Sahaj Yog #14

Dispassion is a disease. Raga is life; dispassion is death. If one’s love is for the world, the fault is not in love, the fault is in the world. If you connect your eyes to the false, what fault is it of the eyes? The hand can hold diamonds or stones—what is the hand’s crime?

Because most people have tied their love to the world, a reaction arose: “break your loves.” Love itself is not at fault; the fault lies in the rubbish you’ve fastened it to. This very love can and should become the ladder to the Divine. One who abandons love loses the very means of joining to God. Love joins; dispassion severs.

Understand the glory of raga. Raga means the color of love. The word also means melody. The hue of love; the music of love. Love can be attached to the wrong, but that does not make love wrong. It can be joined to the true as well—and then love becomes the door.

If someone drinks poison from a cup, what is the cup’s fault? The same cup can be filled with nectar. Don’t break the cup—if you break it, where will you pour the nectar?

That’s why I teach you raga—supreme raga, love for the Lord. My sannyasin is a madman drowned in love for the Divine. And a delightful thing happens: one whose love turns to God finds his attachment to the world breaking of itself. It breaks on its own! When you join to the meaningful, the meaningless ceases to relate. When the significant appears, the insignificant falls away by itself. You don’t have to leave it, it leaves. And only then is there joy—when it leaves by itself; if you have to force it, there is no joy. If you must force it, know you are still unripe. Unripe fruit has to be plucked from the tree; ripe fruit falls on its own. There is a beauty, a grace in the falling of a ripe fruit. The tree doesn’t even know when it fell; no wound remains behind. Pluck an unripe fruit and a wound is left. Do not tear anything off unripe—let it ripen, and fall by itself.

This is the foundational sutra of my vision of life: Lift your eyes toward truth; your eyes will turn from the false on their own. Fall in love with light; love of darkness will bid you farewell by itself. But for centuries the opposite has been taught. For centuries you’ve been told, “Drop the wrong; then the right will come.” I say to you: Find the right, and the wrong will fall away. For centuries you’ve been told, “Remove the darkness; then the light will shine.” This is neither science nor mathematics. Who can remove darkness? And whoever starts removing darkness will go mad. I say: Light the lamp; the darkness disappears on its own. Stop worrying about darkness. Only the blind worry about darkness; those with eyes light the lamp. Light it—and where is darkness? What darkness? Darkness is only the absence of light.

What you take to be “attachment to the world” is only the absence of love for the Divine. Not finding diamonds, you’ve clenched your fist around pebbles. Watch a child: when the mother’s breast isn’t there, he sucks his thumb. Think of the world as that thumb you are sucking; nothing can come of it. But the child gets a consolation; he accepts the thumb as the mother’s breast, sucks it, and falls asleep. At least a little sleep comes.

All the consolations of the world can give you only a little dozing. You feel a bit of peace—built a big house, amassed much wealth, children, family—like pulling the sheet over yourself and dozing awhile, that’s all.

Whatever you gain in the world is no more than thumb-sucking. And if you go on sucking your thumb, you’ll shrivel, you’ll die inwardly—no nourishment will come. Nourishment comes from God—He alone nourishes.

The Upanishads say: Annam Brahma—food is Brahman. I say: Brahman is food. God is nourishment. Drink Him.

You say, “I was a dispassionate sannyasin for years.” You may have been dispassionate; you were not a sannyasin. How can dispassion be related to sannyas? As darkness has no relationship with light, so dispassion has no relationship with sannyas. Sannyas is celebration—where does dispassion fit? Sannyas is supreme raga, the experience of supreme bliss. Where then sadness, where indifference? In sannyas there is no “renunciation.”

And mind you, I am not saying that nothing is ever relinquished. But the world does not have to be abandoned. The true sannyasin needs only to be surrendered, meditative, in samadhi; the rubbish drops away by itself, diseases fall off on their own. Dry leaves shed of themselves; when they do, no one even hears. No wound remains.

Until now sannyas has been tied to dispassion. That tie has proved fatal; it killed sannyas. I want to sever that tie, break that knot, dissolve that pact. Dispassion sits on the chest of sannyas; sannyasins have become gloomy. Hence you may still find a worldly man laughing, but a sannyasin does not laugh. It should have been the reverse: the worldly should have been incapable of laughing, dull and indifferent—and the sannyasin laughing. The sannyasin should have had bubbling laughter—the laughter of mountain waterfalls, of leaves dancing in the wind. Sannyas should have been a song. But it is sad. Tied to dispassion. Tied to renunciation. Renunciation’s consumption has scorched the chest of sannyas.

The sannyasin is not to abandon the world—he is to attain God. He is to attain truth, not to discard the false. He is to attain meditation—to find the essential, not to drop the nonessential. He is to be born into a greater love.

That is the difference between the worldly and the sannyasin. The worldly person’s love is small, paltry. And small love makes you small. Your love creates you; love is creative. Love the petty, and you become petty. Look at the face of one who loves money: you’ll see the shabby shadow of a much-handled note upon it. Just as a banknote grows grimy passing through many hands, so a miser’s eyes grow dirty. Naturally: you become like what you love. One who loves things loses the soul; he slowly becomes like things. The greater your love, the greater you become.

Lift up your eyes. Love the sky; the vast will descend into you. Seek the Infinite!

But there are only two kinds of people in this world. Some clutch the petty. Others are busy dropping the petty. But both have their eyes fixed on the petty. Both have become petty. Your worldly people are petty; your so-called sannyasins are petty. The worldly can be forgiven; the sannyasin cannot.

How did this accident happen—sannyas tied to dispassion? Because we live by reaction; we run from one extreme to the other. We crafted the image of the sannyasin as the opposite of the worldly man; there we went wrong. Whatever the worldly does, the sannyasin must do the opposite—that was the mistake.

The sannyasin is not the enemy of the world. The sannyasin is the lover of God. Then transformation happens instantly. Your vision changes. Lover of God! And this world is God’s too. So the sannyasin will love this world as God’s limb. The whole arithmetic changes. He will even love matter—but as a symbol of the Divine. He will love his wife—but experience God’s presence within her. He will love his son—but see that the same One has come there. Now a glimmer of God spreads through all his love. Listening to music, he will hear the unstruck sound. Watching the sunrise, he will see God’s epiphany. When the night sky fills with stars, he will sing God’s glory. When flowers blossom, he will be wonder-struck: such flowers, out of earth! Whose art but God’s? He will see God’s signature everywhere.

A great saint of the West, Jacob Boehme, said: The day I came to know, I found His signature on every leaf, on every particle. This whole world is pages He has written for you. His message rides on the winds, in the thunder of clouds, in the flash of lightning, in flowers, in the peacock’s dance, in the cuckoo’s coo.

One who loves God finds that, in that vast love, love for the world is included on its own. But there is a qualitative shift: it is no longer love for the world; it is love for God alone. Not for creation, but for the Creator. Then whatever is useless and nonessential falls away by itself. As you daily take the trash out from your house—you don’t parade around shouting, “Behold! I have renounced trash! Make a procession for me!” People would call you mad. Trash is to be thrown away; where is the renunciation in that?

The true sannyasin does not leave anything—though much leaves him. True sannyas is not world-opposing; it is born of the acceptance of God.

You say, “I was a dispassionate sannyasin for years.” Dispassionate—yes; sannyasin—no. Dispassion and sannyas do not blend. As water and oil will not mix, so dispassion and sannyas cannot be mixed. For centuries the attempt has been made; union never happened. It cannot. Their natures differ. Where is the ecstasy of the sannyasin, and where the gloom of the dispassionate—how will you reconcile them?

You say, “But you have drowned me in love for the Lord. What is the command now?” Now there is no need of any command—just keep drowning in the love of the Lord. You are seated in the boat. No need to row now—unfurl the sail. His winds will carry you. Ramakrishna said: Either row, or hoist the sail. If you ask me, I say, why get into the hassle of rowing? Raise the sail! Sit absorbed; His winds will carry you.

The yogi rows; the bhakta hoists the sail. The yogi labors; the sahaj-yogi rests and lets himself move with the river. And here we are speaking of Saraha and Tilopa—both are sahaj-yogis. In the Buddhist tradition, Sahaj-Yoga is the version of devotion. The word “bhakti” cannot be used in Buddhism—there is no notion of a personal God—yet the glory of devotion cannot be denied; hence Sahaj-Yoga was born. Sahaj-Yoga in the Buddha’s language is what in other languages is Bhakti-Yoga—no difference at all.

The swan soared into the sky, yet did not escape the duality of sound;
The mind remained entangled in the snare of the Manasarovar.
We flew long in the sky of dispassion, day and night,
Yet the mind stayed restlessly clung to the Beloved’s feet in love.
We tried to become non-sensual, utterly beyond the senses—
Within, the mind said: “Fool! The Beloved’s form is peerless!”
Vain, fruitless were all efforts of yogic practice;
Who gathers dust when the heart holds the Beloved’s jewel?
What is this ash of the sacred fire? And what the dust of the Beloved’s feet?
Where this poor renunciation? Where love’s nectar, love’s rapture?
Beloved, with you—and with this body—I shall never manage dispassion;
All the yogas, chants, and vigils seem so pale, so flat.
Forever your worship; ceaselessly your remembrance;
To stay near you is my longing—this is my only vow.

Simply to be near you… Forever your worship! In being near you there is prayer, there is worship, there is adoration. Ceaselessly your remembrance—that is meditation: that you appear, that you are felt, that the eyes are filled with your form. To stay close to you—that is the longing. This alone is my pledge!

Vain, fruitless were all efforts of yogic practice;
Who gathers dust when the heart holds the Beloved’s jewel?
All is dust, rubbish. What you call dispassion, effort, striving—all dust. The Beloved sits within. Fall in love with Him.

The body is tired, the feet unsteady, heart, mind, breath sad;
Now nothing about this journeying feels good.
Now it seems this would be best: sit down in that place
Where, seeing the Beloved’s love-cloud, the peacock of the mind dances.
The love-cloud drizzles; the intoxicated peacock dances—
Live like that, O mind; do not stay far from the Beloved.
Give up this useless wandering of lands and foreign lands;
Sit, holding the Beloved’s feet—gaze with loving eyes.
Walk the Beloved’s pathway; dwell in the Beloved’s village;
Sit on the Beloved’s threshold; chant the Beloved’s name!

Now drown! It is good you have come into my whirlpool. Now drown!

Now it seems best: sit down in that place
Where, seeing the Beloved’s love-cloud, the peacock of the mind dances.
Now dance! Now sing! Now be filled with bliss!

Walk the Beloved’s pathway; dwell in the Beloved’s village;
Sit on the Beloved’s threshold; chant the Beloved’s name!

Now true sannyas begins. When a bond of love with God is forged, sannyas happens. Do you understand the meaning of “sannyas”? The word is formed from samyak-nyasa—right laying down, right relinquishment. Obviously, some relinquishment happens—of what is not right. What kind of giving up is wrong, and what is right? Wrong is that which you have to force yourself to do; right is that which happens by itself. Wrong is the renunciation done with strain, with effort, with compulsion, with violence against yourself. Right—samyak—is that which happens silently, from understanding, from awareness! Wrong is the renunciation in which there is suffering; right is that which begins with the descent of great joy.

You pass through this process every day. You buy fine new clothes—what do you do with the old? You give them up. You bring home new furniture—out goes the old. You do this every day. If you simply understand the ordinary economy of life, the edge of the greatest truths will come into your hand. Bring in the superior; the inferior is set out—by itself! Then there is no pain, no trouble. Invite the best; whatever giving up happens by that invitation is right. That is the meaning of sannyas.

You ask: “What is the command now?” Now write leaves of love. Send love-letters to God. Sing songs of love.

Not only do my hands tremble; my heart trembles today;
How will this task of letter-writing ever be complete?
With great effort, mustering courage, I sat to write the letter—
But I don’t know how it has become damp everywhere!
My heart pounds, both hands shake; the letter has neither end nor edge—
Understand much from little, O thread of my life!
My heart’s casket holds no priceless jewel,
Nor any rippling wave of eloquence there;
Still I am offering it today at Your holy feet—
What’s in it? Don’t ask—you would feel shy!
This broken little chest holds only a single flute—
Sometimes it cries with a line of plaintive melody!

Send tears! Send love! Send bliss! Share yourself as much as you can. And the more you share, the nearer God will draw. The more you dance, the nearer He will come. A path that can be walked dancing—why walk it sadly? And to go to His temple without dancing—will it be fitting? You must go to His temple dancing. In truth, only one who goes dancing will reach His temple. Go sad, and you will arrive elsewhere—at a cremation ground, at some tomb. How will you arrive at the temple of life?

Learn a little from flowers! Learn a little from birds! Learn a little from trees! Learn a little from the moon and stars! In this whole existence there is a moment-to-moment festival of joy going on—learn from it! Be absorbed in this festival, be dissolved in it—this is the command.

It is not that the religious leaders do not understand what I am saying. They do understand, but it runs counter to their vested interests. Had they not understood, they would not oppose me at all. They do understand; they just do not want to understand.

Many times it happens: you understand something, but it goes against your entrenched self-interest. If you truly understood, you would have to drop a great deal of your self-interest. You are not prepared to drop it. Someone can wake a person who is asleep, but to awaken one who is already awake and only acting as if asleep becomes very difficult. How could it be that they do not understand me? I am saying exactly what the Vedas said, what the Upanishads said; exactly what the Quran said, what the Bible said. How could they fail to understand?

They do understand; that is precisely the danger. That is where the trouble lies. If they did not understand, they would ignore me. They would not be bothered at all. “Perhaps he is a madman!”—what of theirs would be harmed or helped? They do understand, and they also understand that if they accept it, they will no longer be able to cling to their vested interests. People have placed their self-interest above their understanding; that is the obstacle.

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife had been ill for many days. Doctors were tired of treating her. They called the best doctor. He said, “I’m sorry, Nasruddin—nothing can be done. The disease is fatal. If your wife lives another day or two, that will be much. I am very sorry. Nothing can be done.” Nasruddin patted his back and said, “No, no, don’t be sorry. If I could put up with it for thirty years, I can put up with it two days more.”

Self-interest sits inside. When a word strikes those interests, its meaning changes.

Mulla Nasruddin was standing on the fifth floor. He spit out a mouthful of betel juice. It landed on the head of a gentleman below. The man looked up and shouted, “Mulla, don’t you look down before you spit?” Mulla said, “Why don’t you look up when you walk?” The man replied, “If I walked looking up, it would fall into my mouth!”

Everyone is busy protecting their own little corner. Principles are a cover; scriptures are excuses. Man says one thing but intends another. He is very skilled at extracting meanings that suit his interests—and equally skilled at discarding what goes against them.

A poet of heroic verse said to a friend—who wrote modernist poetry—“You know, when I recite on stage, the audience gets goosebumps!” “That’s nothing,” the modern poet said. “When I recite, the audience itself stands up.”

Each has his own meaning. Vested interests are the hindrance. It is not that they do not understand what I say; they do. And precisely those whose interests are threatened are the ones who oppose: the pundits, priests, and mullahs. If I am right, then their temples and mosques, their ritualism in the name of worship—havans, yajnas—are all wrong. That is their bread and butter, their livelihood, their life. The ground beneath their feet would be pulled away. They must protect their ground.

And it is not only with me; this is what they have always done with all the Buddhas. Do you think those who crucified Jesus were wicked people? No—priests, the so‑called learned! Do you think those who made Socrates drink poison were criminals? No—esteemed leaders of society. What was their difficulty with Socrates? Only this: Socrates spoke the truth. And that is the greatest difficulty in this world, because those whose trade runs on falsehood cannot tolerate a man who speaks the truth. The truth feels like poison to them.

One of my sannyasins, Swami Krishna Prem, met Morarji Desai a few days ago. Morarji told him, “Years ago I met your master, but he spoke some harsh words to me.” I tried to recall: what harsh words did I speak to him? Then I remembered: I had told him that as long as there is ambition, there will be suffering; and as long as there is ambition, meditation will not be possible. He had asked, “I want to meditate.” I said, “Politics and meditation cannot go together.”

Those became “harsh words”! They are still pricking him like a thorn. Truth feels harsh if you are too attached to untruth. He likes sweet words… Muktananda went and told him, “Blessed is India! This land, a land of religion, of sages—and you, a saintly man, the prime minister of this country!” Those are sweet words. I cannot say such things.

I told him, “As long as politics is in your mind, meditation cannot happen.”

If I had even a little political sense, I would not have said that. I would have said, “You are meditative already—what need have you to meditate?” He would have been delighted, his chest would have swelled, and he would not have opposed me. But I spoke what was true.

I cannot conceive that an ambitious mind can meditate. It is impossible. How can an ambitious mind meditate? Ambition is tied to the future; meditation is rooted in the present. Ambition means: “Tomorrow I will attain.” Meditation means: “There is nothing to attain. What is worth attaining is already here; what is not worth attaining is not here.” The ambitious can never be content; the meditative must be content. It is on the background of contentment that the flower of meditation blooms. Only one who is content can meditate; contentment is the soil of meditation.

So I told him the truth, straight. Krishna Prem says Morarji told him, “Your master spoke harsh words to me.” Years have passed—at least ten—but those words still rankle. I had to think hard to remember what could have sounded harsh, because we did not talk long; we spoke only about meditation. That must have hurt.

A politician cannot hear that ambition is wrong—that is his very soul. Nor can he accept that he is not a saint; being a “saint” is precisely the propaganda he lives by. By convincing people that he is saintly he remains their leader.

I told him a political man cannot be a saint. Politics is the root of unholiness. Harsh words! Wounding words! Not that he did not understand—he understood so well he has not forgotten in ten years. It lodged firmly. Perhaps on his deathbed this will be what he remembers. How could he not understand? His whole life has gone into gathering rubbish; and what I said distilled the essence of his life. Most likely, at the final moment he will remember me as he departs—because that “harsh” sentence… But since I did not feed his ego…

And people in politics, people in high positions, become addicted to praise. So addicted that hearing a true word becomes impossible for them. They are surrounded by people who concoct every kind of lie to flatter them. Thus Muktananda benefits: when my sannyasins go to Indian embassies around the world and request permission to go to Poona, the embassies tell them, “No need to go to Poona—go to Muktananda’s ashram.” Morarji is pleased because Muktananda told him, “You are a saint.” Muktananda benefits because Morarji’s embassies send people to his ashram, recommend it. Mutual give-and-take. Profit on both sides. If you speak truth, be ready to bear loss—because whoever is hurt by it will take revenge. And they never take revenge openly; where is that integrity? They take it indirectly—in ways that leave no trail.

For two years now I have been trying to create a vast… a township for sannyasins. The Maharaja of Kutch donated 401 acres. It lies unused. They neither say yes nor no. Look at the trick! If they say no, I can go to the Supreme Court, because refusal would be illegal—they have no right to refuse. To prevent me from going to the Supreme Court, they do not say no. And “yes” they have no intention of saying. These are their tricks.

Here in Maharashtra the ashram purchased 750 acres. They neither say yes nor no. They know very well that to refuse would be illegal, and in court they will not win. So better not refuse at all. And unless they refuse, one cannot go to court. The court asks, “Have they refused?” If yes, fine. But they keep postponing—eight more days, another eight days, a month, two months… defer, defer.

The false do not even have the courage for open confrontation. Falsehood always strikes from behind; it stabs in the back. It has not even the courage to meet the eyes.

And what excuses people invent!

Morarji told Krishna Prem, “The reason so many of you have been influenced is only this: he has hypnotized you. Whoever goes near him is hypnotized. Don’t go near him at all.”

So politicians do not come to me. They speak against me but do not come, fearing that if our eyes meet they might be hypnotized! They will not come here. What devices people discover!

Are these thousands who come here all hypnotized? If you are in my favor, you are hypnotized; if you are against me, you are right. Then how will any judgment be made? How will it be decided whether what I say is true or false? Because anyone who testifies in my favor is “hypnotized”; his words have no value. And whoever speaks against me is “wise.” And those who speak against me have never come here. The things people say are astonishing. They never come, never see what is happening here. Fear grips them—lest they be hypnotized! So they raise a smokescreen of “hypnosis.” Now they are safe: no need to come, and they can say whatever they like. And because they are in power, the newspapers will publish whatever they say.

No, do not think they do not understand. They understand this much: something is happening here. Some ember is being born here. A fire is burning here. They are afraid of that fire. They are making every effort to douse it. But this ochre fire will not go out. It is not a fire that can be extinguished. The more they try, the more it will blaze, the more it will grow. Because of their opposition many people come.

So I do not worry about what runs in the newspapers against me. Let it run—against me is also fine. Let something run. Reading the “against,” some people will come who otherwise would never have come. And there is a delightful thing: when people come with a head full of negatives, they arrive expecting to see exactly what they have read against me. When they do not find here what they were told to expect, a transformation begins; a jolt happens: “What kind of futile talk have we believed!”

No, there is no harm. They do understand; they do not want to understand. Understanding goes against their self-interest. And no one ever admits his own mistake. The moment one admits his mistake, a religious revolution happens within.

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife was telling her friend, “There is hardly anyone as careless as he is! For years I tormented myself wondering where he spent every evening. Then one day by chance I returned early from the club—and discovered the gentleman sits at home every evening.”

One’s own fault is not seen. And when you do not wish to see your own fault, you keep yourself busy seeing faults in others. You must take such keen interest in the faults of others that no time remains to see your own. You must rush into opposing others so quickly that you never remember there is something within you to oppose, to break, to drop, to end—that there is much darkness within in which a light has to be lit.

The pundits and priests have a difficulty: their business, their livelihood, is “religion.” The politicians have a difficulty: their ego is the cornerstone of their life. And whenever there is an awakened one, blows will fall on both. All Buddhas have struck at the ego, because without the ego breaking, the divine will not manifest within you. So all the egotists will be upset. And all Buddhas have opposed ritualism in the name of religion, because the real form of religion is not ritual but feeling. Outer arrangements mean nothing. In the name of these outer arrangements, religion’s very corpse is being carried. Emphasis is on inner feeling. Whoever has awakened will emphasize the inner. The pundits and priests will be angry.

Religious leaders and politicians have, always and forever, stood against Buddhas—and they always will. Do not think this is something new today. It is an eternal pattern. But a whole country is not made of politicians and religious leaders. The greater part of the people are interested neither in politics nor in religious leadership. The news has to reach them. Politicians and religious leaders will stand between us and try to block it, but it is to the common people that the news must go. They have no vested interest. In their life there is a great thirst, a great longing. For centuries this country has nurtured the longing to know the divine. That longing is still alive in the ordinary people. In the common man, that thirst has not dried up. It is precisely because of that thirst that pundits and priests are able to exploit him—otherwise how could they? If someone hands you a counterfeit, one thing is certain: you were searching for the genuine—otherwise why would the fake be accepted? The counterfeit circulates because there is a search for the authentic. Falsehood circulates because there is a quest for truth. The thirst is certain. The one who gets caught in the priest’s circle—why does he get caught? An atheist does not get caught. One who has nothing to do with God or religion does not get caught by priests. But the one who gets caught wants something. He is groping, searching. His eyes are looking. Whoever comes near and says, “Do this and you will get it,” the poor fellow starts doing it. Carry my news to him. Forget the pundits and priests. Let the news reach him. Once it reaches him, he will step out of their circle. That is precisely what the priest fears—that the news might reach him.

So as much hue and cry as they can raise against me, they will. But they do not know the laws of life. The more they oppose, the more the news spreads. They are the ones spreading it. I go nowhere. See this miracle: I sit in my room—and there is hardly a country in the world where my name is not being discussed, where meetings against me are not being held! Articles in newspapers everywhere. Have you ever heard of a person who sits in his room and yet so much upheaval happens around the world? I do not step out of my room, so who is doing my work? The pundits and priests are hard at work. Great is their kindness. They will not admit it, but they will deliver the news to the people.

For the past two months in Germany there has been a great wave of opposition. There is hardly a German newspaper that has not written against me. But when so many write against someone, some people begin to wonder: What is the matter? Why is so much opposition being done to a person who has never gone there and will never go? So people from Germany began to come to investigate. Those who came wrote in favor. A chain began. In the next two or three months the largest number of visitors here will be from Germany. Every day people arrive from Germany: “If there is so much opposition, there must be something here—if only to oppose!” Curiosity is born.

My sannyasins returning from Germany say, “At first we were very frightened. Wherever we walked, people stared: ‘There they go!’ The propaganda against you was so strong we were afraid what would happen.” But slowly the wind has changed. I said, “Don’t worry. Sitting in my room, I keep changing the winds. You need not worry.”

Now people come near and ask, “What is the real story? Give us a book to read. Tell us the news. We want to come too.” New people have begun to come who perhaps would never have come. And do you know who organized the whole campaign? The German Protestant Church. They set it in motion—sent spies here, fabricated stories, got false statements issued. Why was the Protestant Church so bothered? Naturally there was a problem: hundreds of young men and women from Germany had taken sannyas here. And one who takes sannyas will not go to church. Why would he go? His connection is with Christ himself; there is no need to be a “Christian.” Fear spread. Panic set in.

And whoever comes here once returns a different kind of person. Many never return at all. So parents worry; governments worry: “What is happening?” Surely it must be hypnosis. Otherwise why would people go and never return? They can accept no other explanation. They cannot accept that truth also has its own hypnosis, that love has its hypnosis, that bliss has its hypnosis. They cannot accept that. They think some sorcery has been done—that people are being held against their will.

Then the German government began sending agents. Soon even governments will stop sending agents—because some of those agents have taken sannyas. A Protestant pastor from Germany took sannyas. He felt I was saying exactly what Jesus said. He was a courageous man. Now there is big trouble: he speaks about me in his church, wearing ochre robes! The whole uproar has begun. In the history of the church no one has ever done such a thing, so there are no rules for or against it: Can someone wearing a mala speak in a church? Does he have the right to speak? Can he speak wearing ochre? The German church transferred him to Thailand. But the man is happy. He has written, “I am delighted, because on my way to Thailand I can stop in Poona again. This time my wife is also coming to take sannyas. Please give us your blessings for what we can do for you in Thailand.”

Do not be afraid. Opposition has never harmed. It helps those who are seeking. And the common man, who has no vested interest, will be touched quickly. He has a heart. As for the pundits and priests, the politicians—where do they have hearts? They do not need a heart there. Not a heart, not even a brain—none of those things are needed there.

I have heard a politician had brain surgery. A major operation. They removed his brain to clean it. A politician’s brain—you can imagine what heavy cleaning was required! Where else would so much filth accumulate? So much dishonesty, crookery… While the surgeons were cleaning his brain, someone came and said, “Why are you lying here? You’ve been elected. You have become prime minister.” The politician jumped up at once. Even the dead would rise if made prime minister. He started to go. The doctor shouted, “Where are you going? Let us put your brain back!” He said, “What need have I for a brain now? I am prime minister. You keep the brain.”

A politician needs neither brain nor heart. Truly, had he a brain, would he be a politician? He would do something meaningful—be a poet, a painter, a sculptor, a saint, a dancer, a singer; he would add some beauty to life, some poetry, some color. Would he be a politician? If he had a heart, how could he be a politician? There would be compassion, there would be love. Politics would become impossible. They have no heart.

But the great mass of people still have a heart, still have a brain. Carry the news to them. However many obstacles there are, the news will reach them—because they are thirsty. And when there is thirst, and somewhere there is a lake, the thirsty set out to find it.

“Better” or “worse” is only a matter of how you look; otherwise, what symbol could be dearer than wine? Wine simply means this—ecstasy, blessed forgetfulness, absorption, total immersion. Among the Sufis, wine is a greatly honored symbol.

Have you read the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam? Omar Khayyam is not a drunkard. He is a Sufi fakir, a supreme knower—like Saraha and Tilopa, a realized one of the highest order.

Wine is a symbol. And there is no symbol more beautiful in relation to the Divine, because whoever drowns in That becomes forever intoxicated—God-intoxicated. A wine that never wears off once it rises; it speaks right from the head! A wine that does not merely bring unconsciousness—paradoxically, it brings wakefulness. The ego becomes unconscious, and the soul awakens.

No, it won’t do otherwise. The symbol of wine must be brought in.

However much one may speak of witnessing the Truth,
it will not do—unless one speaks of wine and the goblet.

You can discuss a thousand spiritual subtleties, but it won’t come alive—it doesn’t quite happen. However much one may talk of beholding the Divine—until the intoxication of wine, the decanter, and the cupbearer enter the song, something remains dry, something remains arid.

However much one may speak of witnessing the Truth,
it will not do—unless one speaks of wine and the goblet.

The goblet—nectar’s bowl. Wine—divine intoxication! The devotee—one who drinks! The cupbearer—none other than the Beloved who serves it. But you have fixed in your mind the ordinary meaning of “wine.” If the commonplace meaning has taken root in you, that is your limitation. Do not let so lovely a word end in that alley—lift it up, set it free. Rescue it from the hands of drunkards and place it in the hands of the Sufis.

The fairest word can meet a sad fate in the wrong hands; and the worst word can be redeemed in the right hands—it is a matter of hands.

Even the roughest stone, if it falls into the hands of a true artist, becomes the most beautiful sculpture.

It happened that Michelangelo often passed a marble dealer’s shop. Across the road, outside, he saw a large block of marble lying there. He asked the shopkeeper, “How much for that block?” The shopkeeper said, “Price? No one will buy it—it’s so crooked, so ungainly no sculptor wants it. I threw it across the street to clear space. Don’t even ask the price. If you can haul it away at your own expense, take it—save me the trouble and free my place.”

Michelangelo had it brought home. Two years later he invited the shopkeeper, “Come over—have tea, a little something—and I have something to show you.” The man had completely forgotten that stone. After tea Michelangelo led him to the studio and unveiled a statue: Mary holding the body of Jesus in her lap after he has been lowered from the cross—the Pietà. They say this is Michelangelo’s supreme work. Perhaps on earth it would be hard to find a sculpture of such beauty. The shopkeeper was overwhelmed—he was a connoisseur too, for his trade was marble for painters and sculptors. He asked, “Where did you find this stone?” Michelangelo laughed, “Don’t you remember? Two years ago you threw a block outside your shop—this is that very block!” The man could not believe it. “You have given this stone such form—it has come alive! How did this occur to you?” Michelangelo said, “It didn’t ‘occur.’ Whenever I passed your shop, the Jesus hidden in that stone called out to me, ‘Set me free; I am imprisoned in this rock.’ Hearing that call, I brought it home. I merely cut away what was useless—Jesus is freed.”

You may remember—about a year and a half ago, in the Vatican church, a madman smashed that very statue with a hammer—the same Pietà! There are those in this world who make statues out of stones; there are those who smash statues into stones. Here live creators; here live destroyers.

I want to give a living form to all that life contains; for me there is no evil in the word “wine.” Wine is pressed from grapes, and wine is also pressed from souls. There is an outer wine, and there is an inner wine. And truly, those who are searching for the inner wine are the very ones who get caught in the outer—because going inward is arduous, and the outer is cheaply available. Yet in my understanding—and not only mine, modern psychology supports this—that people who drink are driven by some religious search within. Why do they start to drink? They want to dissolve the ego, but they cannot find the way. Wine becomes a pretext for a little while to forget the ego; for a little while the ego is forgotten, anxiety is forgotten, sorrow is forgotten; the world is forgotten; for a little while they merge into another world.

You already know: for centuries monks and renunciates have used cannabis, bhang, and alcohol. Why renunciates? They are seekers! How to be freed from this ego?

Real freedom will come through meditation, through samadhi. But samadhi is a long discipline. One must meet a master, be awakened by a master, be called out of sleep by a master—then it happens. But wine is cheap, cannabis is easy to get. In the search for the inner wine, people get caught by the outer. And if the world is to be freed from outer wine, there is only one way: pour the inner wine, open the inner taverns.

This too is a tavern—the inner tavern. You cannot be free of outer drinking until you discover the real wine within.

The drinkers shattered their cups after drinking—
alas for those goblets that were left untouched!

And yet many here had brimming flagons of wine within them, just sitting there as they were. They neither drank nor served it. Thus they came, thus they went.

Do not drink these bitter tears with a twisted mouth;
this is wine distilled—drink it with a smile.
From whose throat will these heart-scraping sips go down?
Whom shall I invite, “Come, drink with me”?

I am calling people—here an inner tavern has been opened. Come—sit with me and drink. Wine is bitter—outer wine and inner wine alike. While drinking, it tastes acrid. Truth tastes bitter as it goes down; it won’t pass the throat easily; it is contrary to your whole personality. You have become habituated to sweet lies.

Do not drink these bitter tears with a twisted mouth;
this is wine distilled—drink it with a smile.
From whose throat will these heart-scraping sips go down?
Whom shall I invite, “Come, drink with me”?

Courage is needed, for these sips are harsh, bitter—these are draughts of Truth. Only the brave will drink. Yes—once you drink, and once you acquire the taste, then all bitterness is forgotten. Drinking and drinking, a sweetness dawns—born of experience.

No, for me there is not the slightest flaw in the symbol of wine. To me the word is very dear. I am a drunkard, and I want to make you drunkards too—and I want to give you a wine on which no prohibition can ever be imposed, and never will be. And I also say this to you: if you do not drink the wine I am offering, then you will keep drinking outer wine by breaking outer prohibitions—you will drink in secret; you will not be able to drink openly. If you cannot drink openly, you will find pretexts. You will keep seeking some way or other.

And the fun is, those who drink here are not the only drinkers outside—someone is drunk on wealth! Have you noticed the intoxication of money, the swagger, the strut?

Mulla Nasruddin was crossing a swollen stream with his young son on a rainy day. He leapt—an old man—and landed clean on the far bank. The son thought, “If father can leap, how can I, being young, not?” He jumped and fell smack in the middle. Getting up, he said, “I don’t understand—how did you, being old, make it?” Nasruddin laughed, “There’s a secret.” He jingled the coins in his pocket. The boy said, “I still don’t get it.” Nasruddin said, “When a man has money in his pocket, there is warmth in him, youth in him—everything in him. Your pocket was empty—you fell in the middle. I cannot fall in the middle—my notes would get wet!”

You have seen: when your pocket is full, there is a spring in your step, heat, strength. When there are no notes, life drains away, the soul is gone—you walk like a living corpse.

There is the intoxication of wealth. There is the great swagger of position. There is the intoxication of power—these too are wines. These are subtler wines, but wines nonetheless.

In this world either you will drink the outer wine or the inner—there is no escape. And if you would be free of the outer, then drink the inner. Drink God—then there is nothing left outside worth drinking. Everything outside turns tasteless, bland.

My restless mind comes
to touch you, pore by pore!
This is not a commerce of the senses,
not even the trysting of bodies.
My cuckoo-mind longs
to coo within your very breath!

All desire to seize it,
to lay their claim upon it.
My rapturous heart has awakened,
sipping your every limb.

Join yourself to the Divine so that His music may flow through you, His nectar may flow through you. Raso vai sah—He is Essence, He is sheer nectar.

The Vedas speak of that nectar-nature of the Divine as Soma. Soma is not the extract of bhang or cannabis. Soma is not some ancient LSD or marijuana. Soma is that very wine of which I am speaking. Scientists have restlessly searched for the herb of Soma, because the Vedas praise it so highly—the Vedas are filled with its hymns. They even called it a god: Soma-deva. And they said: the one who has drunk Soma has known all. Naturally the question arises: where is the herb of Soma found? So the search went on; countless researchers have combed the Himalayas. So far it has not been found. A few have thought they found “something” and started proving, “This is Soma.”

Soma is the name of that same wine of which I speak—not obtained from any outer herb; it is distilled within the soul.

My restless mind comes
to touch you, pore by pore!
My cuckoo-mind longs
to coo within your very breath!
My rapturous heart has awakened,
sipping your every limb!

Your thirst will not be quenched if you do not drink—drink my wine, the wine of the Buddhas, the wine of Krishna and of Christ!

Trusting for so many days,
mocking for so many days,
dwelling far for so many days, staying near for so many days—
the heart’s thirst could not be quenched.

Loving someone for so many days,
ruling the mind for so many days,
adorning for so many days, taking sannyas for so many days—
the heart’s thirst could not be quenched.

Building nests for so many days,
breaths ebbing for so many days,
having possessed earth for so many days, sky for so many days—
the heart’s thirst could not be quenched.

Nor will it be quenched! One must become a limb of some tavern. One must take a dip in satsang. One must place one’s hand in the hand of one who is intoxicated. The name of that process is discipleship. Discipleship means—drinking from the Master’s bowl what is not yet in your vessel; soon you too will be worthy. Discipleship means—since you do not yet know how to walk, hold someone’s hand and take a few steps; soon your feet will walk on their own. I tell you: within you a jar of nectar, a chalice of honey, stands filled.

Since You took form in these songs,
I have grown a little in love with my songs.
My life was night, and You a golden dream—
and night is adorned only by its dreams.
I have grown a little in love with my songs.

The world praises the lamp—I will praise the love
that is the very ground of the lamp’s burning.
I have grown a little in love with my songs.

I sing the song—and You are the beloved melody.
Who here is a maker of notes without a mate of notes?
I have grown a little in love with my songs.

By what name shall life-breath call that Unknown Power
from whom sweetness streamed into this fevered heart?
I have grown a little in love with my songs.

You are the painter, Your image; I am only a brush—
by whom is this Your world painted?
I have grown a little in love with my songs.

Since You took form in these songs,
I have grown a little in love with my songs.

By what name shall we call That?
By what name shall life-breath call that Unknown Power
from whom sweetness streamed into this fevered heart?
I have grown a little in love with my songs.

We will have to call it nectar. We will have to call it Soma. It is wine. No, there is no dearer word—nor can there be.

Then you have come to the wrong place. I don’t give consolation here to anyone. If you want truth, take it; don’t ask for consolation. All consolations are false. They are bandages on the wound, not its healing.

Since you have come here, it is better to let the pus of the wound drain out. Better to open the wound, let open air and sunlight touch it. Don’t hide the wound, because hidden wounds do not heal. Expose the wound so that it can be healed.

You say: I am extremely sad. Then cry—let the wound flow—open the wound! Why be afraid? You found happiness in your wife; should someone else bear the sorrow? When you had happiness, you didn’t come saying, “I am so happy—please take a little of it too.” Now that sorrow has come to you, you have come to take consolation! Whoever receives happiness will also receive sorrow; they are two sides of the same coin. As you accepted happiness, accept sorrow too. As you were not restless while enjoying happiness, be just as unperturbed while enduring sorrow.

Be a witness to happiness, and be a witness to sorrow.

You say: Since my wife died, there has been no end to my sorrow.
You are crying for your wife—when will you cry for yourself? Your wife has died; do you think you will live forever? Don’t waste time in weeping. It might happen that you keep on weeping till the end—and then others will have to go out seeking consolation.

Death is the truth. Know it, recognize it. Just now she was alive, awake, speaking, walking about—just now she fell—and you yourself carried her to the funeral pyre! It won’t be long before others carry you there. Seeing your wife burn on the pyre, see yourself burning. In her death see your own death. Whenever a bier passes out the door, look attentively—it is your own bier. In every death, find the hint of your own.

Don’t seek consolation. Consolation is a false thing. You must be expecting me to say, “Don’t be afraid.”

Just a few days ago it happened, a Supreme Court judge came. One assumes that a Supreme Court judge must be intelligent—but no, after all, a man is just a man. His wife had died! He was crying, disturbed. He said his mind was not at peace; he had come for consolation. So I asked, “What can I do to give you consolation?” He said, “Just give me the assurance that in the next birth I will meet her.”

What kind of madness is this? “Or find some method—planchette or something—so that at least in this life I can talk to her.”

I said, “You lived together for thirty years—what is left to talk about?” “No,” he said, “there are still things to say…” Thirty years together—what could remain unsaid? If it didn’t get finished in thirty years, how will it be completed on a planchette? You lived together in this life—what did you gain? And you want to be together in the next life too? Having gained nothing in this life, you want to waste the next one as well?

He was quite taken aback, because he had come for consolation. Someone coming from Delhi for consolation… But I simply cannot give consolation. I can give truth. I said to him, “Understand! Thirty years you wasted together; now your wife has gone, and you are wasting time alone. Will you go on wasting it forever? Your age has come—now at least wake up a little. You have been shocked by your wife’s death—make good use of it. Turn this blow into a revolution. This is a challenge.”

Don’t look for consolations, don’t look for bandages. This is the truth that has been revealed: behind every life here, death is hidden; this life is not the real life. Seek that life which never ends. And seek that Beloved in meeting whom there is true meeting. Wives will be met and parted from, husbands will be met and parted from.

I asked him, “You are asking about meeting in the next birth—shall I ask you one thing? In your past birth you must also have had a wife; do you remember her?”
He said, “No, I don’t remember.” I said, “And in the birth before that? Who knows how many births you have had, how many wives in those births—do you remember any of them?”
He said, “No, I don’t remember any. In fact, I don’t remember my past births at all.”

So I said, “In the next birth you won’t remember this birth either. Even if you meet your wife you won’t recognize her. Why get lost in such nonsense? Come to your senses! You have received a great blow—make some good use of it, some creative use.”

Dawn has broken; the Malaya breeze
has waved its veil again!
A gust came, the lamp went out;
a new flower smiled!

Such are the turns of time:
for someone it is dawn, for someone dusk;
time comes to one as death,
to another as life!

Learn from the lamp and the flower
when to go out, when to bloom!
In the soil or in the sun’s rays,
when both must meet!

A tremor that could shake a giant
lies hidden in the heart—
learn from earth how, in the Malaya breeze,
to sway like a tender leaf!

But we do not stir from our seat—
yet thrones are shaken!
At times, Phaguns of blood arrive,
monsoons that rain fire!

From shattered pillars a Narasimha bursts forth,
asking us—
Is time the vehicle of man,
or is man the vehicle of time?

Granted, it takes twelve fortnights
to raise a crop;
the field is harvested in a day,
yet the hands are not murderers!

Sometimes early, sometimes late,
every crop is cut!
By pouring down or by denying rain,
every gathered cloud moves on!

Except for time, everyone’s
games come to an end—
the day of every age declines,
the night departs, the dawn breaks!

Just understand! This is the order of life—whoever is born will die; what rises will set; what is made will be unmade.

Except for time, everyone’s
games come to an end—
the day of every age declines,
the night departs, the dawn breaks!

But no—we keep looking for consolation! I could tell you: “Don’t be afraid—union will happen, certainly it will happen, in the next birth it will happen. She will be your wife again. You will be her husband again.” Would that bring any benefit? Will anything be solved by walking with such a belief? Yes, the wound will be covered—and the opportunity that death had given will be missed.

Whenever someone dear dies, it is the hour for meditation. Whenever someone dear departs, something in you breaks so deeply that at such a moment, if you awaken, you can awaken. It is only in shock that anyone wakes up. No one wakes up in pleasure. In pleasure, one only spreads the blanket and sleeps. It is only in pain that someone awakes.

Therefore sorrow is a greater opportunity than happiness. In happiness people forget God; in sorrow they remember. Perhaps it is because of sorrow you have come here. If your wife had not died, you might not have come at all. She died, and you came. You must have thought you would receive consolation. But no—I want to unsettle you even more.

But we do not stir from our seat—
yet thrones are shaken!
…Such are we! Now your throne has been shaken; your wife must have been the very ground of your life—that is why the sorrow is so great—your earth has slipped from beneath your feet. Yet you want somehow to keep your seat fixed. This you take to be consolation. That I should just pat your back and say, “All is well, don’t be afraid; your wife has not died—the soul is immortal!” Or that I should say, “Don’t worry at all; your wife has reached heaven! She has become a goddess!” And you will be pleased? Just by that? Will these few words satisfy you?

No, they won’t satisfy. I would have given you poison. You would go back and pull the blanket over yourself. You would say, “It’s good—my wife has become a goddess in heaven. Very good!” Your ego would be gratified—“Why wouldn’t she? After all, she was my wife.” You a god, she a goddess—it had to be so. “She’s being honored in heaven; you rest easy. When you arrive, she will have everything prepared.”

What do you want from consolation? Some sweet lie—something pleasant, sugary. No—but I do not give consolation. If you have received any consolation, I take it away. Because I want to give you transformation, not consolation.

Dawn has broken; the Malaya breeze
has waved its veil again!
A gust came, the lamp went out;
a new flower smiled!

This game goes on: here a bud opens, there a flower falls. Here a lamp is lit, there a lamp goes out.

Such are the turns of time:
for someone it is dawn, for someone dusk;
time comes to one as death,
to another as life!

So learn something!
Learn from the lamp and the flower—
when to go out, when to bloom!
In the soil or in the sun’s rays,
when both must meet.

Your hour too will be coming soon. We are all standing in a queue. Those in front are falling; you are coming closer, moment by moment closer. Your death is sliding nearer every day.

Your wife has reminded you that we stand in the line of death. And because you loved her, because you cherished her, a wound has been left. Don’t cover this wound, don’t falsify it, for this wound is a unique challenge; it is from this that a person becomes religious. If there were no death in the world, people would perhaps never seek the Divine. If there were no death and no sorrow, there would be no temples, no mosques, no churches or gurudwaras. If there were no death, who would think of immortality? Who would contemplate, who would meditate, who would enter samadhi?

It is death—by its compassion—that strikes you, that will not let you sleep, that wakes you again and again no matter how you try to sleep. Death is an alarm. But you are asking me to pat your back a little, press your head a little, so that you may go back to sleep, because this alarm has broken your slumber.

Good that your sleep broke. The sooner it breaks, the better. You are fortunate that the moment to break the dream has come. Dive into meditation.

Within you too is that which never dies. And within you is also hidden the Beloved—meeting whom there is never any parting again; the union is absolute. Only in finding That will there be contentment. Only in finding That will there be peace. All other relationships are mere coincidences. Fellow travelers fall into step on the road; then the hour of farewell will come, and each will go on his own way. Don’t get too lost in these, don’t forget too much.

And I am not telling you to run away from the world, to leave your wife, your children, your father and flee. I am not saying that. I am only saying this much: live right here, but wake up—live awake. Live knowing that all this is only a coincidence. This is the vision of the new sannyas—being in the world, and yet beyond it.

Because those words are not mine. They are His. I am a flute; the song is His; the lips are His, the note is His, the music is His. I am a veena; the fingers are His. Without His fingers, what is there in these strings? And without His lips, what is there in this hollow bamboo? The intoxication is His. God is intoxicating.

If, sitting near me, you taste intoxication, do not thank me—thank the Divine. If ever you see some nectar in my eyes, remember Him—remember only Him! Do not bring me in between.

“The sky showers and the earth gets wet—this everyone knows.
The earth showers and the sky gets wet—this only a rare one understands.”

We have seen that the sky rains and the earth becomes wet; but that the earth also rains and the sky becomes wet—this we have not seen, only a rare one sees it. To see this you need very deep eyes. We have seen that people speak—that is easy to see, straightforward. But sometimes it happens that the speaker is silent, and that which is beyond flows through him.

I am silent. You see me speaking; I am silent. I am silent—therefore something within me is being spoken. It is not mine. If there is intoxication, it is His. If some mistake occurs, put it down to me; if something lands perfectly, credit Him.

Tearing the vast net of darkness,
You are emerging, youth-new;
A sun upon your brow,
Of the east’s fierce summer.
By gusts of rays,
Today, door after door has opened!
Luminous One, salutations!

The bonds of meter are loosed,
The life-breath of songs washed clean!
In all seven tonal realms
All seven colors have dissolved!
On the veena of speech
Every string is trembling!

Dinesh! These strings are mine, but look to the One who is making them vibrate. You will not see Him with these eyes. Close these eyes and the inner eye opens. You cannot touch Him with these hands. Forget these hands, and within are hands by which you can touch.

Each sense is double: the eye does not only see outside—it can see within. The ear does not only hear outside—it can hear within. And when your inner senses awaken, you will recognize why there is intoxication—why there is so much nectar in the Upanishads, why there is so much poetry in the Quran. Muhammad’s own hand has nothing to do with it. That which descended is the very one. The stream of rasa that flowed in the Quran descended from the sky.

Mounted on the chariot of celestial dreams,
Filling infinity with the note of new life,
Making the crests of beauty resound—
Spring has come, brimful of fragrance!

Do you see? When spring arrives, suddenly green trees are filled with red blossoms! A miracle happens. From where do red flowers take birth on green trees? In greenery, redness sprouts! You see the advent of spring—but its footfall is not heard. Has anyone heard the footfall of spring? Yes, you hear the popping open of flowers, but you do not hear the footsteps of spring. Have you ever seen spring? It comes, and the flowers blossom—but there is no glimpse of its hands. Spring is subtle.

So it is with the coming of the Divine. He comes and touches a human being—and clay becomes gold. Breath comes into the flute. The strings of the veena begin to quiver.

Mounted on the chariot of celestial dreams,
Filling infinity with the note of new life,
Making the crests of beauty resound—
Spring has come, brimful of fragrance!

Into the hearts of tender buds,
With love-breath pouring new color,
Hiding from the bees, eyes averted,
The eager heart sips sweet intoxication!

Sing the song of love, flood with a new current,
Making the lips of inert and living alike turn red,
Spring has arrived—sky, forest, home, path—
Painting all, scattering vermilion dust!

The soft infancy of tender leaf-sprouts,
The youth of flowers in heaving waves,
The empire of desires, mute—
Spring has come, laden with the incomparable!

Dinesh! Look at the spring! Do not get entangled only in the flower. Right beside the flower stands the spring—look at spring. It has wrought the miracle. On a green tree a red flower has appeared—and an even greater marvel is happening. The flower is gross; subtler than the flower, fragrance arises. The flower is laden with the earth’s gravity, but fragrance is free of the earth’s gravity. If the flower falls, it falls toward the earth; the fragrance is “falling” toward the sky. A miracle is occurring. But behold this invisible spring.

And so it happens. The Divine comes and stands by a Tilopa, a Saraha. But you only see the veena being played; you do not see His fingers.

Have you ever seen love? Yet the one upon whom love showers is visible—his gait changes, his style and manner change; his life-style is transformed; eyes that yesterday were dull suddenly become luminous. Yesterday his feet were as if bound in chains; today they are as if wearing ankle-bells!

In the language of the eyes—who knows what you sang.
Though it was a moonless night, you lit a lamp.

In the jewel-eyed glance of swaying youth,
In the dense-dense shade of dark tresses,
Arms full…
Eyes brimming…
You soothed my pain.
Who knows what you sang.

At the clink of bangles the casement rang,
At the swift sound of anklets, lyrics sprang.
Enchanted, enrapt…
Astonished eyes…
You captivated me.
Who knows what you sang.

From the fanfare of your groomed, dark hair,
Each pearl of your earrings stirred the air.
With a single glance…
In the honey-grove…
You poured out nectar.
Who knows what you sang.

What happens to a lover—what honey-urn is poured over him! No one sees that the king of love has come and turned clay to gold. And this is but a worldly event. When that supreme sovereign comes near someone, when He begins to resound in someone’s meditation, then wine flows in full!

The intoxication in my words is not mine. Those words are not mine—that is why there is intoxication!

That’s all for today.