Sahaj Yog #16

Iron walls, O bird!
How could they ever please you?
Hiding a struggle within,
your life must be burning!
Laughter veils your sobbing,
deceiving this innocent world!
And yet, unawares, your eyes
must fill again and again!
Iron walls, O bird!
How could they ever please you?

Spending yourself on the world’s delights—
how long will your longings endure?
How long will you measure life’s roads
with the fine threads of your eyelashes?
I wonder how many tiny wicks of life
have flickered out just so!
Iron walls, O bird!
How could they ever please you?

When the wind takes a ripple
bearing the message of awakening,
when the rims of the sky blush crimson
with the aura of dawn,
when birds sing sweet morning songs
in the courtyard of the world—
Iron walls, O bird!
How could they ever please you?

Man is imprisoned too—not by iron walls, but by walls more lethal than iron: the walls of mind, the walls of thought. Outwardly you look so free, yet your wings have been clipped. You cannot fly. Your sky has been stolen—and stolen behind such beautiful words that you no longer remember. Your chains have been turned into ornaments. Your prisons have been explained to you as your temples. And the burdens beneath which you are being crushed have been certified as knowledge, scripture, doctrine.

This vast sky is yours, yet you live in cramped courtyards—the Hindu’s courtyard, the Christian’s, the Muslim’s, the Jain’s. Narrow courtyards. Little yards. Whoever would live in Paramatma must break every chain—even golden chains.

Remember, iron chains are easy to break; golden chains are difficult. Golden chains appear lovely, precious. Man wants to save them. And behind chains hides security. The bird you see locked in a cage—if you open the door, perhaps it still will not fly. For who knows how long it has been confined—maybe it has lost the capacity to fly. Even if the capacity remains, the vast sky will terrify. The habit of the small will hinder the leap into the infinite. The wings may flutter, but the soul will feel weak, the soul will feel cowardly.

Then too, there is the cage’s security. Food comes on time, regularly; no need to seek. There is no chance of going hungry. The open sky—granted, it is beautiful, the trees are green, the flowers are colored, and the joy of flight—granted. But will food arrive on time? Some days it may, some days it may not. There is insecurity. There is danger too. Enclosed in the cage, no attacker can reach you; the outer world cannot intrude. Outside the cage there will be enemies, hawks—an attack could come, life could be in peril. The cage offers security, convenience. The sky is insecure, inconvenient. Even if you open the cage door, it is not necessary that the bird will fly.

I have opened your doors, but it is not necessary that you will fly. In truth, the one who opens your door—you grow angry with him, because for you a door opening also means that enemies can now enter. You have made a small world of your own; you seem content within it. Who wants the bother of the boundless?

That is why people search for God in temples, while Paramatma is present everywhere. Temples are small courtyards—small cages. People search for God in scriptures, while God is vibrant all around; his ocean is surging. Regarding God, people ask others, while God sits within you.

This is the declaration of Sahaj-yoga: You are God— not a grain less. Simply accept your freedom. And the wonder is, cages for birds are made by others, but your cage you yourself have made. The bird perhaps has been locked by someone else; you have locked yourself. Your cage is such that the moment you choose to break it, it can be broken.

Sahaj means: where consciousness becomes perfectly natural, all bonds drop, all chains fall. The chains are subtle, not visible, yet they are. Every person is bound. And whenever someone becomes unbound here, he becomes a Buddha, a Mahavira, a Muhammad, a Jesus, a Saraha, a Tilopa.

Remember—remember your capacity. You too are to become this. Do not settle for less. If you must be something, be Jesus—do not be Christian; to be Christian is to be far less. When you can be Jesus, why be content with being a Christian? And when you can be Mahavira, to be content with being a Jain is to sell your life cheap.

I want you to become a Buddha—nothing less. Anything less is an insult—to you and to God. For God abides within you, and you have gotten entangled in small things, becoming small yourself. If anyone would pull you out of your entanglement, you grow angry, you rage. You have given immense value to trifles. Value belongs to one thing only—Samadhi. All else is valueless. These are the aphorisms toward that Samadhi.

Now the life-breath is so very tired,
wandering here and there, forever seeking this or that,
worn out with perplexity.
Now the life-breath is so very tired.

Feet tired, heart tired, the life tired,
eyes tired, each limb tired.
Hope tired, waiting defeated,
imagination tired—its tireless flight exhausted.
Now the life-breath is so very tired.

The circuit of eight watches of ceaseless quest—
it stands utterly fatigued.
The thirst for Darshan grows ever more
as weariness deepens.
Now the life-breath is so very tired.

This life is dull, fruitless,
heart empty, mind wholly unquiet—
only futile experiments
have consumed the silent moments of life.
Now the life-breath is so very tired.

Now we cast a wistful gaze
over the life already spent—
what we might have become
had we not wandered on unknowing.
Now the life-breath is so very tired.

The bonds of past practices
have grown very strong.
Beloved, by this pace
Nirvana seems hard to attain.
Now the life-breath is so very tired.

Playfully, O wayward Mind,
if you just give one little jolt—
by that single shake
may life find its blessedness.
Now the life-breath is so very tired.

Look closely within yourself—how tired you are! How desolate and disheartened! How much weight you drag! How much weariness within! Within you there is only weariness upon weariness. You go on living because one must live. But where is the pulse of life? Where is life’s dance? Where is life’s festival? The flute does not sing; the vina gives no twang; no beat falls on the drum. Nowhere any honeyedness, no streams of rasa are seen.

If this is life, then what is death? If this is life, then life is worth two cowries! Life could have been—but did not become. You walked in such a way that life could not happen. Each day you grew narrower, more shrunken. You did not spread, you did not become vast.

The very meaning of the word Brahman is expansion—that which goes on extending, which crosses all boundaries, which transgresses every limit—only that one attains Brahman.

Sahaj-yoga is a great revolution. Understand it, and the door of supreme realization opens. Understand it, and your life too is fulfilled.

Listen to each word with care, for Tilopa did not speak many words; there are few words. But one word is enough to set you free.

As the one who knows how to neutralize poison may eat poison and not die,
so the yogi, enjoying the objects of the world, does not fall into worldly bondage.

Listen to this proclamation. It is not a proclamation for escapees. It is not the escapist form of sannyas. It is the most creative vision of sannyas. Tilopa says: the one who knows the science of poison can turn poison into medicine. Until you can turn poison into medicine, know that no ray of wisdom has yet arisen within you. Know that your intelligence has not awakened—you remain a simpleton; you have not become a Buddha. The day the art is mastered of making even life’s poisons into nectar—the one who knows that alchemy is the yogi.

A yogi cannot be a deserter. The deserter is a coward. To see poison and run away is to refuse the challenge; to show your back; to flee the battlefield of life with tail tucked. Therefore I tell my sannyasin: be a sahaj-yogi; do not renounce, do not run. Whatever Paramatma has given in life can be transmuted into nectar. Right in your shop, temple can arrive. And the true joy is precisely this—that you need not go to the temple, the temple comes to you. The true relish is that you need not go to the Himalayas; the Himalayas surge within you. Your inner being becomes calm as the Himalayas, lush and green; springs bubble up in your soul. Go sit upon the Himalaya—surely a little peace will be felt, because the marketplace’s clamor will not be there. But remember, that peace is not yours; do not forget it even for a moment. That peace is of the Himalaya.

Understand it thus: a beautiful person stands before a mirror, and the mirror begins to think, I have become beautiful! The beautiful one departs and the mirror is as it was—warped, grimy, ugly. It was the reflection. Do not trust the reflection. The reflection is maya; it is not the soul.

You went to the Himalayas, sat in solitude—the virgin hush of the mountains! Quiet winds, dustless air. Green trees, with their yearning to touch the sky. On snow-sheathed peaks, sunlight pouring as gold; on a full moon night, the spread of silver everywhere. You were overwhelmed. You felt it—you thought meditation has happened, Samadhi has ripened. Return to the plains, and it all is lost. Nothing remains in your hand. It was a shadow that deluded you.

Tilopa says: the knower does not go seeking nectar; he turns poison into nectar. There is no poison; there is only nectar—only the art of discovery is needed. God has not made a world; there is only God—only the art of discovery is needed. The world is on the surface, outside; within, within, there is God.

Dig a little, remove a few layers of earth, and you will meet water sources. Dig a little within your wife—and you will find God. Within your husband—God. Within your child—God. Sit in your shop, learn a touch of quietness—and you will find God.

This world is poison for the foolish; it is nectar for the wise. The world is neither poison nor nectar; it all depends on you.

As the knower of poison may drink it and come to no harm, so the knower of life drinks all its poisons—ego, anger, greed, illusion, attachment—and by drinking them he becomes enriched.

Understand a little: if you cut off anger, unable to digest it, compassion will never be born in your life. If anger is cut off, compassion cannot arise.

Take a more gross example. Your legs carry you to the brothel; you cut off your legs—without legs, how will you go to the brothel? But without legs, how will you go to the temple? How will pilgrimage be? You cut off the legs that went to the brothel—but the legs had no contract with brothels. You took them there, so you went there; you could have taken them to the temple, to Kashi, to Kaaba—wherever you take them, there they go. By cutting off your legs you set yourself in great difficulty. Now pilgrimage cannot be.

From your mouth came anger, abuses—you cut off the tongue. Now nectar-words can never arise, now songs you cannot sing, no humming will be.

Your eyes were enchanted by form—you gouged them out. But when God blossoms in the rose, you will be deprived. When his footprints appear upon the lotus, you will miss them. When the sun rises in the sky, you will be deprived. And in all these forms, it is he who reveals himself. You made a great mistake. Eyes were not to blame; eyes are impartial—you see whatever you intend to see.

Yet this is what is happening. People suppress anger, cut it off; suppress greed, cut it off. What is the outcome? Look closely at your so-called saints and you will see: the one who suppressed anger, destroyed it, never finds compassion—for compassion is anger transformed; compassion is the same poison of anger become nectar. The one who cut off greed loses charity from his life, for charity is greed refined. The one who cut off lust loses Ram from his life, for the upward journey of sexual energy into the sahasrar is the experience of Ram. When the Ganga of sex-energy begins to flow toward its source, the experience of Ram happens. Yes, when sex-energy flows outward, Ram is not experienced; when it begins to flow inward—an inner pilgrimage—then Ram is realized.

Sex has certainly entangled you in endless knots—true. But remember, the fault is not sex-energy’s; you did not understand. You failed to know the secret of the poison. You did not understand the alchemy by which sex-energy is transformed. You are not an artist. Sex did not lead you astray; your ignorance did. Your unconsciousness did. Had there been awareness, you would have made steps out of sex itself.

It will startle you to know: in the entire history of mankind, no eunuch has ever attained Samadhi. Why? A eunuch should be first to attain; he has no sex-energy. But without sex-energy the stairway is not built; the ladder does not stand. With what wood will you build the boat to move toward Ram? If you cannot go outward at all, how will you go inward? There is no capacity to move—he remains stuck. Hence the eunuch’s condition is pitiable.

And consider: who is born eunuch-like? You will be startled when I say: those who in past lives violently suppressed sex-desire, broke it, twisted it—such people are born eunuch-like. Your so-called brahmacharis are born eunuch-like—because that was their wish. Over many lives they tried again and again; the wish succeeded, the desire fulfilled. What was asked was received. Now they weep, now they are troubled.

Think: if a child is born without fear, can he live? Without fear, will he have fearlessness? If there is no fear, not only will fearlessness not be—life itself will not remain. He will put his hand into fire; it will burn. He will grab a snake; it will bite. He will sit on the road while a truck blares its horn; he will stay seated—there is no fear. Will you call this wisdom? It is mindlessness.

Fear is necessary; within fear lies fearlessness. One who purifies fear, who breaks its crust, within him the stream of fearlessness begins.

Remember: whatever is within you—do not cut it off, do not renounce—purify it, refine it. Tilopa says: as the purifier of poison does not die by eating poison, so become a purifier. Refine every energy of life.

This is exactly what science has done in the outer world; religion must do in the inner world. What has science done? It has created no new forces; it has refined the forces that exist. Lightning flashed in the sky since forever. Five thousand years ago in the age of the Rigveda, lightning flashed, and people were terrified—chests shook; they thought Indra was angry. They thought lightning was Indra’s bow; its crack was the twang of his bowstring. The god is enraged—worship him, pray, offer oblations, perform sacrifice, so the god may be appeased.

Have you ever thought: the god who grows angry—what god is that? But it had nothing to do with Indra; there is no Indra anywhere. Man’s fear wove the tale; there was no other way to understand, and one needed some consolation. Lightning flashes—what to do? It will strike, it may take a life. Today you feel no such fear; lightning flashes and you do not perform a fire-ritual—barring a few fools. You do not seize a rosary to chant Ram-Ram. You know lightning is unrelated to Indra’s anger; it is a natural energy. Today you know it well—because electricity in a thousand ways serves you at home. Press a button and Indra appears—the fan moves, Indra fanning you. Press a button—Indra arrives to make tea. Press a button—there is light; Indra is breaking your darkness. Electricity is in your hands. What did science do? It studied that lightning that flashed in the sky, grasped its laws, recognized its secret. Once the secret was in hand, you became master.

Outer lightning is in hand—when will you bring the inner lightning into your hand? When I speak of bringing inner lightning into your hand, people become angry. Yet understand: when scientists first sought to harness outer lightning, people were angry then too. They said: how can you bring Indra under control? This is irreligious—will you make Indra serve in your house? He will grow furious—he will hurl the Brahmastra and behead everyone.

But the scientists went on; they paid no heed to your opposition. Today you have forgotten your protests and live off their discoveries, happily. You cannot imagine the world without electricity; your whole civilization would collapse. Everything depends on electricity.

Two years ago, in America, electricity failed for three days. People were astounded—civilization vanished in three days. Consider New York’s condition: a man on the 120th floor, stranded thirsty—who will lift water? Indra is absent. Hungry, because the elevator does not move. To descend 120 flights for food and return with it—better to stay hungry. And those who have not descended so many stairs in years—if they do today, a heart attack will come. Loot erupted on the streets—no lights. Anyone could snatch your money. The jungle returned. In three days, murders, thefts, rapes. The police was helpless, the law broken; trains stopped, roads deserted, shops and offices closed. All law was at a standstill. Those who lived in New York then wrote: we learned our entire civilization stands on electricity. Let electricity be lost—and all is lost; man cannot survive.

You are so dependent on electricity—and when the scientists began these researches, you were angry; you thought Indra or God would be displeased.

In the same way people are angry with me; in the same way they were angry at Tilopa. The anger is because we would master the inner energy, the inner lightning. Sex-energy is your inner electricity; the same power burns you and enlivens you and drives you. Yes, for now it drives you as lightning drove the ancient—by blinding flashes. This lightning can be mastered. Let sex-desire meet meditation, just a little—and it rises upward. Then the journey from sex to Samadhi is not difficult. From sex itself, the journey to Samadhi can be made. Kama becomes Rama; anger becomes compassion; greed becomes charity; the world becomes the experience of Brahman.

As the one who knows poison does not die by eating it, so the yogi, enjoying worldly objects, does not become bound by the world.

Remember, Tilopa is not saying the yogi does not enjoy; he says, the yogi enjoys with such art that he enjoys and yet does not become bound. This is the supreme secret science. Enjoy in such a way that you partake—and yet you do not bind yourself.

In the world there are two usual kinds of people: the hedonist who becomes bound, and the yogi who, fearing bondage, runs away. Tilopa speaks of a third kind of man, as I do. The hedonist is bound—no beautiful state that; poor, begging, whining, bowl in hand; tangled in his doings. Seeing him ensnared, the yogi runs—he becomes a fugitive, an escapist; he fears that if he enters the world he will be bound. He hides in forests out of fear.

But fear does not end inner craving. It burns there too; it binds him there as well. Little things are enough to bind; palaces are not required—a loincloth suffices.

A seeker came to a Sufi fakir—and was stunned: the fakir lived in great splendor. He had heard fakirs must live in poverty; fakir means poor. But this one had a golden throne, a palace-like ashram, all comforts, jewels, emperors as disciples. The seeker grew restless—this is upside down! Yet the Sufi said: since you have come, even though your mind finds no peace, be my guest a while—then go. Look a little closer.

He looked, but could not see where yoga was—enjoyment seemed abundant; yoga was not visible. Then another fear arose: if I stay here longer, this will become my fate. He began to relish good food; till now he had eaten coarse fare. A good bed—he worried whether he could ever sleep under a tree again. Two attendants massaged the Sufi each morning—this too felt like a trap: without massage, how will I rest? Who will massage me?

He panicked. After a fortnight he begged leave. The Sufi said: frightened? Afraid? Lacking art? Where will you go? He said: to the forest. The Sufi said: then I will come too. The seeker could not believe—how will he go, leaving his palace? But the Sufi walked with him. A few miles out the seeker remembered: I left my begging-bowl in your palace—I must fetch it. The Sufi said: your bowl will not do with me. I left my entire palace; you cannot leave a bowl. Our paths part here. Our friendship cannot continue.

The Sufi reminded him: the question is not what is held, but the act of holding. One can cling to a loincloth, to a bowl. No palaces are required to bind you. Anything will bind if the art is missing; and when the art is present, even in a palace one need not be bound—then one can be like a lotus in water.

A fakir was dying. He said to his disciple: remember one thing—do not keep a cat. He died, saying only this—offered no commentary. The disciple was perplexed: do not keep a cat—the final message! Should have spoken of Brahma-knowledge. I served him my whole life, and at the end he says, do not keep a cat. Why would I keep a cat? What has that to do with liberation? No scripture forbids cats. There are great commandments—do not steal, do not lie—but do not keep a cat?

Seeing him troubled, an old man said: do not worry. I knew your master; he spoke rightly. And I too tell you—if you follow it, you will be saved; if not, you will fall into difficulty, as he did.

Explain, said the disciple. My mind cannot grasp it—I have studied great scriptures, but do not keep a cat? The elder said: listen. Your guru fled the world from fear of entanglement—like others. He did not marry, did no trade, left the market, went to the forest. One problem arose. He had only two loincloths. Mice kept gnawing them as they dried at night. He asked the villagers what to do. They said: keep a cat. And there began all the trouble— the whole world. The advice seemed sound; he kept a cat. The cat ate the mice, but then grew hungry—was he to let it starve and incur the sin of killing?

He asked: what now? They said: keep a cow—you will have milk, the cat will have milk; and you will be spared begging. We will give you the cow, and be spared giving alms daily. The idea appealed; he kept a cow. Now the cow needed grass. Villagers said: there is plenty of land; do some farming—you sit idle, so why not? Grass will come, wheat will come; your bread, the cat, the cow—everyone happy.

He began farming. But should he farm or do bhajan-kirtan? Tend the cow and cat or read the scriptures? There was no time for devotion. He told the villagers: you have made a mess; I have no time. They said: a widow in the village, with no one to care for her—is troubled. We will place her here; she will serve you, cook your meals, and being strong, she will do the farming too.

That made sense. The arithmetic went on expanding. The widow arrived; she farmed, massaged his limbs, pressed his head in illness. Then what had to happen happened—love arose. Not wrong: she served so much—how could love not surge? The villagers came: this is not good; marry her, else it is scandal. He married, had children. The trouble spread and spread; then their children married.

The elder said: your guru was right—do not keep a cat. It is his life’s distilled essence. The mischief began with the cat.

Mischief can begin anywhere—and deeper still, with the loincloth. Your master should truly have said: do not keep a loincloth. But you will keep something—the loincloth, the bowl—how will life move otherwise? It is not what you have; it is whether you possess the art to remain free amidst things.

The hedonist is bound; the yogi has fled. But the hedonist within is not dead; does fleeing ever kill anything? Does fleeing ever change consciousness? The forest yogi’s mind whispers: go back—perhaps I missed the point; perhaps there is the juice, what am I doing sitting here? The hedonist thinks: when the time comes, I will renounce and go to the forest. The one in the forest thinks: where have I trapped myself? I was better there. People enjoy themselves there; here there is only gloom. What to do sitting here?

These are states of mind. I know yogis and I know hedonists. Hedonists think yogis are happy; yogis think hedonists are happy. Tilopa says: yoga within bhoga, bhoga within yoga. Learn the art by which yoga is mastered in the midst of enjoyment. Stay right here, but remain unattached. Stay in the marketplace, but stay within. The outside is outside—let it move outside; do not let it enter within. Dwell in enjoyment and cultivate yoga. And in yoga, realize supreme enjoyment—for even in meditation the supreme rasa is to be imbibed—the embrace of God. Embrace not the world and yet in meditation, without embracing, embrace God—this great art is Sahaj-yoga. In it, one becomes neither hedonist nor escapee.

But this is inner, intimate; others may not understand. Others will not even notice—outer things alone are seen. You tie on a loincloth, shave your head, head for the forest—everyone declares: you have become a yogi. But if you cultivate meditation within and still sit in your shop as before—who will know? And why should anyone know? The urge to be known is ego’s aspiration. To have the whole world know I am a yogi—this is ego.

Ego is the greatest barrier between you and God. Why should anyone know? Live quietly, unattached. Let the sweetness of meditation be; let the world run outside and let awareness run within. And remember—parallel lines never meet. The rails of the track—see how they run side by side for miles, yet nowhere do they meet.

Yoga and bhoga must become parallel lines—that is Sahaj-yoga. Let enjoyment run outside, let yoga run within—side by side, step for step, rhythmic; but let not your yoga be the enemy of your bhoga, nor your bhoga the enemy of your yoga. Let them be parallel, balancing each other, not enemies but complements—and then you will see: a majestic personality is born.

But the world may not recognize him, for it has only two categories—yogi and bhogi. Thus Tilopa was not recognized; Saraha was not recognized; thus I cannot be recognized. In which category will you place me? Whichever you choose will be too small. And you cannot rest without categories; you must place everyone somewhere. Let a few in this world live beyond categories—for they are the salt of the earth; because of them there is fragrance here. Not due to your hedonists and not due to your so-called yogis, but because of those few who master yoga in bhoga and bhoga in yoga—because of them, God and Nature go on meeting. Because of them, between God and Nature there is an intimate dialogue, a whispered conversation. They are the bridge between Nature and God. Because of them, Nature and God have not been torn apart.

Your yogi is sunk in Nature—by suppression; your hedonist is sunk in Nature—by excess. There is little difference between them; neither has any relation to God. Both value the same things: one runs toward wealth, one runs away from it—but both are running because of wealth. One runs facing wealth, one with his back to it—both are running; both base their lives on wealth, or status, or fame, or sex, or craving. No fundamental difference. Yes, they differ in posture—one stands on one foot, one on his head; but they are the same sort of person.

Do you think by doing a headstand you become another person? Does standing on your head create a revolution? You remain the same.

I heard of a man of great anger. So angry that he pushed his wife into a well—she died. He was shocked. A Jain muni had come to the village; he fell at his feet: give me initiation. The muni asked: so quickly? He said: right now. The muni asked: will you be able to manage? He said: anything I cannot manage, no one can—tell me what to do. The muni said: you must be naked. He immediately threw off his clothes. The muni was startled—courageous fellow! Not courage—only anger. Anger was the fire behind every act; you challenged him and provoked it.

Why do you want sannyas? asked the muni. He said: I am very angry; I killed my wife. It is enough—teach me peace. The muni gave initiation and named him Shantinath. He praised him, too: I have seen many—some say they will renounce tomorrow; even when they do, it takes years to become a naked Digambara. You did it in a moment—you are brave. He was only angry; this renunciation was his anger’s transformation. Not a declaration of peace—only anger aflame. Having pushed his wife into the well, he now pushed himself into another well.

His fame spread—how could it not? He tormented himself greatly—fasted two or three days, then ate once; then months of fasting; slept on thorns, lay on stone, stood in the sun, stood in freezing water. His fame grew; such people become famous. People came from afar to see him. Eventually he reached Delhi, for all monks must, and then never leave. There is a rule for Jain monks: do not remain anywhere more than three days; during the rains, four months. They found a trick— they do not consider Delhi one city but many: Krishna Nagar, Tilak Nagar—so they keep moving within Delhi and do not leave.

Shantinath too reached Delhi. A man from his village came; thought: he is renowned—I will see him. He doubted that his anger had gone—if his anger could go, everyone’s could. But miracles do happen. He went. Shantinath sat on a throne, naked. He saw and recognized his childhood friend—but now he was Shantinath the great muni. He recognized, but did not acknowledge—how to recognize the riffraff? He looked and looked away.

The friend understood: he saw me and looked away. He edged closer. He said: Maharaj, may I ask your name? Knowing him well, he teased. Shantinath said: my name? Do you not read the papers? Who does not know my name? You come to ask my name!

The friend said: Maharaj, I am unlettered, with no leisure for newspapers; consider me a fool—tell me your name. He said: my name is Shantinath. The way he said it—the friend knew nothing had changed—the same stiffness. They spoke a while. The friend said: my memory is weak—I am forgetting your name. Now anger rose: are you deaf? Did you not hear me say—Shantinath. The friend said: thank you. They spoke more. Then as he prepared to leave, the friend asked again: Maharaj, tell me your name. Shantinath, enraged, struck his skull with his begging bowl: I have told you a thousand times—Shantinath—will you have no sense? The friend said: now I have perfect sense; your blow has clarified everything—you are the same; not a hair has changed.

Taking off clothes does nothing; standing naked does nothing; standing on your head does nothing; sitting Buddha-like in posture does nothing. If anything is to happen, consciousness must change—only meditation effects difference.

Bring meditation into enjoyment—and it becomes yoga; bring love into yoga—and it becomes supreme enjoyment. These two are essential. Enter enjoyment with awareness; the result will be yoga. When yoga is in hand, take a second aphorism: now live yoga with love—and supreme enjoyment will be in hand.

What does it mean to live yoga with love? The eyes have been cleansed by meditation. Now when you behold a flower, it appears in its fullness. Meditation has cleansed the mirror, washed away its dust, given it ablution; meditation is bathing. The mirror is spotless; now the flower appears as it is. This is yoga. But more remains. The mirror is only receptive; it reflects the flower within itself; it gives nothing to the flower. Love is needed—so the mirror may also give itself to the flower; so the mirror may pour itself over it; so it not only take, but give.

Meditation cleansed and made you a vessel for receiving; love makes you able to give. Distribute, lavish, pour with both hands. Let not your glance merely fall—let love shower too; become a cloud of love. When you see a tree, do not only see it—let exchange happen. The tree gave you its greenness; give something too. It gave flowers; give something too. It cast its colors upon you; give some of your color too. The poor tree gives so much—will you go on only taking? Will you not return anything? If you do not echo back, you are a stone; then the journey remains half-done.

Therefore, the one who cultivates only meditation without love grows stony. He sits juiceless; he does not flow. He becomes a pool—clear, crystal water perhaps, but without current there is no dance, no festival. Flow.

Meditation teaches stillness; love teaches current. When pure water flows, Ganga descends from the sky. In that very moment you become Bhartrihari. In that moment, within you are born extraordinary meditation and extraordinary love.

Bhartrihari wrote two books—Shringar Shataka and Vairagya Shataka. Within you both will happen together—yoga, renunciation; love, adornment. Within you there will be Buddha-like meditation and Meera-like love. Where Buddha and Meera meet, the highest peak of this world is touched.

I want my sannyasins to be such that their meditation is like Buddha’s and their love like Meera’s. In that incomparable moment when meditation and love unite, when they confluence—a third river, Saraswati, appears—unseen by others, visible only to the one who has mastered meditation and love. To the one who has mastered Ganga and Yamuna, Saraswati manifests. As a symbol of this, Prayag is called the king of pilgrimages; others are pilgrimages—Prayag is the king. Why? Three rivers meet there; two are visible, one invisible. It is a symbol of the innermost. The river of meditation is visible; the river of love is visible; then a third is born—witnessing. It is not seen; it is the most invisible—and the most precious. Saraswati.

Saraswati is the goddess of knowledge. Witnessing is the source of knowledge, the deity of knowledge. From there all knowledge has sprung—Vedas, Upanishads, Quran, Gita, Dhammapada. All knowledge has flowed from the witness. But only he reaches witnessing who has mastered love and meditation.

Hedonists miss; so-called yogis miss. Become such that you live both together—parallel. The journey is arduous. But the more arduous, the sweeter the fruits. A great price must be paid; whoever pays rises to great heights, enthroned upon summits.

He who knows the secret of supreme bliss realizes the Sahaj in a single instant.

The secret I have told you—meditation within enjoyment, love within yoga—and then the witness appears. This is the royal secret, the science of the inner, the alchemical process.

Tilopa says: He who knows the secret of supreme bliss— in a single instant revolution happens; no time is needed. In a single instant, the Sahaj is known; in a single instant, arrival happens. How can we arrive in one instant? Because we are already there—only unaware. If there were a distance, it could not be traversed in a moment.

Sitting here, you cannot in a moment reach New York or Peking; travel is required—Pune and Peking have a gap. But if someone drowses while listening to me and dreams he is in Peking, he can be brought to Pune in a moment—shake him. He will not say: how can I come now, I am in Peking, far away; I must buy a ticket and catch a flight. No—shake him a little; he returns in an instant.

When the journey is real, time is needed. But you are exactly where you wish to be; that is the meaning of Sahaj— you already are what you seek to become; it is your nature. Paramatma is your naturalness. You have only fallen asleep, begun to dream; a little shake is enough.

Playfully, O wayward Mind, if you just give one little jolt—
by that single shake may life find its blessedness.
Now the life-breath is so very tired.

Just a slight push—this is what the guru does. He gives nothing, takes nothing—just a little push; a slight shaking, and sleep breaks, dreams scatter, truth appears.

Will stone have faith?
Heap flowers as you like,
light as many lamps as you will—
kindling moment by moment,
that lamp only consumes itself.
Will stone have faith?

What knows it of heart’s longings,
what knows it of the inner blaze?
Of the wooing of life-breaths—
what can that ruthless thing feel?
Will stone have faith?

Why pour my tenderness upon it,
why offer it my strength?
This weakness of mine
it will mock through the ages.
Will stone have faith?

And you worship before stones. Seek a true master. Stones cannot shake you awake—they themselves are asleep, the final stage of sleep. You light lamps before stone and waste time. Find a true guru—where consciousness has manifested, where the lamp is aflame—only that can awaken you. The awakened alone awakens.

You are inside the prison; make contact with one who is outside. Granted, the greatest difficulty lies here: the prison’s language is one thing, the outside’s another. The asleep have one language; the awakened, another. Dialogue does not happen. The asleep have their doctrines, the awakened theirs. Connection does not form. Thus we have never accepted the living awakened. We accept them only once they are gone. Then we carve their forms in stone and worship them for centuries. We deny living Buddhas; we worship dead Buddhas. As though with stone idols our dialogue is easier. We are stone and the idol is stone; friendship arises. With Buddhas there is great difficulty.

We say we want to be awakened—but truly, we do not want anyone to jolt us. We want to awaken, but want to keep all our sweet dreams as well; yes, let the nightmares go—but preserve the pretty ones! This cannot be. When you awaken, all dreams break—the sweet and the bitter, the dear and the poisonous, all break.

We go to the guru with conditions; the push cannot reach us. Our walls of conditions absorb the shock before it reaches. Only the one who comes leaving every condition behind—he can awaken.

Man, you are not different by caste or color or country.
Black, white, red, yellow—
it only appears to you so.
These are garments of the Atman,
holy upon every limb.
Beyond colors you are
one hue, one tone, indivisible.

What caste have you?
One blood, one sweat.
O man, you are bound
by a great sorrow to this day;
why still can you not rise?
Who is your enemy? From whom are you separate?

You encircle town, province, nation—
binding yourself without end.
O infinite, without boundary,
why this petty attire?
What homeland, what foreign land?
The whole earth is yours—why then this grief?

Wake a little! Drop small limits. Let little obsessions depart. Put aside prejudice, dogma, blind belief. Perhaps then there will be a meeting with someone awakened; perhaps another’s awakening will jolt you. That is enough. In a single instant, the happening happens. It should happen in a single instant—because where you would go, you already are; you have always been there.

This is the supreme truth—there, no virtue, no fault; how then can touch remain?

Supreme truth is one—Tilopa says—there are no virtues there, no faults; no sin, no merit; no good, no bad; no day, no night; no seen, no seer. All dualities have ended. There is no saint there, no sinner. Beyond every pair, only the witness remains— not as seer opposed to seen; even that duality is gone. Only awareness remains. I am remains—just a hum of being—vast as the sky.

Sky is never pure nor impure. Have you seen? Black clouds gather—the sky does not turn black. White clouds gather—the sky does not grow white. Clouds come and go; the sky remains as it is. Its innocence, its virginity is unbroken. Such is the sky of your consciousness within—unbroken. There are no virtues, no faults—that is the supreme truth.

Until you know this, do not stop. Do not take small things for truth and halt. Until the supreme truth is known, know that the journey remains—walk on and on; pay whatever must be paid. If the price is life itself, pay it—for true life begins only when the supreme truth is realized.

The one who lives as witness lives as God—that alone is the supreme life, the dance of bliss.

Abandon both chitta and achitta forever; abide in your Sahaj nature.

Leave this mine and thine; let go of I and you; let the divisions pass. What is chitta? What is achitta? Chitta is the process of thought within; achitta is the body, the matter. Chitta means consciousness; achitta, the inert body. You are neither body nor mind—you are beyond both. You are neither Ganga nor Yamuna; you are Saraswati. Remember the third—merge into it, become established there.

It neither comes nor goes, nor does it stop anywhere; yet by the guru’s upadesh, it abides in the heart.

A very lovely saying. That supreme element, that supreme truth neither comes nor goes, nor rests in any place. Nevertheless, by the guru’s upadesh it enters the heart. If it comes, from where—when everywhere is it? If it goes, where—when everywhere is it? It is all-pervading—everything is contained in it. Like the sky— from where would it come, to where would it go? Neither coming nor going. Do not say it is static either—for only that can be still which can move. Stillness is a halt between coming and going. Thus sky is beyond our words.

So too is the witnessing—the inner sky. It neither comes nor goes—and yet a miracle occurs: by the guru’s upadesh it enters the heart. Who is guru? He who has disappeared; who is no more. He in whom no I remains, only the hum of being. He who has awakened to the witness—who has become the unseen Saraswati.

Guru is an invisible state—recognized only by disciples, not by onlookers. Spectators see the Ganga and Yamuna; devotees experience Saraswati. The difficulty is great. A disciple cannot explain his guru to the world. Those who love me cannot explain me to anyone; they will say one thing, the listener will hear another. They speak of Saraswati; the listener understands Ganga-Yamuna. Saraswati’s marks do not match the marks of the other two; they flow as water with color and form; Saraswati has no color, no form—she is the inexpressible.

The disciple gets the taste of the inexpressible. Only in the ultimate moment of love does it become evident that the one who speaks, the guru—he is not; through him, God speaks. But to know this, you need a very subtle eye, great nearness, utter guilelessness. Thus no disciple has ever been able to explain his guru— the sweet lump in the dumb man’s mouth.

And yet the miracle happens: that which neither comes nor goes, by the guru’s upadesh enters the disciple’s heart.

Understand upadesh. Desh means place; upadesh means to sit in that place—to be near. Upadesh is not what is said; it is the master’s presence, proximity, satsang. Satsang can be with words or without; the real satsang is wordless. When the guru speaks, even then three things flow—words colored like the Ganga and Yamuna, and between the words the invisible stream of Saraswati.

A disciple is one who does not only hear the words but also the silence between them; who reads not only the lines but the spaces between them; only then does the grasp of Saraswati come. That grasp is the essence.

Upadesh means sitting near. This is also the meaning of upasana, also the meaning of upavasa, and the meaning of Upanishad—sitting close by.

Sitting close is a great art—cultivated in the East; the West knows nothing of it. The West knows discourse and dialogue— the guru speaks, the disciple listens. The East knows the moment when neither guru speaks nor disciple listens—yet speaking and listening happen. It happens silently; heart meets heart. Speaking is an exchange between minds; in silence, heart and heart meet—there transference happens, there the sleeper awakens; there the one that neither comes nor goes abides.

If my tiny hands lacked the ritual offerings—
how could I say my life did not long for worship?

The disciple does not speak, but his silence is his offering. The guru does not speak, but his silence is his teaching. Yet that silent teaching is understood only by a silent disciple. Hence the guru’s first lesson is meditation—silence— the scripture of being still.

If my tiny hands lacked the ritual offerings—
how could I say my life did not long for worship?
In the temple of my mind a child stood;
I lit an unmatched lamp of love—
which even the harsh gust of wind
could not extinguish.
If my lips did not move when I beheld your grace,
how could I say my life did not long to sing your praise?

Worship is not done—it happens. Praise is not crafted—it breaks forth. Words are not formed—yet the head bows of itself. Then a disciple…

If my tiny hands lacked the ritual offerings—
how could I say my life did not long for worship?
In the temple of my mind a child stood;
I lit an unmatched lamp of love—
which even the cruel wind could not douse.
If my lips did not stir, enraptured by your beauty,
how could I say my life did not long to sing your praise?

For so long my lashes were made
into a delicate bed of hope;
for so long my eyes grew restless,
like a fawn on edge.
The littleness you mocked with smiles—
I too was proud of that very littleness.

The springs of my eyes
poured out their life upon you;
my inner sighs
called you a hundred times.
How could my life’s silent surrender fail to please you?
Dweller among stones, beloved—
you were no stone.

When a true master is found, what lay hidden
in stone images of Buddhas and Mahaviras
is revealed as living. Do not take platters of ritual;
carry the platter of the heart. Do not recite word-prayers;
offer the feeling of silence. Sit with closed eyes; sit bowed;
sit with your begging-bag spread. Then something happens—
the impossible happens. What ought not happen—happens.
That which neither comes nor goes, all at once
like a great surge, a flood, fills the heart.

Remember, the guru gives nothing; he awakens
what already sleeps within, he calls it forth.

I have always known you—
how then are you unknown to me?
I know I am the lamp,
you the ever new light.
I know I am the body,
you the divine consciousness—
why then this barrier between us?
I have always known you—
how then are you unknown to me?

From you the world took light
and called the sun a giver.
From you the winds took breath
and received your boon.
Filling dust-motes with consciousness—
how then are you turned to stone?
I have always known you—
how then are you unknown to me?

When a disciple bows with such a plea,
he is filled—filled forever. He can never again be empty.
Bow with such emptiness, with such unparalleled love;
when surrender is so total, in that emptiness the Full
appears.

Who is entering my life-breath
as a wave of joy?
Moonbeams that stole away
the pearls of my eyes—
now they scatter upon my lips
as laughter.
Who is entering my life-breath
as a wave of joy?

In those nests of eyes
where dreams made their home,
now wakefulness smiles,
faith alive.
Who is entering my life-breath
as a wave of joy?

Why should not the cuckoo sing
in the fifth note my honeyed song?
Even autumn has arrived today
as spring.
Who is entering my life-breath
as a wave of joy?

In the heart where for ages
songs of begging were nursed,
there the hymn of worship
is made with every breath.
Who is entering my life-breath
as a wave of joy?

Who has quickened today
this empty heart?
Who has spread over the field of feeling
an autumn-sky made pure?
Who is entering my life-breath
as a wave of joy?

The first time the flame leaps within,
the first time the inner sprout pushes up,
the first time Samadhi rains—you cannot believe
what is happening. The impossible is happening.

Why should not the cuckoo sing
in the fifth note my honeyed song?
Even autumn has arrived today
as spring.
Who is entering my life-breath
as a wave of joy?

Autumn in a moment becomes spring.
Death in a moment becomes supreme life.
Darkness turns to light. Night is over, morning has come—
that morning which never fades, that sunrise
which has no sunset.

It neither comes nor goes; yet through the guru’s upadesh it enters and abides.

Sitting near the master, moving by his hints, his gestures;
dancing with him, singing with him, being with him—
that which neither comes nor goes, enters the heart.
Then life becomes all song; life becomes all blossom.

From a desolate direction came a tender, lovely sound—
perhaps someone’s throat-voice, perhaps someone’s sweet song.
Along with that voice came a jingling, a shimmering glide;
into the Ganga of song my delighted mind sent the Yamuna
of the vina’s stream.

Something familiar in that voice, bearing a weight of song;
those fingers upon the strings were known to me—
trembling.
I heard a heart-stealing sound.

My neck turned that way, my eyes were drawn—
but to that empty direction our sight was defeated.
In the ocean of failed searching, stars rose in my eyes;
vision scattered in the void, desires fell like rain.
I heard a heart-stealing sound.

O stream of song rising
from an uncertain direction—
why have you entered my hearing?
This poor heart is shaken;
a whole world of memory is awakened.
See what passes now upon my life and mind—
I have heard a tender voice.

I had long renounced rhythm and sound within;
I had become a renunciate, smeared ash upon my body—
but your current of song washed away my dispassion in a moment;
again I became a wandering Majnun.
I heard a heart-stealing sound.

Once that heart-stealing voice is heard, all dispassion falls,
all passion falls; yoga falls, bhoga falls; every duality
drops away. Then there is only the intoxication of witnessing—
a drunkenness you do not yet know, but will know—must know.
Do not depart without it, else another life will be wasted.

I am empty, the world is empty, the three worlds are empty.
The immaculate Sahaj is the great bliss—there is no sin,
no virtue there.

Tilopa’s final word. The disciple has known what is to be known
by sitting at the master’s feet. What is that? Shunyata—the sky
of emptiness—where there is neither sin nor virtue. Saraswati has
manifested—the invisible descended.

I am empty, the world is empty, the three worlds are empty.

What does shunya mean? Not that all is erased; shunya means
all boundaries are erased. All distinctions have dissolved.
All has become united. Whom will you call man, whom stone,
whom tree? Whom woman? Whom young, whom old, whom living,
whom dead? Definitions are gone; all has merged into One.
The inexpressible remains.

Do not mistake shunya for a negation, as many have.
Shunya is not denial. Shunya is another name for the Full.
Shunya is not zero; it is the womb of the Whole. From shunya
all arises and into shunya all dissolves—as clouds arise from sky
and return into sky.

All is contained in this shunya. The day you recognize it,
you are free. That day your wings open in the sky. Until then—
sorrow, hell; you are a bird trapped in a cage.

Iron walls, O bird!
How could they ever please you?
Hiding a struggle within,
your life must be burning!
Laughter veils your sobbing,
deceiving this innocent world!
And yet, unawares, your eyes
must fill again and again!
Iron walls, O bird!
How could they ever please you?

Spending yourself on the world’s delights—
how long will your longings endure?
How long will you measure life’s roads
with the fine threads of your eyelashes?
I wonder how many tiny wicks of life
have flickered out just so!
Iron walls, O bird!
How could they ever please you?

When the wind takes a ripple
bearing the message of awakening,
when the rims of the sky blush crimson
with the aura of dawn,
when birds sing sweet morning songs
in the courtyard of the world—
Iron walls, O bird!
How could they ever please you?

I am singing a morning song. Wake up. Let not your life-wick be wasted so. I call to you—listen. Make this life meaningful. Make this life honeyed. Let it not remain an autumn; turn it into spring. The formula: yoga in bhoga, bhoga in yoga—and then the witness will awaken—and you will become the king of pilgrimages.

Enough for today.