Sahaj Yog #20

Anand Bharti, where does death happen? Threats are futile. No one has ever died, nor can anyone ever die. Those who think they can kill are deluded; those who think they will die are also deluded. Death is the greatest untruth in this world. Na hanyate hanyamane sharire—it is not slain when the body is slain.

With the body’s departure, death does not occur. Neither did Jesus die on the cross, nor did Socrates die from the hemlock. Those who ordinarily “die” do not die either. So there is nothing to worry about, nothing to suffer.

Threats are natural—indeed, they ought to be given. That a person like me should not be threatened with murder would be the surprise. It is perfectly logical; don’t be concerned in the least. To worry would be ignorance.

Who says that when death comes I will die?
I am a river; I will flow into the ocean.
If I leave your threshold, where else would I go?
At home I will be enclosed, in the wilderness I will be scattered.
If I rise from your side, the trouble is this:
wherever I go, I will find only the One.
Now I will come to your city like a traveler,
passing like the shadow of a cloud.
My standard is apart from patchwork cures:
if I take wounds, I will be even more adorned.
Your measure of fidelity became a wall across the road—
otherwise I had thought I would die whenever I wished.
Centuries have passed since the sun went down;
to seek it now, I will go with the strength of dawn.
I burn life like a candle, “Nadeem”:
I may be extinguished, but I will bring the morning.

A lamp goes out, but it brings the morning. And...

My standard is apart from patchwork cures:
If I take wounds, I will be even more adorned.

What I am saying will be even more refined. What I am saying will become a line carved in stone. Those who kill me will make me immortal forever on the consciousness of humankind. Do not worry about them; they too are engaged in my work. Not only friends—enemies too are at work. The work is great; it needs both. The work is so vast it cannot be entrusted to friends alone; the cooperation of enemies is also needed—indeed, needed.

But I understand your pain. Just don’t make your pain too heavy. I understand your love. But your love should be so great that it can see the nectar beyond death; only then have you truly loved me. If your love depends on my body’s presence, then even if no one kills me this body will one day be dropped. It is only a matter of sooner or later—today someone dies, or tomorrow someone dies. The body will be left; it must be left. Then the pain will come, the same anguish. Before the body is dropped, look beyond the body. Before the lamp goes out, seek the dawn.

While I am here, do not bind yourself to my body, do not get caught in my words. Look beyond me. My indication points beyond me. I am only an indication—a finger—pointing to the moon rising in the sky. What of the finger—whether it remains or not! If you see the moon, the finger’s work is done.

If I can leave you with the remembrance of the Divine, that is enough. And if someone is threatening to kill me, then hurry. Do not waste time. Do not delay. Do not walk slowly; take up urgency, take up speed. Blaze up, so that before the lamp is extinguished, dawn arrives; before the body is dropped, the vision beyond the body happens.

It is not right to waste time in any other anxiety. Time is short. Time is always short. Use it wisely, carefully. And life—life’s time—has only one true use: that we become capable of knowing the Divine, of knowing That which is immortal.

Dev Veena, ask just like this. Knock on his door just like this. This is worship, this is prayer. And his support is already there—only recognition is delayed. It is his hands that have held you. It is his eyes that have seen through your eyes. He is the one who beats in your heart. For now there is no recognition. That, too, will come.

God is not to be attained, only recognized. We have already attained the Divine; so do not go searching far away. Seek him within. Knock on your own heart. Break open the doors within. Call—do call—

My beloved, I swear by my love for you,
O fulfillment of my dream, soul of my ghazal—
my life keeps remembering you.
Night and day your image torments me;
my heartbeats keep calling out to you.

Call. Call so much that the caller is absorbed in the call. In that very moment, union happens. Dance in such a way that the dancer is lost in the dance. In that very moment, union happens. Whenever any act submerges the doer into itself, the hour of prayer has come, the fulfillment of prayer has come. There is no need of yama and niyama, nor of ascetic yoga—only naturalness; or, if you like, call it sahaj-yoga.

Of late we have been speaking of Saraha and Tilopa—sahaj-yoga. Sahaj-yoga means: it is already found; just turn your eyes within. With a lamp we are searching outside—bring the lamp within. And nothing brings the lamp within as simply as prayer, because prayer is the condensed form of your love, the density of your love. And love is natural, given to everyone.

Do you know how a diamond is made? A diamond is made from coal. Coal, pressed for thousands upon thousands of years beneath mountains, becomes diamond. There is no chemical difference between coal and diamond. Just so, as love becomes denser and denser, it becomes prayer. Even if your love right now is like coal, do not be dismayed; this very coal will become diamond. The journey from coal to diamond—that is the story of the whole of human life.

What do I know of yamas, niyamas, and sub-rules, my love, in your winding lanes?
Just like that I got entangled in the snares of your wiles.
I am a poor one—what do I know of all the rituals of worshiping you?
What do I know of the rules and methods of yoga?
My eyes met yours, longings awoke, and now you say, “Observe rules.”
Now I have come to your door—put me off as you please.
Let go of all worry and the rest.

Dev Veena, looking into your eyes, what I sensed is this: prayer is the key for you. Calling is your path. But let the call be such that no caller remains; let there be only calling. Let a flood come. Drizzle will not do; let there be a cloudburst. And this is within your capacity. It can happen. If it does not, none but you will be responsible.

If the Divine is not met, blame only yourself. From the Divine side, the meeting is fully arranged. From the Divine side, the Divine is already given; from our side we are standing with our backs turned. Turn your back to the sun, and you will miss the sun—and it is not that the sun did not rise for you.

Return! Turn around. In the direction you are running, do not run; turn your eyes to the opposite. People run toward wealth and are deprived of meditation; they run toward position and are deprived of prayer. Lust does not let you descend into worship. Craving does not let you sit in devotion—it keeps you running. It is only this much.

The crux is very simple: close your eyes and see who is within. The Beloved is hidden there. The Dear One is present there—never absent for even a single moment. Were he to be absent, we would cease to be. He is our life. He is our breath. He is our very prana.

A true Master cannot worry about anyone. Worry simply cannot be fabricated in a true Master. He is beyond worry—that is precisely why he is a true Master. Yes, he takes care of the disciple, but he does not worry; worry is quite another matter.

Worry is like this: someone is sick and you, out of worry, lie down beside him and become sick too. The patient gains nothing from it, and you haven’t even served him. The disciple is anxious, surrounded by dilemmas and problems—if the Master also becomes anxious, the anxiety doubles; it does not diminish. And one who himself becomes worried—how will he free another from worry?

No, a physician need not fall ill and lie beside the patient. The physician is not to worry about the patient; he is to attend to him, help him, treat him.

The true Master does not worry. There is another difficulty as well: a physician knows the patient’s illness is real. The Master’s difficulty is greater—the disciple’s illnesses are all unreal. What is there to worry about? The disciple’s illnesses are dreams. The disciple is dreaming. In your dream you see a snake—is the Master to worry? In your dream your palace catches fire—should the Master rush to put it out? Then he would not be a Master. Yes, the Master has compassion. But don’t understand compassion to mean that if your dream-palace is on fire he starts organizing to extinguish it—your palace is false, your fire is false. One who tries to put it out is as crazy as you. When your palace is on fire in a dream, the Master tries to wake you up. He has no real relationship with your palace. Your palace doesn’t even exist.

That’s why sometimes it may seem the Master is harsh: “Our palace is on fire and he won’t stir; we came for consolation, and instead of consoling us he seems to hit us even harder.” When someone is asleep, being awakened is not pleasant—even if he is oppressed by a painful dream, waking feels unpleasant. He wants to turn over and sleep again. Those who are asleep consider as “masters” only those who tuck the blanket around them a little more snugly, pat their head in the chilly morning, and say, “Child, sleep deep! Dream beautiful dreams—of God, of liberation, of heaven, of fairies and angels. Dream religious dreams. Sleep well.”

The disciple too believes a guru should be like that.

A true Master will seem to cause trouble. Early morning, with that sweet little chill in the air, he snatches your blanket away, splashes cold water in your eyes, and tries to get you up. He will feel like an enemy.

The Master does not hand out consolations, nor does he worry about your illnesses. Yes, hearing of your ailments he may laugh within. That will look hard. And when I said a true Master gives the disciple total freedom, you asked: “Doesn’t that mean he doesn’t care at all?” He wants to heal the disciple, to do him the greatest good; precisely for that he gives the disciple total freedom—because freedom is the path to liberation. But the disciple does not want this. Understand this well: the disciple does not ask for freedom. The disciple says, “I am ready to be your slave.” He says, “Give me support, not freedom. Be my legs rather than my wings—but do not try to grow wings in me, for that is difficult.”

And when the disciple says, “Be my support,” he offloads all responsibility onto the Master. Whenever you hand off responsibility, your growth is blocked. You alone are responsible. God will not ask your guru why you did not awaken—He will ask you. You are responsible. No one else can stand between you and God. But people learn wrong habits from childhood: first they depend on their parents, then on schoolteachers, then on politicians. Life passes in dependency—always leaning on someone. They neither stand on their own feet nor ever proclaim their own freedom. Others don’t let you either, because others want you to remain enslaved. They want you dependent—so they can exploit you.

A true Master will free you from all such dependencies. He will wake you up. He will say, “You have to be yourself—not an imitation of someone else, not a follower of some other ideal.” He will bring you to the recognition of your own uniqueness and your own glory. He will say, “You are beautiful as you are.” He will create the space in which the flower of your being can bloom in complete freedom. He will provide all possible support for you to be as you are meant to be—but he will not impose any ideal or code of conduct upon you.

That is what I meant by saying a true Master gives the disciple complete freedom. It may surprise you.

A friend told me he had been at Vinoba’s Pavanar Ashram. “Vinoba-ji takes great care of his disciples,” he said. I asked, “Meaning?” He replied, “Every day he goes into each disciple’s room and checks if everything is neat and clean. Not only that—he even peeks into the bathroom and toilet to see if they are clean. He takes great care!”

I said, “That’s the job of a janitor! What has that to do with a true Master? And if the disciples haven’t gained enough intelligence to keep their own toilets clean, then what else will they ever do? What will they ‘clean’ anywhere? If even for this Vinoba has to go—and every day—then what a satsang that must be!”

Naturally, such people will feel that I don’t care at all—because I don’t even know who lives in which room in this ashram. I don’t even have a firm idea of who all live here. I have not entered anyone’s room to this day. I know only my room and the path up to this hall. I have never toured the ashram; I have never taken even one round of it. I have never been to the office. I don’t know who is doing what, where.

If such basic awareness does not awaken in disciples that they handle these small things themselves, then what is the point?

You will be surprised: this ashram runs completely without me. And there is no ashram this large anywhere else on earth; yet it runs utterly without me. I am not a participant in its functioning at all. If one day I quietly disappeared from my room, not a single wheel would jam—the ashram would continue just as before. Nothing would change, because my hand is nowhere in its management.

I have given you awareness, understanding; now use it. Frankly, I find it unbecoming in Vinoba to look into someone’s toilet. It is an insult, a humiliation. There is a note of condemnation in it. It shows no trust. And when a guru has so little trust in his disciples, what trust will disciples have in their guru? And if out of fear the disciples keep their toilets clean because Gurudev might come—Gurudev, that is, the sanitary inspector—if that’s why the toilet is clean, is that any real cleanliness? Fine—you can peek into toilets; who will cleanse their souls? How will you cleanse their souls?

That friend said, “He worries about little things too: whether someone had tea, whether someone smoked; whether everyone went to sleep at the right time; whether the lights were out by nine.” These are the ways of a prison, not an ashram. An ashram is not a concentration camp, not a jail. If it suits someone to sleep at ten, he sleeps at ten; if someone feels right to rise at three in the morning, he rises at three; if for another six is right, he rises at six. Vinoba sleeps at nine, so everyone must sleep at nine—this is an excess. I sleep every night at twelve; if I were to impose that on everyone, it would be an excess. Vinoba rises at three; must everyone rise at three? So people rise—unwillingly, cursing. I know those people. They get up under compulsion. But then it becomes a prison. How will one journey to freedom from such a prison?

With soldiers this may be appropriate—but not with sannyasins. A soldier’s freedom is to be killed. He must be made such a slave that even if ordered to perform a foolish act, he cannot say no. And soldiers are made to do foolish things. “Shoot a bullet into someone’s chest.” If a soldier had even a little intelligence, he would ask, “Why? What has this man done?” But if soldiers were to ask such questions, these regimes could not survive. So they must be made to do all sorts of senseless tasks. Their intelligence must be destroyed. They must be regimented to act like machines: “Left turn!”—he turns left.

Once, a philosopher was drafted during the Second World War. There was a need for more soldiers, so people from every field were going. When they drilled him and said, “Left turn!” he just stood still. People turned left, some turned right; he stood there. He was a philosopher after all. The captain came and said, “Forgive me, I know you are a distinguished person, but this won’t do here. Left turn means left turn.” The philosopher asked, “Why? I was standing here thinking: why should I turn left? What is the purpose? What is the intention? What will be solved by turning? And what did those who turned gain? They turned and ended up exactly where I am, while I saved myself the trouble.”

They thought, “This man is useless.” If you think so much, you cannot be a soldier. That much intelligence a soldier does not need. That is why soldiers are drilled: left turn, right turn, forward, back—morning to evening. Doing this, their intelligence grows dull; thinking is killed. Then one day you say, “Fire,” and he fires. For him there is no difference between “left turn” and “fire.” Tell him, “Shoot yourself,” and he will shoot himself.

Take Reverend Jones, whom I mentioned yesterday. He managed to get his disciples to drink poison—and they drank it. Do you think that ashram could have been any different? Nobody reported it earlier, but this could not have been the first such instance. Those nine hundred people who committed suicide by obeying Reverend Jones had been drilled for years. If you suddenly tell someone to drink poison, he will ask, “Why?” You will be shocked to know: rehearsals had been going on for years. The danger siren would go off—once or twice every month—anytime. The whole ashram would gather, and everyone would be given something in a cup: “This is poison.” It was a rehearsal. People gradually got used to it. It had happened many times, for many years. People would drink that liquid. Reverend Jones would say, “This is the proof of your surrender—that even if I give you poison, you drink it.” Rehearsing like this, they forgot that one day the real poison might be given—and then what? The siren had always been false; the liquid had always been fake. But this time the siren was real. He had been preparing for it. This time he gave poison—and people drank. Nine hundred died.

Reverend Jones did not create sannyasins; he created soldiers. He took care of every little thing you call “concern”: when they got up, when they slept, how they sat, whether any rule was being broken. This is a way of killing people’s souls. The man was, fundamentally, a murderer.

On a smaller scale, the same things happen in many ashrams. On a small scale you don’t notice; but spiritual suicide is happening there too. If you are not the master of your own sleep, if you are not the master of your own food, if you have not gained even so much intelligence as to know what to eat, what to drink, when to sleep, when to wake, whether to bathe or not—if even this much awareness does not arise from being with a true Master, and instead a stick has to be wielded behind you—then I say, do not call such a place an ashram; call it a prison.

I give you complete freedom because I have complete trust in you. It is not only the disciple who has trust in the true Master—only that man is a true Master who also has trust in his disciple. He trusts you; he respects you; he acknowledges the dignity of your soul. You are glorious. Today you sleep; tomorrow you will awaken. Even if a Buddha is asleep, he is still a Buddha. You too are awakened ones—it is only a matter of time. And the more freedom you have, the more you will have to live by your own awareness. And the more you must live by your own awareness, the more awareness will awaken. And awareness is what must be awakened. But you have misunderstood.

It often happens: the greater the statement, the harder it is to understand. You have taken it to mean something else.

Freedom does not mean I have no love for you. Exactly the opposite. I give you freedom because I love you. If, out of unawareness, you misuse freedom, it becomes license. The fault will be yours. If you understand my love, my trust, and the respect I give you—then this very freedom will become your ultimate liberation.

But whatever the risk, I cannot take away your freedom. I am willing to risk that you might become licentious—but I am not willing to risk that you become a slave, that you become dependent. I am here to show you the Great Life, to lead you toward it. I do not want to kill you.

Still, people understand in their own way: they hear one thing, comprehend another.

Dhabboo-ji went to see a sick friend and asked how he was. The friend said, “The fever has broken, but now my leg hurts.” Dhabboo-ji said, “Don’t worry. If the fever has broken, the leg will soon break too.”

A man—a complete stranger—came to Mulla Nasruddin. After greetings he said, “Can you lend me five thousand rupees?”
“But I don’t even know you,” said Mulla, surprised.
“That’s a fine thing!” the man replied. “Those who know me aren’t ready to lend even five rupees. Wherever I go, they say, ‘We know you—move along.’ Now you say you don’t know me, so you won’t lend. Then whom should I go to?”

Understand a little. Don’t accept what I say exactly as it first lands in your mind. Ponder it. Enter its subtleties. Dive into its depths. Don’t rush to conclusions.

Certainly, I give you complete freedom. That is my respect for you. You too should respect freedom. Use it rightly. Make this freedom a ladder—this ladder will take you toward moksha, the ultimate freedom. And one who is to attain that ultimate freedom must begin practicing freedom from the very first step. I do not want to bind you in any rules, any chains. I am not your enemy. Nor do I take any pleasure in imposing myself upon you. That would be violence. But people like Mahatma Gandhi and Vinoba Bhave call such imposition “concern for the disciple.” They force their own insistences upon him.

I have no insistence. Whatever I say carries no order that you must obey. I am only offering my understanding. These are not commands; I am simply clarifying to you my inner vision: this is how things appear to me. Listen, contemplate. If it also appears so to you, then move. And until it appears so to you, there is no need to move.

And please be aware—don’t read your own opinions into what I say.

Dhabboo-ji was telling his son, “Today your teacher complained that you come late to school every day.” Dhabboo-ji’s son—after all, he is Dhabboo-ji’s son—said, “It’s not my fault.” “What do you mean?” asked Dhabboo-ji. He said, “Before I reach school they ring the bell, and not just once—every day they do it!”

Everyone has his own meanings! No—don’t impose your meanings. Cultivate a little sympathy and equanimity toward me. Look a little through my eyes—then things will appear in a different form, in different colors.

Otherwise it is very easy to misunderstand me, because I am speaking to you of such heights that unless you raise your eyes upward, you will not be able to understand. And I will not talk of low things. There are enough people in this country to talk of the low. If you want a connection with such people, do not come to me. If you want a guru who will trail you like a spy twenty-four hours a day, do not come to me. I will not trail you at all. I will state my understanding and leave it to you.

Even in leaving it to you there is a secret. I want that if you adopt something, it should be adopted out of your own inwardness, not because of my insistence—“because I said so.” Rather, “because you saw it so,” “because you experienced it so.”

Whenever a truth is accepted merely because of someone’s insistence, it turns into a lie. Truth is truth only when it wells up from your own realization, when it sprouts within you.

Kedarnath Singh! Do not ask for a solution; ask for samadhi. Because only samadhi is the solution. And sannyas is nothing but the resolve to move toward samadhi.

That your wife became an obstacle is perfectly natural. You should have expected it beforehand. There is nothing unusual in it; this is how it goes. There is a simple arithmetic behind it: until now you were your wife’s; after sannyas you will become mine. More than your wife’s, you will become mine. Naturally, this is an obstacle for the wife. Until now you were wholly hers; now you will no longer be wholly hers. Until now the wife was first; from the day you take sannyas, she will be second. If ever a day comes when you must choose between your wife and me, you will choose me.

This will hurt her, it will create friction. No one relinquishes an old claim so easily; she will create trouble. But yielding to her trouble is neither in your interest nor in hers.

And remember, whenever a wife makes you bow and you bow, the respect she has for you decreases. Keep this in mind; life is very intricate. A wife respects the husband who does not bend. What woman respects a husband who bends and wags his tail at the slightest thing? This is why wives lose reverence for husbands—because the husband starts to fawn and flatter, while they had imagined they were surrendering to a man. And then they find: what man! He bends at the smallest matter.

Wives lose respect for husbands; why? Because of the husbands’ own behavior. Husbands compromise too soon. Wives do not compromise so easily. In my view, wives display more inner strength. You will all have experienced this. If a quarrel arises between you and your wife, it is you who end up bending; the wife does not bend. A day passes, two days, three days—she still won’t bend. She will cry, oversalt the food, burn the rotis, slap the children, bang the dishes, slam the doors—she will do everything, but she won’t bend! She will harry you from every side, until she reduces you to a state where you either go mad or you give in. But remember: the moment you give in, her reverence for you ends.

A woman’s heart respects the husband who is resolute. If you don’t bend—the very first time don’t bend... the first time is where the mistake happens.

A rustic from a village got married—had he been a city man he would not have had such nerve—he was a villager. He set off home with his bride. He had a horse cart. The horse balked midway. He lashed the horse once and said, “One...!” The horse moved at once. Then it balked again. He gave it two lashes and said, “Two...!” The wife sat watching, wondering what was going on. The third time the horse balked, he got down, pulled out his gun, and shot the horse dead on the spot. Down it went with a thud. Twice he had warned it—enough; the third time came. The wife cried, “What have you done?” He said, “One...!” After that, there was no occasion for “two.” But he was a rustic; the matter was settled the first time. Such a man a woman respects!

Kedarnath Singh, what did you do? You should have said, “One...” You have come to me for the first time, yet I know a lot about you already, because your father used to come to me. Kedarnath Singh is the son of the late great poet Dinkar. He spoke to me about you many times. He, too, came many times and left empty-handed. In his heart he also longed for something to happen—for meditation, for samadhi, for sannyas—but he could not muster the courage. Your father went away empty; do you also wish to go away empty? He wrote beautiful songs, but behind those beautiful songs was a very sorrowful heart. He also wrote songs of nectar, yet he was deeply afraid of death.

So when I read Dinkar’s poems of immortality I am astonished—because I knew him. When he came to me, he was very frightened of death, trembling with fear. Yet in his poems he spoke of the immortality of the soul. There is a reason: this often happens. The poet may not have the experience, but he has the capacity to express it; the experience itself he does not have. The rishis have the experience, but sometimes they lack the capacity to express it. When, by grace, a rishi and a poet are one and the same, a sadguru is born. Usually it is not so. Poets can say, but do not know. Rishis know, but cannot say. When one who knows can also say, then a sadguru is born. Sadguru means: one who has known and can also cause it to be known; one who has experienced the void and can bring a glimpse of that void to you through his words.

What else does sannyas mean but to come near a sadguru, to become intimate, to be taken into his inner circle? The capacity and worthiness to be near him is called sannyas.

And I tell you: your sannyas will also awaken your wife; otherwise she too will sleep and die asleep. You awaken; be courageous. At first there will be some trouble—natural. But in this world nothing lasts forever—how will trouble last forever? Neither pleasures last nor pains last. Your wife will make a racket for a few days; let her. Whenever she makes a racket, you immediately start active meditation. Out of fear of the neighbors she herself will quiet down: “Baba, please don’t do active meditation.” I have devised so many meditations for husbands that not only your own wife, you could drive every wife in the neighborhood to the brink of madness.

You should not have yielded so quickly. In fact, you should not yield at all. And when you are trying to set something right, then especially you should not yield. You were not going to do anything wrong—you were not becoming a drunkard, not a gambler, not a frequenter of prostitutes—you were going to become a sannyasin. And it is amusing, puzzling to see people! If they want to drink, they don’t fear the wife; they go on drinking—and drink even more. If they want to gamble, the wife cannot stop them. No wife can stop a man from doing wrong; if wives could stop men from wrongdoing, all evils would have ended in this world, for all men here are husbands. But no evil has stopped: alcohol flows, theft goes on, dishonesty goes on, bribery goes on, gambling goes on—everything goes on. No wife is able to stop it. What you are determined to do, you do. For sannyas you stopped quickly—so somewhere inside you there was a lack of decision.

So you have thought rightly: by your own understanding you came prepared, but the preparation was superficial; somewhere inside there was a small snag. Your wife took advantage of exactly that. That she raised strong opposition—you should have known that she would; she is your wife—if you don’t know her, who will? You should have thought in advance that she would oppose strongly. But bowing before her, you damaged your own self-respect and hers as well—because she saw you compromise even while you were moving in a good direction. And your wife well knows she has never been able to make you compromise in any other matter, but in this she managed it.

The weakness was somewhere within you. See it and remove it. This will be in your interest and in your wife’s as well. If you can be ecstatic, blissful, and if meditation and sannyas can make some flowers bloom in your life, your wife will also take sannyas.

Obstacles are natural. We must pay some price—this is tapascharya. Standing in the sun is not austerity, nor is starving oneself. This is the real austerity: when you begin to change, everyone connected to you will obstruct you. Whenever you change, all who are connected to you are disturbed. One person’s change disturbs hundreds. Why? Because they had become familiar with you as you were; their way of dealing with you had adjusted to that. Now you are becoming new; they must adjust anew, reconsider you anew. The web of habits they had woven around you is torn. That is the trouble: for every friend I make, a hundred enemies arise.

People ask me, “How do you raise so many enemies?” The reason is simple: if I make one friend, a hundred enemies are bound to arise. All who were connected to him—his wife becomes upset; her family becomes upset; his father, mother become upset; his sons and daughters become upset; his friends become upset. A storm sweeps through the world of his relationships. Everyone connected to him is put out. Now this man has become something else. Now they must get to know him again, relate to him again. He is no longer the man they could count on in the old way.

And in this world no one wants to learn anything new. People want to live by what they learned long ago. That is why people do not change their habits. Even harmful, life-destroying habits continue for thousands of years—because who wants to learn the new, who wants the bother! With the old there is a certain convenience.

Understand: your wife knows that if she harasses you, you get angry, upset—and making you angry is her proprietorship over you! She knows which buttons to press; press a little and you flare up. Once she makes you angry, the work is done. How long can you remain angry? Soon your anger breeds guilt: “What have I done? Poor woman, why am I troubling her?” You’ll go and buy a sari. Wives know: if you want a sari bought, first make him angry—put him in such a wrong position that he himself feels, “I messed up; now I must make amends, find some compensation.” Go buy the sari, take her to a movie; if she wanted new jewelry, buy it. Somehow restore the balance.

If you meditate, if you take sannyas, she won’t be able to make you angry. You will laugh, you will smile. You will hear her needless babble and not be disturbed. Her hold over you will be gone. She will not be able to generate guilt in you; her ownership of you will vanish.

We are bound together by very deep nets. The wife does not want you to become peaceful, because once you are peaceful, how can she possess you? The wife does not want you to meditate; nor do husbands want their wives to meditate.

We live in a strange world—a crowd of madmen in which no one wants you to drop your madness; a crowd of blind people in which no one wants you to gain sight, for that would insult all the blind. They will drag you back into blindness.

Therefore, Kedarnath Singh, the obstacle was natural; you should have anticipated it. No harm—you didn’t then; now at least the obstacle is clear. But I tell you: don’t change your decision so quickly. Otherwise a man’s soul never comes to birth. The soul is born only in the midst of challenges.

Groping in darkness, I seek the light!
The lamp is there—but the flame has not caught;
So near the flame, yet it has not awakened!
I long to pierce the endless sky and unfold!
The lamp is somewhere, the deathless flame elsewhere;
The wick has not met the tongue of fire!
Still I labor on, I go on practicing!
Granted, these paths are rugged, stony;
Each breath to be taken cold and venomous!
From the jaws of death I wrest the hidden smile of nectar!
I hope I shall attain that knowing,
When this arduous mountain-climb succeeds!
Cowering in a corner, afraid of the light,
The dear darkness
Will slink away, hiding, trembling!
I myself shall become the sky of light!
Groping in darkness, I seek the light!

The feeling for sannyas has arisen, the longing to seek light in the dark has arisen—do not let it die. The lamp is there, but the flame has not caught! You too are a lamp—let the flame take. So near the flame, yet not awakened. You too are a lamp, a snuffed lamp. I call: come close to me! If an unlit lamp comes very close to a lit lamp—very close—then the leap happens; from flame to flame, ignition occurs.

Groping in darkness, I seek the light!
The lamp is there—but the flame has not caught;
So near the flame, yet it has not awakened!
The lamp is somewhere, the deathless flame elsewhere;
The wick has not met the tongue of fire!

It can meet! That is why I chose ochre robes for sannyas; they are the symbol of the flame, of fire. Come close! Take courage! Everything else settles by itself. Even if you die, the world will go on just the same. Your taking sannyas is not going to throw the world into chaos. But your taking sannyas will bring revolution into your life; your wick will catch fire.

A Sufi story. A thief, at night, began to climb into a house through a window. The window frame gave way, he fell, and broke his leg. The next day he went to court and blamed the householder for his broken leg. The owner was summoned and said in his defense: The one responsible is the carpenter who made the window. The carpenter was called; he said the contractor who built the wall hadn’t made the windowed section strong enough.
In his defense the contractor said: My mistake happened because of a woman who was passing by—she drew my attention away.
When the woman was presented in court, she said: At that time I was wearing a very fine dress. Normally no one even looks at me. So the fault lies with the dress, which was so exquisitely sewn.
The judge said: Then summon the tailor who sewed it; he is the culprit. The tailor turned out to be the woman’s husband—and the very thief whose leg had been broken.

This is the most astonishing law of the world: the pits you dig for others, you yourself have to fall into. Whether you dug them knowingly or unknowingly. The thorns you sow for others will pierce your own feet. If you want to walk on flowers, scatter flowers on everyone’s path, because you will receive only what you give.

Saying this, at the end of the night the candle fell silent:
By taking someone’s life, no life was ever gained.

All night long she took the lives of so many moths, yet in the final reckoning the candle had to extinguish itself. Having snuffed others all night, with morning she too must go out.

Saying this, at the end of the night the candle fell silent—
By taking someone’s life, no life was ever gained.

How will the night’s darkness be driven away by the stars of the sky,
When there was no light from the lamps of one’s own house?

Those caravans for whom the very heavens were dust risen from their feet—
Once they strayed from the road of life, they could not find even a speck of dust.

Truly ill-fated indeed is the mullah,
To whom no moonlight from the shadow of anyone’s gaze ever came.

Saying this, at the end of the night the candle fell silent:
By taking someone’s life, no life was ever gained.

You will receive what you give. Give life, and life will come to you. Take life, and life will be taken from you. The world is an echo. Sing, and songs will shower upon you from all sides. Curse, and curses will rain upon you from all directions. Take whatever you want—but the condition is this: you will get it only if you give it. Existence is reciprocation. You give; existence gives back—everything returns a thousandfold.

This story is a satire, a joke. But life is just like this. If you begin to walk having recognized this law, your path turns toward heaven. If you do not recognize it, do not understand it, and you walk against it, then hell is your destination.

I know a gentleman. All his life he has contested elections, and all his life he has lost them. Contesting and losing—that is his entire story. Wherever an election is happening, of whatever kind—if he just hears of it, he stands. And every time he forfeits his deposit.

I got to wondering what the matter was. And he’s a decent man—truthful, honest. I looked into it and discovered that it is precisely because of his decency, truthfulness, and honesty that he forfeits his deposit. In one election people asked him, “Why are you standing—To serve the people?” He said, “No, I want to taste the perks of office.” Now who will vote for such a man? Though what he said was true: “I have nothing to do with serving the people. I want to enjoy the sweetmeats of office. To hell with the people!”

He spoke with perfect honesty—but such a man’s deposit is bound to be forfeited. It’s no small thing that people didn’t beat him up!

People ask him on the campaign, “Give us assurances—what will you do?” He says, “I can’t give any assurances. What if they can’t be fulfilled? First let me reach office; then I can tell you what I can do and what I cannot.”

But who will vote for such a man? You give your votes to liars, to the dishonest. And the whole art of those dishonest people is to shower you with assurances. The amazing thing is that every time you receive promises, they are never fulfilled—yet when the next batch comes, you swallow them whole again, you accept them instantly. You start hoping that this time they will be fulfilled. When will your hope break? When will you understand?

Politicians do not give promises in order to fulfill them. The aim of a promise is not to carry it out; the aim is to get your vote. Once they have your vote, the work of promising is finished—what is there then to fulfill? Then they must complete other work, for which the votes were taken. Those are inner, private aims. They didn’t tell you about them—if they had, you would never have voted for them.

Understand the politician’s compulsion too. You will give your vote only when he gives you grand assurances. And the desires hidden inside him—what he wants to accomplish—he can only accomplish once he reaches office. So he will say one thing to you, and do another. The skillful politician is the one who can deceive you again and again, and never let you become so alert that you grasp this simple fact: politicians do not give promises in order to fulfill them.

Mulla was fishing on the shore of a lake. There was a signboard right in front: “Fishing strictly prohibited. Violators will be prosecuted.” But it’s in such lakes that fish abound. Where everyone is already fishing, what will you get there! Sit all day dangling a line, chant God’s name—nothing happens. In such lakes Mulla had fished many times; he never got anything. Then in the evening he would have to go to the fish seller to buy fish—because he had to show his wife that he had caught them. Otherwise she would say he had wasted the whole day. He goes to the fishmonger’s shop and, standing outside, says, “Brother, please throw me the fish.” The fishmonger asks, “Why should I throw them—why don’t you just take them in your hand?” Mulla says, “Whatever happens, whether I can catch fish or not—I will never lie. I have to tell my wife I caught them. You throw, I’ll catch them. I cannot lie.”

Here, by contrast, there were fish in plenty. He ignored the sign. At such times who bothers about signboards and rules? Who’s going to catch you—whatever happens, we’ll see. He was happily catching fish when the owner arrived, stood behind him with a gun, and said, “Look at me. See that sign?”

Mulla looked, “Yes, I see it.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“I’m teaching the fish to swim.”

What else can you do!

“Then why have you put dough on the hook?”

“Fish don’t learn to swim without it, so I put dough on the hook. If a fish gets caught, I’ll teach it to swim.”

Does anyone teach fish to swim? Does anyone put dough on a hook for the fish’s welfare?

You are fish in the hands of politicians. And when the hooks are baited with the dough of promises and thrust into your throats, only then do you gulp them down—otherwise you wouldn’t. For the sake of the dough you swallow the hook. The politician’s purpose is achieved. And it’s not about one person—this is the entire net of politics. For centuries human beings have been exploited in exactly this way, and will be—until they wake up, until they see this clearly.

You don’t even think how the promises politicians make could possibly be fulfilled. The problems are so vast that even if they wanted to fulfill them, they could not. And you don’t consider that if they were to fulfill them, they would have to do many things against you—only then would they succeed. And you won’t tolerate that.

The country is poor. Every politician has to promise you, “I will eradicate poverty.” But you know that what it would take to eradicate poverty will create great obstacles for you—you won’t be able to bear it. Your childbearing would have to be curbed, because if the country’s poverty is to be removed, population growth must stop. The truth is, even the present population should be halved for this country to be well-fed and prosperous—otherwise it will never be prosperous. The numbers increase daily. By the end of this century there will be one billion people in India. Even now eighty-five percent are destitute; they are not properly fed. Now the population is only six to six and a half hundred million; by the century’s end it will be a hundred crores—a billion.

We are heading toward a dreadful abyss—but if one tries to stop it, you get in the way. You say, “It’s not right to impose family planning on us by force.” So if they want to please you, there should be no family planning. But then you will remain poor. Then the promise cannot be fulfilled.

After Morarji Desai came to power, all the significant efforts Indira had made regarding family planning were rolled back—because you had to be pleased. That is why you voted for them.

You got angry with Indira—because she tried to do something. But that effort was bound to cause discomfort. If you want to remove pus from the body, there will be pain. If you perform an operation, there will be pain. And nobody wants to endure pain.

The problems of this country are so big they cannot be solved if left to your sweet will. You say, “We’ll restrain ourselves by brahmacharya—celibacy.” How will you? How many have managed to stop having children through celibacy? You have been practicing celibacy for centuries! But if you are given some method of family planning, you become restless, you panic.

If vasectomies are performed on men, they think their manhood is destroyed. Absurd! No one’s manhood is destroyed by a vasectomy. Yet people run away to avoid it—flee to other villages. I know men who, in Indira’s time when sterilizations were happening in their village, ran—and ran so far they still haven’t returned! They seem to have gone so far that one doubts they’ll ever come back. There were even attacks on the doctors performing sterilizations.

Then how will poverty be removed? And if poverty is to be removed, and your strikes and gheraos and morchas and all your foolishness keep going—poverty will not end. Work doesn’t happen in the factories. Strike—and expect the factory to run? But we consider this our freedom. In strikes and gheraos we take great delight. Sloganeering is sweet to us. The moment someone goes by shouting a slogan, you join the march. You relish shouting. In making a racket the pent-up frustrations of the heart find release.

I know a gentleman who used to join every party’s demonstration—whether communist, socialist, Congress, or Jan Sangh. I watched him and was puzzled: What party does he belong to? One day I took his hand and said, “I see you again and again standing under this same tree—whatever the morcha, whatever the disturbance, off you go….”

He said, “What do I care whose it is? I enjoy shouting. It’s exercise, a little roaming about, and a way to vent the heart.”

“But I too want to ask you something,” he continued, “because I’m bothered by you. Whatever party’s morcha, whatever the disturbance—you stand under that tree and watch. You’re the only person who could catch me, and no one else knows me. I’m a member of all parties.” He is a member of all parties! “You’re the only man I fear, because you’re always watching me—and watching intently. Why do you stand there?”

His puzzlement is fair—because just standing and watching doesn’t vent anything. Watching doesn’t satisfy the urge to make mischief. I told him, “Just as I used to watch my mind rioting one day, so I now watch your rioting. Watching, the mind departed; the inner turmoil fell silent. Now I am studying everyone’s riots—so that somehow I can stand with you too and your turmoil can come to an end. I am watching everyone’s upheavals.”

There is heavy turmoil in this country. If you look at it—be a witness—you will understand that with such turmoil none of the country’s problems can be solved. The problems are big—very big.

Once two ants met an elephant. One said, “Hey you—will you wrestle with us?” Before the elephant could speak, the other ant said, “Arrey, poor fellow—how will he fight? He’s alone and we are two!”

Have you glanced at the scale of the problems? They are huge. And India’s capacity is very small—like an ant’s. For centuries we have not increased India’s capacity. We have shrunk. We have forgotten how to expand. We no longer remember the art of growth. We have even made meekness and poverty into glory. Contentment…contentment in every condition. You are reaping the misfortune of this. Contentment is right for one who has known himself. Contentment is the shadow of self-knowledge—the fragrance of samadhi. Before that, contentment is false; it is consolation, self-deception. Like the fox who decided the grapes were sour because she couldn’t reach them. She tried, failed, and then convinced herself the grapes were unworthy. In the same way we hide our ego in “contentment.”

For centuries this country has been fed the poison of contentment. Then we became fatalists. A contented man becomes fatalistic.

A lazy man said to his friend, “Look how nature helps me! I had some trees to cut—then a storm came and solved my problem. I had a heap of trash to burn—lightning struck and burned it by itself.”

His friend asked, “So what’s your next plan?” He replied, “I have to take potatoes and carrots out of the ground, so I’m waiting for an earthquake.”

A contented man—inevitably he becomes a fatalist. Fatalism has killed this country. The problems kept growing and we couldn’t find solutions. Instead of searching for solutions, we began to deem poverty spiritual. Again the grapes-are-sour story. We began to say: Poverty is very spiritual! Poverty is very pure! Poverty is very innocent! In poverty there is great contentment. The wealthy are anxious, worried, restless. The poor have no cares at all. We have woven such beautiful webs around ourselves.

And the joke is that those you elect—people like Morarji Desai—believe the same things. How will they solve anything? And you choose only those who agree with you. You can’t choose those who don’t. Understand this crisis: You choose those who accept your notions. It is precisely your notions that have made you miserable. Your ideas have put the noose around your neck. And you choose those who agree with your ideas. How will there be a solution?

Cancer patients decide they will only choose a doctor who is himself a cancer patient. The blind have decided they will only choose the blind—why choose someone with eyes? We will choose only people like us. But then how will you be cured?

This is a grave and tangled crisis. In elections here the votes go to those who support your foolishness. You simply cannot vote for those who oppose your foolishness—because you see them as enemies.

People want to cut out my tongue and chop off my hands. I get letters daily saying I should stop speaking—or I will be killed. They could have given me their votes too. They could have made me president—if I supported their foolishness. If I wrapped a loincloth around my hips, took a begging bowl, sang songs to “Daridra-Narayan” and declared, “God is where the laborer is breaking stones; God is where the farmer is dying of hunger”—then no one would dream of cutting my tongue or hands, no one would talk of bullets. They would lift me onto the throne. Then I too would be blind, and the blind would be with me.

This country needs people with eyes. And people with eyes cannot agree with your presuppositions. Your presuppositions are wrong. Those very presuppositions have brought you to this state.

In three hundred years America reached the peak of prosperity. Our history is ten thousand years old—and we have reached the peak of poverty! Surely something is amiss, some fundamental error in our logic. Our soil is no less fertile than any other. Our country is no less fortunate. We have mountains, rivers, land—all colors, all seasons. Our country holds all the seasons. There is no terrain that is not here. Places with the maximum rainfall are here. Places with minimal rainfall are here. Places where snow remains all year are here. Places where fire seems to rain are here. Our country is a small image of the whole world. No land is so richly endowed.

Yet lands that were poor became rich. Those who had nothing came to have everything. And we sit—waiting for an earthquake—because we have to pull up carrots and radishes. We are fatalists. We have learned the art of shrinking…acquired habits of such foolishness, it beggars description.

Our ministers—Morarji Desai & Company—think in the same way: “How can we reduce a little of the ministers’ salaries?” As if by shaving ministers’ salaries, the poverty of this country will vanish! What are you talking about? Sanjiva Reddy thinks the president should live in a smaller house. Not actually doing it—just thinking. Even thinking creates enough air; people feel, “Aha—there goes a Mahatma!”

But will the country’s problems be solved because the president lives in a smaller house? Are the problems so small? If problems could be solved so easily, they would have been solved long ago. So many people already live in tiny huts—and nothing is solved. One more gentleman moves into a hut, and everything will be solved? So many people are unemployed; they receive no salary at all. A few gentlemen reduce their salaries—and the problems are solved? But this hypocrisy thrives.

A certain gentleman was a terrible miser. One morning he sat dejected, head bowed. A friend asked, “What’s the matter—why so sad?” He replied, “Ghee used to be fifteen rupees a kilo—now it’s ten.” The friend said, “Then you should be happy—on each kilo you save five rupees.” The miser said, “That’s the trouble. Earlier, by not eating ghee I saved fifteen rupees; now I’ll save only ten.”

This is how they are solving problems.

Mulla Nasruddin’s son came home and said to his father, “Listen—today I saved eight annas. I didn’t take the bus; I ran behind it.” Mulla slapped him twice, hard: “You idiot! If you wanted to save, you should have run behind a taxi—you’d have saved three and a half rupees. You come home bragging about an eight-anna saving!”

These are the sorts of people busy “solving” the country’s problems. One thinks spinning a charkha will do it. Another thinks fasting one day a week will do it. Drop these foolishnesses—and drop the company of such fools, stop following them. They have no real concern with your problems. Their concern is something else altogether—

Here a chair, there a chair,
everywhere a chair, a chair.
There’s hardly a spot left
where a chair hasn’t reached.
Friend, this is the state
of the chair-struck in this land.
Even donkeys bray out:
“Bring that chair over here!”

Chairs quarreled with chairs,
chairs shook hands with chairs,
chairs flirted with chairs—
Friends, not governance but a game is on.

A chair is our pride and our glory,
the chair is our creed and our God.
The very thought of a chair crackles in the mind—
a boon carried over from many births.

A tale of the chair, talk of the chair,
day for the chair, night for the chair.
The tongue chants “public welfare” like a mantra,
while the heart plots for the chair.

These people are mad after the chair. Do they have time to solve your problems? They are busy solving their own. Your problems can be solved only by those whose own problems are solved.

This country needs leadership from people settled in samadhi. It needs leaders who have no personal problems. Then something can be solved—otherwise nothing will be. Instead of solutions, the situation worsens day by day. Fine-sounding names—no results.

In the name of democracy you’ve seated Shri Morarji Desai in office. And in the name of democracy, democracy is being strangled in every way. And solving problems? That is far away—democracy itself is being killed.

The best government is the least government. Yet in this country there is the most government. Law upon law for every petty thing. Such a web of laws that it seems impossible for a person to live. What kind of democracy is it where there is nothing but a mesh of laws, where a person has not an inch of freedom to move? Then people act dishonestly. Then, to evade the laws, they devise routes. Then, to stop their dishonesty, more laws are made. Then, to plug the loopholes in those laws, still more laws are made. And people find new loopholes. And the web keeps spreading.

Government should be minimal—at the minimum. Give people some freedom to live, some freedom to breathe. Even that isn’t happening. There isn’t even freedom in what to eat and drink.

I am an opponent of alcohol—but not an advocate of prohibition. That is a person’s private freedom. If someone wants to drink, he has that right. Of course, we should make sure that he knows fully the harms of alcohol. There should be a climate in the country that makes clear what alcohol does. But still, if someone decides to drink, in a democratic system there should be no coercion. What right does any single person have?

Morarji Desai may be against alcohol—but what right does he have to impose his obstinacy on the chest of the whole country? Suppose tomorrow a drunkard becomes prime minister and insists everyone must drink—then you’d cry, “What kind of democracy is this!” If you want to drink, drink; if you don’t, don’t. Propagate what you think is right, create a climate, build public opinion—but why force?

Now Vinoba Bhave says he will fast if cow slaughter is not stopped in Bengal. I am no supporter of cow slaughter. But issuing such threats is violent. As for goats—Vinoba has no concern. Remember your guru, Mahatma Gandhi—he lived his whole life drinking goat’s milk. Let goats be slaughtered—no problem. Goats and rams are like Muslims; cows are Hindus! What a joke—goats and rams don’t even know when they became Muslims!

There should be no violence—but create an atmosphere. Still, if people want to eat meat, to stop them by force is wrong. Then tomorrow a Jain will come to power and say, “Don’t eat fish.” Then it will become very difficult. He will say, “Don’t eat onions or potatoes either”—because in Jainism all things grown underground are forbidden. Eating them is sin. So potatoes, radishes, carrots—sin!

Let each person live in his own way. That is what democracy means: so long as no one is obstructing another’s life, you do not become an obstruction. The meaning of democracy is negative.

And what ought to be done—they won’t do. Family planning should be implemented—but they won’t. Instead there must be prohibition. As if once alcohol is banned, the country’s problems will be solved! Will poverty vanish, disease vanish, illiteracy vanish? If cow slaughter stops—do you think the country’s problems will vanish, poverty will end? Will wealth rain from the skies? If that were so, America should be the world’s poorest country—because cow slaughter happens there.

But these are tricks to entangle your mind. “Ban cow slaughter”—a Hindu hears it and is pleased, and gives his vote. Whether cow slaughter happens or not—no problem is solved thereby. And remember, I am not saying cow slaughter should happen. I am saying: create an environment, a cultured climate. No coercion. There isn’t even freedom of religious conversion, and Jayaprakash Narayan says: this is the second freedom. Now if a Hindu wants to become a Christian, he cannot. If a Christian wants to become a Hindu, he cannot. Why? What kind of country is this? But Hindus must be pleased. The Jan Sanghis have come to power—they must be kept happy. The poison of the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh is in power; it must be placated. So now no Hindu can become a Christian.

But if a Hindu wants to become a Christian—why should there be any bar? If a Christian wants to become a Hindu—why should there be any bar? If a person cannot even choose his own religion, what kind of democracy is this? What kind of freedom of thought?

No promises have been fulfilled. Instead, those promises that were never even made are being fulfilled. No one even asked for these.

This country needs a very awakened public opinion.

I have nothing to do with politics. Nor do I want my sannyasins to have anything to do with it. Still, I will say that my sannyasin should help create an awakened public opinion in the land—because the problems are yours too. The country’s problems are your problems. I am not saying you should contest elections and reach Parliament. No. But wherever you are, create a climate—create some awareness. Tell people what the real problems are. What the true solutions could be. Point out false problems—show how people’s minds are entangled in them. To distract your mind, false issues are manufactured.

And make people alert enough that when they go to vote, they choose at least the one who lies the least—I cannot even say “the one who speaks truth,” because that is difficult—the one who is the least political, the least hungry for office. Create that climate. And do not give your votes to the dead—those who died long ago and should have been in their graves, yet sit in Delhi wearing churidar pajamas and achkans, ruling! Give your vote to the living—to the young! Create this climate.

I want to fill a fresh fragrance
into all directions,
to pluck once more from the mango groves
those rare blossoms;
today, with ripe mahua cupped in my palm,
to gather a little more;
to offer again
some scented shloka
in the assemblies of the mind;
today, into the very life-breath, to pour
a bright song,
to scatter through the feelings
a pictorial music,
to set down
flower-laden, laughing metres
into dead winds.
This country has died—let me breathe life into it! Its songs are lost—let me set it to verse! Its veena is missing—let me touch its strings! And this can happen; when I look at you, trust arises that this can happen.

A vision of life is about to be born;
it feels as if you are about to arrive.
Everywhere is the joy of your coming,
everywhere the stir of your love,
the talk of your lips and cheeks—
even the sky is ready to shower flowers.
Thus life keeps clarifying and brightening,
as a garden bursts into bloom in spring;
the breeze hums and wanders
as if it has just brushed your body—
these laughing valleys are about to be perfumed.
It feels as if you are about to arrive.

With your coming, O joy of spring,
my songs will find their tongue,
these open skies will gain a buoyant grace,
the road will find a Milky Way.
Your beauty is about to unveil its splendor.
It feels as if you are about to arrive.

When I look at you ochre-robed sannyasins, hope takes root that the divine can be invoked. Then, upon this earth, a temple can arise—living, dancing, celebrative! But much remains for you to do.

O immortal, rise from death, rise, rise!
Darkness, darkness—
it has spread far and wide!
Nowhere in the world
do you even know your own face;
be luminous there.
O human, rise from the mortal, rise, rise!

The noose of animality binds you,
the dwelling of inertia holds you;
these alone, for centuries,
have been undoing you.
You are infinite strength and courage—
O man, rise beyond duality, rise, rise!

Your Gandiva is lowered;
your shoulders and neck have drooped.
You had become valiant—
in a moment, ill-starred, you turned craven.
You are the perfect vessel, the vast—
O mighty one, rise from wretchedness, rise, rise!

Invincible through the ages,
reclaim your worthy glory;
in the illusion of dreams
have you forgotten the noble aim?
You are without sorrow, supreme delight—
O lotus, rise from the mud, rise, rise!

You are unassailable, indivisible—
no parts, no divisions!
What want is it
that sweat beads on your brow?
You are the undivided flame of knowing—
O Dawn, rise from the mist, rise, rise!

Why is your brow arched with fear?
You have made yourself lowly, a beggar;
yet you are great,
awakened, fearless.
O dear heart, rise from enmity, rise, rise!

The future is trampling;
the past is pulling you back;
the present is worn down,
ground and afraid.
You blazing mass of radiance—
O fire, rise from the smoke, rise, rise!

This is the message: wake up. This is the message: rise. O lotus, rise from the mud, rise, rise!
That is all for today.