Sahaj Yog #9

Narendra! Adishta—“what is commanded”—means what the noble ones have told you. But what another tells you is borrowed. It has no roots in your own experience. It may shape your conduct, but not your conscience. You will start walking, yes.

If Buddha says something, he must be saying it rightly; there is no reason to think him wrong. On Buddha’s utterance there is the stamp of his authenticity, his signature. One who falls in love with Buddha, who becomes acquainted with his aura, will follow his words. Even so, it has come from the outside, not welled up from within. It is not a flower of your own soul. You bought that flower in the market, made a garland of it, put it around your neck. But it did not blossom in the garden of your being.

Therefore the Talmud says: the commanded is fine—follow what has been enjoined—but do not take that to be the completion of life. Beyond it too there is a way of living. That alone is the religious way. From the commanded comes morality; from experience is born religion. From imitation comes morality; from self-realization comes religion. The scriptures speak, the true master speaks; you believe and you follow. But belief is belief—superficial. Let a small ray of doubt enter and all is destroyed. Let a tiny thorn of doubt prick and your path is lost. Anyone can make you miss your way, because your reverence is not yet your own experience; there is no foundation. You have built a temple without a base, suspended in midair. It will fall. It is better than nothing; but it is not a real temple.

Moreover, morality is a social phenomenon. That is why different societies have different moralities. There are thousands of kinds of societies in the world and thousands of codes. What is moral for one may be immoral for another. Morality has no ultimate value; it has social utility. Therefore, to be moral, one need not be a theist. The atheist too has morality. After all, Russia is not an immoral country; in truth, it is often more moral than the so-called religious countries. The atheist also will follow certain rules—he has to. Wherever there is more than one person, some rules become necessary; otherwise living together is impossible.

Morality has about as much value as the rule of the road: “Keep to the left.” In America they keep to the right; in India they keep to the left—no difference in essence. The rules are opposite, yet some rule must be followed. Under all rules one rule is agreed upon: where there is more than one person, rules are needed, or there will be obstacles. If some keep left, some right, some to the middle, the road will be nothing but accidents. But “Keep left” has no ultimate value. It is not that by keeping left you will go to heaven. Keeping left, you won’t reach heaven any faster—you will simply not reach heaven by way of an accident! At most, your leg won’t break; you won’t be crushed under a rickshaw or a bus. That is the benefit. Heaven is not obtained thereby. And don’t think that if someone keeps to the right he goes to hell. Neither does right lead to hell nor left to heaven; but life does become more convenient.

Morality is for convenience. Religion is not for convenience, it is for truth. Hence a moral person need not be religious. A religious person will certainly be moral, but the moral person is not necessarily religious.

Who then is religious? The one whose commandments do not come from outside; whose directives arise from his own inner being; whose inner voice has awakened; whose heart-strings have begun to play; in whom the inner sound has arisen and who now lives in accordance with that sound.

This saying of the Talmud is lovely: “Beyond what is commanded to you, higher than that, conduct yourself in holiness!” Conduct becomes sacred only when you rise beyond the commanded, beyond rule and regulation—when rules are no longer duties but a natural ease of living. That is what Saraha calls sahaj-yoga—the path of spontaneity. One kind of conduct is: “Live like this and you will profit; do this and society will respect you; life will be comfortable; fewer obstacles, more security, honor, receptions.” That is moral conduct.

Parents teach their children to be moral so that they may be respected in society. But what is respect? An ornament for the ego. Teachers in school say, “Acquire knowledge, because a rich man’s wealth can be taken away, but a wise man’s knowledge cannot be stolen.” But that too is greed: “Acquire knowledge out of fear that it may be taken away!” “The learned are respected even where emperors are not,” teachers say, “even emperors bow to the learned.” All this is to flatter the ego; to tickle the child’s ego; to make him egocentric.

All morality stands upon ego; religion upon egolessness. In this sense morality and religion are opposite. You may be surprised to learn that morality and religion are opposed—in this sense: religion does not stand on the ego. Religion does not say, “Be compassionate because you will go to heaven.” Religion says, “Be compassionate because compassion is blissful.” There is no talk of getting, no talk of the future, no talk of fruit. The relish is in compassion itself.

One who has gone into meditation will be compassionate, not because something will be obtained from compassion, but because something has already been born within that will flow forth as compassion. In meditation bliss has arisen within. Now there is a longing to share—just as, when a flower blooms, fragrance is shed. No flower “decides” to shed fragrance; the flower blooms and fragrance is released. So with meditation, compassion is distributed. When the inner mind becomes quiet, the perfume of peace spreads around you. When the cloud of meditation grows dense, the drizzle of love begins.

It happens of itself. It needs no cultivation. That is why it is spontaneous. Morality has to be cultivated; religion is spontaneous. Morality has to be imposed, forced, disciplined by insistence—because in morality there is benefit, and there is loss in going against it; in morality there is honor, in immorality dishonor. Thus the calculating mind organizes morality.

This is why a startling thing is often observed: those whom you call criminals are, many times, more straightforward and simple than your so-called respected people. Look into their eyes and you may find them more pristine than those of your so-called saints. Why? Their eyes have the same kind of innocence as animals. They have not forced anything upon themselves; they have let whatever was happening, happen. On the animal plane, evil is natural. Then there is the plane of the buddhas, where goodness is natural. Between animals and buddhas is the human plane; there, both evil and good are unnatural.

On the human plane there is great tension. One part pulls back: “Come, take the ease of evil.” There is a kind of ease in drinking—worries forgotten, mind’s hassles dropped, for a while a drunkenness descends. You notice, those who drink are often sociable; those who don’t, you may find less so. When there is no vice at all, there is a certain stiffness.

Mulla Nasruddin went to the doctor and said, “I have a constant headache, as if something is tightly binding my head; as if an invisible iron ring is clamped around it! The pain never leaves. I’ve been suffering all my life. Please suggest a remedy.”

The doctor examined him and asked, “Do you drink?”
Mulla said, “No, never.”
“Smoke?”
“No.”
“Chew betel?”
“No.”
“Snuff?”
“No.”
“Run after other men’s wives?”
“What nonsense! I am a religious man!”

The doctor said, “Then I understand. It is your religiosity itself—the invisible iron ring—squeezing your head. That is the cause of your pain. Your aura of ego is too tight. Commit a few small mistakes; you’ll become a little lighter.”

The doctor spoke to the point. The one who commits a few small mistakes can forgive when he sees others err. The one who never errs cannot forgive anyone. That is why your saints become hard—very hard. They talk compassion, but their personality becomes rigid. If they do not forgive themselves, how will they forgive others? Being harsh with themselves, they will be harsher with you. Their minds itch to punish; give them a chance to catch some small, human failing of yours—chewing betel, say—and it is enough to send you to hell! Have you gone mad? Has anyone ever gone to hell for chewing betel? Or for lighting a cigarette?

Understand this: those who live by morality become stiff, filled with ego and self-importance. Commonly, those you call criminals—go to a prison and look—you will find simple people, straightforward people. Perhaps that is why they erred. You will find in them a certain naturalness of “evil.” Or else, in the buddhas you will find naturalness—the naturalness of goodness. In between stands man, stuck like Trishanku. One part pulls back: “Return to the animal world, there was simplicity there.” One part pulls forward: “Come to the world of the buddhas, there is simplicity there.” But where man is, there is only pulling and strain. He who lives by morality will never be free of tensions; morality keeps tightening his mind.

I am not telling you to fall down to the animal plane. In fact, however much you try to fall, you will not be able to; you will keep returning. A supreme law of life is: what has been known has been known; it cannot be made unknown. Man has become man; he has left the animal behind. By effort he may, for a moment or two, become animal, but he will return. There is no way back from man. If you now want naturalness, it will not be found in animals; it will be found in the Divine. That naturalness is what the Talmud calls going beyond the commanded.

Buddha does not live according to some Upanishad or the Vedas. Buddha has his own Veda; within him his own Upanishad has awakened, and he lives according to that. Hence there is no strain, no conflict. When you live by someone else, you become two: one, you who do not want to walk; and the other, who is forcing you to walk. Inner conflict is natural.

We give this conflict to children at the very beginning. The small child wants to play, but the father says, “Don’t play, sit quietly.” So he sits quietly. Have you ever seen a small child sit quietly? He will sit, but his hands and feet will move, his head will stiffen, he will make faces, shift around. You said “sit quietly,” so he sits; but his life-energy is eager to run, to jump, to dance. Energy is in flood just now—how can he sit like an old man? You have created conflict in him. Inside he wants to run, jump, catch butterflies, climb trees, stand on the roof and pluck stars from the sky—and you say, “Sit quietly.” He sits, but inside he seethes; inside he goes contrary to you; inside he thinks how to escape. You have created two persons within him: one sitting quietly on the circumference; and one at the center who wants to leap and play. Thus you have inserted the seed of tension. Now this will go on lifelong. He will want to do one thing; people will say, “Do something else.” He will do what people say. Wife says, “Do this,” he will do that. In the office someone says, “Do this,” he will do that. A politician says, “Do this,” he will do that. All his life he will be buffeted. He will live by the commanded, be very obedient. The more obedient he shows himself, the more respect he will get. That respect is a bribe for obedience, a way to seduce him.

You honor the one who obeys you. You say, “Ah, a man should be like this.” By giving the obedient praise and respect, you bribe him; and the obedient man fills himself with the poison of your bribe. This is not enough. He may be a good man in the sense that he harms no one, but his soul will go on smoldering—in the fires of hell. You will never see flowers bloom in his life; spring will never come.

That is why your so-called religious people—who are not religious but merely moral—always look sad and serious, with long faces. Their long faces, their sadness, their gravity are imposed from above. They have never laughed; they have never danced. They will not laugh; they will not dance. They are a burden on the world. Granted, they do no evil. They will not steal; they will not murder. But not stealing and not murdering are negative.

This Talmudic saying appears in relation to the Ten Commandments of the Jews. In those ten commandments, it is told, “Do not do this, do not do that.” They are negative. Commandments are always negative; they can never be creative. Rules say, “Do not…” So if you do not, then it is true that no evil will come through you. But is that enough—that no evil comes through you? Then what difference is there between living and dying? No evil comes from the dead either. The dead are good forever. From them, nothing bad will ever come.

Have you ever seen the dead doing evil? Smoking? Picking someone’s pocket? The dead are good forever.

You may have noticed a curious thing: as soon as someone dies, people praise him. People praise the dead. Let a man die, immediately praise begins.

The great French thinker Rousseau had an enemy; throughout life they argued and refuted each other—sworn enemies. On the road, if they met, they would turn away or slip down a side lane to avoid a face-to-face. News came that Rousseau’s enemy had died. Someone said, “Rousseau, do you know your enemy is dead?” Rousseau said, “If this news is true, then I can say that he was a great man. Provided it is true. He was a great man—if he is really dead. If not, then I cannot say it.”

When a person dies, we start praising him. In a village a politician died. The whole village had suffered under him, as people do under leaders. The rule of the village was that when someone died, a eulogy must be given at the cremation ground. No one would agree to speak, because many tried to find at least one thing in his life to praise—none could be found. The village knew him inside out. The village was inwardly happy that he had departed, though they wore the mask of grief. No one stood up. The rule was that until a eulogy was spoken, the pyre could not be lit.

At last a pandit stood up. He said, “Brothers! Our leader is gone, but he has left his five brothers behind. Remember those five brothers. Compared to those five, our leader was a godly man.” Thus he praised him. There was no way to praise directly. Compared with those five—who were even more troublesome—he was saintly! The praise was done; people hurried to light the pyre—good riddance!

No sooner does one die than he becomes “heavenly,” even if he dies in Delhi! Then who goes to hell? Hell must be empty if those who die in Delhi go to heaven. No, but we praise the dead out of etiquette. We call them “late” and “heavenly.” Behind the etiquette, something important is hidden: a dead man can do no more harm. Why speak ill of him now? He has gone beyond doing harm.

Your so-called religious people are like the dead. It is true they harm no one; but there is no celebration in their lives. Their lives are negative.

Consider a rosebush. If someone praises it by saying, “This bush has not a single thorn,” would you think that sufficient? The real praise is when someone says, “How lovely are the flowers on this bush!” The moral man is like a bush without thorns; the religious person is like a bush in bloom. Understand this difference clearly. The religious person dances, is suffused with bliss. He is intoxicated with God: spring has come into his life; fragrance has arisen; light has been lit. It is not enough that there are no thorns; until there are flowers, do not be content.

That is the meaning of the Talmud: do what is commanded—but do not be satisfied with only that. That is not the destination. Beyond it, higher than it, live a holy life. What lies beyond? For the commanded includes all scriptures—Bibles, Vedas, Dhammapadas, Qurans—the sum of all injunctions ever given. What is beyond that? Beyond that is your conscience, your inner world of meditation, the very center of your life.

The commanded touches only the circumference. It is like painting someone’s face. The commanded creates a mask, but no one can paint your soul. Until your own soul begins to scatter its colors, until a rainbow is born within, no brush from outside can reach. No one’s hand can touch your soul; only you can reach there—only you!

Do you look at the sky only through a telescope?
This earth too is a planet.
Look at it as well, with the help of an instrument.
Do not think the earth
is only our bed, our lap, our road—
why tear it open to read?
Trees and plants here, flowers, men and women—
we meet them every day.
Ah, these trees, these plants, flowers, fruits, men and women—
all are the coverings of a hidden flame.
Do you know the seed
of which these are the skins?
Do you know the meaning that lies forgotten beyond these letters?
Sitting far away and measuring planets—that too is power.
But will you not measure the depths
hidden in the plant, in the human, in the flower?
Bring, O astrologer, bring if you can a mirror—
not an instrument that only measures area, shape, or volume,
but an eye that, beneath fragrance and color,
peers into the unmanifest heart of the flower.

You too are a flower. In the innermost heart of your flower some fragrance is hidden. Look into it; test it. Reach there. Set out on that inner journey. Then the holy conduct that is above all commandments will be revealed. Then you yourself will become scripture. Then you will be an expression of truth.

I surely want to remind my sannyasins of this Talmudic saying. It is important. Those of you who are listening to me, who are walking with me—do not go on following merely by hearing and believing me. Believe me only so far as it helps you to know yourself. Believe me only so far as it helps you to enter your own inner being. Understand the gestures of my fingers, and dive within. There, only you can go—no one else can. And after that experience, a light will be in your life, an aura, a joy, a purity, an innocence. That is religion. And only such a person comes to know God.

The moral lives by convenience; he never comes to know truth. The religious has to bear great inconveniences, but he experiences truth. And for the experience of truth, all inconveniences are worth bearing. Why must the religious suffer? Because many times the proclamation of your conscience will collide with what is commanded; then trouble begins. At such times, listen to yourself. Then all scriptures are worthless. All beliefs are worthless. Whatever price you must pay, pay it—listen to your own inner voice. When the inner voice arises—and when it arises it is immediately recognized—that God has begun to speak within you. It is so authentic, so self-evident, so self-illuminating that you cannot mistake it. You know the ways of the mind. When the voice of the soul resounds, it does not feel like “my” voice; it feels as if the whole of existence spoke within. That sound is illuminated, it shakes you to your roots. The day such a voice is heard—call it ilham as Mohammed did, call it inspiration, whatever word you like—when the Infinite speaks from within you, then naturally you will find yourself at odds with many social rules. Social rules were made with social convenience in mind—and by the blind. When your own eyes arrive, there will be some difficulty. It is not necessary to clash with the blind; where possible, do not. They are not at fault. But if collision becomes unavoidable, do not deny the voice of your conscience. Do not forsake it at any cost. Even if you must lose everything, stake everything.

Pluck out both my eyes—
I will not stop gazing, unblinking, toward You.
I will hear the sound of Your feet with this very joy,
even if the doors of hearing are shut.
Even if You steal my legs,
day and night I will go on walking toward You.
I will not stop telling my tale before You,
even if You cut off my tongue and make me mute.
Break my arms and make me armless if You will—
I will go on binding You in my embraces.
If You take away my heart,
its beatings will arise more intense within the mind.
Set fire to my brain and reduce it to ashes—
on the waves of my blood I will go on carrying You.

One who has heard the inner voice—cut off his hands and even then his embrace does not stop. Cut off his feet and even then his journey is not obstructed. Cut out his tongue and even then his prayer continues—in his silence, in his emptiness. In one whose conscience has awakened, the command of all commands has arisen—his own command. Then courage is needed to stake everything. Those who have such courage alone become religious.

Veena! If the paper is blank, there is nothing greater—because only on a blank page do the Vedas descend. Only on blank pages are the Upanishads born; the Qurans incarnate only upon blank sheets. The one who has made consciousness a blank page has attained all. That is where the snag is. That is the difficulty. The pages of your consciousness are so scribbled over—so many writings by so many hands—that even if the Divine wishes to write something there, it cannot be inscribed; and even if it is inscribed, it won’t be possible to understand what has been written.

To make the mind blank is the first step in the journey to the Divine. That is the pilgrimage. The one who has made the mind blank has reached the shrine—his Kaaba has come to him. Now there is nowhere to go. Now the Divine will descend into this very blank mind.

But there is a great obstacle in making the mind blank. If a mind is Hindu, it is not blank. If a mind is Muslim, it is not blank. If a mind is Jain, it is not blank. If a mind is communist, it is not blank. Any bias, any belief, any standpoint, any philosophy—and the mind is no longer blank. Then the mind is scribbled, filled with who knows how many words—and all borrowed, all stale, all from others; not a single thing of your own experience. Your own experience awakens only in a blank mind.

There is so much clamor in your consciousness that even if the Divine plays his one-stringed ektara, will it be heard? In a house of drums, the sound of a flute—where will it be heard? As if, in a crowded bazaar, a cuckoo should begin to sing—who will hear it? People’s hearts are so full of disturbance that the Divine comes again and again up to your door, knocks, and turns back—you do not hear the knock. Many times he shakes you, but you are asleep in deep drowsiness; you do not wake—you simply turn over and begin to dream anew.

Become a little blank, and his cloud will gather; the nectar you are seeking is eager to rain down. It is not only you who are seeking—nectar too is seeking you. It is not only the thirsty one who searches for the lake; the lake also waits for the thirsty. Because when the thirsty one’s thirst is quenched, it is not only his thirst that is quenched—the lake too is fulfilled. Keep this well treasured in your heart.

It is not only you who seek the Divine; the Divine too seeks you. The day union happens, not only will you be in bliss—the Divine will dance as well. That is why there are tales that when Buddha became enlightened, out-of-season flowers bloomed. These are symbols—poetic symbols. They only say that the whole of existence became ecstatic: out-of-season flowers bloomed, green leaves came to dry trees, the gods beat celestial drums, flowers showered from the sky and kept on showering.

No, no visible flowers actually fell; no leaves actually appeared on dry trees; no out-of-season blossoms literally bloomed—do not take these as historical facts, otherwise you will go astray. And the one who takes such things as history ends up falsifying the Buddha also. In his mind, little by little, Buddha becomes a tale—a fairy story, a myth, a legend. The actuality is lost.

These are poetic symbols—lovely symbols—but poems are not history. Poems do say something—indeed they say something, something otherworldly—but they are no proof regarding worldly fact. They are pointers concerning the invisible, but if you squeeze them into history, you will land in trouble. The only meaning, the only intention, is that when awakening arose in Buddha, the whole existence became intoxicated with bliss. How to say it? That the gods beat their drums; that flowers drifted down from the sky, endlessly; that out-of-season flowers appeared; that dry trees turned green. It is a way of saying it—a tone—beautiful and dear.

When Buddha’s mind became blank, the sky poured. So long as he remained filled with thoughts, that event did not happen; when he became thought-free, then it did.

Therefore the fundamental message of all religions is one: become thought-free. But how will you become thought-free? You are carrying in your head those very scriptures that tell you, “Become thought-free.”

A pundit came to see me some years ago. I was a guest at the university in Kashi. A great scholar. He had written a massive commentary on Patanjali’s Yoga Sutras. I asked him: Have you cultivated thoughtlessness? He was a little startled. Perhaps no one had asked him that. People must have asked him what nirvikalpa samadhi means according to Patanjali, and that he must have explained. I asked him: Have you experienced nirvikalpa? He looked around and said, No. How can I lie to you? I have not experienced nirvikalpa.

And I said: You have spent a lifetime commenting on Patanjali, yet you did not receive even this much of a hint from Patanjali—that one has to become thought-free, without alternatives? That is the very essence.

He said: That is the essence, but I never thought of it that way. I kept extracting new meanings, composing new commentaries, seeking fresh supports for Patanjali—from Western psychology, from science; I sought corroborations from everywhere and wrote.

But I said: When will you become thought-free? This has turned upside down. Now even Patanjali has become a thought for you. Now Patanjali’s words keep revolving in your consciousness day and night, and you go on grafting new commentaries, new shoots of cleverness onto them. But when will you be without thought? When will you be free of Patanjali?

Buddha has a very astonishing saying: If you meet me on the way, draw your sword and cut me in two.

True masters have always said this: We are pointing toward thoughtlessness—take care that you do not clutch at our very words as thoughts!

Let the mind become blank. The meaning of a blank mind is: neither Hindu nor Muslim nor Christian nor Jain nor Buddhist. The meaning of a blank mind is: no Veda in the mind, no Quran, no Bible. The meaning of a blank mind is: no bias now, no coloring. Empty sky! Thought-free, without alternatives! Then the hour of revolution has come. The moment the temple doors open has arrived. Now the clouds will gather—not the clouds of your thought. The Divine will grow dense above you.

Buddha called this state dharmamegha samadhi—the cloud of dharma will gather over you, and there will be a rain of nectar. So, Veena: let the mind be a blank page, and the rain will come.

Earth’s drenched veil, anklets chiming in a fine, tinkling drizzle;
Waves flutter to the edge of the horizon, every breath turned wistful.
The monsoon of longing swells, the tender cloud of love stirs,
In the moist eyes of the sky the lightning of beauty flashes.
The wandering wind grows heavy, drunk on the wine of enchantment,
In the heart, day after day, the ocean-honey of love sings and surges;
A honeyed gust from Malaya, the birds’ sweet chorus—
To the farthest edge of the forest every life shivers, gone mad.
The papiha shyly watches for the Swati drop,
Moment by moment repeats a hundred times the moist music of breath.
Petals grow drowsy; the bee’s dancing kiss makes them speak,
In the melting dusk of mango groves—a dance of fragrance and nectar;
In the wandering bowers the cuckoo calls, the peahen quivers grove to grove,
The lovely hem of a precious gift flutters to the doorway of remembrance.
Lotuses of trust open; in dust-motes the grasses smile,
Sprouts peep from the earth; in the notes the primal attraction;
The Ganga of feeling swells, the Yamuna of longing sways,
The boat of breath goes astray, seeing the monsoon’s dream;
Form, color, fragrance scatter; spring’s hundred-petalled bloom unfolds,
In an instant the mad cloud pours, eyelids opening—and it rains.

In a single moment, the rain begins. In an instant, the mad cloud pours, eyelids opening. Just as clouds rain outside, so within too the clouds rain. The inner sky is as vast as the outer. But become blank, and his face will be seen.

You said, Veena: I saw your face in it; my mind was a blank page.

Become blank and he is present all around. Become blank and you become a mirror. Then there is nowhere to go to search for him. He has already come. The Guest has already arrived, but the host is unconscious, in a swoon. The clouds are ready to rain, but your vessel is turned upside down. Even if it rains, it will go to waste.

You are so full of ego that there is no empty space within you. Even if the Divine wishes to enter, where is the room within? You yourself are seated on the throne. You have seated your ego upon the throne. Empty the throne! Vacate the throne! Make the page blank!

Samadhi, the burning has begun, the losing has begun. Because the losing has begun, the aspiration to lose even more has arisen. Because the burning has begun, the taste of burning has begun to be felt; therefore the longing to be utterly consumed has arisen.

Those who recognize this fire—by its flavor—if they look from afar, they will be startled. And there are many who see this fire only from a distance. Perhaps they do not even see it themselves from afar; they see it through what others have seen and reported from afar.

Those who see this fire through experience, who come near, a little closer—they will surely be eager to be consumed, because this burning is such that a new life becomes available. And without being effaced, nothing can be found.

Blessed are those who lose themselves, because that alone is the way to find oneself.

When no construction can happen without demolition,
I must ruin myself for my own sake.

In this world nothing is created without first being erased. When no construction can happen without demolition, when nothing can come into being without erasure—without destruction there is no creation… I must ruin myself for my own sake—then understand one sutra: you must dissolve if you are to find yourself. You must burn if you are to become filled with light.

When the seed dissolves, the tree appears; when the river dissolves, it becomes the ocean. The very moment you consent to vanish, in that very instant the Supreme manifests within you—and that never vanishes.

You are momentary, bubbles on water; even if you remain, for how long? Not for long. Here there is no way to be saved. Death will surely come; death surely erases. And when death erases anyway, why not take the leap with your own hands? One who dies by oneself becomes available to meditation. Samadhi is self-death.

And remember, by death I do not mean physical death. Your body has died many times, and again and again you have returned. This time let the ego die so that there is no return. Then you will become Sugata. One who has gone rightly never returns.

Sugata is one of Buddha’s names; it means: one who has gone exactly, so exactly that he does not return.

Here in life there is nothing worth clinging to. How people grasp at rainbows is itself a wonder! How they keep wandering in mirages—it is hard to believe such a miracle keeps happening!

One moment sun, the next shade!
From the window the open sky is seen,
cloud-ships drift, scattered and afloat;
the lanes’ clamor signals
the ocean being measured by the feet of waves.
One moment sun, the next shade.

Bees doze upon flowers today,
singing dream-songs with the instruments of feeling;
in a moment they fly off, fluttering their wings—
flowers become scentless, villages of dreams.
One moment sun, the next shade.

From the life’s pitcher, the fragrance of breaths—
the old bond ran dry without asking;
the inner being asks for their home and door—
without asking, to which shore shall they flow away?
One moment sun, the next shade.

Here everything changes moment to moment. Now morning, now evening. Now birth, now death. Just now spring, and autumn has arrived. Just now the river was in flood, now the current has dried. Just now youth, now old age. Just now joy, now sorrow. Just now success, now failure.

One moment sun, the next shade!
The ocean being measured by the feet of waves.
One moment sun, the next shade.

There is nothing here truly worth grasping. You have seen the foam on the ocean’s waves, sparkling in the morning sun like diamonds and pearls. Take it in your hand, and only water remains. There is nothing more than this in the world. Those who harbor the ambition to live here only die.

Samadhi, it is auspicious that the feeling to be utterly burned has arisen in you. Those who die here—voluntarily—come to know eternal life.

Jesus has said: Do not try to save yourself, otherwise you will lose yourself. Jesus has said: Blessed are those who lose themselves, because then they can never be lost; they become available to the immortal.

Only one thing here is stable; looked at from one side its name is meditation, from the other its name is love. Everything else is unstable. In this world only one thing is stable. If you look with the eyes of a devotee, its name is love; if you look with the eyes of the knower, its name is meditation, witnessing. But it is one and the same happening. Where meditation happens, the stream of love begins to flow; and where the stream of love flows, meditation happens. They come together, two sides of the same coin.

I am not the eternal,
nor are you;
the existence of the life-breath is truth,
of the nature of Shiva.
The mind’s blossoming bliss
is gracious, beautiful—
the flower is perishable!
The mad laughter of petals,
the luscious honey-scent of buds—
the fluid is eternal,
but
the flower is perishable.
The lamp’s expression lies beyond the flame;
the moth offers the sacrifice of life,
singing the music of love,
burning the worldly vine of the body
in the light—
absorbed in the play of affection,
it fills its sobs with song!
Only love is eternal!

That moth which burns itself on the lamp—its body does indeed burn. The body is bound to burn. Soon enough this body will be reduced to ashes—but the love that burned it, that love is eternal. That love remains.

Sannyas is a journey of love, or say a journey of meditation. A sannyasin is one who, like a moth, has come to die in my fire.

You know, the ochre robe is a symbol of fire! Die in it, utterly, as you are—and then the form of how you ought to be will manifest.

You have asked: I have just one prayer—that in the fire you have, I may be utterly burned and lost. This has already begun. Otherwise such a question would not arise. Questions too arise in their season. They have their moment. The savor of vanishing has touched you—then it is not far now. Who can stop one who has begun to relish dissolving? No power in this world can stop one who has begun to enjoy the melting of the ego. Thousands can obstruct the fulfillment of your ego, but no one can obstruct the fulfillment of your egolessness. This is a great marvel!

In the world, if you want to get something, people can create obstacles; but in the Divine, no one can create an obstacle—no one has the power to. Your relationship with the Divine is direct. Nothing can stand between you and the Divine—no mountain, no peak. Yes, in the world, if you want something, there are a thousand hindrances. If you want to earn money, thousands set out to earn it; you will have to compete with them. It is not necessary that you win; more likely you will lose. You want a high post. This is a country of six hundred million. If someone wants to be president, only one person can be president and there are six hundred million competitors. Everyone wants it. At most one will reach. There will be big obstacles, great uproar, a vicious, throat-choking competition. Many will die in it, many will break, many will be uprooted, many will become melancholy, many will be despairing—then perhaps one or two will reach. But by the time he reaches, he too will have been so battered, so thrashed, that even upon arriving he will be of no use—he will reach like a corpse.

By the time they reach, people die. By the time one becomes prime minister, he is sixty, seventy, eighty; by then life has slipped through the hands. And such a struggle that whatever is dignified in the life-breath dies in it; such a monstrous, despicable competition that whatever is human has long since been suffocated. By the time he reaches, the man is no longer a man.

To succeed in this world is to fail, because the soul you must give up for success—that is your failure. Nothing is free; sell your soul and collect shards. But in the realm of the Divine the matter is completely different. There is no rival there. There is no competition. There you are alone—utterly alone. That journey is solitary. There is no obstacle—only one obstacle remains: it is your own.

And, Samadhi, that obstacle in you has broken. You are afraid of dying—only so much obstacle is there. If you remain afraid, that is the obstacle. That fear has gone. In place of fear, the prayer to vanish is arising in your heart. And all prayers—true prayers—can only be prayers to disappear. Once the prayer has arisen, its fulfillment will not be long.

First, understand what happiness is. You have known happiness now and then, so it will be easier to grasp. Then understand what misery is, for you have known a lot of that. When both happiness and misery are understood, you can begin to understand the Great Bliss.

What is happiness? For a single instant, the ego disappears—that is happiness. You may be startled: the disappearance of ego is happiness? Yes. Whenever you have known happiness, reflect on those moments. Whenever happiness visited you, the ego had vanished; that is the sure touchstone.

You watched the sun setting at dusk: the redness spreading over the mountains, colors blooming on the clouds, birds returning to their nests, the beauty of evening, the dignity of descending night. In a solitary mountain valley you saw the sun go down, and you were awed and overwhelmed. A thrill of happiness rose and subsided, a wave came and you were bathed.

How did it happen? The sun’s beauty was so lovely, the sky’s colors so unique, the stillness of the mountains so deep, the birds turning home with their chirping—all set your heart vibrating in such a rhythm that you fell into a single cadence. In that mountain solitude, with the setting sun and the sky, you became one. You were absorbed. For a moment the ego was forgotten. For a moment you forgot, “I am.” The sun was so present that for a moment you forgot, “I am.” The colors in the clouds were such that for a moment you had no memory that “I am.” Returning birds, evening’s hush, the mountain’s aloneness—you forgot yourself for a moment, you were intoxicated for a moment. You had no remembrance of “I am.” In that very instant, a wave rose. That wave is called happiness.

Soon you came back, of course, because how long can a sunset remain beautiful? Here everything is a matter of moments—now it is, now it is gone. Now it has sunk. Night begins to deepen. You start and rise—it’s time to return. The dark is thickening; there may be snakes, scorpions, wild animals—the mountain is no place to linger. You return. The ego stands back in its place—suspicious, afraid. The glimpse that came for a moment is lost.

Happiness comes like this. Sometimes while listening to music—someone plays the veena, you are absorbed, and you say, “Great happiness!” Or you meet your beloved, sit with her hand in yours, watch the first star of the evening, and say, “Great happiness!” But happiness is not in the sun nor in the evening star, not in the beloved’s hand nor in the music. If you observe closely, you will find one thing common to all these occasions: the pretext may be anything, but one thing happens within you—the ego is forgotten. If you understand this, it will not take long to understand the Great Bliss.

The Great Bliss means: the ego is forgotten forever. Once forgotten, it never returns. Misery means: ego. The more ego, the more misery. The measure of misery is the measure of ego. That is why the egoistic appear so miserable; the egoless do not.

Consider it yourself. Whenever the ego grips you densely—“I am, I am somebody special”—then tiny things begin to hurt. A man who greeted you every day does not greet you today; the fact pierces the chest like a knife: “Ah! So what does he think of himself now? I’ll teach him a lesson! I’ll show him who I am!”

Wherever and whenever you are filled with ego, obstruction arises. Have you ever gone to a strange land? Traveled abroad? Been somewhere no one knows you? That is the happiness of travel. It is not Kashmir or Nepal that gives the joy. The joy of travel lies in the fact that no one there knows you, so there is no reason to strut. And what is the use of strutting? No one salutes you there, so there is no cause to take offense. There you are nothing. There you are a nobody. Hence a little happiness comes. This is the joy of travel: for a little while you become a nobody. Those who understand become nobodies where they are. Why go so far? Sitting at home they become a nobody.

Happiness is found in emptiness. Misery is found in “I.” Ego is a thorn. Ego is pain. Emptiness is musical. But you never ponder this. Squeeze the essence out of your experiences of happiness—trace their root.

What is happiness? Can you tell?

The delicate wing of the panduk,
or the red beak of the myna?
The shepherd’s flute?
Or the echo of that waterfall whose banks
are tended by green, fragrant deodars?
Is happiness a delicate hand
which, when we hold it in ours,
pricks and thrills us both?
Or is it that eye
that speaks the language of love brimming with mystery?
Or is happiness that thing whose touch
sends a tremor through the heart
and silent tears slide from the eyes and rest upon the cheek?
Where does happiness dwell?
Happiness? Ah—surely it is not a glow-worm
that hides all day in the shade of the leaves?
Or the fragrance at the heart of the flower?
Or some thing that
dances in the night air wearing anklets?
Happiness! I know only your name.
I am blind of heart;
I have never seen you.
So, dear one, I have not yet recognized you.
But tell me, are you truly very beautiful?
More than flowers, than water, than fragrance,
and sweeter even than my sorrow?

You have known—and yet not known—happiness. Like a blind man, you have thought that the setting sun brings happiness; or meeting the beloved brings happiness; or a friend arriving at your home brings happiness; or delicious food. This one or that one. But you never grasped the root.

Whenever happiness has come, one thing has invariably happened: the ego is erased. So the erasure of ego itself is happiness; neither is happiness a sunset nor a sunrise.

What is happiness? Can you tell?

The delicate wing of the panduk,
or the red beak of the myna?
The shepherd’s flute?
Or the echo of that waterfall whose banks
are tended by green, fragrant deodars?

No. Happiness is that moment when you are not. “I am happy”—as a sentence it is linguistically correct, but experientially false, because wherever happiness is, the “I” is not. If happiness is, “I” is not; if “I” is, happiness is not. A fleeting glimpse of this is what we call happiness; and when the glimpse is lost for months and years, that darkness we call misery. And when the glimpse becomes steady, when it becomes your nature—that moment is the Great Bliss.

Saraha used the word “Great Bliss” in the same way the Upanishads use “ananda.” But why did Saraha not use the word ananda and instead say “Great Bliss”? There is a reason. When we use the word ananda, it seems as if our happiness has no relation to that ananda. A delusion is born, as if our happiness and ananda belong to two different realms with no bridge between them. To build that bridge, Saraha did not use ananda; he used Great Bliss, so that you remember: however far you may be, you are connected.

Your happiness, however momentary, is a wave of that same Great Bliss. This is important—because if that Great Bliss has no connection with you, how will you reach it? By what thread will you move toward it? This is the gift of Sahaj Yoga.

Sahaj Yoga says: man, just where he is, is already connected with the Divine. It is a matter of recognizing, of catching the hidden hem. There is a path; an invisible bridge links us. We know happiness—then Great Bliss is not far, not alien. If we know the drop, we can know the ocean, for the ocean is nothing but the sum of drops. In the same way, Great Bliss is the sum of happinesses. Happiness is the drop; Great Bliss, the ocean. The difference, in the vision of Sahaj Yoga, is of quantity, not of quality.

This is the revolutionary proclamation of Sahaj Yoga.

Even the difference between bodily pleasure and the joy of the self—according to Sahaj Yoga—is of quantity, not of quality. The relation and distinction between outer happiness and inner happiness are also quantitative. Inside is the Great Bliss; outside is a tiny happiness. But both are connected to the one.

This is a declaration of human dignity. However low a person has fallen, know this: the ladder begins exactly where you stand.

You may be on the lowest rung of the ladder; but it is the very same ladder whose topmost rung is God. This is the tantric declaration. Sahaj Yoga is tantric.

When I said sex and samadhi are linked, it was to give voice to the tantric understanding. Tantra says that the happiness known in sexual union is a drop, and the happiness known in samadhi is an ocean—an infinite ocean! Yet there is a connection; they are linked.

In the smallest, the vast is present. In the atom, the immense is present. You open your little doorway, and the sky you see is the same vast sky. There is no fundamental difference.

Understand happiness a little. Live it a little. Recognize it a little. Take yourself into those moments where happiness happens.

Youth ripens, immersed in its own sap.
Art is perfected when, in beauty’s samadhi,
for a long, full season the artist is lost.
All will be fulfilled; one day you will shine
as these stars shine upon the sky.
Be fair and gracious as the Greeks were,
who worshiped the invisible gods with reverent courtesy.
And do not avert your eyes even from mortal men.
Do not study definitions; give no sermons to anyone.
If no knowledge comes from the guru, and confusions only thicken,
then go and ask the matter in nature’s solitude.

If scriptures throw you into knots, if listening to gurus leaves you more confused, better to go into nature. Ask the waterfalls. Ask the green of the trees. Ask the ketaki, the jasmine, the bela flowers. Ask the clouds, the moon and stars. Go into solitude. Don’t sit and coin definitions. Nothing will happen by thinking. Go to know—don’t craft definitions, don’t preach to anyone.

It often happens: when a man himself does not know, he starts explaining to others. By explaining to others a delusion arises that “I must know,” and when others begin to understand and believe you—“Yes, you know”—you, too, begin to believe it: “When so many think I know, how can they all be wrong?” A great deceit is born. By instructing others, you convince yourself that you know. So do not mint definitions. Your mind-made definitions are worthless. Let meaning come from experience. And don’t sit to instruct others.

Do not craft definitions; give no sermons to anyone.
If no knowledge comes from the guru, and confusions only thicken,
then go and ask the matter in nature’s solitude.

Nature is God’s manifest form. What comes from nature is happiness. What comes from God’s unmanifest form is Great Bliss. From nature it comes for a moment; from God it comes eternally. But both are threaded on the same string.

So Saraha did well to use the words happiness and Great Bliss, and not ananda. There are great meanings hidden even in the choice of words.

Sitaram! Whenever dharma is alive, it dances; when it dies, it turns ponderous and grave. When dharma is alive it laughs; when it is alive, even the tears in the eyes are tears of joy.

When dharma is alive, anklets ring on the feet, the flute calls, the one-stringed ektara hums. For the living of dharma has only one meaning: celebration. The living of dharma has only one meaning: youthfulness.

When dharma is young, people like Krishna are born. When it rots and dies, pandits and priests sit beside the corpse, smearing sandal paste to mask the stench. Then all their concern becomes how to make the corpse look beautiful, how to keep it from decaying, how to preserve it.

And dharma is alive only now and then, because a being like Krishna happens only now and then. Dead dharmas have long traditions; Krishna happens rarely. Human beings mostly live with dead religions. So it almost always happens that whenever Krishna happens, the entire dead religion and its tradition stand against him. A living Krishna can never be accepted by you, because you live almost as if dead. You can relate to a dead religion; with a living dharma you cannot dance.

You have forgotten how to dance. You have forgotten love. You have forgotten the language of love. Hence there are your churches, gurdwaras, cathedrals, temples—everything outer is being arranged there, but the inner soul is absent. The cages are beautiful; the bird has long flown away—or died. And the worship goes on. People perform their puja with great, solemn seriousness.

Here you may find it difficult. You will understand only if you are willing to understand. You will understand only if you have a little sensitivity. Otherwise you will go back puzzled.

People come to me and say: an ashram should not be a place where people dance, where they embrace, where they are happy and laughing. An ashram should be grave and solemn; people should sit in little huts under trees, sad, turning their rosaries, their faces lifeless, their lives filled with denial and negation.

A while ago a television company from England made a film on the ashram. I don’t know how it slipped past the government or what happened, but the film was made, and it was even shown in England. Now I don’t know how many letters have come from there! And in all those letters one thing is consistently noted: “An ashram could be laughing! People could be dancing, bubbling with laughter! This had never even occurred to us.” Many have written that they are eager to come. There is at least one place on earth where people laugh; where God is not seen as anti-life; where God is the very name of life.

Perhaps Morarji Desai is perturbed for precisely this reason—that films of this ashram should not be made, should not be shown abroad—because what you cannot understand, the whole world will. You have become very rigid, the burden of tradition weighs so heavily on you... But in the West that burden has lifted. In the West the tradition of religion has broken. There, people have gotten rid of God—and with that, rid of the priests, rid of churches and temples. The West is atheistic—that is, there is no junk of religious tradition.

It is no wonder that many from the West are becoming curious about me in large numbers, while Indians—even when they come—come only as spectators. But someone who comes from the West dives in at once. Why? Because he has no traditional bias. He brings no expectations. He does not come assuming that the ashram is true only if people sit in huts, or that people must be joyless, dried up, fasting. He does not come with such assumptions, so he has no obstacle; he connects instantly. When an Indian comes, he comes with accounts already tallied; his standards are fixed; he has already decided what religion should be. He knows nothing of dharma and yet he has decided. And what he knows as “religion” is only a stinking corpse. Had he seen Krishna five thousand years ago, perhaps he would have understood.

Now the situation is so obstructed that even the religious do not understand Krishna. And the atheists in India—how will they understand?

Yesterday I was reading an article in the magazine Sarita—against Krishna: that he loved thousands of women. That may be, they say; but he also loved a woman named Kubja, crooked and bent in three places. A vulgar, hostile piece, trying to show it was all debauchery. There is even a case in court about it. The statements of the pandits who have spoken in opposition are even more foolish—they try to whitewash, to explain, “No, it does not mean that, it does not mean this.” In my view both sides are doing the same thing. Neither is ready to accept Krishna as he is. Why the difficulty? If Krishna eats, you have no problem; if he bathes, no problem. But if he loves a woman, you have a problem? If not Krishna, then who?

But we have become fearful, trembling. We believe love is worldly; that love itself is wrong. Love and God—these are opposite matters.

So those opposed to Krishna—the writer and editor of Sarita—argue: What kind of God is this! And those in favor are only trying to protect him. They too doubt inside that God cannot be like this. Therefore they twist the interpretation this way and that. Sanskrit offers the convenience that one word can carry many meanings; you can bend and contort it and play tricks. Yet the story is perfectly clear; there is no need either to object to it or to hide it. Krishna loves. He loved many. What is the obstacle? It only means this: the Divine is in love with nature. If the Divine were not in love with nature, nature would not exist. The Divine loves infinite forms; that is why infinite forms manifest. The Divine is in ecstasy. Krishna is a symbol of that ecstasy. That is why, when Hindus were courageous, they called Krishna the complete incarnation.

You will be surprised to know that the Hindu Puranas say something extraordinary. They say that the maidservant named Kubja, who served Kansa, was present even in the previous birth when Krishna was born as Rama—also an incarnation of Vishnu. She was very beautiful, and she became devoted to Rama. Who would not? If someone like Rama appears, who would not be enchanted? Perhaps only the blind would not! There is nothing surprising if a beautiful woman fell in love with Rama. There is no sin in being enchanted. She became so crazy that one night she reached Rama’s palace. Rama and Sita were asleep. She gently shook Rama. Rama opened his eyes. He said, “Forgive me, go back, lest Sita wake up!” The same old story—the husband-wife trouble—Rama too is afraid Sita might wake! But she said, “I have come to make a plea. I am deeply drawn to you. What am I to do?”

Rama said, “In my next birth, when I am Krishna... For now I am Maryada Purushottam—bound by vow to one wife, living by injunction. When I am Krishna in my next birth, you will be born as Kubja; when I come to Dwarika, you will be a maid in my uncle Kansa’s house. Then I can accept your invitation.”

Sita had woken up—she must have been listening, lying there. And she was angry, for what is this! It’s like saying: today is Ekadashi, so we won’t drink; we’ll drink tomorrow. What kind of thing is this! It became clear that Rama is saying: in the next birth—this birth I am trapped; today is Ekadashi; I’ve taken the vow of one wife; I am Rama, the paragon of propriety! For now, woman, go! But when in the next birth I am born as Krishna...

Sita became so angry that she said to Kubja, “You will be beautiful, because Rama has blessed you; but I curse you—you will be crooked in three places.” Thus she became Kubja—bent in three places.

There is a delightful point in this tale: Rama feels the constraint of propriety; he is aware of the boundary; he is limited. Whoever composed this story—whether it happened or not is not the question—those who added it to the Purana must have been courageous people. They are clearly saying that Rama has limits; Krishna has none. Even Rama has to say: when I come as Krishna—when I come as the complete incarnation, radiantly ecstatic, in all colors. For now I am of one color; then I shall be of all seven.

They must have been brave people then! While dharma was alive, they called Krishna the complete incarnation. Rama they called a partial incarnation. Had they been weak, they would have called Rama the complete incarnation and would not even have called Krishna an avatar, perhaps not even a partial one. But that they could call Krishna the complete incarnation means the country was alive then; tradition did not have too tight a hold; scriptures had not settled heavily on people’s heads; the burden of dead religion had not yet accumulated; life was fresh, people were youthful. They could even accept Krishna!

Now the country is dead. One writes in opposition, and his standpoint is this: if this is mentioned in Krishna’s life—if it is true—then Krishna’s life cannot be religious. Why? Has love nothing to do with religious life? Will you not allow love to be religious? Will you keep religion and love as if they were enemies?

And those on the “pro” side are no different. They attempt only to whitewash: “No, that is not the meaning; this is not right; do not criticize; he is God, so for him everything is fine. There are deep meanings here,” they say—though they cannot really tell you what those deep meanings are. Yet in one respect both sides agree: Krishna should not be like this.

I mention this to point out that the country is now so dead that both theists and atheists are dead. The exuberance of life is the proof of dharma. And whenever dharma happens, it brings with it a monsoon of incomparable love.

Honeyed tremors stirred through body and mind—
Spring has come home as a guest.
Gathering life’s unbounded smiles
Into a still heart’s treasury,
To scatter the rainbow’s colors,
Spring has come, mixing scent with the Malaya breeze;
Cradling the weary traveler’s hopes—
Spring has come home with dreams.

The bitterest breath exiled from the heart
Has fallen away;
The fragrance of simple laughter
Paints the palms with vermilion;
Perfuming the gaze with tenderness—
Spring has brought sweetness to the world.

Affectionate, sandal-cool—
A little definition of life:
From a sky built beyond the horizon
An echo returns again and again,
Into the lip-cup of our faith
Spring has poured the seven colors.

Whenever dharma comes, it is alive, seven-hued, a full rainbow. Not a single note, but all seven. But the human chest has shrunk. Man has withered, forgotten expanse. Especially in this country we have shrunk so much we have tied our own noose. Our breath is choking. Living grows harder—and still we insist we will live like this. The noose has become our way of life.

Sitaram, you are fortunate that seeing the dance, the songs, the laughter and smiles of this ashram, you did not get disturbed, did not run away, did not become an enemy. Otherwise, for every friend I create, a thousand enemies are born. You are fortunate. You have a little heart—spacious enough. Therefore you could look with open eyes. What you have seen, what you have allowed yourself to see, will prove life-changing for you.

One who recognizes spring is dyed in the color of spring. Spring has come here. Dive into it! Be colored by it! Such a moment comes only once in a while in history. Dead religions are always available; a living religion is rare—when there is no ash, but embers. Yet embers attract only a few courageous ones. Otherwise the opposite game keeps going.

Yesterday I glanced at a book by Morarji Desai—he has written a book on the Gita. How can Morarji Desai understand Krishna? What book on the Gita can he possibly write! I have seen many books on the Gita. In this country, anyone who can write at all writes on the Gita. There are so many third-rate commentaries—but Morarji Desai has surpassed them all! It doesn’t even qualify as third-rate; it is pure trash. To associate the name of the Gita with it is an insult. What recognition of Krishna can Morarji Desai have? And if he could recognize Krishna, then all the dead would be able to.

Krishna is a living dharma—dharma in its totality, in all its colors! With Krishna, dharma is not morality; with Krishna, dharma is existence—the whole of existence. It is total acceptance. That is my vision too—total acceptance.

We are indeed creating a small world—of ochre-clad sannyasins—that will dance, exult, celebrate. Whose worship will be dance, whose adoration will be rejoicing. We are preparing to offer flowers of ecstasy at the feet of the Divine.

You have understood; you did not get angry. You still have a living soul—you are fortunate! You have said it well: “I was never a believer in God; seeing you, God came to mind.” Now dive in! Now drop all calculation and dive in. You too, dance! It has been too long since you danced. Let the raas happen again! Let the flute play again! Let us call the Divine back to the earth.

To seek God is one matter; it is an individual search. To call God onto the earth is another; it is a collective search. That is why this community of sannyasins is being created. Individually, each sannyasin is to seek the Divine; collectively, we must create such a magnetic force that, from this earth—where the connection with the Divine has become almost severed—we may draw him down again. Let the world be filled with dharma. It is possible. Tireless effort is needed. And people are gradually gathering around me—courageous ones—ready for such effort, ready to embark on such an adventure.

The order of the tavern, O cupbearer, needs to be changed.
There are thousands of rows in which neither wine came nor the goblet arrived.

The way of this world, its manner, needs to change. The rules of the tavern need to change.

The order of the tavern, O cupbearer, needs to be changed.
There are thousands of rows in which neither wine came nor the goblet arrived.

As soon as spring arrived, bloodshed ensued in the garden’s court—
So nettled were the thorns, the flowers felt a zeal for revenge.

Who knows how many lamps were snuffed out, how many stars went dark,
Before a single proud sun rose up over the roof.

Many stars will have to go out, many lamps be extinguished—then the moon will rise. Prepare yourselves!

Who knows how many lamps were snuffed, how many stars went dark—
Then a single proud sun rose up over the roof.

We must call the Divine—his sun, his moon, his light! For this, many will have to offer themselves. Let many be willing to lay down their lives on the path to God, and the Divine’s rain can fall upon this earth. And such a rain has become very necessary; otherwise man will not survive.

The coming twenty-five years are going to be the most momentous in human history: either God will descend and man will be saved, or if the Divine cannot be invited, if we cannot receive him into our souls, then there is no hope for man’s survival. The noose is pulled tight. Man is ready for suicide. Either call to the Divine—or there is no way to be saved.

That’s all for today.