Sahaj Yog #3

Anand Bharti, the body is a temple. One who stands for the deity cannot be against the deity’s house. The Divine has made a dwelling in this body. Honor this body, accept it, and feel gratitude toward the Divine for it.

But I know where this repeated impulse to leave the body comes from. For centuries you have been taught enmity toward the body. For centuries the same conditioning has been given: the body is the enemy; it must be destroyed, dropped; one must contrive never to be born in a body again. The body has been so vilified that naturally this conditioning has seeped into the blood, bones, flesh, and marrow. Yet the truth is exactly the opposite: it is the mind that is to be dropped, not the body. The mind is man-made; the body is a gift of God. The body is neither Hindu nor Muslim, neither communist nor fascist. The body is simply the body—pristine. The turbulence belongs to the mind. Somewhere the mind is Hindu, somewhere Muslim; somewhere it clings to this scripture, somewhere to that—and it is ever ready to fight. Restlessness is of the mind, not the body. The whole disturbance is of the mind, and the mind is tearing you apart, grinding you into fragments. One piece pulls east, another west. Drop this mind.

But you won’t drop the mind; you prepare instead to drop the body! If you must die, die in the mind. The mind is given by society—by parents, family, society, school, university. The mind is borrowed. The body is directly connected to the Divine; the mind has no way to connect, for it is artificial. The mind is like plastic flowers; the body is like trees standing with their roots spread in the earth. The body is still linked to the Divine; if that link breaks even for a moment, breath will stop, the heartbeat will cease.

The Divine enters you through the door of the body, not of the mind. Through the door of the mind there is no way for the Divine to enter; how can truth come through a false door? Truth comes only through the true door. On a blazing afternoon, when you are parched and you drink a sip of cool water, the satisfaction that arises within you is of that same Divine; or when, exhausted, you bathe under a cool stream and freshness spreads over the body—that too is of the Divine. When you dance and every hair stands on end, who thrills within you? That very Divine! Sitting under the sun, or beneath the moon and stars, by the trees, the waves of freshness that arise, the way life surrounds you in new colors and forms—this happens through the medium of the body.

Through the eyes you have seen the Divine and called it beauty; through the ears you have heard the Divine and called it music. Without ears, music is lost; without eyes, form and beauty are lost. Why this eagerness to lose such extraordinary experience so quickly? This urge is suicidal; but when it hides behind religion, we no longer recognize it as self-destruction—we begin to call it spiritual practice.

You may be surprised to learn that as soon as a society becomes irreligious, the number of suicides increases. Many scholars, priests, monks keep proclaiming: see, wherever countries have become irreligious, suicide has increased. But they do not know the real reason. The real reason is this: self-destruction is happening here as well, but it happens under the cover of religion. In countries where the religious cover has fallen away, self-destruction proceeds directly. If someone wants to die, he takes poison or shoots himself. Here, if someone wants to die, he fasts—but fasting will not kill quickly; it may take years to die fasting. A person can live without food for three months—ninety days. You will go on fasting eight days, ten days, fifteen days; then some days eating, then fasting again—and you will keep living. And you will be astonished to learn that psychologists, through many experiments, have shown that if food intake is reduced, a person lives longer. Experiments on mice show: if they are fed fully, they die sooner; if overfed, they die even sooner. If fed half their need, they live twice as long. Why? Because with less food the body has less burden of digestion. Food gives energy, yes, but to obtain energy from food the body must also expend energy in digestion. If minimal food is given—just enough to keep the body going without overloading digestion—one can live longer. That is why those who fast tend to live longer. But their longing was to die. One stands in the hot sun when the body was asking for shade. Another sits thirsty when the body was asking for water. Another lies on thorns.

You are tormenting the body. Hidden behind this torment is the urge for self-destruction.

Sigmund Freud recognized two major drives in human life. One he called the life-instinct—the longing to live, to live joyously, to live to the full. This longing deepens up to about thirty-five years of age. If we take seventy as the average lifespan, then at thirty-five one reaches the peak; after that comes the descent. The graph has touched its height; now the line begins to fall. After thirty-five, the longing for death, which he called thanatos, begins to deepen. Then a person starts to long for death, begins to tire, to break.

That is why nations that are young are full of the desire for life, and nations that have grown old, decrepit, are full of the desire for death. This country is very old—there is no other quite like it. It has grown very old. The feeling of dying has settled into every fiber. So whenever we see someone doing things that align with death, we show respect. We call it austerity. The zest for life has gone from our hearts.

Open the Vedas again. Five thousand years ago they spoke differently. Then there was a celebration of life. The rishis prayed: “O Lord, shower upon us that we may live at least a hundred years—may we be centenarians!” Then this country must have been young; the blood of life was flowing in its veins. The rishis of the Vedas say: “Grant us wealth, grant us grain; may our crops flourish; may the milk in our cows’ udders increase!” You may think: how can rishis pray like this? But these prayers are deeply delightful and telling. They say the country was still young; people were not yet old; they were eager to live; they wanted to make life a festival.

Gradually, as you grew old, the longing for life faded. Now we call “religious” the person who, right from the start, asks how to be free of the cycle of birth and death. Now we call “religious” the one who does not want to live, who says: I must die. Not even the courage to die at once—that courage belongs to the young. Even to die instantly requires some strength, and that strength too is gone. A kind of impotence, a kind of weakness. He wants to die, but even to die he wants it to happen by itself. If it required taking two steps toward death, who would take even those two steps!

Look at this despair. Wake up from it. This is no way. In this way no temple of God will ever be built.
You have asked, Anand Bharati: “Now I don’t feel like staying much in this body.” Will you obey the mind? You ask: “I feel like taking leave of it.” Will you obey the mind? And I keep explaining day after day the same thing: let the mind go. The body is dear, the soul is dear. If anything is ugly it’s the mind standing between them. The net of thoughts is an entanglement. The body makes you commit no sin; all sins belong to the mind.
Just reflect: there are two truths within you. One, the body, is a truth—because the body is nature. The body is the truth of science. And within you the soul is a truth—because the soul is the Divine. The soul is the truth of religion. Standing between the two is your mind, which is not truth—only a turmoil of thoughts, only a web of dreams, only a heap of conditionings. And this false mind keeps breaking the two truths within you; it does not let them join. It does not allow the soul to be joined with the body.

Let this mind go! The moment it goes you will be amazed. The greatest miracle in this world happens the moment it goes. What is that miracle? That suddenly you see the soul and the body are not two. They seemed two only so long as the mind was there. Because of the mind they appeared two. The mind had drawn a line down the middle.

The mind is like the lines politics draws on the earth—this is India, this is Pakistan. Lines drawn on maps. Nowhere does the earth itself break. The earth is unbroken. The earth is one. But politics draws lines. In the same way the mind has drawn a line—here is the body, here is the soul.

Let the mind go a little! Sit sometimes quiet and silent, and see: when the mind is not, when there are no waves of mind, when the commerce of mind is not running—then look: are you two or one? You will find you are one. You will find the body is the manifest form of your soul, and the soul is the unmanifest form of your body. You will find the body is the gross expression of your soul, and the soul is the essence hidden within your body.

The body is the flower; the soul is the fragrance.
The body is the word; the soul is the meaning revealed in the word.
The body is the veena; the soul is the resonance strummed on the veena.

There is no division at all; the two are one. God and nature are not separate, they are conjoined.

This universe, this vast expanse, is the body of God. And in the subtle, on a small scale, the same happens within you. The human being is the reflection of the vast, of the cosmos. The cosmos has manifested in the microcosm. Within you is everything that is in this vastness—on a smaller scale.

To know the soul you do not have to abandon the body. To know the soul you have to know the body—because the soul is the body’s hidden form. The soul is the body’s secret, its mystery. Yes, let the mind go, Bharti; bid the mind farewell.

The body is the house of the soul—adorn the body!
But do not, for the temple’s sake, forget the God!

Only keep this much in mind: that for the sake of the temple the deity should not be forgotten. This does not mean forget the temple. Clean the temple, keep it neat, decorate it, hang festoons, light the lamps. The temple is dear. Let the deity not be forgotten. It is because of the deity that it is dear. Do not forget the deity who sits in the sanctum of the temple. But this temple is not the enemy of that deity; it is his protection.

The body is the house of the soul—adorn the body!
But do not, for the temple’s sake, forget the God!
The lamp of worship is the heart; pour in love, and light it!
Do not devour yourself the offerings meant for the Lord!
Place flowers, lamp, and rice, and wave the arati!
The body is God’s house; the earth-body is sacred;
Citizens are the priests; cities and villages are the seat;
Who is on the seat? Ah, adore Him with countless eyes!
Abandon envy, pride, attachment, enmity, reactivity!
Do not sleep in the soul’s temple—awaken!
The sun has risen, the horizon has opened—having won, do not lose!

Let the mind go—the mind is lulling you to sleep. The mind is a sleep. Let the mind go, for the mind itself is envy, pride, attachment, enmity.

Abandon envy, pride, attachment, enmity, reactivity!
Do not sleep in the soul’s temple—awaken!
The sun has risen, the horizon has opened—having won, do not lose!
The body is the house of the soul—adorn the body!
But do not, for the temple’s sake, forget the God!

This is exactly what I am teaching. This is my message: that nature and God are one, that the gross and the subtle are not opposed. As day and night are joined, and winter and summer are joined; as woman and man are joined; as negative and positive are joined; as no and yes are joined; as birth and death are joined—so too God and nature are joined, body and soul are joined. My teaching is not self-destruction; my teaching is self-celebration.

Live—live to the full!
Hoping for immortal life, do not drink only the nectar!
Live—live to the full!
If there is nectar anywhere in the world, it is not at the feet of some heavenly tree;
It is in sweat, in blood, in tears, in life-and-death;
O fleeting little fish of the five-hued stream of breath!
Live—live to the full!
What good is nectar to a fish? Its essence is water!
Life is amid experiences; only the experiencer is the knower of the essence!
Do not become a sage of the shore, O ever-young waves!
Live—live to the full!
Fear not the whirl of joy and sorrow; set a magnet in the abysmal deep!
Dive and arise; having arisen, dive again into the waters;
Hold the seven octaves, breathe again and again, O flutes!
Live—live to the full!
Whether Atal or Sutal—every realm is a beautiful field of signs;
Having taken a body, the soul has set out on the path to a tryst;
Do not freeze and stall, O flute—listen, O golden deer!
Live—live to the full!
If that hunter, the player of the flute, asks for your head as alms,
Your eyes enraptured by sound—delay not in giving;
Death, sure as Dhruva, is the Dhanvantari in the arteries of blood!
Live—live to the full!
This-shore life, that-shore life—death is a jewel-studded threshold,
The lamp of experience—its flame licking the wick in restlessness;
Ask not for Nirvana; become the flame and burn smokeless, O lamp!
Live—live to the full!

Flame up, live, become luminous! What is the hurry? The day the Lord finds that the body is no longer needed, he will remove the body as well. Leave that to him. Do not make it a desire of your mind. Neither ask to live longer nor ask to live less. Do not ask at all. Embrace whatever is. Accept whatever is. When life is given, life; and when life is not given, Nirvana. But do not impose your expectations and desires.

And a last point—which may startle you even more: the day you stop asking, on that very day there is no need to return to this earth again. But for now the asking continues. There is a new asking—that now the body is not wanted, that now one must be rid of the body. This has become a new asking—asking for Nirvana, asking for liberation. And as long as there is asking, where is liberation? As long as there is asking, where is freedom from the round of coming and going? It is asking that brings you; asking is craving.

Beggars have no liberation. Become an emperor. And the way to become an emperor is: live—live to the full! God has given life; live in gratitude. And the day he takes it, give it back in gratitude. He gave; He took. Do not come in between. I call this state sannyas: do not come in between.

To accept whatsoever is, as it is—that is sannyas. And one in whom such supreme acceptance flowers—his liberation has already happened, while living it has happened. He is liberated-in-life.

Keshavram! By speaking on music no one becomes a musician, nor by speaking on poetry does one become a poet. How would I become a politician by speaking on politics? If only it were so, then Morarji Desai—who gives talks on religion—would by now have become religious! By giving statements, no one becomes a poet, or religious, or a politician. To be a poet, there must be doing; to be a musician, doing; to be a politician, doing; to be religious, doing... Action is decisive.

I am not a politician. But a religious person has as much right to speak on politics as politicians take upon themselves to speak on religion. When the blind can make statements about those who can see, then surely those who can see have some right to speak about the blind, do they not? A politician ought to feel hesitant about talking on religion. What does he know? What has he experienced? Religion is too far for him; in fact, it runs opposite to his thinking and consciousness. He has not meditated; he has not known inner peace. He lives in ambition—its strain and its anxiety. Yet you raise no objection to his pronouncements on religion!

I can speak on politics. From the summit of a mountain one can speak about the valleys. In truth, the valleys are seen rightly only from the peaks. Don’t we say—bird’s-eye view? When a bird flies in the sky the earth is clearly visible to it. Those who are crawling on the ground do not even see the ground. And if they cannot see the ground, how will they see the summits? But one who stands on the peak can see the valleys—their darkness, the people wandering within them. And if someone calls out from the summit to those in the valleys, do you object?

If, standing on my peak, I see that a band of blind people is moving in a direction where they will fall into a ravine, do you think I should stand silently, not even raise my voice? And if I do call out, you suspect I too am a politician! A physician awakens you concerning your illness; by that he does not become ill—he diagnoses your disease. Would you then conclude that he too is sick?

I have no interest in politics. Nor is it possible for me to have. Politics is born of ambition. I have no ambition. After knowing godliness, what ambition could remain? Having recognized godliness, what post could be higher than that? The day you know the God hidden within you, in that very instant all your ambitions will fall.

In truth, ambition is essentially the search for godliness—misdirected, but still a search for godliness. A man runs after wealth; if you ask me, I will say that even in the race for money the quest is for the supreme treasure—pursued wrongly, but the same ultimate treasure. Poverty bites; it becomes a wound. One wants somehow to heal the wound of poverty, to erase this wretchedness. It does not befit, it does not feel good. The mind does not settle; it seems like a painful dream—how to get out of it? He accumulates money in the hope that perhaps, if there is wealth, the inner poverty will disappear. But how can outer wealth remove inner poverty? Money is outside; poverty is inside; the two do not match. The longing was right; the direction was wrong. After acquiring wealth, sooner or later one understands the mistake: the treasure had to be sought within. If poverty is within, only inner wealth can fill it.

It is the same with the search for position. You seek status outside; that too is a search for the supreme status hidden within. Become whatever you will—president, prime minister, this or that—your inner wretchedness will not go. Your status-lessness will not vanish. Even seated upon the highest throne you will find yourself just as empty, just as hollow, just as void—as you were. By sitting on a throne, will riches shower within you? Seat a beggar on a throne—what will happen? A beggar is a beggar. Yes, on the throne he will strut a little, make some noise, put on some stage-show authority; but inside he will know he is a beggar. What difference will it make? The search for position also brings you to a point where you see the search was right but the direction wrong. The post had to be found within, because the lack of status was felt within.

In my reckoning, whatever you seek, knowingly or unknowingly you are seeking God.

One who begins to seek knowingly will certainly not step into politics again. How could his steps fall into an outer search? When receiving has begun, the journey changes. And for one who has attained—what is there to say!

I have no interest in politics. But that does not mean that if I see the country falling into a pit I should stand silently by. I am not that cruel. Such cruelty cannot be in a religious person; nor should it be. Nor should there be such indifference. Even an ordinary man, if he sees someone about to fall off a cliff to his end, will run and shout, Stop! Don’t go that way. Whether you heed it or not is your will. If you must fall, you will fall. If you relish falling, you will fall. But one thing will be certain: you will not be able to say that I did not call out.

You say: “You make statements on politics; then why shouldn’t you be considered a politician?” To be a politician it is not even necessary to make statements. A man can be a politician in silence. Look at Vinoba Bhave: he gives no statements, he keeps silence—and yet politics goes on.

A few months ago Indira and some of her colleagues gathered at Vinoba Bhave’s ashram and received his blessing; a statement was given that he had blessed them. Two days later Vinoba must have thought it over that this blessing could prove costly. A politician treads with calculations. A politician does not speak as I do—“then let come what may!” Can any politician talk to Morarji the way I do? A politician speaks after a thousand calculations. I have no calculation. I have nothing to gain, and nothing I have can be snatched away. And what I do have cannot be taken; and there is nothing more to attain in this world than that. So what accounting?

Two days later Vinoba saw the arithmetic would go wrong, there would be loss—he changed! He gave a statement to the newspapers: I did not give any blessing. When Indira was prime minister and went to Vinoba’s ashram, Vinoba invited her. His messengers went to Delhi with invitations. And Vinoba would come to the gate to welcome her—come to receive, to send, to see her off at the door. Then when Indira was no longer prime minister, far from sending word to come; when Indira came on her own, Vinoba did not come to receive her at the door, nor to bid her farewell. And not only did Vinoba not come, even the ashram residents did not come to the gate to welcome her! This I call politics!

When Indira was prime minister, I never praised her. Are these the ways of politics? And now, when there is no one in this country to praise Indira, I am praising her. Are these the ways of politics? Even the blind can see this is not politics; in fact it is reverse politics—does anyone do politics like this!

Then just now, when Indira won, Vinoba remained silent; when he was informed that Indira had won, he clapped in happiness. The newspapers reported: Vinoba clapped in joy, became ecstatic! Two days later came the statement: I did not clap because of Indira’s victory; it just so happened that at that moment I was in a playful mood. At that very moment you were in ecstasy—neither a moment before, nor a moment after! What a coincidence that precisely then the mood to clap arose! Two days later he must have done the accounting that this clapping could prove costly.

Politics is always calculation, arithmetic, maneuvering and cleverness. I tell you: by speaking on politics I am not a politician, and Vinoba, remaining silent, without giving statements, is a politician. Politics is a style of life; statements or non-statements make no difference. If there were even a little politics in me, is this a time for me to oppose Morarji and support Indira? Even Indira was startled. Not only Morarji, Indira too was startled. She said to one of her colleagues—who brought me the news—“It is surprising: today there is no one in this country to take my hand; why has he spoken in my support?”

Today Morarji is meeting two of my sannyasins in Delhi. He has set conditions: the meeting must be absolutely private, and whatever is discussed must not appear in the newspapers. This meeting is happening with conditions. Morarji is puzzled too: why am I speaking against him! Because my statements are utterly non-political.

I say only what seems right to me; there is no ulterior purpose in it. There is no desire for any result. There is no accounting of what the outcome will be. But whatever I see as true, that is what I will say, and keep saying. If I do not say it, who else will? At least there will be a record that I said it. Whenever I see something wrong happening, I will certainly speak.

Now it is hardly necessary that you serve me a wrong dish and I say, “This is bitter,” and you say to me, “Are you a master chef that you call it bitter?” To call food bitter I need not be a culinary expert. If there were a rule that without being a chef one cannot make a statement about food, then we would be in deep trouble. Then if someone served poison, we would have to eat it! Because you are not a chef—so how can you pronounce on it!

I am not a politician, but across many lives, on a long journey, I have seen all the games of politics. Today I stand on the peak, but for lives upon lives I too had to grope in the dark valleys as you are groping. I too have received these blows. I too have fallen into these pits. These are all familiar ditches. So whenever I speak, it is not as if I speak about utterly unfamiliar matters.

There is a saying: Every saint has a past, and every sinner a future.

I have known the world in every way, just as you are knowing it. Therefore, regarding any situation or event in the world, I am entitled to speak. And my entitlement is greater, because I have known something more that you are not yet knowing. And by knowing that something more, the perspective becomes vast, the vision becomes bird’s-eye. Things far away begin to be seen that you cannot yet see.

As if one man is standing on the ground and another is sitting up in a tree. An ox-cart is coming down the road. The man standing on the ground cannot yet see that the cart is coming; it is still far. But the one sitting in the tree can see it. For the man on the ground the cart is still the future, in darkness; for the man in the tree it is the present, not in darkness but in light.

The higher your consciousness rises, the more those things that are the future for others become the present for you. And those things that are the past for others also become present for you. The final logic of this: the Jains say Mahavira is trikāljña—a knower of the three times. It does not mean anything else; it means only this: the height has become such that now the past too is present, the future too is present—only one time remains, the present; there are no longer three. But foolishness is such that people get obstinate even in this; they think Mahavira knows every detail—that two thousand years later Chuhramal and Phuhadmal will open a hotel in Bombay—he knows that too. That is not the meaning. The meaning is only this: as the height of consciousness rises, by virtue of that height the whole expanse is gathered into the present. In that there is no shop of Chuhramal-Phuhadmal.

From where I am seeing, I can see what politics is doing in this country and into what pit it is leading it. Either I should remain silent—remain silent because if I speak there will be trouble for my work, there will be harm to my work. But then I tell you: my remaining silent would be politics. Do make an effort to understand this.

One of my sannyasins here is the grandson of the German emperor. The Queen of Greece passed through Bombay yesterday; she called him. She is his aunt. The Queen of Greece is his aunt; the Queen of England is his aunt. In nearly all the royal houses of Europe he has some relationship. The queen told him, “I have called you to warn you that this ashram will soon be shut down by the government. Because I have reliable information that the government is turning against you. If you ever face difficulty, if you need anything, I am always ready to help. You can come to me.”

Then there was a dinner for the queen at the Greek embassy; there too Vimalakirti—my sannyasin—she took him along. The ambassador said the same: there are clouds of danger over your ashram.

These clouds of danger are because of my statements. If there were even a little politics in me I would have kept quiet; or I would have offered false praise to those in power. Because through praising them a thousand things can be managed. But what have I to do with whatever misfortune may befall the country because of such praise! If I were a politician—if politics were in my mind—I would have my own agenda. I could have secured a thousand favors from them. But I have nothing to get from anyone. Whatever work Existence has me do, it has me do—its will. And sometimes it even has me speak on politics—so what am I to do?

This is utterly straightforward; nothing more really needs to be said. Do not declare to others what you yourself have not known, because whatever you declare will be wrong—mere conjecture, borrowed, stale. If it is not born of your own experience, how will it have life in it? There may be “knowledge,” but it will be lifeless—scriptural, not self-realized. And it is precisely such people who have led humanity astray. In this, Sarhapa is right.

There would not be so much irreligion in the world if the so‑called religious people simply stopped speaking about what is not grounded in their experience. If all religious people took a single vow—“We will say only what we ourselves have known”—an extraordinary revolution would happen on this earth. On the foundation of untruth, the divine cannot arrive. And whatever you have not known is a lie. You are so dyed through, so well cured in lying that you no longer even remember that you are lying. Someone asks you, “Is there a God?” and you say, “Yes, there is!” Do you then pause to recall—have you known? have you recognized? is it your experience? have you tasted? No—these questions don’t even arise. You have cut them off and thrown them away. Since childhood you have been fed this poison like syrup in the cradle; now you don’t even remember that you don’t know God, that you are speaking a falsehood, that you are being dishonest, that you are being a hypocrite. None of this crosses your mind. If someone asks, “Is there a God?” you very simply say, “Yes, there is”—if you were born in India or in some “religious” country. If you were born in Russia, with equal ease you would say, “No, there is no God,” because that is what was taught there.

In Russian schools they explain that there is no God; in your schools they explain that there is a God. Both are borrowed. Both are being told to you by others; and those who tell you also do not know. How can any true search for religion begin like this? And then, whoever follows your words will fall into a ditch. This is why Sarhapa says it is like the blind leading the blind—if both fall into a well, what is there to be surprised about? It is a very simple point, but very important.

I want to tell you: whenever you speak, speak with great care, because when you speak you are almost like a gramophone record—there is no care in it, no need for care; it is all memorized and you just blurt it out.

A priest went to a shop to buy a parrot; his old parrot had died. He said, “I want a magnificent parrot—price is no concern.” He saw many parrots but liked none. Then one parrot caught his eye—brought from the Amazon, a vibrant, splendid bird unlike any he had ever seen. “This one…,” he began, but the shopkeeper said, “I don’t want to sell this one. He is quite unique.”

“What’s unique about him?” asked the priest. The shopkeeper replied, “You see this tiny string on his left leg? If you pull it just a little—no one will even notice—it immediately recites verses from the Bible. And you see the thin string on his right leg? If you pull that quietly, it instantly repeats the Christian prayer.”

The priest asked, “And if both strings are pulled at the same time?” The parrot squawked, “You fool! I’ll topple headlong and fall flat!”

Even parrots have that much sense; nowadays humans don’t. The parrot knows: it can repeat Bible verses and prayers—but repetition is repetition, and it has no value. In the same way you go on repeating; but even that parrot was not as foolish as people have become. When the priest asked, “What if both strings are pulled together?” the parrot was startled and said, “Enough is enough, you fool! I’ll fall flat on my face!”

Whenever you say anything, pause a moment; reconsider. If it arises from your experience, then say it—and only as much as arises from your experience, not a grain more. Do not move even an inch beyond your experience. This world would be illumined if people spoke only as much as they themselves have known. A storm of truth would sweep across this earth.

The world is being smothered under lies. And the biggest lies are the ones you have accepted as truth. I am not saying there is no God; I am saying that until you yourself know, don’t say anything. Say: “I don’t know whether God is or is not. If someday I do know, I will certainly share it; right now I too am searching. I know nothing; I am ignorant.”

Just think—how weightless, how light you will feel as soon as you say this! And by saying so, you give the other person a direction—toward honesty, inquiry, seeking, search. You light a lamp in the other; that lamp is far more valuable than the falsehood you might have uttered: “Yes, there is a God; I believe.” And you would offer a thousand arguments; but they would all be stale, and they carry no worth.

To this day, no argument has been given that proves God, nor any that disproves Him. God is not a matter for logic: neither can He be proved by logic nor disproved by logic. God is an experience. And God is neither Hindu, nor Muslim, nor Christian; not in the Quran, not in the Bible, not in the Vedas. God is in your own direct experience. Apart from you no one can be His witness—be the witness yourself.

Sarhapa is right.

Hold back from studying others, friend;
Be careful: study yourself first!
Hold back from opening others’ eyes; first—
do not keep your own eyes closed to yourself!
Be careful: study yourself first!

Weary of living while the one meant to live
abandoned the work—built a stage—and became an actor!
It was no one else; it was you, the unripe seeker,
who fancied himself the conqueror of life!
Heroes not of heart, but of speech and pose—
step down from the stage; shoulder the burden of silence!
Be careful: study yourself first!

Your pride is futile—“I am a humble seeker”!
Do not be proud of being egoless!
If someone says, “You are wise, meditative,”
do not insult him by believing it!
Fame is not a bed of flowers; it is burning coals—
lie upon it, and burn your ego away!
Be careful: study yourself first!

With trinkets of sermons and well-turned sayings,
who knows what you start thinking you are!
Do not take the world for fools—do not be the king of fools!
Do not mistake your swelling ego for attainment!
Do not brush aside the matter, do not avert your eyes;
you are an unbaked pot—endure the fire to the full!
Be careful: study yourself first!

You are still an unbaked pot—ripen. You are still raw—endure the flames to the full! Right now your insides are filled with useless chatter. Step down from the stage; carry the weight of silence. Right now there is much ego within you; it is that ego which suggests you should guide people, lead them, show them the path, give them knowledge!

Lie upon fame’s coals; burn the ego away.
Fame is not a bed of flowers; it is burning embers—
lie upon them and let the self be consumed.

Your own eyes are closed, and you set out to open others’!
Do not keep your eyes closed to yourself.
Hold back from opening others’ eyes; first—
do not keep your own eyes closed to yourself!
Hold back from studying others, friend;
Be careful: study yourself first!

First read yourself, then teach. First awaken, then awaken others. First open your eyes—receive eyes—and then you will not need to make any effort. Those who are searching will themselves come looking for you. They always come. When your lamp is lit, those wandering in the dark will see even that small flame and begin to walk; the search for you will begin. People go to those who have known; they do not have to go and tell anyone—there remains no necessity to say anything.

Sarhapa is right. Tie his words in your heart.

When I say: take life as Leela, I don’t mean life is not Leela and you must imagine it so. Life is Leela whether you understand it or not. Its being Leela does not depend on your understanding. Leela is life’s very nature. This is the truth: if you understand it, the peace that arises from truth will dawn in you; if you don’t, the restlessness born of untruth will expand. If you understand, music is born, because your rhythm will fall in step with the Vast; if you don’t, you will remain out of rhythm, your meter won’t fit the cosmic meter. That is suffering.

What is suffering? To remain separate from the meter of the Vast; to cook your own little porridge on the side—that’s suffering. The day you merge into this vast celebration, become a limb of this immense music, that day is happiness, that day is peace, that day is bliss.

What does it mean that life is Leela? It means life is not serious. How could the Divine be serious! Seriousness is sadness. Sadness is illness, melancholy. Sadness belongs to those who have expectations; and when expectations are not fulfilled, sadness arises. The Divine has no expectations—so what sadness? How could melancholy arise in God? God is always rejoicing.

This world is not created by God for a purpose, because purpose belongs to one who wants to get something, who has ambitions. God is the one who has everything—nothing remains to be gotten, nothing can be added. Then why did He create the world? On this, the sages of this land have spoken rightly; no other sages in the world have caught this depth. Everywhere people have kept saying: God created the world; He made the creation; there must be some purpose behind it, some great purpose. And this appeals to the human mind, because we all live by purpose.

You open a shop—it isn’t play; you open a shop to earn money. You marry—it isn’t play; you marry seriously: to set up a house, to leave children behind. Otherwise who will perform the last rites for you, who will crack your skull at the cremation ground—though children these days do it while you’re still alive! In the old days they waited till you died; now they’re in a hurry. Everything is in a hurry.

You live by purposes, so you project your pattern onto God and think He, too, must be living by purpose. Surely there must be a goal—we may not know it, but there must be one. But God cannot have a goal. He is already where one has to be. He is arrived. There is no destination—He is the destination.

God does not create this world for any purpose. Then why? The question arises: why? Because there is energy. Have you watched small children? A child sits and, even while sitting, he sways, turns over. You tell him: sit still! How can he sit still? There is energy, a flow of power, power pouring from above. A flood of energy has come—how can he sit quiet? Children dance, jump, run. Ask them—“What’s the purpose?” They’ll be startled: “What kind of question is that? Dancing is enough—what purpose?” Or ask poets, “The songs you sang—what purpose?” If someone sings with a purpose, he is not a poet. If he says, “I sang to flatter the king,” he is no poet, merely a rhymester. His songs have no value.

Ask a poet like Rabindranath; he will say, “It is the spontaneous overflow of energy. It was not in my hands; the song had to be sung. There was no purpose. The song burst forth on its own—like flowers burst from trees, like birds pour out song in the morning, like the night sky fills with stars—what purpose is there?”

Pablo Picasso was painting; a man stood watching closely and then asked, “What is the purpose of this painting?” Picasso slapped his hand on his head: “You don’t ask that of mountains, or trees, or the moon and stars—why are you after me? Look at the rose blooming beside us and ask it, ‘What’s your purpose?’ And if a rose can bloom purposelessly, don’t I have at least the right to fling color on a canvas purposelessly, to paint without purpose?”

When a musician descends to his deepest depth, music has no goal; music is its own goal. Art—for art’s sake. That is the meaning of Leela.

God is not a shopkeeper; He is an artist—that is the meaning of Leela. God does not live by arithmetic; He lives by poetry—that is the meaning of Leela. Leela means: it is a play. God has so much energy—what should He do with it?—so He makes flowers, He makes birds, He makes people. Look at this variegated world! It is wondrous. It is a flood of energy.

The great Western mystic poet Blake said: “Energy is delight.” That statement has the worth of the Upanishads—of the same price, the same value. Where there is energy, it will flow and delight will manifest. There will be dance and song; flowers will bloom. And energy is inexhaustible, infinite—so the play goes on.

So when I told you: take life as Leela, I did not say that if you take it so, it will become Leela; I said only that life already is Leela. If you understand, wisdom will arise in you. Whether you understand or not, nothing changes in life, but you change. Understand rightly and connection happens, the wave fits; your strings begin to vibrate with the strings of the Divine. If you misunderstand, your strings will run separately. His dance will go on; you will be left out, alone.

I call that person religious who has understood the playful nature of the Divine and has joined himself to it. I call that person irreligious who lives by purpose. Understand my definition well, because if you do, ninety-nine percent of those labeled “religious” will turn out to be irreligious by my definition, and many whom you never thought of as religious will turn out to be religious.

Let me repeat my definition: religious is one who has become united with God’s Leela; who has made his life a Leela too; who now has nowhere to go, nothing to become, nothing to obtain—not even heaven, not even Vaikuntha, not even liberation. There is nothing to obtain. This moment is enough. This moment fills the mind and the breath completely. There is ecstasy here and now. When that ecstasy overflows, sometimes a dance is born, sometimes a song is born. Those dances and songs are prayers.

Religious is the one who understood the world’s playful nature and became one with it. Then many poets whom you never count as religious will, in my view, be religious. Many dancers, many musicians, many painters… In my view, all artists are closer to God than your so-called ascetics, sages, and saints. For your saints run by purpose. Ask some ascetic, “Why are you fasting?” He says, “I must attain moksha.” It’s a shop. The old transaction in new dress. Ask him, “Why do you stand on your head?” He says, “To reach heaven; I’m pleasing God.” Is God so crazy that He’s pleased when you stand on your head? If God wanted you upside down, He would have made you upside down. He wouldn’t make such a mistake as to put you on your feet. If God took such relish in fasting, why did He give you a stomach? He would have filled your belly with stones from the start—no hunger, no hassle. If God wanted to see you sad, why did He give you the capacity to laugh? Why did He fashion the possibility of a smile on your lips? If God wanted to know you as sad, He would have made you sad, dyed you in sadness. He would have birthed you dead. He would not have given you life, nor the colors of life, nor spread such a huge rainbow of life. There would be no green trees, no flowers, no birds singing.

But God has primed you for joy—and you are troubled by purposes. You say: everything must have a purpose. Even when you turn the rosary, it is not from joy; your eyes are fixed on “How many times…? If the mala goes a thousand rounds, then God will be pleased!”

I was a guest in a home. The gentleman had filled the house with notebooks, nothing but notebooks. He keeps writing “Ram, Ram”—from morning till evening, spoiling notebooks… “Ram, Ram, Ram, Ram.” He said to me, “You see, I’ve written so many Rams—millions! What fruit will I get? Tell me.”

I said, “Fruit? If there is a hell, you’ll land there.” He said, “Hell! Are you joking?”

I said, “You’ve spoiled so many notebooks; children could have used them; you could have seen Ram in children—given the books to them; the notebooks would have served Ram. And if you had an itch to write, and could not stop, at least write on a slate and wipe it off. Why waste notebooks?”

He said, “You are the first person to say such a thing. Everyone who comes to my house says, ‘Ah! How blessed you are!’ You’ve planted doubt. All who come say I’ll go to the world of merit—I’ve written so many ‘Ram’s!”

I told him a story: A man died who had chanted “Ram, Ram” his whole life. He didn’t chant softly—he roared. Not only on his own—he fixed loudspeakers so the whole neighborhood could get free merit. There are people who distribute free merit to the neighbors: even if they want to sleep, he says “Ram, Ram…!” He says “nonstop kirtan” is happening—the nonstop racket they call “nonstop kirtan.”

The man died. By coincidence, across from him lived an outright atheist—he died the same day. Both died on the same day. The “religious” fellow thought, “Poor guy, he’ll go to hell; I’ll go to heaven.” But when the angels came and started taking him towards hell, he said, “Wait, brothers, you’re making a mistake. Take him to hell—the one who never took Ram’s name. I chanted ‘Ram, Ram’ my whole life.”

They said, “We’re not making a mistake. This isn’t an Indian government office where errors happen. This isn’t a government job; this is God’s office—no mistakes happen here. You are assigned to hell; he to heaven.”

“Him to heaven!” he said. “There’s a mistake. First I want to meet God.”

Somehow both were presented before God. Tears rolled from the atheist’s eyes—he couldn’t believe he was going to heaven. Fire blazed from the theist’s eyes—“Me to hell?” He burst out, “Listen! I spent my life shouting your name. Not only did I shout, I put up loudspeakers, spent money, ran nonstop kirtans—and this is my fruit! Why am I being sent to hell?”

God said, “Precisely because you never let me sleep. If you stay in heaven you’ll set up loudspeakers here too and create a nuisance. Let the gods sleep, brother. You go to hell. Put up your loudspeaker there; do whatever you like there.”

“And why is this atheist called here?”

God said, “I am pleased with him—because of you. You pestered me so much that I’m happy with him for never once taking my name and never once troubling me on your account.”

Whenever you are engaged in something, if there is an expectation of result, it becomes worldly, shopkeeping, business.

I tell you: the world is Leela. That is why I don’t tell my sannyasin to be serious. I tell him: take life with a light touch—dancing, smiling. That is your prayer; that is your worship.

And you ask: “And if life is only Maya, what is the need for this life?”

Right—within the logic of reason and arithmetic such a question will arise. Either it must be a serious matter—then you are satisfied; there must be a great purpose. If there is no purpose, the question arises: then what is the need of it?

You don’t see any need for celebration. You don’t know the meaningfulness of simple joy. Ever gone for a morning walk? If someone asks: “What’s the purpose? Why are you going? Where are you going?” and you say, “Just for a walk; what question of ‘where’ is there? Just for a walk!” He says, “Then why go at all? There must be a reason. If you’re going to the office—fine; to the shop—fine; to the factory—fine; wife is ill, going to get medicine—fine; going for salt, oil, firewood—fine. But for a stroll? For a lark? Do you think this is Lucknow? This is Poona, the city of merit—where are you going?” Then you have to find pretexts: “For health; I believe in naturopathy; my pilgrimage is Uruli Kanchan; I’m going to build health.”

Then the other approves: “All right, then go.” But oh, if you were to say, “I’m walking just to walk! This morning—this fresh air—these birds—the rising sun—another dawn… that is enough! I’ve set out in sheer delight, in simple merriment!”—the other will still ask, “Then why set out at all?”

We have bound life in such arithmetic that we allow nothing outside arithmetic. Nothing! Everything is clamped in the vise of calculation.

So your question is natural: then why Maya? If you insist on an answer—if you just cannot accept “no purpose,” if your mind demands an answer—then here it is:

First, shows the sunlit beauty,
then shows the mud-stained body;
by giving a double glimpse of herself,
Maya frees us from infatuation.

You see a beautiful woman—you fall into infatuation, love. Then one day you find she has grown old, wrinkles have come, and a great dispassion arises. First you saw a lovely far-off view; then you came near and found nothing. From afar you saw a rainbow; you went close and nothing would come into your fist.

First, shows the sunlit beauty,
then shows the mud-stained body;
by giving a double glimpse of herself,
Maya frees us from infatuation.

The hope of an impossible future;
the fulfillment of a perpetual, ultimate unfulfillment;
in the throbbing of longing it gives a glimpse
of the form attached yet unattached.

In the end it makes truth easy—
the untouchable shadow of Hari.
Hari in the mind, six tastes on the tongue,
a sweet smile upon the lips;

It makes even the one
who would not heed Hari
dance his way to Hari.
Showing auspices to every blind-born,
Hari’s Maya plays her game.

Whether benumbed of sense, or estranged from the Self,
self-bewitched or self-deceiver,
Maya has delivered every false one
to the very house of the false;

Binding the infatuated with attachment,
it ferries him across the mirage to the ocean.
That “my understanding” and “your understanding,”
which each keeps claiming as his own—

that many-pleasing courtesan of minds
is but the maidservant of Shri Hari alone.
To this thousand-formed one,
I bowed my head and called her Rama-pervaded.

If you say you must have a purpose—if you can accept my word, don’t ask for purpose: it’s all Leela. But if your mind will not agree, if arithmetic has clamped it so hard, then understand it this way: Maya is a device to wake you up. Maya is a way to make you aware.

First, shows the sunlit beauty,
then shows the mud-stained body;
by giving a double glimpse of herself,
Maya frees us from infatuation.

Perhaps you cannot go to Hari directly. First you’ll fall in love with some beautiful woman or handsome man. But soon beauty slips away. Your hands remain empty.

By missing again and again, by erring again and again, one day you remember: now love only the One who is eternal; now desire only that by whose very desiring all desires are stilled; now attain only that by whose attainment nothing else remains to be attained.

It makes even the one who would not heed Hari
dance his way to Hari!

If you won’t listen directly, Maya will make you listen. Wander, break, fall sick, fill with a thousand pains, rot—if you won’t listen directly, then listen by wandering and stumbling; wake up!

Binding the infatuated with attachment,
it ferries him across the mirage to the ocean.
To this thousand-formed one
I bowed my head and called her Rama-pervaded.

Those who know will even bow to Maya—this too is His play. I tell you: don’t discard Maya; it is His shadow as well. The Beloved is dear, and His shadow is dear too. That is why I tell my sannyasin: no renunciation, no flight from the world. If you understand this shadow rightly, through this very shadow you will understand the One of whom it is the shadow.

Yet I still say to you: lightly, lightly! Do not become grave and ponderous. For centuries, grave religion has committed great murder upon man. Temples turned gloomy; mosques, temples, churches became like cremation grounds.

Do not become a renunciate. God is hidden in enjoyment—seek Him there. When you eat, seek Him somewhere in the taste.

That is why the Upanishads could say the astonishing words: annam brahma—food is Brahman. Not small minds say this; small minds preach tastelessness. The Upanishads say: annam brahma, food is Brahman. All beauty is His glimmer—like the moon rising in the sky and its reflection falling in the lake. When a woman or a man seems beautiful to you, you saw the moon in the lake.

The Sufi fakir Junayd, whenever he saw a beautiful woman, would be overcome; tears would roll from his eyes. He would stop in the street. Many times his disciples said, “It doesn’t look right. A renowned man like you, with hundreds of disciples—seeing a beautiful woman, you suddenly stop!”

Junayd said, “A beautiful woman is His glimmer.” Tears would flow from his eyes; he would feel fulfilled.

Junayd speaks to my soul. In a beautiful woman there is His glimmer; in a beautiful man too, His glimmer. It is only a glimmer—so it will vanish quickly. A moon forms in a lake; a single pebble is thrown and the disturbance starts; one pebble and the moon is gone; the lake is all ripples.

It doesn’t take long—everything here is momentary. Still, it is His shadow. Granted the moon formed in the lake disappears with a little pebble, but even then does this prove that the moon in the lake is not the reflection of the real moon? See the moon in the lake, and then set out in search of the real moon. See the moon in the lake, then seek it in the sky. See God in the world, then seek Him in the sky. But there is no need to flee the world, no need to abandon the lake. The one who abandons the lake may never lift his eyes to the sky—who will remind him? Who will tell him the moon has risen in the heavens? His eyes will remain stuck to the ground; and reflections do not form in the earth—reflections form in the lake.

So I tell you: don’t run away from this wondrous Maya of melody and color. Don’t be a deserter; be an awakener. Wake up.

A last question:
“Why are you giving sannyas to thousands of people?”

Do you know what sannyas means? Sannyas means—according to me—the art of living life. To live life rightly, wholly. People have forgotten how to live; that is why I am giving sannyas to thousands.

People have forgotten how to live. And those who helped them forget have been called sannyasins till now. So I chose the very word sannyas, as an act of atonement. I could have chosen other names and other clothes. But I chose the name sannyas and the ochre robe because both have gathered soot. Because of them many people forgot life’s rhythm—they became deserters. It is by this stair that they fled; it is by this stair they must be brought back. And the soot stuck to sannyas must be wiped away. Sannyas must be given a dancing, joy-intoxicated form. Sannyas must be given a new samskara, a new culture.

What I call sannyas now has nothing to do with the old sannyas; it is its precise opposite. So if the old sannyasins are annoyed with me, don’t be surprised—it’s natural. They never imagined such a sannyas could be. A sannyas that plants its feet in the world; a sannyas not hostile to home, family, loved ones. Do you know how many homes have been ruined in the name of sannyas? Robbers did not wreck so many homes; murderers did not make so many women widows; villains did not leave so many mothers weeping—as did sannyasins. But if the name is nice, anything can hide behind it; the name alone is nice, so you cannot even cry out. A man becomes a sannyasin and leaves home; now the wife cannot even weep aloud. See how you have tightened the noose around people’s necks! People will tell the wife: “You are blessed to have such a husband who became a sannyasin!” Now the wife will grind grain, turn the mill, and weep—but she will not be able to give voice to her tears. She cannot tell anyone. And if “husband-lord” comes to town, now turned renunciate, she will touch his feet and outwardly pretend, “I’m blessed,” while within she knows she is luckless. The children became orphans. Who knows how many women became prostitutes, how many children became beggars, how many remained uneducated, how many could not get medicine and died! How many parents in old age were left helpless; the staff slipped from their hands.

Just take a look: if you calculate the evils caused by the escapism that has gone on for thousands of years in the name of sannyas, then Hitler, Tamerlane, Genghis Khan, Nadir Shah, Mahmud of Ghazni—add all their atrocities together and the sum is nothing compared to the atrocities caused by “sannyas.”

But the label is beautiful. The flag says “sannyas,” and behind it everything is hidden, all the blood is concealed.

I want to give this whole story a new turn. I want, for the first time, to tie sannyas to love for the earth, because for me earth and God are not two—they are one. A great revolution is happening. The music of the earth has been lost, the joy is gone. Life’s stream of rasa has been shattered. You have been taught things that make it impossible to live rightly. You have been taught “anti-life,” life-denial. You have been preached suicidal tendencies. You have forgotten how to dance. You have forgotten song. The veena of your heart lies there and you do not pluck its strings. Sannyas is to birth a new resonance.

Why are you tightening the strings?
Do you want to give birth to a new resonance?
Loosen a little somewhere,
and tighten elsewhere;
by whose hands is Fate being moved,
if not by yours?
For whom has Fate adorned the earth?
Why are you tightening the strings?
Do you want to give birth to a new resonance?

Earth has become the gourd,
the sky the sounding boards;
the breath is the string in which
ever-new notes awaken;
thus in her lap sits Fate,
cradling creation’s sitar!
Why are you tightening the strings?
Do you want to give birth to a new resonance?

Restless, tardy fingers
seek the resonance;
O ocean of sound, now let there be
a shower of droplets!
Now unite, in the realm of notes,
essence and non-essence!
Why are you tightening the strings?
Do you want to give birth to a new resonance?

Yes, certainly—give birth to a new resonance. Sannyas is the tightening of your strings.

Now unite, in the realm of notes,
essence and non-essence!

Unite earth and God, body and soul, essence and the inessential. Make them limbs of a single music. On the gross veena, the subtle music arises—there is no opposition. There is harmony—one is the extension of the other.

Earth has become the gourd,
the sky the sounding boards;
the breath is the string in which
ever-new notes awaken;
thus in her lap sits Fate,
cradling creation’s sitar!
Why are you tightening the strings?
Do you want to give birth to a new resonance?

Nature holds the sitar in her lap—and you have forgotten to play. You do not remember. Your connection to the strings is broken. The art of your fingers is gone. You have feet; in your feet is hidden the capacity to dance. It must be awakened.

Sannyas is the art of making this world a celebration again. That is why I will give it to thousands and thousands. The whole earth must be dyed in the color of spring. Ochre is the color of spring. We must bring the honey-month to the earth—therefore I am giving sannyas.

But remember—do not, even by mistake, equate my sannyas with the old. This is something else altogether. This is another dimension. You will know its taste only by entering it. And since you have asked, surely there is somewhere within you a hidden longing to take sannyas—otherwise why ask? Somewhere a seed is stirring to break open. Something has become eager. Some string within you has trembled.

And there is only one way to know: to be. Sannyas is not something you can go on watching from the outside like a spectator, keep asking, “Why is he giving sannyas to thousands?” Ask also: why are thousands taking it? Surely in the hearts of thousands something has begun to play. I have touched their strings somewhere.

Come close, you too! You too sit with a veena in your lap! Let your strings be tuned. Let music arise from you. Let the primordial sound be born from you. Omkar is waiting to flow through you. Come—let us bring forth Omkar, awaken Omkar—so that your destiny may be fulfilled.

Only he lives rightly who comes to know God; and only he dies rightly who dies having known God.

Enough for today.