Sahaj Yog #19

Barry Slater! I too teach death—but a different kind of death. The death Jesus spoke of. Jesus said: Whoever would enter the kingdom of God must be reborn. They must die on one plane and awaken on another. They must become free of the body and spread their wings in the sky of consciousness. That is what I call real death.

The body keeps dying anyway; it dies of its own accord. To kill it is to kill what is already perishing. What must be killed is the mind—the mind that never dies despite dying again and again; beyond every death it starts a new chain of births.

I ask for the mind, not the body. I want you to die. I want my sannyasin to die—die on the material plane so that he can live on the spiritual plane. Die like mud, so that he can become a lotus.

All true masters have taught death. But what happened at Jonestown has nothing to do with religion. It is a kind of derangement; a suicidal tendency. What Reverend Jim Jones did there proves only that he himself was deranged, and those he gathered around him were also deranged. It was a gang of madpeople—a group of destructive, self-destructive people—waiting for any excuse.

In this ashram such a thing can never happen. Because whoever has entered this ashram has already died. There is no further way left for him to die. Now eternal life is his; now the life of nectar is his. The very meaning of sannyas is death—psychological death—of asmita, of ego. “I am not”—that feeling is sannyas. And when there is no “I,” who is there to die? The erasing of the I is sannyas.

Therefore, those who compare this ashram with Jonestown understand neither Jonestown nor this ashram. They understand nothing. They would even compare Jesus with Reverend Jones. They would compare Buddha with Reverend Jones—because Buddha too said, “Die every moment.” And Jesus repeated again and again that until you die, you cannot attain him. But what death are Jesus and Buddha speaking of? It is another kind of death—some other alchemical process.

I too say: die each moment. Keep dying to the past. Do not carry the burden of the past. Let no shadow of the past gather on the mirror of your mind; let no dust settle on it. Keep wiping it, keep dusting it; bathe daily. Understand every moment that a new birth has happened. Let the past die and the future be born—in that freshness, that dewdrop-like freshness, you will be able to relate to the divine.

But to die in that way is difficult. For such dying, a long journey of practice is needed. And the death that happened at Jonestown is very easy. Dying by taking poison is no great art. Dying in awakening is the art; it is yoga. If you die by poison, your life goes to waste, and your death goes to waste. You die in unconsciousness—and the one who dies in unconsciousness is the one who has lived in unconsciousness. For death is the ultimate expression of life.

I tell you to live wakefully. Live so alertly that when death comes, you remain awake even then. Let death also happen in meditation. You remain awake there while death happens here. Let the lamp of consciousness keep burning there while the body is shed. If you can die awake, then you will be neither born again nor die again. Then your connection is with the immortal.

Reverend Jones was no true master—he must have been a psychologically sick person. Such psychologically sick people sometimes come to me too. They come and say, Osho, just give the command and we are ready to die for you. I tell them: if you must obey my command, first be ready to live for me. First live for me; live as I say. Dying is very easy. How long does it take? Living is the difficult thing; dying happens in a moment. You jump off a cliff—only a moment’s courage is needed. Living—living seventy years... Thousands of seasons will change. Thousands of moods of the mind will change. Circumstances will change. Favorable and unfavorable winds will come; successes and failures will come. And still to live holding one thread—to live holding the thread of love, to keep one prayer steady and unshakable—that is difficult, very difficult. And when I tell someone: live as I say, he goes limp; he is ready to die.

This is what has happened for centuries. People have kept dying in the name of religion; who has lived in the name of religion? I teach you to live in the name of religion. My whole message is a message of a yes to life—of dance, of song, of celebration. I want you to become a flower and blossom; to become a bird and fly in the sky; to learn dance from the moon and the stars; to learn songs from waterfalls. I am a lover of life, because for me life is synonymous with God. And life never dies; life is eternal. Bodies change, forms change, colors change, names change; but that which dwells within you never changes.

What happened at Jonestown is a deeply pathological state. It has nothing to do with religion. Yes, in the name of religion many kinds of disturbances have taken place in the world and still take place; it is related to that.

Reverend Jones must have been a pathological, deranged man like Adolf Hitler. He must have had delusions. And to prove his delusions, a person can do anything. He could not teach people how to live...

When you cannot create, your energy becomes destructive. When you cannot build, an impatience to demolish arises. Remember, whoever fails in creating becomes eager to destroy. At least he can declare: if I could not create—no matter; at least I could destroy. Even in destroying, one feels powerful; one feels one’s domination. Why is there so much relish for destruction in the world? For this very reason: we could not create, never mind; but we can destroy. Even in destroying we feel we have become important, glorious. There are only two acts in this world: create or destroy. The one who can create will not destroy; the one who cannot create is the one who destroys.

A true master is one who awakens life; who builds life. The true master is a sculptor; he shapes rough, unhewn stones. He gives grace to the broken and battered. He gives beauty to those who have become ugly. He gives health to those whose chests hold nothing but wounds. Those whose very life-breath is full of pus—he draws out that pus. He removes the poison from their lives and gives the gift of nectar. Would any true master do the opposite?

A madman must have gathered a few other madpeople around him. And this is happening intensely in the West. Why is it happening in the West? Because traditional religion has rotted. The traditional God has become meaningless. The churches and temples are empty and silent. The gods departed from there long ago. Priests and preachers have opened shops there! And in the human mind the search for God has arisen. It has arisen because the West has, for the first time, become affluent. Whenever someone becomes affluent, whenever the amenities of life are fulfilled, the search for the divine becomes inevitable—because then nothing else remains to be sought. Wealth obtained, position obtained, prestige obtained—and still nothing is attained! Then one feels a spiritual emptiness; a certain anguish takes hold. The West is in that anguish today... searching.

And when people search, the false begin to flourish. When people are searching, counterfeit coins also pass. When people are groping, even places that are not doors declare themselves to be doors. In India too, all the dishonest types of sadhus and sannyasins are running off to America. Whether it is Maharishi Mahesh Yogi or Swami Muktananda or anyone else—they see a marketplace there. California has become a marketplace of religion. Five thousand new sects are operating in California. Anyone—any fool—who goes there and makes a loud proclamation will find disciples. Disciples are ready; ready to follow anyone.

I decided consciously not to go to the West. Because in the name of religion the West has become a bazaar. Whoever has to come must come here. If there is a search, a quest, people will traverse thousands of miles and come here. As for those so-called gurus who have to go from here to there—remember, they are looking for disciples; the disciples are not looking for them. The one whom disciples are seeking has no need to go anywhere.

I have shut myself in my room and sit there. Consider it a miracle that a man who does not go outside his room is quietly being visited by people from all over the world! They come enduring a thousand hurdles. And I even want it thus—that first they go to all those so-called gurus. So the people who are coming to me have been to many gurus. Now work can be done with them. Because the one who has seen the non-essential is the one who can see the essential. The one who has recognized the false is the one who can take a step towards truth. To know the non-essential as non-essential is the first step, the first rung, to knowing the essential.

Here I am teaching a celebration of life—the rainbow of life, all seven colors of life! I am not a denier of life. I am in love with life, in infinite love.

Such an incident cannot happen here. If there is a place where such a thing is impossible, it is here. I do not want to make you sickly. The false gurus will make you sick, because the more sick you become, the more you will feel you need them. They will make you meek and miserable. They will declare that you are sinners. The more weak you become, the more their strength lies in your weakness.

I am declaring that you are not sinners. I say that no one is a sinner. I declare that within you God is present in his utter purity. You are God in your virgin purity. I am proclaiming your supreme splendor, your supreme richness. I am giving you strength. I am giving you soul. I am not making you poor and pitiable.

Remember, this is the criterion: wherever you are made meek and miserable, understand that the person who is making you so wants to declare his power, authority, and ownership over you. Ownership can be exercised only over the weak. I am giving you as much strength as no one has ever given. Unconditionally I tell you: there is nothing in your life for which you should feel guilty. You are not going to hell. There is no hell anywhere. You have to awaken; and you will find that you are in heaven.

Barry Slater, you asked that some people compare my ashram with Jonestown. Those will be the very people who have never come here, who have never looked into my eyes, who have never sat near me, who have never held my hand in theirs. They are the ones who have never drunk the wine of this satsang. They are the ones who are far, far away from this tavern. Their words have no value.

You asked: since a collective suicide took place in the Guyanese jungle, could something similar happen here?
Here, whoever becomes a sannyasin has already committed suicide! The very meaning of sannyas is: I die as I have been, so that now I can live as I truly am. I drop my hypocrisies. I drop my masks. I let my personality go... into the current of the river, so that my soul can manifest.

Sannyas is suicide—in the true sense, true suicide. Because only after that does true life begin. Here there is nothing left for suicide to claim. Here there is no possibility of it. Here there is stillness. Here there is peace. From that peace, songs of joy are arising. And it is not that the sannyasins are singing; the sannyasin is simply allowing God to sing from within.

You also asked whether I could ask my sannyasins to make some such sacrifice symbolically for me or for my beliefs.
First, I have no beliefs. I do not teach beliefs. I teach freedom from beliefs. I teach how to be rid of knowledge. I do not give you knowledge; I take knowledge away from you. I want to give you emptiness. Another name for emptiness is meditation. As long as there is knowledge, there is no meditation. When all knowledge drops, meditation arises.

Meditation is the name of that immaculate state when not a speck of the dust of knowledge remains on the mirror of your consciousness. I am not teaching you any belief. I do not even say: believe that there is God. I do not even say: believe that there is liberation. I do not even say: believe that there is rebirth. I do not tell you to believe anything.

I say: know what is—this moment, here, now. My emphasis is not on believing. Whoever makes you believe will enslave you. To make you believe is to put a lie into your hands. Whatever is not your own experience is a lie. My experience is truth for me. Your experience will be truth for you. My experience can never be truth for you. I have tasted; you have not tasted. I heard the music; your ears remained as deprived as before. I ate; my hunger was stilled; yours will not be. If my eating cannot still the hunger of my sannyasin’s body, then even if I know God, how will my sannyasin know God? If even the hunger of the body is not stilled by another’s eating, how will the hunger of the soul be stilled?

Therefore remember: whenever truth passes from the hands of the knower to the hands of the non-knower, in that very process it becomes a lie. Another’s truth is a lie for you. Therefore I am not giving you any beliefs. If I am giving anything, it is awakening, awareness. Therefore the question of making sacrifices for my beliefs does not arise at all.

Renunciation and sacrifice are not parts of my way of life. I do not tell you, nor can I tell you, to give up anything for me. Yes, whatever you begin to see as useless will drop away, and whatever is meaningful you will begin to hold to. But this will happen within you, in your inmost being; you yourself will be its witness, you yourself its master.

I am not your owner; at most I am your companion.

Buddha called himself a kalyan-mitra—a friend in well-being. I say the same to you: I am your friend in well-being.

Do not think that because you are my disciple there is any guru-attitude in me. You are certainly my disciple, because you are still searching. But as far as I am concerned, I am not your guru, nor are you my disciple. Because I can see that what you are seeking is present within you. From my side I am a friend; from your side I am a guru. You are ignorant. All the notions of the ignorant are wrong. Included among them is the notion that I am your guru and you are my disciple. When the lamp lights—when there is light within you—these notions too will bid farewell. You will find that you are not a disciple, and you will find that I am not a guru. Neither the I remains nor the you remains—only God remains; no disciple, no guru. And where both are lost, there is the first glimpse of truth.

The second question is also related to the first:

Rohit! First, the people who have gathered around me are not being initiated into any sect; they are simply participants in a living experiment. This is a laboratory. I am not a Hindu, nor a Muslim, nor a Christian, nor a Jain, nor a Buddhist. Here we honor the whole testament of humanity—Hindus, Muslims, Jains, Christians, Buddhists, Jews, Sikhs—the awakened of the whole world. Whatever they have known, lived, and offered in unique experiments—this is a field for all of that.

This is a university. It is not a sect. Those friends who have become sannyasins here do not thereby cease to be Christian or Hindu or Muslim—no. It is their freedom. Those who were never truly Muslim, only nominally so, on becoming sannyasins will no longer remain Muslims. Those who were truly Muslim will, on becoming sannyasins, become even more deeply Muslim.

Sannyas gives you religion—and religion without any adjective. I am not giving you a particular religion, only a quality of religiousness. I am not binding you to any traditions, formalities, or rituals. I am giving you the essence, the key by which you can open the locks of the mysteries within. Once the lock opens, throw away the key—what will you do with it then? Once you cross the river, leave the boat behind—what will you do carrying the boat?

A sect is born when you are told to carry the boat on your head even after you have crossed. It is astonishing that someone becomes a renunciate and yet remains a Jain; becomes a renunciate and yet remains a Hindu; becomes a renunciate and yet remains a Buddhist. You have gone so deep into meditation that sannyas has blossomed—and you would still carry the boat on your head: of scriptures, of words, of doctrines? Now that you have your own experience, why lug around borrowed, stale words?

This is not a sect. And to make a sect you need a fixed system of beliefs. People come to me and say, “Write a small book, like the Christians’ catechism, containing the essence—these doctrines to accept, these to reject, do this, don’t do that; eat like this, sit like that—everything concise.” They are asking me to give them a sect. I am giving them the whole sky. They say, “Give us a small courtyard—clean, walled, secure.” I want to give them the whole sky. They say, “Give us a cage.”

I am not giving anyone a cage. That is why you will find people of all religions here. I don’t ask which religion you come from. I don’t tell you to drop something or to pick up something. What I have experienced, I lay before you. If some inner string within you vibrates, set out on the search yourself. I give you an adventure—a journey. I do not give you a destination. I do not give you fixed beliefs, doctrines, or predetermined goals. I give you an unbounded call to freedom. That is a very different thing.

Do not think of me as a religious leader. Better, think of me as a poet. Do not think of me as a religious leader. Better, think of me as a drunkard. I am a tippler who has drunk the wine of God and, in my ecstasy, is humming a little tune. Perhaps this humming will catch hold of you; perhaps, just sitting close by, you too will get a taste of my wine—then set out on the search.

Those who have tasted in this way are my sannyasins.

So first, this is not a cult or a sect. It is freedom from all sects. And who are these people who condemn cults and sects? They themselves are sectarians—some are Christian, some Hindu, some Muslim. They condemn sects. Why? Because their own sects feel threatened. They themselves are bound by beliefs, yet they fear a rival might appear. Yes, they have one argument: they say, “We are traditional, therefore we are not a cult; we are religion. What is nontraditional is a cult; what is traditional is religion.” What a definition! Then when Jesus first gave birth to Christianity, was that religion or a cult? It was not traditional then. Then the Jews did the right thing by crucifying Jesus, for he was a cultist, creating a sect, provoking and misleading the Jews. And when Buddha gave birth to the Buddhist way, that was a cult, a sect—not religion.

Then think a little: what was a sect at birth—how can it become religion after two thousand years? What is born a donkey will die a donkey. What is born a flower will die a flower. If at birth Buddha’s words are sectarian and not religion, then two thousand years later they will be even more sectarian, for priests and pundits will have piled on their additions. If the living Buddha is sectarian, then after two thousand years the corpse of words will have rotted thoroughly—heaped with commentaries.

But Christians—whenever a new birth of consciousness happens, they call it a cult. Then what about Jesus when he was new? Hindus stand against anything new. Yet once Krishna, too, was new; Kabir was new; Nanak was new; Muhammad was new. Only what is new can later become old—how else? And what is old must once have been new—otherwise how did it become old? So if a thing belongs to yesterday, it is religion; if it belongs to today, it is a cult—what a strange definition!

No, I do not accept such a definition. Here is mine: that which is bound by words, doctrines, and scriptures is a sect; that which is lived as experience is religion. I say: Christianity, Hinduism, Islam, Jainism, Buddhism—all are sects. Yes, those who sit with Krishnamurti and listen—that is religion. Those who sit with me—that is religion.

Religion is always fresh, new; religion is at the source of the Ganges, at Gangotri. As soon as the Ganges descends from there and flows down, it becomes dirtier day by day. And you have done something curious: you go to Kashi and worship the Ganges—by then who knows how many streams and how much filth from cities have entered it! The Ganges is virginal at Gangotri—just descended, brought down through Bhagirath’s effort, just now lowered by Shiva from the heavens, still wandering through his matted locks! These Himalayas are Shiva’s matted hair. When the Ganges is just now streaming from Shiva’s hair, that is religion. When it reaches Kashi, it becomes a sect.

Time makes a sect. Tradition makes a sect. The newness, the freshness—what I am telling you now is Gangotri. Yes, a hundred or two hundred years after I am gone, it will no longer be Gangotri. But when I reach Kashi, then you will make a pilgrimage place. You are so blind: you will abuse Gangotri and worship Kashi.

You would not let Muhammad stay in even one town—you chased him from Mecca to Medina, from Medina to Mecca; you ran after him with swords—and when Muhammad departs, then for centuries you worship! You are strange people! You are worshippers of the dead. You yourselves are dead, and you worship the dead.

When the dead worship the dead, I call that a sect. Those who gathered around Muhammad were courageous people. Those who sat with Muhammad and heard the Quran, who experienced the Ganges being born from him—those were religious people.

So my definition is the reverse: the older, the more decayed, the more rotten—the more it is a sect. The newer, the fresher—when the Ganges is just now descending from the sky, just now the Gangotri is springing from the Himalayas of someone’s samadhi—that is religion.

Religion is without adjectives, because the new has no adjective. When Buddha spoke for the first time, it had no adjective; Buddhism had not yet been born. You know Jesus was born a Jew and died a Jew. Jesus was not a Christian. Christianity would be born when the Ganges reached Kashi. For now, I have no name for any religion—right now there is religion. After I am gone there will be a name—then it will be a sect. Then avoid it—whether it is mine or anyone else’s makes no difference. Avoid the dead; go to the living, because God is life.

Rohit! What is happening here is not a sect—right now it is religion. And those who have come to me now are blessed; those who will come after I am gone will be unfortunate. But the world is full of the unfortunate.

Eyes are not needed for prayer—tears are needed. And the blind can weep just as well as those with sight. Forget about the eyes. In asking for eyes, you have begun to ask for knowledge—and knowledge is the enemy of prayer. Ask for tears. Ask for feeling, ask for the heart.

In asking for eyes you have started asking for the brain. The eyes are the doors of the brain. Do not ask for eyes. If there are no eyes, it will do—but the heart is needed. And the heart too has an eye. There may be no eyes—there is an Eye! The brain has two eyes; the heart has one. The brain is dual, dialectical—hence two eyes. The heart has a single eye; that very eye is the third eye, Shiva’s eye. It is just another name for that eye... I call that eye love.

Do not ask for knowledge. In knowledge there is always duality. In knowledge there is argument. And where there is argument there is no certainty. Where there is debate there is only conflict. Where there is conflict, no conclusion can be reached—none has ever been, none will ever be. Whatever you believe, opposing arguments can always be offered. Every belief can be shattered, because belief and doubt are of equal strength. That is why neither the believer nor the non-believer ever wins. So many thousands of years have passed; by now a decision should have been reached. If the believers were right, the whole world would have become believers; if the atheists were right, the whole world would be atheist. But no decision is ever reached. Believers present their arguments, atheists present theirs—both are nearly equal in force.

My own experience is that reason always fights equally on both sides. Reason is a courtesan—ready to go with anyone. Reason is a lawyer—ready to go with whoever pays the fee, whoever buys it. Reason never becomes decisive. Suppose you believe God exists; then the very proofs on which your belief rests can all be refuted—just as forcefully as you think you have established them.

Therefore beneath every belief doubt lies suppressed, and beneath every doubt the desire to believe remains. In my seeing, when someone is an atheist, I see a hidden theist within him; when someone is a theist, I see a hidden atheist within him. Theist and atheist exist together—two sides of the same coin. That is why the brain does not take you anywhere; it only deludes and misleads. It makes you go round like the bullock in the oil press—you keep circling in the same place. From the circling it seems you are moving, arriving; in truth there is neither journey nor arrival.

It happened that Bernard Shaw was staying in a hotel in a European country. He called a taxi; he had to reach the station quickly. He got in. “Drive fast,” he said, “I must reach in time.” The taxi sped off. But soon Shaw felt they were going in the opposite direction from the station. He asked, “Where are you going?” The driver said, “That I don’t know; nobody told me where to go. But one thing is certain—wherever I’m going, I’m going very fast.”

Shaw had assumed the hotel servant who called the taxi would have told him the destination, so he himself hadn’t said “station”—only “faster, I must reach quickly.” The driver must have been a seasoned philosopher: “If the passenger himself doesn’t say where, why should I ask? Only that he must reach fast—so, fast we go.”

People are going fast! Thinking, arguing—and have forgotten where they are going!

The brain makes you move a lot; it never makes you arrive. It drives very fast!

An airplane lost its way in the clouds. The pilot announced to the passengers that there were two items of news—one good, one bad. First the good news: we are proceeding at full speed toward the destination. Now the bad news: we no longer know where the destination is.

But that is man’s state. People are moving at great speed—and inventing new ways to go even faster. But where are you going?

The heart gives the hint of the goal. The heart points toward the destination, because the heart is love. Like a compass: however you turn it, it settles to the true direction; it points to the north. Just so the heart is always aligned toward God. And that alignment toward God is called prayer. The source from which that prayer arises is called love.

Do not ask for eyes—ask for the Eye! Do not ask for argument and knowledge—ask for love. Without eyes, tears will do.

You ask: “I am utterly like a stone!” Everyone is a stone—until God happens. So do not take any inferiority into your mind. The moment God descends, all stones become idols, and an unparalleled beauty is revealed.

Sometimes even stone breaks.

When has the drop of water ever revealed its secret?
When has the ocean not hid a dreadful fire within?
It bears, it bears—but when it can no longer bear,
at times a mighty storm too arises.
Sometimes even stone breaks.

A curse is dear to me, and a boon as well.
Grant God—and even stone will do.
And such moments are not few when
tears turn into a sweet smile!
Sometimes even stone breaks.

This stubborn longing wonders,
will practice stay with me to the very end?
The lamp the tempests could not put out—
a gentle breeze can snuff it in a breath.
Sometimes even stone breaks.

I know: in silence a lamp was lit,
in silence a flower bloomed among thorns.
But how can I remain silent?
I am helpless—I am human too.
Sometimes even stone breaks.

Do not be afraid—stones too break. Don’t you see? A thin stream keeps falling, and stones break.

Lao Tzu has said: do not learn from stone—learn all the secrets from the watercourse. Water is soft, feminine, delicate; it breaks the hardest rock. Huge slabs turn to sand and are carried away. When the stream first fell upon the rocks the stones could never have imagined they would break. Against this frail, feminine watercourse, our masculine might will be defeated? They would never have thought so. They had sat there for centuries; time came and went—thousands of seasons arrived and departed; countless suns rose and moons set; and those stones remained as they were. Time could do nothing to them. Would this trickle of water do anything? The stones must have laughed. But soon it becomes clear: the tender stream breaks the stone.

So let your tears begin to fall. Do not ask for eyes—ask for tears—and the stone will break. Tears melt the stoniness of the heart: they wash away the walls that have formed around it. Then a fragrance begins to rise from within you. Then whatever you speak is prayer. Then whatever you do is worship. Then wherever you sit or stand is devotion.

Again and again I find myself saying something to you,
unknowingly!

The aarti is arranged, the idol is shy,
shy too the innocent priestess herself!
The hour of offering has passed—
how can I place the vermilion today?
My eyes did not open, my lips did not move—
dawn came, and I knew it not!
Again and again I find myself saying something to you,
unknowingly!

This burning lamp of worship—
a vow I once cherished in my heart:
“Whenever I am born, let me be a lamp,
let me pour light into every speck of the world!”
But bearing the weight of yearnings
the lamp went out—unknowingly!
Again and again I find myself saying something to you,
unknowingly!

Once more I saw the flame lit,
but not the one who lit it.
All saw the vibrating lute,
none saw the one who played it.
Who tuned the strings of life’s lute, which beloved—
unknowingly?
Again and again I find myself saying something to you,
unknowingly!

Suddenly the idol smiled again,
every particle of the temple smiled!
The ageless, ancient, unfulfilled dreams—
as if they took form in that very instant!
Losing, losing—I won the game,
this wager—unknowingly!
Again and again I find myself saying something to you,
unknowingly!

Once the art of letting tears flow returns,
then whatever you say is prayer. Call “Rama”—fine. Call “Allah”—fine. Do not call—also fine. Keep silent—fine. Speak—fine; remain unspeaking—fine. Only let the heart melt into tears.

Do not ask for knowledge—ask for feeling, for devotion. Then slowly you begin to hear what ordinarily goes unheard, because the ears are filled with the brain’s noise. The heart’s soft voice cannot reach. First the twang of the lute becomes audible—and then, slowly, the lutanist too becomes visible.

Once more:
I saw the lamp’s flame alight,
but not the one who lit it.
All heard the lute resounding,
none saw the one who played it.
Who tuned the strings of life’s lute, which beloved—
unknowingly?
Again and again I find myself saying something to you,
unknowingly!

Prayer is not a technique you can learn somewhere. There is no school of prayer. And the schools have distorted prayer. You were taught prayer; that very teaching became the obstacle to the birth of your own prayer.

Prayer is unhewn. Prayer is utterly one’s own.

Moses was passing through a hill country and saw a man praying. A shepherd had given his flock rest under a bush and, hands folded, knees bent, was saying to God: “O Lord! You must be tired staying alone—call me to You. I will take care of You. Do agree with me. I will care for You so well that You will regret not calling me earlier. I will bathe You—every day I will bathe You. I don’t know if anyone bathes You or not. Look how I bathe my sheep—they shine! I’ll make You shine like that. You must be worn out—I’ll press Your feet. If You get lice in Your hair, I’ll pick them out.”

He was talking to God like this! Moses heard and thought it too much. He said, “Hush, fool! Up to bathing and shining I somehow tolerated it—but now you’ll pick God’s lice? You think God has lice?”

The simple man looked at Moses, touched his feet and said, “Forgive me! I am a shepherd. I know no other language. My sheep get lice; I pick them out. So I thought perhaps He gets them too; I sometimes get them myself. I am a simple man. Do not be angry. If I am saying something wrong, teach me and I will set it right.” Moses said, “I will teach you the true prayer. This is how prayer should be done. These are the words to speak; this is the feeling to hold; this is the posture to sit in.”

The shepherd said, “All right, I will do exactly so. Repeat it once more; I am illiterate—I might forget.” Then a third time he asked again. Moses was very pleased: he had brought a stray, lost one onto the path. “This is why God sent me,” he thought, “to guide the lost!” As he left the shepherd behind and walked on, proud and pleased with himself, suddenly a voice thundered in the wilderness; lightning flashed. Moses fell to his knees. A voice came from the sky: “Moses, I sent you to bring those far from Me closer—but today you have taken one of My beloveds far from Me. Now his prayer has gone flat—second-hand and stale. Go, ask his forgiveness. Take back your prayer from him. His words were reaching Me; I had grown fond of them. There was a great sweetness in his talk. You have turned it all bitter. Go—this very moment! And remember this henceforth.”

And the story says Moses returned and begged forgiveness: “Forgive me—and forget what I taught you.”

You too have been taught prayer. That is the hindrance. Parents taught it; school taught it; priests taught it; church and temple taught it. All learned prayer. Because of that learned prayer you have moved far from God.

You ask: How should I pray? Do not add “how” to prayer. Let it arise from feeling. Then even the stone idol in the temple smiles.

Suddenly the idol smiled again,
every particle of the temple smiled!
The ageless, ancient, unfulfilled dreams—
as if they took form in that very instant!
Losing, losing—I won the game,
this wager—unknowingly!
Again and again I find myself saying something to you,
unknowingly!

Learn to lose—and you will win the wager. Love is the way, the style of losing. Lose! Before God you have no formal etiquette to maintain—ringing bells, offering flowers, sprinkling water... No, no. The sun has risen—be overwhelmed; if two lines arise in the heart, say them. A flower has bloomed—break into dance.

What a wonder: a rose blossoms in your garden and you have never danced! You see miracles every day and do not dance. Some people display trifling tricks, and you run by the thousands. Someone produces ash from his hand—something any roadside juggler can do—and you call it a miracle. You won’t give the juggler two coins, but if some “baba” does it, you think you have attained everything! Your stupidity is bottomless. And miracles happen every day. A seed splits where nothing could be seen; had you broken it open you would have found nothing—and from it a vast tree arises; and you do not bow? You are not transported? From the green tree a red rose bursts forth—the greenness becomes redness; a revolution happens! You are not dumbstruck, wonder-filled, astonished? No tears of joy fall from your eyes? The night sky fills with stars... Perhaps the hands that hold those stars are not seen, but the stars are visible! Perhaps the hands that draw music from the lute are not seen, but the music is heard! Listening to the music, the hands too will one day be recognized.

Worship the beauty of this world—that is prayer. Experience the mystery of this world—and you will be overwhelmed. That is prayer. I do not tell you to go to a temple; I do not tell you to go to a mosque. Temples and mosques are man-made—playthings. I tell you: this nature spread all around bears the imprint of God’s hand—go close to it. Sit by a waterfall—that is the temple. Sit by a river—that is the mosque. Embrace a tree. Wherever you catch even a little warmth of life—bow there. And then whatever is in your heart... no set phrases, no rote—utter what arises naturally! A little madness is needed for prayer. At first you will feel shy.

See: if you go to a temple, fold your hands before a stone idol and chant “Jai Jagadish Hare, Jai Jagadish Hare,” you do not think yourself mad—because this is an accepted madness. But if you go to a tree and stand with folded hands, people will say, “His brain has gone off—what is he doing?”

And I tell you: that “madness” is prayer. And that first madness you practiced was neither madness nor prayer—only stupidity; because it was taught... others had told you, so you did it; you were doing it out of fear. In childhood it was forced upon you, and then it became a habit. If you don’t do it you feel something is missing—so you do it. That was stupidity. But to bow before the rising sun—because the light is His, all light is His... To be filled with jubilation on seeing a beautiful woman or a beautiful man—because beauty is His. To hear a child’s gurgle and feel a humming within you—because every gurgle is His!

You say you want to drown in prayer. Then drown! His ocean is all around—who prevents you? What is there to learn in this? To drown, nothing needs to be learned. To swim—perhaps you must learn; to cross to the other shore—perhaps you must learn; but to drown—what is there to learn? Prayer does not recognize banks. Prayer does not seek shores. Prayer dives. Prayer is intoxication.

You ask: I do not know what prayer is.
Have you ever loved? Anyone—husband or wife, son or mother, a friend? Anyone? Take that ray of love and go on enlarging it. Let it not stop anywhere—let it spread on and on, to the infinite—that is prayer. And there is no human being who has not loved someone.

But I know your difficulty. Your pundits, your so-called religious leaders—those who have poisoned your life—have taught you the opposite: that if you love, it will obstruct prayer. So you are in a bind. Whereas love itself is prayer. Love is the primer of prayer.

I say to you: refine and brighten that ray of love. Whatever little taste of love you have had—magnify it. And if you have no taste there, then there is no way to enter prayer. But I cannot accept that; for whomever God creates—even animals and birds—He creates filled with love. Man He has created brimful of love.

But all around is a gang of the wicked. They have shrunk the boundaries of your love and maligned love. They have imprinted upon you that love is sin. Because of this, man has been severed from God.

The great irreligion on this earth is because of your priests and pundits. It can vanish—but the earth must again be taught the reign of love. Love is the first step. Then even if you have nothing—no knowledge, no understanding of prayer—do not worry. From your love creativity will arise. Love is creativity. Whatever you do with the hand of love—even if you touch clay—it turns to gold.

Today I have none of worship’s
instruments at hand;
the moments of creation
are the flowers of your adoration!

The felt pain of the afflicted
becomes the libation-stream of worship,
becomes the song of worship,
becomes the thorn within my heart!

Those are the hours of adoration
when breath itself is stilled,
bathed in intoxicating moonlight—
a mad night!

After the quiet, trancelike vigil,
with the first ray of dawn,
taking the form of creation,
blooms the lotus of worship!

Those are the moments of prayer
when the mind turns to human sorrow!
In the ocean of feeling a storm rises,
and this boat of life seeks
the sacred shore of creation’s moments!

Today I have none of worship’s
instruments at hand;
the moments of creation
are the flowers of your adoration!

Then no paraphernalia is needed; love is sufficient, because from love flows a stream of creation. In your life, construction becomes valuable in place of destruction. In place of politics, religion becomes valuable. In place of ambition, the mood of joy becomes valuable. In place of lust, contentment begins to blossom within. The fragrance of that contentment is prayer. You are content as you are, where you are; content; and you feel as well the suffering of those among whom you live—their pain touches you; you share your love with them. You sprinkled a drying tree with a stream of water out of love—prayer happened! Someone had a headache—you placed your hand on his head and soothed him with love—prayer happened! Someone was in pain—you took his hand in yours. You wiped someone’s tears—prayer happened! Prayer is not a fixed procedure; prayer is simply the name of living life in a loving way.

I am not married—from that alone you should understand what my thoughts are. What greater statement could there be?

A friend once took George Bernard Shaw to see a play based on his story. He wanted Shaw to give his opinion. Shaw was the greatest playwright of the century; his opinion carried weight. The friend had written his very first play, and it was being staged for the first time. Shaw watched for a minute or two, then fell asleep and began to snore. The friend grew very uneasy. He couldn’t rightly wake him—he had great respect for Shaw. But this was unfortunate: after so much effort he had come, and then he slept! When the play ended, Shaw opened his eyes. The friend asked, “Your opinion?” Shaw said, “You didn’t understand? I fell asleep—that is my opinion. I snored—that is my opinion. Do you still need more? It wasn’t worth watching; it was fit for sleeping.”

You ask me what I think of married life? First of all, you shouldn’t ask an unmarried man. Ask a married man. Though even a married man…if the wife is present, the husband cannot speak the truth; if the husband is present, the wife cannot speak the truth. And even the fear that the other will find out keeps one from speaking the truth.

Tolstoy, Chekhov, and Turgenev—three great Russian thinkers—were sitting in a garden chatting. The topic of marriage came up. Where else does conversation go in this world! Look at you: you have come here for a spiritual discourse and you raise the topic of marriage—the ghost of marriage must be haunting you! The talk of marriage began. Chekhov asked Turgenev, “What is your view?” Turgenev shared his. Then both asked Tolstoy, “Why are you silent? Why don’t you speak?” He said, “I will speak when one foot is in the grave. I’ll say it quickly and slip into the grave, because I know both of you also meet my wife—my opinion will reach her in no time. For now I cannot tell the truth. I will speak the truth only as I am entering the grave; at the very end I’ll say, ‘This is the truth.’”

Two passengers were seated together on a train. One asked the other, “Do you know my views on married life?” The other passenger said, “Are you married?” “Yes.” “Then I know. What more is there to tell?”

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife asked him, “Have you ever thought, Mulla, that if I had married someone else, how wonderful it would have been?” Mulla replied, “No. Why should I wish ill on anyone!”

One day Mulla Nasruddin was sitting with me. A newspaper lay before us, with a photograph of Shimla—beautiful lake, lovely hills. Mulla suddenly exclaimed, “Ah, Shimla! Dear Shimla! It is Shimla that has given me the colorful and sweet moments of life!” I was a bit startled, because I knew Mulla had never been to Shimla. I asked, “But Mulla, you’ve never been to Shimla!” He said, “No—my wife went.”

People cannot live alone; they want company. Yet they cannot live together either—because if you cannot be alone, how will you be together? If you cannot be with yourself, how will you be with another? When two people, both incapable of being alone, come together, their miseries do not add up; they multiply. And that is what is happening. In the name of marriage, such people come together who do not even know how to live in aloneness yet. To live together requires far more skill; it is an art.

In my view, marriage on this earth will be beautiful only when, before marriage, people pass through processes of meditation; otherwise marriage can never be beautiful—it will remain ugly. The wise ones of this country must have understood this; therefore we devised that the first twenty-five years of life be spent in the gurukul. It seems somewhat upside-down that the first twenty-five years of life should be spent in the gurukul—meditating, praying, immersed in worship, seeking truth, remaining silent, tasting the flavor of aloneness... The first twenty-five years were to be spent learning how to live in solitude, how to be joyful when alone. This is a thoroughly scientific formula.

Then the next twenty-five years in marriage—because the person who has learned the art of being alone can now take the second step.

Picture it this way: I was sitting on a riverbank when a man suddenly began to drown and shouted, “I’m dying! Save me!” Another man sitting near me ran and jumped in to save him. Then I had to run too: I had to save two people, because the one who had jumped in didn’t know how to swim either. I said to him, “Foolish man, why did you jump?” He said, “I forgot. Seeing that man dying, it didn’t even occur to me that I don’t know how to swim.”

I said, “You only created more trouble. Instead of one, I had to save two. You created a dangerous situation.”

But I can understand him too. The cry for help came so suddenly that he jumped. Where is awareness? People are not living in awareness! But to save another, you must first know how to swim.

The wise men of this land said everyone should spend twenty-five years in the gurukul. Return from there having learned the flavor of aloneness. Now you can live together, because now both have the taste of solitude and both can share that nectar. Now exchange is possible, now dialogue can happen.

This country once gave marriage an incomparable beauty, such as no other country in the world ever gave. Among this country’s gifts to the world, marriage was one. Not now, but once. Now the whole arrangement has collapsed; now marriage here has become very ugly. But once we made experiments—experiments of courage.

First lesson: learn to be with yourself. You should be so ecstatic in your aloneness that even if the other is not there, your ecstasy is undisturbed. Your joy should not be dependent on the other. When two such persons meet, whose joy does not depend on each other, then marriage happens. Then they are not each other’s slaves, nor each other’s masters.

Khalil Gibran has said: lovers should be like the two pillars of a temple—standing near, yet apart; holding up the same roof, yet apart. Lovers should be like the two pillars of a temple: very near, upholding the same roof—upholding the single roof of love—yet distant. If the pillars come too close, the temple will fall. A little space is needed. And space is possible only when there is no dependence. Only free individuals can keep space. Dependent people cling to each other, hold each other, keep watch on one another lest the other slip away somewhere, escape, run off!

The wife keeps investigating whether the husband is getting intoxicated by some other woman. She examines his clothes carefully to see if there is a woman’s hair on them.

One evening, Mulla Nasruddin’s wife looked at his clothes and suddenly began to weep, beating her breast. Mulla said, “What now? Today there isn’t even a hair!” His wife said, “That’s exactly why I’m crying—so now you’ve even started going with bald women? This is the limit!”

The husband too keeps watch whether the wife is savoring someone else. Where this kind of espionage goes on behind each other’s backs, how will there be joy? Where there isn’t even that much trust in one another, how will love blossom? Love is born only in an atmosphere of deep reverence. There is neither reverence nor respect for the other, and the dependence is so much that you hold on to each other, become one another’s chains.

You yourself admit it in your printed wedding invitations for your sons and daughters: “My son is going to be bound in the bondage of love.” Do you have any sense? Love should be liberation, not bondage. Are these chains—that he is going to be bound in the fetters of marriage? Yet in that way you are speaking the truth.

Mulla Nasruddin’s son was about to be married. Mulla called him aside and said, “Keep two things always in mind—I’m speaking from life experience. Now that you’re marrying, let me give you the distilled essence. First: whatever promise you make to your wife, always keep it.” Then Mulla hesitated. The son asked, “And the second?” Mulla said, “Now I must say it: and never, even by mistake, make any promise to your wife. Remember these two things, or you’ll land in trouble.”

Yesterday I was reading a book—an extraordinary book. The book is The Art of Lying. It gives many quotations and suggestions about all the situations in which a person has to lie. Millions of copies of that book were sold in America. So many copies were sold that I sent word for someone to send me the book. I looked into it—of course it must have sold. It’s useful for all husbands and wives, because with considerable clarity, with examples, it suggests many lies to tell in every situation—for purposes of self-preservation.

Husbands and wives are telling such lies to each other. Where there is not even truth between them, how will there be joy? Where there is nothing but suspicion toward one another, what relationship can there be? Suspicion breaks; it does not bind.

Marriage is a rare art. You are not born qualified for marriage. It was right that for twenty-five years you learned to be alone and then entered marriage. But that experiment failed, for a reason. The reason was that the experiment was incomplete—it was done for men but not for women. Therefore it died. Young men stayed in the gurukul for twenty-five years and returned with the taste of solitude and meditation, but young women had no such opportunity. It was a one-sided experiment, so it perished.

I want to repeat that experiment, but now I want to repeat it on both sides. It should apply to both boys and girls. Both should learn the art of meditation. And one should enter marriage only when you have become capable, mature enough, to live with another—because living with another means: the other is not like you; he or she is different—raised in a different way, grown up differently, with different conditioning, different thoughts. Being with another means you will have to be generous in many things, you will have to be tolerant. Being with another means you will have to give and take. Being with another means you will have to harmonize.

A man plays the flute—solo, alone—that is one thing. If he plays the flute with a tabla, he must learn more art, because now the flute must move with the rhythm of the tabla; now he must learn accompaniment. Marriage is accompaniment between two instruments. Meditation is solo: you sit by yourself playing your flute. Whether you play right or wrong, nobody has anything to do with it. If you are both the player and the listener, it’s your fun. But when you play the flute with another who is giving rhythm on the tabla, then you must keep pace with the tabla; you must create harmony between the two.

Marriage is accompaniment. Great skill is needed. Very few marriages in this world succeed. That even a few do is a miracle—they shouldn’t! They happen by accident, by coincidence. Most of them fail. Ninety-nine out of a hundred marriages are tales of failure. But your monks and renunciates never wanted your marriage to succeed either, because their whole business of renunciation depends on the failure of your marriage. Try to understand this: behind the arithmetic there is an arithmetic.

Understand: if your marriage succeeds, who will take sannyas? At least the old kind of sannyas no one will take. Then one could take only my kind of sannyas. If marriage succeeds, who will listen to the dispassionate ones? And if the ascetic says a thousand times, “Woman is the gateway to hell,” you will say, “Shut up! Stop your nonsense! I know.” But when the ascetic says, “Woman is the gateway to hell,” you immediately agree. You say, “Master, absolutely right! That is my experience too.” When people like Tulsidas say, “Count woman along with shudras, the uneducated, and animals—these all deserve beating!” your heart says, “Aha! This is the kind of saint I was looking for!” You too want to beat your wife. You may not actually beat her, but great waves surge in your heart.

It is hard to find a man who has not, at some time or other, considered the idea of killing his wife. It is hard to find a wife who has not, at some time, thought, “It would be good to be rid of this man; O God, why don’t you just take him away?”

If your marriage succeeds, your churches, temples, your mosques will utterly fail. Therefore the pundits and priests have not allowed your marriage to succeed. They have made every effort that your life remain full of misery. Only when your life is full of misery do you come to them. Understand, there are some trades that are paradoxical. Like the physician’s trade: the physician treats the sick; his business is to treat the ill, to make them well; but deep inside, the feeling is that people should go on falling ill—otherwise what will happen to him? On the surface he treats, but somewhere deep within he wants people to keep getting sick. This is very paradoxical.

One night a man came into a bar with his friends. He poured out the drinks, they had a great time. It was past midnight; the bar owner was overjoyed—he had spent so much money! He said to his wife, “If customers like this come every day, in a few days it will be silver all the way.” As he left, the owner said to this marvelous customer, “Brother, drop in once in a while. If customers like you kept coming, it would be our good fortune!”

The man said, “Pray that our business keeps running—if our business keeps running, we’ll come every day. Right now our business is booming; we’ll come again in eight or fifteen days. It’s our season.”
The owner asked, “May I ask, what is your business?”
He said, “My business is selling wood at the cremation ground. When more people die, our business runs. Right now people are dying; this is our season of the year. At this time various diseases occur and people die. Pray to God that our business keeps running, that the wood keeps selling—we’ll come every day.”

There are very strange trades. Someone’s business is selling wood at the cremation ground—he naturally prays to God that his business continue, that people die. The doctor’s prayer is that people go on falling ill. The pundits’ and ascetics’ prayer is that happiness should not arise in the world.

Therefore if they are opposed to me, there’s nothing surprising, because my endeavor is quite the opposite. I am saying: joy is possible in your life. This earth can be paradise; it ought to be! If it is not happening, somewhere the fault is ours. God has made it fit for paradise; nothing has been left lacking. Everything is there—only man is being foolish. This earth can be a paradise. But then there will be a different kind of sannyas—my kind of sannyas.

There is one kind of search for God that begins from suffering: having found so much suffering in life, one goes in search of God. There is another search that is born of joy: having found so much joy in life, one goes to seek the ultimate source of joy. These are very different searches. Therefore my sannyasin and the old-style sannyasin are utterly opposite. I am the very opposite of the dispassionate ones. Therefore they are uniting to oppose me. I understand; it is natural. I am attacking their vested interests.

I am saying that marriage can be beautiful; if it is not, it is because of our mistake. I say harmony can be created between the flute and the tabla; if it is not arising, it is because we have not learned music properly. Music can be learned.

I say that in this very life, in the life of the body, great possibilities of mystery are lying hidden. God can be realized in the body, and God can be realized in the marketplace, in the householder’s life. There is no opposition between God and the world. He can be found wherever you are.

Since such is my proclamation, my process will be entirely different as well. I want you to be full of raga, to be lovers. Let the taste of love so grip you that one day you say, “Now only the love of God will bring fulfillment.” I want to give you a little understanding of music, so that you begin moving toward subtler and subtler music, so that one day the longing arises to hear the unstruck sound.

The old sannyas was full of gloom, of renunciation. My conception of sannyas is not of gloom but of rejoicing; not of sorrow but of bliss. And if God is truth, consciousness, and bliss, then we too should live as truth, consciousness, and bliss—only then will we be in tune with him. Marriage can be beautiful, and love can slowly become the path to prayer.

Rohit! Death is the greatest lie of this world. Death does not happen. There is life, and there is life. Beyond life, there is life. Layer upon layer there is life. An endless chain of life. Death is only the changing of garments; leaving the worn-out clothes—just that much.

As autumn comes and the old leaves fall and the tree stands naked; yet in the naked tree from which all leaves have dropped, there is no gloom, no sorrow, no pain. And against the backdrop of the sky, only then does even a leafless tree have a unique beauty. A leafless, naked tree has its own distinctive manner, style, and personality. It has its own peace, its own emptiness. Then spring will come again, then the season of blossom, then the sprouts will emerge, new leaves, new flowers. The tree has trust; that is why it is not sad. It is resting; it will wait for spring.

Our trust is very small, therefore we become unhappy. Our faith is very poor and feeble, therefore we become unhappy.

Rohit! You did rightly. This is my teaching. Make even death a celebration, for someone has set out on the path of a new life. For all the days he was with us, give thanks—give thanks to the departing traveler. He is going on such a long journey; whether we meet again or not, do not turn this into a sad moment. Do not mar its beauty with sobbing and lamentation! Let the farewell be loving, celebratory, full of blessings, filled with the wish for an infinite journey.

And remember, there are very deep meanings here. If you can give a celebratory send-off, then to that consciousness which has been freed from the body you have given strength, support, provisions for the road. And you have given it the capacity to be free from this world, this life, these relationships; otherwise the mind will keep looking back. If you weep, if you are afflicted and agitated, that soul will keep circling back around you. You will make it wander. You will entangle it.

No—let all bridges break now. Let it go on the new path. Its hour has come. The moment of its journey has arrived. Its boat has reached the shore. And if you can bid your friend, your brother, your husband, your wife, your son farewell in a joyous way, there will be a revolution in your own life as well, because you too will then not fear death. Your own death will no longer appear to be an accident. Your understanding of life will deepen, will mature.

You did well. Death should indeed be celebrated. Even if tears fall, let them be tears of gratitude, of thanksgiving.

And all other measures are useless,
all other gauges have a gross foundation;
only by the measure of our own heart
can we measure this entire universe!
Says this setting evening-sun,
that it is unalterable—to always rise and then descend;
the flower rose to the tree’s summit and smiled,
in the end the soft hem of dust!
Crushed by the blows of age-old sorrows,
having lost the wager of this life in forgetfulness;
to shine for the sake of the world’s light,
so says the star fallen from the sky!
To plumb the depths of the heart,
science has not been able to give this instrument;
with an instrument of compassion, measure
whether it is love, or the shadow of self-interest somewhere?
What song shall I sing, opening my mouth,
when my songs themselves are your melody;
with tears how shall I quench the heart’s burning,
when within me it is your fire that flames!

Bid farewell with joy, because the flower that has just fallen into the dust will again someday bloom as a flower. The star that has just fallen will become a star again. The journey is infinite; it has neither beginning nor end. For a moment we meet, we are together—make those moments lovable, honey-sweet. But do not depend on those moments; do not get bound by them.

We are all travelers, and our relationship is like the happenstance of river and boat. Farewell will have to come, sooner or later. Only if, even in the moment of meeting, you do not forget farewell, will it be possible that in the moment of farewell you can give thanks for the meeting.

Let this arithmetic settle rightly in the heart: in the moment of meeting, do not forget farewell. When you embrace someone, know that separation will come. When you take someone’s hand lovingly, know that you will have to let that hand go. When the flower blooms, remember—evening will fall. This is natural.

Says this setting evening-sun,
that it is unalterable—to always rise and then descend;
the flower rose to the tree’s summit and smiled,
in the end the soft hem of dust!

But the hem of dust too is very soft, very dear—it is rest. Death is rest—from the fatigue of life, from the wounds of life’s successes and failures. Death is a great sleep; then there will be morning, then a new life will arise.

But why do we become so sad? We become so sad because what we ought to have given in life, we did not give; a sense of guilt seizes us. You will be surprised to know this. When someone dies you are not sad because of his death. You are sad because: now what will happen? The person has gone, and I did not give him what I ought to have given; the love I should have given, I did not give; I kept postponing to tomorrow; I said, “Let me collect wealth today; I will love you tomorrow—what’s the hurry?” We kept quarrelling over trifles; over petty matters we kept wounding one another—and today the person has departed! Now there is not even a way to ask forgiveness. The sense of guilt takes hold—hence the sorrow.

Further sorrow comes from the fact that we become bound to each other. We become so bound that when the other departs we cannot trust that we will be able to live alone. When the other dies, something within us dies. This too is a wrong style of living. Do not be so dependent on anyone. If you become too dependent on the morning sun, you will regret at dusk—because at dusk the sun will set. The laws of this world will not be altered by your dependency. Only you will suffer.

He who knows this truth—that separation will be, because if meeting has been, then separation also will be; all conjunctions scatter—such a one is not dependent. He remains his own master. He does not make the other dependent upon himself either. A true lover is one who does not make the other dependent on himself. A true lover is one who lets the other stand on their own feet as well; because who knows when I will take leave—let it not be that my wife is miserable after me, weeping! A true lover is one who makes his wife so capable that when I go she will be able to stand on her own feet. And a true lover is one who knows: I have given my wife so much love that if I go tomorrow, then because of my love she will be able to love again.

This will surprise you even more.

A true beloved is one who knows: I have given my husband so much love that if I depart tomorrow my husband will be able to love again. I have given so much love that I have awakened the sap of love; I have made him worthy of love.

But we do the opposite. Even at the moment of dying we want to extract an oath from the wife: that you will forever keep weeping in my memory; never love anyone; never, even by mistake, love anyone.

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife was dying. That dying woman said, “I know, Mulla, that the moment I die you will marry again. Say what you will, I know it.” Mulla said, “Never! I swear by you—never! How could it be? That I would marry again? No, no! I will wait for the next birth, and then I will marry you again. A bond of birth after birth!” The wife was very pleased. Not reassured, because she also had the lifelong experience of Mulla—that one who cheated in life, what trust that he will keep faith at death! Still she said, “All right, if you say so I accept it; but keep one thing in mind—if ever you do marry, see that you do not let that woman wear my clothes; it would cause my soul great grief.” He said, “Don’t you worry at all. Raziya couldn’t fit into your clothes anyway.”

They are all prepared already, only waiting for death to clear the way.

In this country such a thing happened—we forced women to become satis. Look at the male ego: “If I die, you should climb onto the pyre with me!” Fear, suspicion—are these signs of love? Yes, if some woman of her own accord climbs, that is different; but to persuade, to indoctrinate, to teach such lessons—and if some woman does not wish to climb, to force her... Women were forced onto the pyres. They were pushed and shoved to the cremation grounds. So much ghee was poured on the pyres that enough smoke would be created that the woman could not escape. People would stand all around with torches. For if a living person ever falls into fire—touch a lamp’s flame and you will understand—into a blazing fire a living person... the woman will run, she will flee out of her senses. You won’t need to make any effort to make her run. Touch the fire and your hand withdraws by itself. In the same way the body will want to leap out. This will not be in your control. So with torches they would push her back. And they would create so much smoke and beat so many drums that her cries—cries will arise, when a living person burns—would not be heard. That was murder. Then in the name of sati a little platform would be built—Sati’s shrine! Then flowers would be offered on it. Kill the living, and offer flowers to the dead.

This was the male ego. And if it is true that it was ego, then the big tales we have woven in the name of satisfire them. And I say: it was ego, because if it was not ego, if it was love, then why did no man climb onto a woman’s pyre? Is love one-sided? Women kept dying, and men kept marrying again and again. The truth is, the woman would die and right there at the cremation ground, while seeing her off, thoughts would begin: where to arrange his marriage now! I have gone to some cremation grounds, and I was astonished—thoughts begin: where to get him married now!

The man did not display even a single sign of love, not one “sati.” Only satis, satis—have you ever seen a single shrine of a “sata” anywhere? This was trickery. It was dishonesty with women. It was deception. But men were afraid—that after I am gone, the woman might fall in love with someone. This was a relationship of suspicion, not of love. A relationship of love would be something else.

In my view, if a man is dying, he will say to his wife: be sure to love someone, because love is the divine. Love again. Love someone in my memory. You loved me—then love someone else. Because as the Supreme has manifested in me, so He has manifested in another too. By loving someone you will be happy; by loving someone you will dance again; and it will delight me—my soul will rejoice.

My way of seeing is different. For me, love is the supreme value. Therefore, when you bid someone farewell—do it with joy! And then there is no need to sit and cry. No need to cry your whole life. If you truly loved him, then love someone else. Rohit, if you loved your brother, your aunt’s son, Raj—then make someone else into Raj. Make someone else into a brother. Let the source of love not dry up.

And Raj has left behind his wife, Shailya; she too is present here today. My message to her is this: if you have loved Raj, then love someone again; find another Raj. That will be the proof of love. That will be the evidence of love. And never, not even by mistake, think that if you love someone else, it is a betrayal of Raj, a treachery. No; that will be the proof that you loved Raj. In your love for him, love another too. Make love so vast, so large—do not make it narrow. If you do not love anyone thereafter and sit weeping in Raj’s memory, that will only be proof that Raj’s love had not given you such joy that you would again get into the “trouble” of love. It will be proof precisely that it is good this “trouble” is over. Raj is gone—the trouble of marriage is over. Now do not get into any trouble. That would be an insult to Raj.

Understand my chain of reasoning. It is a little difficult to grasp my logic, because I am completely contrary to the ready-made beliefs. In my reckoning, when you love again, when you are laden with flowers again, when you tie bells on your ankles and dance again—that will be the proof that you had loved someone, loved deeply! And that he too had loved you, and that he taught you such a lesson of love that today the person has departed—no harm. If one temple falls, worship will continue in another temple. If one plate of worship is not found, worship will continue with another plate. But worship will continue.

Love is prayer.

Enough for today.