Sahaj Yog #5

A definition of God? God and a definition? God is the very name of that which has no definition. God means the indefinable.

So if you ask for a definition of God, you will get entangled. Whatever definition you create will be wrong. And if you cling to any definition, you will be deprived of knowing God forever.

God is the name of totality. Everything else can be defined in reference to the total, but in reference to what will totality itself be defined?

For example, we can say you are sitting under Chuang Tzu’s roof; the roof is under the shade of trees; the trees are under the moon and stars; the moon and stars are under the sky—and then the sky. Beyond the sky there is nothing. If everything is within the sky, then what can the sky be within? The statement won’t work. When everything is in the sky, the sky cannot be in anything. So the sky is—but it is not in anything.

Just so is God. God means that in which everything is contained: the outer sky and the inner sky, matter and consciousness, life and death—day and night, joy and sorrow, autumn and spring—everything is included. God is the context of all existence, its backdrop. Therefore God itself can have no definition.

It is not that definitions have not been attempted; man has made many, but all are wrong. A definition simply cannot be, so there is no way for it to be right. God can be known, experienced, lived, tasted; but a definition? Don’t ask for a definition. And if you decide that first you will define and then you will journey, there will be neither definition nor journey.

Definitions are possible only for small things. How much power do words have? Whatever you say in words becomes limited; the moment you say it, it is limited.

Truth, for this very reason, becomes untrue the moment it is spoken. Once spoken, the vastness of truth is gone. Lao Tzu remained silent all his life when it came to truth. He would speak about other things, but about truth he would fall silent. And in the end, when great insistence was placed upon him—“As you depart from life, give us at least some indication of what you knew, what you realized”—the very first sentence he wrote was: “The truth, once spoken, becomes a lie. A truth that is spoken is no longer truth.” Why? Because truth is experienced in soundlessness, in emptiness, and when you speak you have to cram that emptiness into tiny words.

A father was explaining to his little son Napoleon’s famous saying that nothing is impossible in this world. The little boy burst out laughing. He said, “Wrong!” The father said, “You say it’s wrong? Napoleon said that nothing is impossible in this world.” The boy replied, “I can show you right now something that is absolutely impossible, because I have tried many times.” He ran off, brought a tube of toothpaste from the bathroom, squeezed it out, and said to his father, “Now put it back in. Then it will be proved whether Napoleon was right or wrong.”

Now that the toothpaste is out, how will you put it back in? The little child was right—according to his capacity and understanding, he gave a perfectly correct answer and proved Napoleon wrong!

There is much in this world that is impossible. And the truth is this: only that which is impossible is worth attaining. It may sound paradoxical. To speak God is impossible; therefore God is worth attaining. If it could be said, it would have been written in books, taught in schools, memorized by people. Then the whole thing would have become very easy, very cheap, worth a couple of pennies. No one has ever been able to say God, nor will anyone ever be able to; hence the experience is forever virginal. Whenever you know, it will not be borrowed. You will know yourself. And the moment you know, you will fall mute. You will be able to speak about everything else, but about God you will lapse into utter silence.

Words are very small. If you say God is light, then what of darkness? The scriptures have said that God is light. Suppose we accept this as a definition—then what about darkness? Where will darkness go? Darkness is too; in fact it is far more than light. Light sometimes is and sometimes is not; darkness is always, eternal. Where will you place darkness? If you say God is light, darkness is left out. If you say God is darkness, then light is left out. If you say God is both darkness and light, a contradiction arises: they cannot be together. Try to have both darkness and light in the same room. If you bring in light, darkness disappears; if you preserve darkness, you cannot have light. Then how can both be together? That becomes an impossibility. So you cannot say “both” either.

Then the fourth device is to say: it is neither—neither light nor darkness. That too is not right, because then from where would light arise? From where would darkness appear? Everything wells up out of that, and everything subsides back into that.

No, words will not be able to say it—and definitions are made of words. Nor will images be able to say it, for images too are crafted by human beings. Neither painting can say it, nor music, nor poetry. Even if you fall silent, your silence will not be able to say it, because silence too is a gesture. All gestures are small. It cannot be said by silence either—let alone by speech—because silence also limits. Suppose you say it can be said by silence: someone asks, “Is there God?” and the one asked remains silent. If God is silence, then from where do words arise? From where do words come? And if you call it word, then there is also silence—where does silence come from?
The moment you make a definition, confusion grows, it doesn’t decrease. You’ve asked for a definition to reduce confusion—thinking that if the definition is clear, the journey will be easy. But the definition will not become clear; it will only get more entangled. The more you try to untangle it, the more tangled it becomes. And if you get too caught up in definitions, you’ll drown in philosophy. You’ll never be able to relate to religion. Then you’ll go on flaying the hide of words, on splitting hairs, and you’ll fall into the web of arguments. And the jungles of logic are vast, endless. Whoever enters them finds it very hard to get out. One who goes astray in pedantry finds it exceedingly difficult to return, almost impossible. The ignorant reach; the scholars do not.
Hundreds upon hundreds of molds you cast,
that I might fit into one of them!
It is like trying to place a square staff
into a triangular socket!
It is like appraising a diamond’s worth
on the touchstone made for gold!
It is a hard, near-impossible thing,
like the fifth note to a mute!
As though a dwarf set out to measure
the sky with the span of his steps!
All your molds are limited—
how shall the limitless fit within?

A mold is bound to be limited. If it were limitless, how would it still be a mold?

All your molds are limited—
how shall the limitless fit within?

And how many molds has man made... Jains, Buddhists, Christians, Muslims, Hindus, Parsis—how many molds have they not cast! What are all the religions of the world? Attempts to express the divine; methods to forge a definition of God.

Hundreds upon hundreds of molds you cast,
that I might fit into one of them!

But no mold has been able to hold him. This does not mean no one has held him. The one who smashed all molds—he held him. The one who dropped all scriptures—he held him. The one who transgressed the boundaries of all sects—he held him.

It is like trying to place a square staff
into a triangular socket—

You are attempting something just as impossible: fitting a square bar into a triangular opening.

It is like appraising a diamond’s worth
on the touchstone made for gold!

True, gold can be tested on the stone—but if you try to test a diamond there, you’ll go mad. How will you assay a diamond on the touchstone of gold?

Words were made to express the world. Words were made for social exchange. Words were made so that communication is possible between two people. This is the limit of words. Words were not made for communion between man and the divine. Between man and the divine there is no language.

But what to say of the claimants—what to say of the claimants’ foolishness! Someone declares Sanskrit to be the language of the gods. The language of the gods! Then someone says no, Arabic is truly his language, otherwise why would the Quran speak Arabic? Another says, no, Aramaic—because Jesus spoke Aramaic. Then someone says Hebrew, because Moses spoke Hebrew. Certainly, Moses spoke Hebrew, and Krishna spoke Sanskrit, and Buddha Pali, and Mahavira Prakrit; but none of these is God’s language. Between man and the divine, language itself has no place. Connection with the divine arises only when all language drops. Not only speech—silence, too, falls away. Neither silence remains nor speech. Such a stillness that even the awareness “I am silent” does not remain. As long as you know “I am silent,” know that words still exist, hidden within. This very knowing is in words—when you think, “I am silent.” How will you think you are silent? How will you know within that “I am silent”? The moment you know within “I am silent,” you have made a word of it. Silence, too, has become a word. So let speech be lost and even the memory of silence fall away—such forgetfulness, such deep oblivion, such intoxication, such ecstasy—drink the nectar of existence like that—then it is known. But Sanskrit is not his language, nor Arabic, nor Hebrew. No language is his language.

In the Second World War the Germans lost. A defeated German general was speaking with an English general: How did we lose? Our strength was not less than yours—greater. Our soldiers were not weaker—stronger. How did we lose? What reason do you find for our defeat?

The English general laughed. He said: The reason is this—we prayed to God before every battle. The result of our prayers was that we won and you lost.

The German general said: That’s too much—we prayed too! Before every battle. Prayer cannot be the cause, because we never failed in our prayers.

The Englishman asked: But in which language did you pray?

The German said: Of course, in German.

The Englishman replied: There it is—clear. Does God understand German? God speaks English. That’s where your mistake lies.

There are three thousand languages in the world. The claimant of each language thinks, “This is God’s language.” Naturally—whatever is my language must be God’s language. Man’s ego is such that his language is God’s language, his color is God’s color, his height is God’s height, his face is God’s face. When the Chinese make God, his nose is flat—naturally. Would the Chinese give him a long nose and insult themselves? When a Negro sculpts his image, the lips are big and thick—naturally. Would a Negro carve thin lips? And the hair—curly, of course.

We cast God in our own image. We mold the divine in our own shadow. Our language becomes his language. Our life, his life. Our style of living, his style. Our conduct, his conduct. Our scripture, a scripture given by him. All these are devices of the ego. The ego is nourishing itself by the back door.

These are not the marks of a religious man. Neither is our face his face, nor our language his language, nor our color his color. He has no color—and all colors are his. He has no language—and all languages are his. He has never spoken—and whatever has ever been spoken, that too is his.

Only if you have the capacity to hold such contradictions together will you be able to travel. Definition is a device to escape contradiction. Definition means: let there be a clean, neat explanation so we may proceed; let there be directions so we may walk.

Hundreds upon hundreds of molds you cast,
that I might fit into one of them!
It is like trying to place a square staff
into a triangular socket!
It is like appraising a diamond’s worth
on the touchstone made for gold!
It is a hard, near-impossible thing,
like the fifth note to a mute!
As though a dwarf set out to measure
the sky with the span of his steps!
All your molds are limited,
how shall the limitless fit within!

No, God has never been contained in any definition—he has certainly come in experience. He has come abundantly in experience—like a flood. Do not ask for definitions; ask for experience. Do not ask for words; ask for the direct. Do not ask for theories, for scriptures; ask for self-knowing.

Throw open the gates of all the worlds,
that I may behold your vision!
You were seated in the innermost,
who knows since when, indweller within!
I could not recognize you;
you too, Lord, remained withdrawn!
Whom was I searching, where?
For whom had I been restless till now?
Two tears welled up in my eyes;
my head bowed of itself!
Ask me not, ask me not, what
my joy is, what kind of bliss!
Be envious, do penance lifelong;
know how utterly free I am!
Desires soaked with tears
turned into fuel for the sacrifice!
As if lightning were caught:
it flashed and then stood still!
As in the shoreless flood of dissolution,
mass on mass—nothing but water!
This unimpeded ecstasy of light,
this storm-wind of great delight!
When, with sparks of fire and measured songs,
the entire expanse grows resonant!
As though sun, moon, stars and
planets have all turned restless!
As though a day-dream has shattered!
And a new firmament has arisen!
Let me behold it;
for a moment unveil the mystery!
The day I saw you, nothing
was left worth seeing.
No work, no craving remained;
my very earth was complete, entire!
O Ineffable, how can I tell
what your form is like!
Is it light, or mist, or smoke, or lightning—
or quicksilver of liquid fire?
Open the pores of horizon upon horizon;
let the breeze of light go rippling!
Throw open the gates of all the worlds,
that I may behold your vision!

Pray—do not hunt for definitions. Call out—do not build definitions. Awake—search. The divine is not far.

You were seated in the innermost,
who knows since when, indweller within!

He is seated within you. The one whose definition you seek is sitting inside you. The one whose definition you seek is hidden within the seeker of the definition. Turn back; reverse the gaze.

Whom was I searching, where?
For whom had I been restless till now?

The day you know, you will be startled: Whom was I seeking? In vain I sought, in vain I was restless. He was never lost; not for a single moment was the connection broken.

Two tears welled up in my eyes;
my head bowed of itself!

Prayer is fulfilled—only let two tears well up in the eyes. The mind demands definitions; the heart, love. The mind fashions dry, lifeless words; the heart evokes moist feeling, brimming with tears. And for worship and adoration man has nothing more precious than tears. Do not pluck flowers from trees—you will go on offering those flowers to stone idols and wasting time. Let the flowers bloom in your eyes; let the flowers of your eyes fall. Those tears—those wet tears—alone will connect you with him. A definition will not be possible, but one day there will be the experience of jubilation, a festival will dawn.

This unimpeded ecstasy of light,
this storm-wind of great delight!
When the whole world, with fire-sparks
and songs, grows resonant!

If, quiet and silent, you call to him, if there is the dewiness of prayer in your eyes, you will find a vast celebration is underway. Another name for that celebration is God.

O Ineffable, how can I tell
what your form is like!

No one has ever been able to tell the form of the Ineffable—no one! Many have known—and those who knew were great masters of words. Their skill in expression was immense, yet they too fell silent—they too became mute.

O Ineffable, how can I tell
what your form is like!
Is it light, or mist, or smoke, or lightning—
or quicksilver of liquid fire?
Open the pores of horizon upon horizon;
let the breeze of light go rippling!
Throw open the gates of all the worlds,
that I may behold your vision!

Ask for vision, ask for sight—not definitions. I am not here to give you definitions. If you want definitions, go to the pundits—there are definitions and more definitions there. Here ask for experience, ask for seeing, ask for realization.

I want to give you something in cash—why do you ask for things on credit? What use will my definition be to you? It will be information, hanging in memory. Your life will not be transformed that way. Ask for fire—that you may be burned in it, that the new may be born, that the old may die.

Amrit Siddharth, existence is both neutral and supremely loving. You will have to awaken the capacity to understand paradoxes. And remember this too: existence is neutral precisely because it is loving. Now this will trouble you, because you think, “How can what is neutral be loving? If existence were loving, it would have saved Jesus—should have saved him.” That is exactly what Jesus’ opponents were demanding. They said, “If you are the son of God, let’s see—let’s test it. If you have a link with God, as you claim, let a decision be made on the cross. If a hand descends from the sky, if flowers shower down, if the cross becomes a throne...” This is what the enemies demanded: “Give us this proof.” But the cross was raised; no flowers fell; the cross did not become a throne; no divine hand appeared from the sky; no miracle happened; mountains did not move; the sun did not set at once—nothing happened, nothing at all. As though a common man had been crucified, in just that way Jesus too was crucified—and it was all over. Naturally, it seems existence is utterly indifferent, unconcerned.

But go a little deeper. Existence is neutral because it is loving. Why do I say so? Only if existence is loving can you have freedom in life. And for freedom, existence must also be neutral, otherwise freedom will be destroyed. If existence started interfering at every step, life would become a prison. Life is not a prison. God has given you total freedom—the freedom to be whatever you choose: sinner or saint, good or bad. From Adolf Hitler to Gautam Buddha—you have the freedom to become whatever you choose. God has given you complete freedom.

This is man’s dignity, his glory. And it is God’s grace—boundless grace—that man is free. This freedom exists because existence is loving. Love gives freedom, and a love that cannot give freedom is a small love. God’s love is great—so vast that even if you go against him, you remain free. Understand the grandeur, the vastness of this love.

You know only small loves. In fact, what you call love is not love at all. The husband comes home a little late in the evening and the wife is suspicious. Is that love? The wife laughs and talks with the neighbor and the husband grows dubious. Is that love? There is not a trace of freedom in it. In the name of love you want to put a noose around the other’s neck—possession, ownership, politics in the name of love.

God’s love is not like this—not that if you return late one night, God stands before you asking, “Where were you?” If you make a small mistake, he confronts you: “Why did you do that?” God’s love is vast—first, understand that. And because of that vast love, God appears neutral. It would have been wrong if God had showered flowers on Jesus and turned the cross into a throne. Wrong, because man’s freedom would have been lost. Then man would not retain the right to live his life in his own way.

Think: had that happened, all other religions would have vanished from the world—only Christianity would remain. What would have become of Buddhas, of Mahaviras, of Zarathustras? The many flowers and varieties of religion would have been lost—only a single, dreary Christianity would remain.

No—God did not interfere. He let people do what they were doing. And in doing so, he gave Jesus an opportunity. Even in Jesus’ heart a wave of doubt arose for a moment. When the cross was raised and nails were driven into his hands, Jesus cried out to the sky, “O Lord, what are you showing me?” Somewhere deep in the unconscious there must have been a hidden desire that when the time came God would intervene. It is a human desire—who would not have it? Understandable, that when the time comes God will help. But to make God act according to my idea—that carries ego; to expect God to fulfill my wishes, to behave according to me—that is an imposition upon God. It does not carry the feeling that his will is final. For a moment Jesus’ mind trembled; a ripple of doubt ran through him, and he said, “O Lord, what are you showing me?”

You see—there was a complaint!

But Jesus was a very sensitive being; he understood at once. In a single instant he caught the doubt that had arisen. He recognized his error and bowed his head. And immediately he said, “O Lord, let thy will be done. Pay no attention to my will. What do I know of what is right? What value does my will have? You know what is right. Whatever you do is right. I bow to it.”

This surrender—this is the real miracle. If God had showered flowers, Jesus would have remained Jesus; he could not have become the Christ.

Understand a little more: had the flowers fallen, Jesus’ ego would have swelled. He would have said, “Now look, all of you opponents—see who is true! This is the touchstone.” His ego would have grown powerful—there the mistake would have entered. Jesus would have been lost, gone astray.

The ego of virtue is greater even than the ego of sin. And such great virtue that God himself descends from the heavens to save his beloved—how would arrogance not arise? In that arrogance Jesus’ connection with God would have been severed forever. But a miracle did happen: God did nothing; in this not-doing lies the miracle. But to see it you need very deep eyes, Siddharth. On the surface it seems God remained indifferent, utterly neutral—as if it didn’t matter whether Jesus lived or died. He did not intervene. But look deeper—he did. Without coming between, he came between—that which Lao Tzu calls doing without doing. No action was taken, yet a revolution occurred. God gave Jesus an opportunity: drop even your last expectations, let go of insistence, let not a trace of complaint remain.

This is the opportunity God gave Jesus. That is the real event, the celebration that happened within Jesus. He bowed—and in that bowing Jesus became the Christ, became a Buddha. In that surrender, the great festival arrived; he was surrendered. The drop fell into the ocean and became the ocean.

Remember too: what appears to you as death is not death for God. You feel troubled that lovers like Jesus, Socrates, and Mansoor were crucified, poisoned, mutilated—how did God keep watching? You think God’s seeing will be the same as yours? It is like a child breaking the neck of his toy while the father sits watching, saying nothing. Other children say, “What kind of father is this! The toy’s neck was broken and he watched!” But the father knows it’s a toy—and that today or tomorrow the child will break it. Toys are made to break. The little child, however, does not see it as a toy; it seems alive to him. He takes it to bed, bathes it, tries to feed it, takes it out for walks, talks to it. If it falls, he picks it up, soothes it—“Don’t cry.” He treats it as living. Our intelligence is just about that mature.

When you see Jesus on the cross, you think Jesus is being crucified. To Jesus, a throne is being granted. The body is falling—the body is earth, a toy. From God’s side, the body will fall—today or tomorrow. How long can the body be preserved? The body is mortal. And if you see it rightly, what better way could there be for Jesus to die? Or for Socrates? They chose a beautiful way. Death becomes immensely significant. It is Jesus’ death that cast Jesus’ shadow across the world, that created his impact. Socrates’ hemlock has kept his name alive to this day. He would have died anyway—on a cot, from illness—but being given hemlock engraved his story on the human heart in indelible letters. He can no longer be forgotten—Socrates will be remembered forever. Perhaps no more beautiful death could be.

Socrates was told by the court, “We can pardon you—but you must stop speaking what you call truth.” Socrates said, “Better to speak truth and die than to live without speaking truth. Let even death serve truth. Give me the hemlock. Kill me. What will I do living if I cannot proclaim truth, awaken the sleeping, stop the one headed for a pit, heal the sick? Living, I have known what I needed to know; now I live to share. If sharing is not possible, let this flower fall now. If its fragrance cannot be shared, what’s the point of preserving it?”

No—Socrates said, “I cannot quit the business of speaking truth, whatever the consequence.”

It troubles you, Siddharth, that Jesus—the beloved son of God; Socrates—such a great lover of truth; Mansoor—so God-realized—were treated thus. You are troubled because you do not yet know that in this mortal body the immortal is hidden.

Mansoor had no trouble at all. When the cross was raised, he looked to the sky and burst into laughter. The crowd gathered. Someone asked, “Mansoor, is this a time to laugh? Are you in your senses? Have you gone mad? Why are you laughing?”

Mansoor said, “I laugh because this is too good! You think you are killing me. You cannot even touch me—how will you kill me? And what you are killing, I had already discarded. That was never my identity. The day I knew I am not the body, that day this proclamation arose within me: Ana’l-Haqq—I am the Truth, I am God! This is the ‘crime’ for which you are killing me.”

What was Mansoor’s crime? Only that he declared, “I am God.” For the orthodox Muslims, for someone to announce himself God was infidelity. Mansoor said, “I could commit this ‘crime’ only because I came to know I am not the body. The day I knew I am not the body, that day I knew I am immortal.”

Someone asked, “Why are you laughing while looking at the sky?” He said, “I am telling God: Come in any form—I will recognize you. Today you have come in the form of death—you cannot deceive me. I know you in every form. Death, too, is you.”

In that ultimate state there is no difference between life and death, no difference between thorn and flower. Those who know live in another mood.

“They heap torment upon torment on me—
Perhaps they’ve begun to take me as their own.”

Those who do not know think otherwise.

“Love is the name of non-attainment and incompletion.
If you love, set your heart free of profit and loss.”

A wondrous saying: Love is the name of non-attainment and incompletion. You never even imagined love could be the name of incompletion and failure! Love is to know success within failure, completeness within incompleteness, life within death. Love is to know victory within defeat. Love is another name for defeat; victory is only a consequence.

“Love is the name of non-attainment and incompletion.
If you love, set your heart free of profit and loss.”

And if you truly love, free your mind from calculations of gain and loss. If gain and loss remain, you will never love. Then there is no loss even in death, no gain even in life; no loss in failure, no gain in success. Then whether you die on a bed of flowers or of thorns—no difference. That nondual state is called love. And love is prayer. The world of love is a world of madmen. These Mansoor, these Socrates, these Jesus—they are the greatest madmen of this world, the greatest lovers. To understand them, you must learn a few lessons in love.

“Blow full-throated, O Trumpet, for the God-intoxicated lovers—
Lest these mad ones keep sitting on in the wilderness.”

On the Day of Judgment—Islam says—an angel will descend and sound the trumpet so the dead in their graves will rise. A kind of notification to the dead: Wake up! The trumpet will be terrible, a tumultuous blast, heart-shaking—a roaring horn. “Blow full-throated, O Trumpet, for the God-intoxicated lovers,” says the poet, “for others will wake—but some mad lovers are sleeping here; lest these mad ones keep sitting on in the wilderness.” There are such lovers who have no concern for life or death, the world or Judgment Day. Blow the trumpet loudly, or there are some—like Mansoor—who will lie there quite content. They won’t even notice when your trumpet sounded and when it finished. They won’t notice even the Great Dissolution. The end of creation will roar, and they’ll lie there in their ecstasy—there are such madmen too.

“Blow full-throated, O Trumpet, for the God-intoxicated lovers—
Lest these mad ones keep sitting on in the wilderness.”

It could be that the cataclysm comes and passes—and they never notice. Would Jesus have noticed death? Would Mansoor? It came and it went. That is the miracle.

Existence is utterly loving—and therefore utterly neutral. This is loving neutrality. This neutrality is not apathy; it is love. Existence loves so much—how could it interfere, obstruct your life? That is why God’s presence is like utter absence.

Think a little: priests tell you God is present everywhere, watching you from all sides—whatever you do, wherever you go, his eyes are upon you. They are frightening you, making you anxious, instilling fear inside: “God is watching—be careful what you do.”

I heard of a Christian nun who wouldn’t undress even in the bathroom. Someone asked why, and she said, “Don’t the scriptures say God is watching everywhere? Then he must be watching in the bathroom too.” Some wise soul should tell that fool: if he’s watching in the bathroom, he sees through your clothes as well; he sees through skin, flesh, and marrow. Priests have frightened you well—“God’s eyes are fixed on you; be careful—don’t do this, don’t do that.”

But God’s love is so vast that, because of that vast love, he is present and yet has become absent. Lest his presence become a hindrance—lest his being there prevent you from doing what you feel to do. If God were sitting in front of you and you wanted to smoke, you’d be in trouble—how would you smoke? Even with another person sitting there, you hesitate—so you first offer him a cigarette. After he says yes or no, you begin. How will you offer a cigarette to God? It doesn’t quite fit.

Once I was traveling, returning from Patna. There was a gentleman in my compartment, a doctor from Bombay—good man. He wanted to drink, and he was in a dilemma. From my look and manner I seemed like a monk to him, so he felt even more awkward. I noticed his discomfort and said, “Don’t worry. Consider that I’m not here.” He asked, “What do you mean?” I said, “I see that you’re uneasy. Shall I move to another compartment?”

“No, no,” he said, “please don’t—stay.” After a while he said, “You’re right. I’m used to drinking, and without it I won’t survive this 24-hour journey. Will you drink?”

I said, “I don’t—but you go ahead. I have no objection.” Still, he hesitated—he was a considerate man. He took out a cigarette: “Will you smoke?” I said, “I don’t.” He produced a betel box: “At least have some paan.” I said, “I don’t eat that either.” Then he said something I’ve never forgotten: “Then there’s no way to befriend you?” I said, “In that case, I’ll take all three! If friendship is the matter, I’ll drink, I’ll smoke, and I’ll chew paan. If it’s about friendship! But there’s no need—friendship already is. I’ll fill your glass, if you like—that’s what I can do. I’ll light your cigarette; I’ll put the paan to your lips. If friendship can be built on that, good; if not, I’m ready to take all three.”

If God sat in front of you, you’d be in constant trouble—what would you do? No, he has devised a marvelous way: he has dissolved into invisibility. He is all around—surrounding you within and without—yet utterly absent. This is love’s symbol: that your life not be obstructed, that you have complete freedom. God’s absence is the foundation of your freedom. If he stood before you at every turn, your life’s glory and dignity would evaporate. Then even if you became “holy,” it would be false. As it is, even if you choose to be unholy, God says, “Be so—it’s your right.” And when, through the pain of unholiness, through hell, you become holy—that holiness is real. Real holiness is not born of fear; it is born of the suffering of unholiness.

God is neutral because he is loving. And God is loving because he is neutral.

Always remember this with regard to God. I remind you again and again: in God contradictions melt. Neutrality and love are no longer opposed. His neutrality is brimful with love; and his love is utterly neutral. And what you call death is not death from his vision.

“Who says death must be the conclusion?
Life should be the message of life.”

Can life end in death? How? How could the current reverse? Can life become death? Impossible. Life becomes a greater life. On a mango tree, mangoes appear; on a neem tree, neem fruit. How can the tree of life bear the fruit of death? And if you see death’s fruit, your seeing is at fault.

Death is only a change of garments—changing one’s clothes. When clothes wear out, one changes them; but changing clothes is not death.

“Who says death must be the conclusion?
Death is not the outcome of life.
Who says death must be the conclusion?
Life should be the message of life.”

And it is so. Life enters ever greater life; it grows into greater life. You are not confined to the body. You dwell in the body, but you are not the body. When the pot breaks, the water does not break; it is freed.

Thus the pot of Jesus broke on the cross. People broke the pot and thought they had killed Jesus. Not so easy. Two thieves were crucified with him—Jesus in the middle, a thief on either side. To insult him: “We do not count you above thieves.” Jesus knows the eternal dwells within. A thief on his left, a thief on his right—they do not know. They are truly dying, truly tormented, distressed. Their suffering is immense. Yet even between the two thieves there is a difference. One neither knows nor believes there is a soul. The other looks at Jesus and sees a rose-like radiance in his face—even at the moment of death! He sees deep peace in his eyes, an aura of love around him.

Jesus’ last words were to God: “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

The thief who believes nothing of the soul laughs and mocks Jesus: “We are thieves—fine—we deserve crucifixion. But what about you? You claimed to be the son of God, the only son. What happened?” He himself is dying—and still he sneers, mocking Jesus. “It’s right that we are crucified—we are thieves. Why are you here?” In a way he is pleased that Jesus too is dying, because then good and bad become equal. In death there is no distinction between virtue and vice—the whole bother ends. Ahead there is nothing. He dies as a Jesus-denier. Even his remorse is of this sort: “If this is Jesus’ fate, what good is being good? We did ill—so what? The result is the same—both are dying.”

But the other thief recognizes Jesus’ peace. He says, “Lord, I have not known the soul, nor God; I never prayed—I missed it all. But is it not my great good fortune that I die in your shadow? That is my great merit.”

Jesus looked into his eyes and said, “Do not fear—you are saved.” What does he mean? In that very attitude, salvation has happened. In that attitude all sins are washed away.

To sit a moment with a true master is a bath. Bathing in the Ganges may not wash away sins—after all, it is only outer water; it can remove bodily dust—how will it wash the soul? But there are “Ganges” where the dust of the soul is cleansed. Jesus said, “Don’t worry—you are saved.” In his last breath the thief asked, “Lord, when will I see you again?” Jesus said, “Today itself. Let the body fall. The vision has already happened—and will continue. Today itself you will see me. Let the body drop. The connection is made; the seeing will go on.”

Two thieves—but one blind, one with eyes. One will die and be born again—become a thief again; the other held it well, skillfully—slipping, but he recovered at the very end. A lifetime of sin was washed away. Do not think from your side—think from the side of Jesus, Mansoor, Socrates.

“Sorrow was a test for man;
Those of refined taste smiled.”

The connoisseurs smile when sorrow comes, because every sorrow is a test, a touchstone. Every sorrow refines; every sorrow is tapasya. Passing through sorrow, your gold is purified day by day. And the one who has passed through the supreme sorrow of life—the gallows, which gathers a lifetime’s pain in a moment—passing through that, he has cleared the final examination.

From your side it seems God said nothing, stayed silent, neutral. God did what needed to be done—what was worthy. This was an examination—necessary. Jesus, Mansoor, Socrates passed—flags unfurled, they must have merged into God! When sorrow comes, think so: sorrow refines, sorrow polishes; being burnished again and again by sorrow, there comes that moment when fragrance arises in the very gold.

Life is not a play until you are awake. You are so asleep that you take even a play to be life—so how will you ever take life to be a play?

Have you noticed in a cinema hall? You know perfectly well there is nothing on the screen, it’s a play of light and shadow—yet tears come to your eyes. A tragic scene appears and you sob. You know the truth, and still you forget. You take the play to be life. Leave films aside—even there some images appear, so illusion is easier; but people read a novel, a tragic passage appears, and their eyes grow wet. And they know there is nothing but ink stains on paper. Yet the forgetfulness happens.

Haven’t you ever felt spooked at night while reading a ghost story? You know it’s a story, and still a leaf rustles outside, a rabbit darts across the garden, a cat jumps into the kitchen—and your heart misses a beat. The loincloth you yourself hung to dry on the rope looks like a man standing with arms outstretched. You know perfectly well it’s your own loincloth—you tie the same loincloth each day, shout “Jai Hanumanji!” and do your exercises. It is your own loincloth—yet now even Hanuman won’t help. In panic you start reciting the Hanuman Chalisa, “Who knows who is standing there with arms outstretched!” The ghost you were reading about has seized the mind; you are frightened. Now you need to pee, but cannot even make it to the bathroom—the very thought of covering that distance makes you tremble.

You take a play to be life! And then you ask me: is life really just a play? You will understand only when you wake up. As long as you remain asleep, even a play seems real—what to say of life! Life is such a vast drama—seventy, eighty years it goes on continuously. The stage is huge: the whole earth is its stage. The entire world is acting. The audience are actors; the actors are also the audience. Everywhere, only stage upon stage.

How will you understand? Not in sleep. These are the statements of the awakened: the world is a play. You say, “It both clicks and does not.” It clicks because it’s true; when truth strikes, something in you recognizes, “Yes, this is right.” And it does not, because your sleep is deep. And if you accept the world as a play, many of your vested interests will collapse. You are crazed in love with a woman; she must be attained, otherwise life is wasted! Now if someone tells you, “The world is a play,” how can you agree? If the world is a play, then that woman is a role, love is a role—your whole project collapses. You’ll say, “Wait. I’ll accept later—first let me get the woman!”

Someone says, “The world is a play,” and you are building a palace. You say, “Just wait—let the palace be built! A play it may be, but let the palace be finished. I’ll accept later. If I accept now, how will the palace ever be built?” Because once someone truly sees the world as a play, the fever of ambition, the frantic rush, withers away. That madness for hoarding wealth, for reaching position, grows limp. You say, “At least let me contest this election! Let me become a minister—if not at the center, then in the state. Just once! Then I’ll accept it’s a play. For now I feel like enjoying this pleasant dream. Don’t tell me it’s a dream yet!”

So people say: when death comes near, then we will accept that the world is maya, a play. The old often talk like this—play, maya, lila. Yet all their lives they created trouble, and even now, if given a chance, they wouldn’t miss it.

Mulla Nasruddin was walking through a fair, crowded and bustling. He wore churidar pajamas, an achkan, a Gandhian cap—looked like a proper devotee. A pretty woman appeared before him. Now he is old, and he says, “The world is illusion!” But when a beautiful woman appears, who remembers such principles! The mind wanted to give her a little shove—it’s the mind after all—and he did. The woman turned, startled. She was at least of an age to be his daughter’s mother—equal to his age. She said, “Shame on you! Your hair has turned white.” Mulla said, “Madam, my hair may have turned white, but my heart is still black. And it wasn’t the hair that pushed you, it was the heart.”

As long as the heart is black—meaning asleep, in deep darkness—whatever you do, you will not be able to take the world as a play. The idea clicks, because there is truth in it. Truth has its own allure, its own hypnosis. The moment you hear it, something in you nods. What can you do? Truth is truth—its impact is direct. Your very life testifies. But between your core and that impact is a big net of desires. That net entangles you, whispering: “Maybe it’s true, but not yet—these are renunciates’ words; later, when one is near death.”

The curtain fell upon the stage—what remained behind?
On the dark drape, only destiny’s unwritten sign remained.
No stage manager, no actors, no audience remained;
I watch the flux of becoming with the eyes of pure seeing.
The forests and palaces painted in the backdrop are gone;
Those scenes that once made hearts tremble have vanished.
The actor has shed his costume; the actress her adornments;
The comings and goings that kept spectators amused are over.
The actress has gone home, parted even from the prompter;
The clown is yawning, tired of his own jabber.
The king of the stage now stands as an ordinary man,
Wiping sweat from the fierce villain’s brow.
This world, like the illusion of a drama, comes and goes;
This life is a parable, a tale in metaphor.

When such a thing is said, it makes sense. Even if you don’t want to, it makes sense. Truth has its own power. You may wish with all your might that two and two make five—but when it is said, “Two and two are four,” truth’s force is unmistakable; it fits at once. How can two and two be five? Two and two can only be four. Yet in your mind there is still a hope that some miracle will happen and two and two will become five.

You can see what fantasies run in your mind—that while walking along the road you might find a bag stuffed with money! You know it doesn’t happen—you’ve thought it many times. Still, “Who knows, it might!”

The mind is eager to believe in dreams. The ring of truth penetrates even this eagerness—hence it both clicks and doesn’t. It goes against your mind, but aligns with your soul. So your innermost says “right,” while your mind’s tangles say, “No, no—how can that be? The world and a play! Are so many people mad? So many are rushing in this direction—surely there must be something to gain!”

People walk by watching the crowd—if the crowd goes toward wealth, they go toward wealth; if toward position, then position. People are not walking by their own feet—the crowd moves them. You are not living by your own authority. Others have planted desires and ambitions in you. A neighbor buys a car; till yesterday the thought never occurred to you; now that he has a car, you are in a fix.

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife once said to him, “We must change our neighborhood, because two of our neighbors moved to better localities and rented more expensive homes. When I meet their wives on the street, I feel so small.” Mulla’s wife insisted: “We must move too.” Mulla wasn’t in a position to upgrade. But one day he came home bubbling with joy: “Be happy! Celebrate!” She asked, “What—found a house?” He said, “Not a new house. This landlord has doubled the rent. Now we too will pay double. No more worries. No more humiliation.”

Someone buys a car—you must buy a car. Someone builds a big house—you must build one. Whatever someone does, you must too. You are living by looking at others. Others are giving you your life. Your life is borrowed—imitation. You are a carbon copy.

And whenever you hear that life is a play, it will make sense—because you are acting. You laughed when you didn’t want to, and you cried when you had no tears. You know you acted. The boss whose head you would happily chop off—before him you wag your tail. You know it’s an act. And the one who wags his tail before you—you know if he gets a chance, he will cut your throat. For now he wags his tail—time’s game, seasons change. You know it’s all theater. You tell your wife, “I love you so much.” And you know what you’re saying—there is no love, not even in name. The word love on your lips is utterly false. You have never loved anyone—you haven’t even loved yourself, so whom will you love? Yet you must say it, because it oils the machinery of life. You tell your children, “We are living for you, dying for you.” Who dies for whom? Children die; no parents commit suicide for that! Still you keep saying, “We are dying for you.” And it’s not that you have no proof—you work hard, labor at the shop, and you say, “For whom else—this is for the children!” Do you think those without children run fewer shops? Those without children say, “We have no kids—if we don’t run the shop, what will we do? We must earn for ourselves; old age will come, there will be no children to care for us.”

See the joke? Those with children say, “How can we stop? We must earn; we have kids—let’s provide for them!” Those without say, “If we don’t earn, how will we manage? Old age, illness will come, and there are no children—money in the bank will keep us going, otherwise it will be difficult.”

People come to me saying, “We are tormented by our children—life has been ruined.” Others come weeping, “We have no children—life is being ruined.” Man looks very strange. With children, life is ruined; without children, life is ruined! When will you see that all this is a drama you keep spinning? The excuses vary, but the play is one: somehow keep yourself occupied, entangled—keep a stupor going so you never come face to face with yourself. If not the intoxication of children, then of position, or of wealth—some intoxication is needed.

To call it a play is to say: the way you are living is not true life. You wear masks. Others do not know your real face—how could they, when even you don’t? When someone goes to the Zen masters, they say: “Find just one thing and all else will be found—your original face.” And that original face is a tricky affair.

I have heard: a hippie was getting a haircut in a barber’s shop. After half an hour of cutting, the barber said, “Brother, did you ever work in the navy?” “Hey, how did you know?” the hippie asked. “Well,” said the barber, “after cutting through three layers of hair I found a navy cap—that made me think perhaps you once served in the navy.”

If your faces were peeled back, you would be amazed—what caps would appear, what faces would emerge, what things would be found in between! Who knows how deep one would have to dig before your real face appears.

Meditation is the search for the original face. But masks upon masks—and they have fastened so tightly that they have become like parts of your body. Peeling them off will hurt. One has to peel this drama like an onion. And when all the layers are gone, what remains in your hand is emptiness. That emptiness is your true face. Then you have gone beyond the play. To enter the void is to go beyond the drama; the curtain has fallen; you are neither Rama nor Ravana. You are nobody. You have become empty. The hour of rest has come. This is what is called moksha—liberation.

Moksha means: awakening from all the deceptions of life; seeing clearly where and how you are fooling yourself. Begin to notice when you put on masks. Just start noticing. You will be shocked—twenty-four hours a day, even when you are alone, you are not at rest.

Someone knocked at Mulla Nasruddin’s door. His friend stood outside with his wife. Mulla opened the door just a crack. The friend was surprised; more surprised was his wife—because Mulla was stark naked. Not only that—he was naked and wearing a cap. Naked—with a cap! She couldn’t help herself: “Everything else is fine—it’s your house, you can be as you like—but the cap?” Mulla said, “Don’t ask—there is a reason.” She said, “Tell us, otherwise this curiosity will eat us—we won’t sleep tonight.” Mulla said, “I am naked because at this time no one comes to see me.” “Then why the cap?” “Just in case someone comes by mistake.”

Man makes such arrangements. Alone, with no one coming, he sits naked—but just in case someone shows up, at least keep the cap on!

A friend said to Mulla Nasruddin, “I am harassed by some people—they come and bore me. They are neighbors; can’t get rid of them. Out of courtesy I have to listen; they bore me stiff and repeat the same old stories. I have never seen you troubled by anyone—what’s your secret?” Mulla said, “There is a trick. I always keep a cane and a cap on the table.” “What will a cane and a cap do?” the friend asked. “Just keep them there, the one who wants to pester will pester anyway.” “Not so simple,” said Mulla. “As soon as I see someone approaching, I quickly put on the cap and pick up the cane.” “I still don’t get it—then what?” “You don’t see? There is logic, strategy, cunning. The man will ask: ‘Are you going somewhere, or coming from somewhere?’ If one is seen with a cap and cane, he must be coming or going. If I see he’s a useful man, I say, ‘I’ve just come in—please sit.’ If I see he’ll bore me, I say, ‘I’m just going out—good day!’”

Be a little cautious—if you see a man with a cane and a cap, don’t be sure whether he has come or is going. He may simply be wearing a mask—to get rid of you.

Even in solitude we keep making faces. That is all I mean by drama. And you will only know the world as a play when you see your own theatricality. Because of this drama our nature has been distorted; we live in a derivative mood. We were meant to be one thing and became another. We were to become something, and are finishing as something else.

The goblet drinks the wine; the thirsty one, the drinker, stays dry!
Why did you pour this intoxicant of life into the body’s cup?
Upon a golden dais the gods kept sitting, motionless;
Meanwhile, drop by drop, the mind’s tavern drained away.
Thirsty are the heart’s feelings; dying are our deprivations;
How can living be possible if the wounds keep oozing?
My indwelling Lord keeps asking me again and again,
“How has your nature turned so contrary to itself?
Where is the knot tied?”
My indwelling Lord keeps asking me—
“How has your nature turned so contrary to itself?”

The divine is your nature, your truth, your authenticity. But how did all this get lost? You got caught in drama. You became theatrical. You began to act. You forgot who you are, and started displaying something else. Everyone is displaying something else.

Recognize it in yourself. Don’t worry about what others are doing or not doing. Just watch yourself—and the entire theatricality of life will be revealed, the whole contrivance understood; and drop your personal play. The falling of your drama is sannyas. That is true renunciation.

Sannyas means: We have lived theatrically long enough; now we will live simply, naturally. We will live as we are—no pretense. Whatever the consequences, we will not lose our authenticity—at any cost. We will pay every price, but we will not go against our nature.

You will be surprised—at first there will be trouble, certainly. Because all your relationships till now have been with your roles. When you drop the roles, relationships will get disturbed. Your near and dear ones will be upset, because the bonds were made with your masks. You told a woman, “Apart from you, no one is beautiful to me—you alone are my Noor Jahan, my Mumtaz, my everything.” If you drop the play, that too will go—and with it, trouble will begin. Because she built the relationship on that basis. When truth comes, all the houses of cards you built upon falsity will fall in a single gust. You will no longer be able to say such things, because you know you also see beauty in other women. You didn’t say it; you hid it. It’s not that you didn’t see. Anyone who sees beauty in one woman will see beauty in others too—how can the sense of beauty end with one? Yes, the one who has transcended man and woman—that is different; but then he won’t see a Mumtaz or a Noor Jahan in anyone, not even in one.

If you have lived theatrically till now—and most have—then the day you begin to be truthful, difficulties will arise from all sides. You must bear them. I call this tapas—austerity. Austerity does not mean standing in the sun or in the cold—that is counterfeit austerity. True austerity is to remove the masks you have crafted so far, and then endure the consequences. There will be pains, but each pain will deepen your consciousness. Every sorrow will give new heights to your life. Every fire will refine you. And very soon you will find that by acting you had wasted life; by dropping the act, you have found life.

There is no scripture of prayer. Scriptures belong to the intellect; the heart has no scripture. Prayer is feeling, not thought.

So prayer can have tears, prayer can have a smile, prayer can have dance, prayer can have deep absorption—but there can be no scripture of prayer. And if anyone composes a scripture of prayer, it will be wrong from the very foundation. Prayer is the fragrance of love; how could there be a scripture of it?

So the first thing: prayer has no scripture, nor will it ever. Prayer can be. And prayer happens only in the lives of those who have become free of scriptures. As long as scriptures sit upon your chest, the sprout of prayer cannot emerge; the seed of prayer will not break open. It is scriptures that have dried you up. It is doctrines that have turned you into a desert—such a desert that no oasis is anywhere in sight. Everything has become arid and withered.

Prayer is moisture, wetness, sapfulness. Prayer has a rhythm; it has no scripture. Prayer has the gestures of song, prayer has a posture. Prayer has an inner state, but there are no theories that can explain that inner state. Prayer lies beyond the grip of theories; whatever gets caught in the tongs of theory, do not mistake it for prayer. Then prayer is neither Hindu, nor Christian, nor Muslim—prayer is of the heart.

Let the dark night of life turn luminous!
Place your feet upon the earth, O darkness-and-delusion-dispelling, wanderer of the supreme sky!
Set your feet down, Light-bearer, that the noose of night be cut!
Let the dust of your feet spread in every direction, becoming light!
Come, Star-Man, roamer of the sky-forest—
why forget the earth?
Come, let the night unveil the lamps!
From your feet scatter golden laughter through every direction!
Gaining the light, let the mortal world be gladdened—
let the eyes become worshipers!
Let the dark night of life turn luminous!
Place your feet upon the earth, O darkness-and-delusion-dispelling, wanderer of the supreme sky!

Prayer is a call. Prayer is the cry of longing. To that which is invisible, prayer says: become visible. To that which is unthinkable, prayer says: cast your shadow upon my thinking. To that which is far, it is the plea to come near.

Prayer is separation. Prayer is weeping. Prayer is a call. Prayer is certainly not a scripture. Prayer is trust—neither thought, nor doubt.

My mind is spell-struck,
the doors of the deep cave are closed!
Somewhere far a mantra-lamp
burns, faint, faint!
Eyes far from the lamp,
the gaze of the eyes is dim!
As small as I am,
so small appeared the world of light!
My glance is afraid; make it
fearless, O consciousness-bliss!
For me, yes, the doors are shut;
for you, the doors are open!
O Lord of Mantras, this delusion of darkness—
dispel it with the spread of your hands!
To the blind you are not seen;
yet the blind is seen to you!

I am blind. I cannot see you. But you are all eyes—surely you see me. I may not be able to seek you, but you can find me. What obstacle is there for you?

Prayer is this very submission: I cannot find; you can find! To the blind you are not seen; yet the blind is seen to you!

The divine will not seek you until you make the petition. He will not violate your freedom. Therefore, when you beseech, his hands begin to reach toward you. What is lacking is your supplication.

The reasons for my incapacity
are many;
the momentum of my tendencies is strong,
and weak is my discrimination!
An intricate mesh of faults and habits;
cut it—so the snares are cut!

This is the whole essence of prayer: that nothing could be accomplished by me. Through me the entanglement grew, the web grew. What was simple, even that I tangled. Now you untangle. I surrender.

The momentum of my tendencies is strong;
and weak is my discrimination!
The reasons for my incapacity
are many;
an intricate mesh of faults and habits—
cut it, that the snares be cut.

If you cut, it is cut. And it is surely cut—only call out. Let the whole heart call. Let the cry arise from your totality—then it reaches Him. And if even once your entreaty reaches Him, the night breaks, morning comes, dawn arrives.

Dawn will break, the night will wane;
just smile—and the world will change!
Open your eyes that the East may blush,
that the wave of Bhairavi too may turn young!
Let the dew of affection, trembling in the cool breeze,
wash the eyes of the lotus of longing!
I am a wayfarer, bewildered by night,
a wayfarer, tormented by darkness!
String arrows of rays upon the bow of sight and loose them—
my dark path will turn bright!
Dawn will break, the night will wane!
Just smile—and the world will change!

Let the blossoms of feeling begin to smile,
let the vines of love begin to sway;
with the flame of beauty tickle me a little,
let the honeybees of longing begin to hum!
Give a new radiance to life’s tree,
a new breeze to the leaves of breath!
In the sky of Time, trilling,
let imagination emerge like a cuckoo!
Dawn will break, the night will wane;
just smile—and the world will change!

Shoot arrows of light into the gloom and delusion;
Sun of Beauty! ascend the sky of Time!
Be consciousness and bloom in the breath of creation;
awaken as eternal thrill in the body, in every pore!
You smile, and my life-breaths will perform your arati,
and the goddess of speech surge in praise;
here I stand with the palms of my eyes filled with tears—
Lord, will this offering go in vain?
Dawn will break, the night will wane;
just smile—and the world will change.

Fill your cupped hands with tears and call.

Prayer is an art, not a scripture. Prayer is the very name of the art of love; it is the pinnacle of the art of love. There are two parts to prayer—first, that I am helpless, that I am blind, that the doors are closed for me, that I have limits, that I am small, that there are countless causes for my straying, that the endless web of actions is an obstruction; second, that you come, that you can come. The doors are closed for me, not for you. I have wandered far from you, but you have not wandered far from me. Without you, how could I even live? You are the breath of my breath, the life of my life! My recognition has been lost, my remembrance is gone; even if you were to stand before me, I might not recognize you. My forgetfulness is deep. But your remembering is boundless. You remember. All I can do is weep.

Shoot arrows of light into the gloom and delusion;
Sun of Beauty! ascend the sky of Time!
Be consciousness and bloom in the breath of creation;
awaken as eternal thrill in the body, in every pore!
You smile, and my life-breaths will perform your arati,
and the goddess of speech surge in praise;
here I stand with the palms of my eyes filled with tear-water—
Lord, will this offering go in vain?
Dawn will break, the night will wane;
just smile—and the world will change!

That is all for today.