died,” said the charioteer, “this is the step beyond old age.”

“Died? What does it mean to die?” Buddha had his first inkling of death. “Will I also die? Will people one day carry me like this? And then what?”

“Then they burn you,” said the charioteer. “There is no other use left.”

“So they will burn me too!” Buddha said, “Turn the chariot back. We were going to inaugurate a youth festival, but now there is neither youth nor festival. Let me search for life. Let me seek that element which neither ages nor dies.”

See it: had there been no sorrow, Buddha would never have been born. If there were no suffering, there would be no religion in the world. Religion exists because suffering exists; without it you would never remember God. In happiness everyone forgets God; in sorrow he is remembered a little. So understand the use and meaning of suffering.

There is sorrow in the world because nectar is hidden in it. Sorrow startles you, awakens you, and then you become the master of the nectar. Behind death is immortality; behind sorrow is joy. Understand this alchemy of life. Do not keep chanting “sorrow, sorrow” and run away. Where will you run? Do not shrink back, do not be afraid. Sorrow is a challenge.

That path of life is barren
where the wires of thorns are not,
that human mind is barren
where no outcry ever stirs.

They are shards of glass, those eyes
in which no stream of tears flows,
that life is like the beasts
which knows no boundless love.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin went to the village’s most miserly merchant to ask for a donation for the mosque. That man had never given to anyone; his fame was that he had never donated in his life. He had plenty, but always found a way out. Once, when people came for an orphanage, he said, “Listen: my mother is eighty and dying of hunger. My brother is lame and can’t get a grain to eat. My wife lies ill; I cannot even manage medicine.”

The fundraisers were shocked. “We had no idea you were in such distress,” they said. “I am not in distress,” he replied, “but my mother is eighty and I don’t help her; my brother is lame and I don’t help him; my wife is bedridden and I don’t buy her medicine—if I don’t care for my own, why should I care for others? Let others be orphans. My own house has enough orphans!”

People tried every trick, but he never gave. When Nasruddin went and told a moving tale—“The mosque is about to collapse; one day it may fall upon the worshippers and there will be deaths—and while you are here…!”—the merchant said, “Do this: one of my eyes is fake and one real. Tell me which is fake. If you tell me correctly, I will donate.”

Nasruddin looked a moment and said, “Your left eye is fake.” The merchant was stunned. “How did you know?” “Because,” said Nasruddin, “there is a hint of compassion in the left eye. That must be the fake one. The real eye is stone—there is no question of compassion there.”

People become insensate. Their eyes turn to stone. If you begin to shrink, you lose sensitivity—and sensitivity is prayer. If you keep seeing only suffering, you will become hard. And if you do not become hard, what will you do? To protect yourself from sorrow, hardness becomes a shield. That is why your so-called renouncers grow hard. Their hearts turn to stone. The poetry of their lives is lost. They may speak of compassion and discourse on love and deliver sermons on the Brahma-sutras, but inside there is no spring—no fountain of joy, of juice, of love. It cannot be. “Life is nothing but suffering.” If one must be safe from suffering, one must become hard. The harder you become, the more you are protected from pain. The more tender and compassionate you remain, the more sorrow will attack you. Security from sorrow lies in hardness.

Therefore I do not tell you that life is nothing but suffering—its final result would be disastrous. If life were only sorrow, you would turn to stone; you would die petrified.

No, there is much joy in life. I do not say there is no sorrow—that would be false, another extreme. Some say there is no joy at all—one extreme. I will not say there is no sorrow—there is, plenty! But in comparison to joy, it is nothing. And all sorrow can be put in the service of joy. Make steps out of your suffering. Do not see the stones on the path only as stones and obstacles—turn them into stairs. This is the art of living. This is what I call religion. Religion is not renunciation—it is the great celebration.

It is necessary to analyze the question properly, because the question almost carries the answer within itself!

First of all, you say the question has no existence. Then why ask at all? If you already know that the question has no existence, why do you ask? It is like going to a doctor and saying, “Illness has no existence—but still, please examine my pulse, write some treatment, give me an injection—although the illness itself is nonexistent!” Why begin with this claim that the question has no existence? Perhaps you want to show that for you, for “me,” questions have no existence. But inside there must be a whole heap of questions.

Your name may be Bhai Mahakwala, but fragrance belongs to a questionless mind! From questions only a stink arises, not fragrance. From questions comes a reek, a bad odor. In a questionless mind the perfume of samadhi spreads. You must have heard that there should be no questions; one must be questionless. So you began that way—but you won’t be able to slip away. What is said on the surface does not help; inside you are full of questions.

And the question is not even yours—it concerns Darshan. If Darshan has to ask, let Darshan ask. If the Vedic scholar of Gurukul Kangri has to ask, let the Vedic scholar of Gurukul Kangri ask. You are neither. Why have you needlessly come in between? It is not your question—yet it must have churned your mind, otherwise why ask it? But there isn’t even enough honesty to say clearly, “This is hurting me inside; therefore I must ask. This question is troubling me; that is why I am asking.”

Such hypocrisy has spread widely in this country. People come to me and say, “Actually we have attained meditation, but we thought we would still ask you how to meditate.” They cannot even say, “We have not attained meditation.” No—meditation has happened; samadhi is being experienced; “but we still came to ask.” I say: Why all this effort? Why trouble yourself needlessly? If meditation has already happened, I have nothing further to say. Until you say, “Meditation has not happened to me,” why should I say anything? Why waste my time? One established in samadhi need not go to ask anyone anything. The matter is finished.

But this hypocrisy persists here. One thing is the fact; something else is said. We have become very skilled at wearing masks.

Now you ask: “Knowing that the question has no existence, I would humbly like to know…” Even this “humbly” is not humility at all. How can asking about another person be humility? In the question there is a slur. In the question there is condemnation. It carries the insistence that Darshan has done something wrong. Where is the humility in that? And if there isn’t, there is no need to say it.

But this is how things go in our country: “I wish to ask, humbly…” The question itself is un-humble. It has arisen from the ego being bruised. Perhaps you too are somewhat of a Vedic scholar. Perhaps you too have some connection with Gurukul Kangri. Perhaps the wound on you is the same as the Vedic scholar’s wound. But you push it aside and want to ask from outside.

Learn honesty! Say, “I am hurt; this thing doesn’t sit well with me; therefore I must ask.” Then the question will have some warmth. You have made the question completely flaccid. You ask: “Ma Darshan replied to the Vedic scholar of Gurukul Kangri regarding your being God—‘God you too are, but you have not remembered.’ According to my dull intellect…” Do you truly believe you are dull-witted? Do you honestly accept that you are dull? Drop these habits—everyone here uses them.

A gentleman once came and said, “I am but the dust of your feet.” I said, “I have always known that.” He became angry. I said, “You yourself say you are the dust of my feet, and I agreed—so why be angry?” He was not actually saying, “I am the dust of your feet.” He was advertising, “Look at my humility; I call myself the dust of your feet.” He wanted to hear me say, “No, no—how can you be dust! You are a blossom to be placed on the head!” Then he would have been happy.

Now you say, “According to my dull intellect…” If your intellect truly is dull, keep quiet. Only if it is not dull should you enter into such questions. But we take this as etiquette. It is all hypocrisy, not civility. You say, “According to my dull intellect, only one who has remembered can give such an answer; and one who has remembered can also call himself God.”

Remembrance is dawning in Darshan; it hasn’t fully arrived—like in the early morning when sleep has broken but you have not quite woken up. The milkman is measuring milk at the door—you catch a faint hint. The children are getting ready for school—you catch a faint hint. The wife is in the kitchen making breakfast—you hear a little clatter of utensils. The neighbors have risen, the birds are calling in the garden. But you have turned over, drawn the sheet over you, and are lying there. You are somewhat awake and somewhat not—half and half.

Darshan is there—half and half. The hint has come; the sense is dawning. Day is near; the sun is about to rise. Her answer was right.

In a moving train, a traveler on the upper berth woke and bent down to ask the one on the lower berth, “Brother, what’s the time?” “Past five,” came the answer. Past five! After a while, trying to make sense of it, he asked again, “Brother, what time is it?” “Past ten,” came the answer. “What is this—‘past five,’ ‘past ten’! Why don’t you tell the time plainly?” scolded the upper traveler. The one below showed his watch and explained, “Brother, when there is no hour hand, you tell me—what can I tell you?” Past five, past ten…

For Darshan, one hand of the clock has begun to move; the other will also come. For now she can only say, “Past five, past ten!” But she will say at least that much. For now she can say about me that I am God; about herself she hesitates a little. For now—“past ten, past five.” But when one hand has begun to move, the other will too. The clock is already at work; it is just a matter of fitting one more hand. By the next time the Vedic scholar comes, Darshan will say, “I am God!” You can listen—or you yourself can ask her then. Now I give her the command: let your second hand be set today as well; stop fretting about “past five, past ten”; now say plainly, “so many hours so many minutes.”

Even after knowing that God sits within, it is not necessary that everyone announce it. Buddha divided the realized into two types. One he called arhat, the other bodhisattva. The arhat knows and remains silent. The bodhisattva knows and climbs the rooftops to wake the whole world. An arhat is a person established in samadhi who has known and become quiet, with nothing to say to anyone. His reasoning is: who will understand, who will recognize? This thing is so subtle that if you tell a hundred, perhaps one might understand. And the one who understands—had you not told him, sooner or later he would have understood anyway. One with that much intelligence would not be delayed.

A bodhisattva proclaims, “I have attained, and you too can attain.” Near me both kinds of flowers will bloom—arhats as well as bodhisattvas. The bodhisattvas will declare; the arhats will remain silent—even after knowing, they will be silent.

You have heard the name of Mansur Al-Hallaj—an extraordinary Sufi. People crucified him because he declared, “I am God.” His master Junayd said to Al-Hallaj, “Do not make this declaration. Do you think I don’t know? I too know—but I remain silent. You also keep silent.”

And when the master told the disciple to be silent, Al-Hallaj said, “Since you say so, I will be silent.” But the will of God was something else. Al-Hallaj could not be an arhat—it was not in his nature. He could only be a bodhisattva. So whenever ecstasy rose and he went deep into meditation, he would shout again, “Ana’l-Haqq!” Junayd said, “Look, you don’t obey.” Al-Hallaj said, “I do obey, but if God does not consent, what can I do? As long as I remain, as long as I am in control, I keep silent; but a moment comes when I am gone—and then That speaks. What can I do? What power do I have?”

Junayd is an arhat; Al-Hallaj a bodhisattva. Junayd knows the same—but remained silent. The bodhisattva cannot keep silent; he must speak. Arhats do not become true masters; they are solitary travelers. They reach their destination alone and alone dissolve into the void. Bodhisattvas are true masters; they proclaim. Only by proclaiming can you be a true master. And Buddha has said: if possible, be a bodhisattva. If not, being an arhat is fine—because through bodhisattvas others also awaken. They rouse, they call out—even if any price has to be paid, even life itself. That is what happened with Mansur: he was killed. That is what happened with Jesus: he was killed.

Bodhisattvas may be killed. Arhats suffer no harm—they do not speak; they remain silent. “I have found the diamond,” Kabir says, “I have tied it into my bundle’s knot, so why tell anyone? Why open it up and show it?”

So do not think that once it is known there is a compulsion to declare it. Even if it is known, there is no such compulsion. And it is not necessary that whoever declares must know—there are also those who declare without knowing. This world holds every kind of variety. But it is better not to get entangled in such concerns. Raise questions of your own; ask in such a way that some fragrance may arise in you. Ask your own questions, personal questions—things by which your problems can be resolved.

This is what Darshan should ask—if she wants to. But she never asks. For many years she has been with me; she is among those very close to me. Yet she has never asked a question. Sometimes I have to give her an answer; since she does not ask, I have to give it. She has never written me a letter—I have had to write to her. Asking is not her habit. Raising questions is not her habit. She drinks quietly. What is given is enough.

But why have you become anxious? Why has this question stirred you? Leave others’ worries aside. And when you ask, ask honestly; do not bring in etiquette like, “The question has no existence,” or “I humbly ask,” or, “Though the question is not, still I ask,” or, “I am dull-witted, so I ask according to my dullness.”

In one town there is a poet who writes under two pen names—one “Dhenchu” and the other “Rahi.” At a poetry gathering the emcee said, “Now Dhenchu-ji will recite.” “Today I will read under the pen name ‘Rahi,’” said Dhenchu-ji—“it is a serious composition.” When it is serious, he reads as Rahi; when it is humorous, he reads as Dhenchu. So he said, “Today I will read as Rahi; it is serious.” A voice rose from the audience: “What difference does it make—the same voice will come out!” From Dhenchu only Dhenchu will come, however serious the composition. Whatever mask we put on, it makes no real difference.

And your mind did manage this question: If Darshan knows, she should herself declare, “I am God.” But the question did not arise in you whether you really know that those who know must always declare. Do you know that those who remain silent do not know? You did not think that.

It happened that two philosophers were crossing a bridge over a river. One said, “Ah, how the river is squealing with delight!” A mountain river—so much commotion, singing, dancing, ankle-bells jingling along to the ocean. The other said, “You are not the river—how do you know the river is in delight?” A clear question: you are not the river, how do you know the river is joyful? Do you know what the first philosopher replied? He said, “You are not me—how do you know that I don’t know?”

If you get into philosophical disputation, it becomes very difficult. Do you know what the first philosopher said next? “Fine—I know you are not the river, and I also know I am not you. But how do you know that it is not possible for me to know in relation to you? After all, you are not ‘I’ either.”

Where will such a debate end? It cannot end. It is mere head-banging—splitting hairs.

The former vice-chancellor of Gurukul Kangri, Satyavrat, came to see the ashram; Darshan took him around. He has written important books on the Upanishads—but they must be only books. For the Upanishads’ proclamation is this: Aham Brahmasmi! That is their fundamental tone. He must have had one restlessness, one discomfort—so he asked Darshan, “Why do you call your master God?” Darshan said, “God he is—exactly as you are. He knows; he is aware. You are not aware.”

In this context your question has been asked. Darshan spoke exactly right. This is the only difference between Buddhas and non-Buddhas—there is not even the slightest other difference: one has become aware; one has not. One is asleep; one is awake. The one asleep can also awaken. The one awake was also asleep till yesterday. There is no fundamental difference between the two; the one who is awake was asleep; the one who is asleep can awaken.

And Darshan, as I said, is still half-and-half—somewhat asleep, somewhat waking. But whenever there is a little awakening and a little sleep, awakening is bound to win; sleep cannot win. For what substance does sleep have, what power? A single ray of awakening is enough; it will pierce even the deepest slumber. A tiny lamp is enough; it destroys the most ancient darkness. She answered rightly. She too has begun to get a few glimpses.

Those who gather around me here—if they are not getting a glimpse, then there is no meaning in being with me, no purpose. Only those can remain near me whose tongues have begun to feel a slight taste—just a little now; tomorrow it may become much. If the beginning has happened, the fulfillment will also come. No one can stay with me for any other reason, because by staying with me you gain no status in society, no respect, no position. Staying with me does not give you any facility for earning money. Obstacles will arise. Reputation in society—if you have any, it will be lost. If you have some name, there will be more infamy. Wherever you are, restlessness will be created.

If you become my sannyasin and society still lets you live in peace—that will be a miracle. Such a miracle… A friend met me after a long time. I asked, “How are you?” He said, “I am astonished—consider it a great miracle.” I asked, “What happened?” He said, “My eldest son is named Sanjay, the middle one Suresh, the youngest Kanti—and still there is shanti (peace) at home! I am amazed.”

I said, “That is nothing. If you want to see a greater miracle, take sannyas. Then if there is still peace in your home, know that a real miracle has happened. Your wife will oppose you; your children will oppose you; your parents will oppose you. Wherever you go people will point fingers.”

Those who are with me must inevitably pass through tapas, through austerity. Darshan has not come to me cheaply. She left home and hearth. She left her husband. She left all prestige, respect, money. After leaving so much, when one comes, one must be getting something—only then one comes. Think a little. Be dull-witted if you must—but think at least a little. Darshan has not come just like that; she has come after losing much. And having come, she is blissful, contented, joyous. Sit with her, keep her company. Bhai Mahakwala of Delhi—spend a little time in Darshan’s satsang! My words may feel too far away to you; hers perhaps not so far—because she is half asleep, half awake; she can speak somewhat in your language.

But always remember: questions are good when they concern oneself. Asking about others is very easy. But you see—I have turned the question back upon you. Because that is what I consider right.

Dhabbhu-ji said to Chandulal, “Chandulal, it seems your tooth is giving you quite a lot of trouble.” “If it were my tooth,” said Dhabbhu-ji, “I’d have had it pulled out long ago.” Chandulal said, “Yes—if it were your tooth, I’d do exactly that.”

There is no difficulty in pulling out someone else’s tooth; getting your own pulled is hard! When you ask me a question, ask about your own teeth.

Precisely for that! Because it is dead, it must be revived. What is the point of reviving those who are already alive? One treats the sick, not the healthy.

This country is dead, and has been dead for centuries. It must be breathed back to life. And this country is a precious one. It ought not be dead. Its deadness is a costly loss. This country must live. It must be rejuvenated, for it holds a great treasure. If it is reawakened, light will spread to the whole world.

But the country lies dead. It lies like a corpse upon its own treasure. It neither benefits from that wealth itself, nor allows anyone else to benefit from it. Life must be breathed into this corpse; it must be awakened—because no other land holds such a treasury. That is exactly my predicament.

This country is dead, yet it holds a vast wealth! What the buddhas and siddhas discovered over centuries still belongs to this land—even now! Though we are dead, and so we make no use of it: neither for ourselves nor for others. If we come alive, if this culture rises anew, if it becomes contemporary, if we begin to live in the twentieth century—then we can become a source of revolution for the whole world.

But you are right: the country is utterly dead—so dead it defies measure!

Yesterday I read in the newspaper that in Delhi the Oriental Circus is heading for bankruptcy, because Morarji Desai has imposed a ban: girls over the age of twelve may not work in the circus wearing tight-fitting clothes. Over twelve! They must wear salwar-kameez.

Now just imagine a girl walking the tightrope wearing a salwar-kameez—she’ll be finished! Or swinging fifty feet up, hanging upside down, and her salwar gets caught… And it cannot be that the salwar does not get entangled. And the kurti and dupatta too… So the women who work in the circus refuse to perform in those clothes—their lives are at risk. And Morarji will not allow them to wear tight outfits to do their work. The circus is going bankrupt.

When a country is ruled by people like Morarji, what else can happen but death? This country needs to be made young again. It is arduous work. Very difficult work. Because those who have been dead for a long time have acquired a taste for deadness. They have vested interests in remaining dead.

So you ask—and I understand your feeling. Your question is loving. You are saying: Why am I laboring here pointlessly? No one will understand me. True. It is an attempt to do the impossible. That anyone here will understand me, that anyone will listen—this is to try the impossible. Precisely therefore I relish it; it is a challenge.

Ah, O formless month of Phagun!
Do not dwell in the empty courtyard of my prison,
Ah, O formless month of Phagun!
Where are melody, rasa, and color here?
Where the clashing cymbals, the temple drums?
All around spreads
This mood of death, everywhere.
In this ill-starred land do not come, you joyous, laughter-brimming one,
Ah, O guileless month of Phagun!

In the oil-press each particle of life
Turns to oil, moment by moment.
Each day, in the mill’s dull drone,
The groves of song are ground to dust.
Where is the relish, the raga of Holi’s bridal spring here,
Ah, O resounding month of Phagun!

In the hard joints of bamboo,
In the keen snares of tough munj-rope,
Life’s moments are caught and stuck,
Breath is stifled by toil.
Do not spread here your red-gulal revelry,
Ah, O ruddy month of Phagun!

The jingle of chains hangs heavy,
The thud of baton and shackle booms;
The hoarse whirr of the winch spreads—
Where is the water-step’s tinkling?
How will you find here a hint of Holi,
Ah, O defeated month of Phagun!

Ah, O formless month of Phagun!
Do not dwell in the empty courtyard of my prison.

I understand your endearing question. You are saying: Why labor here? Here people cannot dance; their feet are petrified. Here people cannot sing; their throats are lost. Here people cannot be overwhelmed by love; they have waged enmity with love for centuries upon centuries. Here it is hard to spread intoxication. But precisely for that! Flowers must be coaxed from these stones. This desert must again be turned into a garden.

Ah, O formless month of Phagun!
Do not dwell in the empty courtyard of my prison.
Where are melody, rasa, and color here?
Where the clashing cymbals, the temple drums?
All around spreads
This mood of death, everywhere.
In this ill-starred land do not come, you joyous, laughter-brimming one,
Ah, O guileless month of Phagun!

But then where else should Phagun go? There is no need for it to go anywhere else. Where the mridang is already beating, where the cymbals already clang, where songs are already being sung—what need has Phagun to go there? If there is no mridang, we shall fashion one. If raga-rasa-color is lost, we shall give it birth. The cymbals will ring again. This death-mood that has gripped the country—we shall free it from this.

I have given you the ochre of sannyas—ochre is the color of spring. We must fill this land with spring. This land of buddhas and siddhas must not remain in the hands of corpses. It must be wrested back from the dead. It must be taken back from pandits and priests, and returned to living, singing, dancing hands. This can be done. It is difficult—very—but precisely because it is difficult, it is worthy to be done.

The styles of the age have changed,
New melodies, new instruments.
Light floods the halls of commerce,
Dawn has broken over Sham and Lebanon.
A new morning, a new sun—
Blessed be this revolution of the times.
We ourselves are the new dawn, we ourselves the sun,
We ourselves are the revolt, we ourselves the revolution.
We are the stars of the darkest nights,
We are the sparks that do not die.
Become lamps! Become such embers—
We are the sparks that do not die,
We are the stars of the darkest nights.

Let only a few lamps be lit—there will be light. There is no need for the entire country to awaken; if a few awaken, a breeze will move in the air, a sweetness will spread. If a few people awaken and begin to live in joy, the “illness” will become contagious to others.

And it must be done—at any cost. Because this country possesses an immense treasure! It must be freed from the dead—their ghosts—and from the dead who, like serpents, are coiled on the treasure, hood raised.

This country holds sutras that could fill the whole world with fragrance. This country possesses an immeasurable science—the science of the inner.

The West has developed the science of the outer; half the work the West has completed. We completed the inner science long ago; that half we finished ages back. If these two can meet, for the first time a complete human being can be born, and an integrated, whole culture of humanity can arise.

What I am attempting here is exactly this: to embrace East and West; to let each dissolve into the other. Let science coming from the West and religion awakened in the East meet—then, for the first time, earth can become heaven. This is a unique opportunity. If we strive, what has never been can be today. Even if a Buddha tried, the outer world was poor and would have remained poor. The inner could be serene and rich, but the outer would still be destitute—only half the treasure. Today, the West may try all it can—fine houses, fine cars, fine roads, fine medicines, everything—but the soul of man is lost. The West’s whole endeavor will go in vain. This is a rare moment for union.

But the East’s religion has fallen into the hands of corpses and blind men. The West’s science is in the hands of the living, but those living ones have no sense of their own souls. So let there not be a slip! Let it not happen that the moment arrived, the bread could have been baked—flour ready, water ready, salt ready, ghee ready, the stove lit—but the cook did not know how to knead the dough. Only this one thing is missing—the kneading. Everything else is ready. Never before was it so prepared.

In the past the outer world was poor and would have remained poor. Today the outer world grows rich, but the inner is poor. If we can rejuvenate the science of Buddha, Saraha, Tilopa, and the science of the West—what Einstein, Newton, Eddington have given—if these two meet—if Einstein and Buddha meet—then for the first time in human history there will be a world that flowers both outside and inside.

I could go to the West. It would be convenient. I have invitations from Western countries. I would not have to get entangled in useless hassles. I would not have to waste time in talk with people like Morarji Desai. The work would be smoother. For me, yes—the work would be easier—but India’s treasure would be lost. I see no one else here who could revive it. It would be impossible. And reviving it in the West would be very difficult, because the West lacks the foundation-stone for it.

Therefore I want this event of Eastern rejuvenation to happen here. Here it can happen more easily. And people from the West can come here more easily. You, from here, cannot easily go West. That too is a hindrance. I could move West; every facility would be there. The work would become easy, smooth. But you know—even now many of you cannot come to me here; how then will you come to the West?

And in the West there is a great search—and facilities too. Whoever in the West wishes to come will come by some means. They are coming—even in the face of a thousand obstacles.

Just yesterday, notices went out from Delhi to a hundred and fifty sannyasins: leave India immediately. This nuisance goes on daily. Those sannyasins who apply for visas at Indian embassies abroad—once it is known they are my sannyasins, permission is denied. If they say they are going to Poona, they are told they cannot have a visa for India. And still they come. They find a thousand ways. If not directly to India, they go first to Nepal, then enter from Nepal; or to Pakistan, and enter from there; or to Sri Lanka, and enter from there. They will manage somehow.

Countless Western sannyasins have come here and entered into sham marriages. They have no interest in marriage; nothing to do with the “husband.” But they are courageous people. If they must stay near me, they simply married some Indian. You will not be able to do that. No Indian woman would go to the West and marry “just for that,” just to stay near me. It would be beyond her imagination. It would feel impossible. We have lost courage. We have lost adventure.

That is why I have stayed here—and will stay! This land’s treasure must be wrested from the hands of the dead. As for the West, those who have to come will come here; there is no obstacle. This union can happen. A pilgrimage can be created where East and West become one; where science and religion become one. I am not an opponent of the outer wealth. I am as much an advocate of the inner wealth as I am of the outer.

Until now you have known people who, when they favor outer wealth, oppose the inner—like Charvaka, Epicurus, Marx. And you have known people who, when they favor the inner wealth, oppose the outer—like Mahavira, like Buddha. You have not known someone like me; it is not your fault if you fail to understand me. The world has not known one like me—one in whom Charvaka and Buddha meet; in whom Epicurus and Yajnavalkya meet; who is more deeply atheist than the atheists, more deeply theist than the theists; whose spirituality is not the enemy of materialism, whose materialism is not the enemy of spirituality.

For me, the outer and inner are two sides of the same coin. I am not an opponent of outer wealth; I am a complete advocate of inner wealth. I want you to be prosperous in every way—outside and inside. The division of outer and inner is meaningless. As breath flows out and in—the same breath is outside, the same inside—so the same divine is outside, the same inside.

Try to understand my vision of man. In my vision, man will live in comfort, splendor, and joy outwardly—and inwardly as well. So opposition to me is inevitable. The spiritualists will oppose me, saying I am materialistic. The materialists will oppose me, saying I am spiritualistic. Opposition will come from both sides. But those who know, the few who are intelligent, will support me from both sides. Although the intelligent are always few—one in a hundred—so ninety-nine will be my enemies and one will be my friend.

But there is no cause for worry. A wise enemy is better than foolish friends. Those ninety-nine are of no use. Their friendship has no value. I am seeking a few wise friends. I want a few intelligent sannyasins. And this work will happen. The flame will be lit! The signs have already come from above that the flame will be lit.

Transform sorrow. Put sorrow in the service of joy. Make sorrow the polish of bliss. Do not run from sorrow. Whoever runs is unintelligent—whoever runs. And remember: without sorrow, you would not awaken at all.

Enough for today.