Saheb Mil Saheb Bhave #6

Abdul Qadir! The moon and stars will rise and set; the sun will rise and set; none of that can dispel the darkness of your inner being. No outer light is capable of removing the darkness within. Drop that very belief. If you cling to it, you will go astray. And that, in fact, is everyone’s belief. That is where we miss. We go on seeking wealth outside to erase our inner poverty. We chase status outside to cure our inner smallness. We keep our eyes fixed on outer light in the hope that the inner darkness will be cut through. It cannot happen. What is outside is outside; what is inside is inside. There is no alignment between the two; they do not obstruct each other’s path.

Inside too there are stars, and within there is a moon and a sun—greater, more wondrous than the ones outside. But if your gaze is entangled outwardly, how will you look within? If your eyes are caught outside, it will seem as if there is darkness within, because the eye can look either out or in. When it looks out, the inner world is hidden; when it turns in, the outer world is veiled. That is why those who realized the inner said: the outer world is not. Not that it does not exist—of course it exists, immensely, infinitely—but when the eye has turned inward, the outer naturally goes behind a screen, as if it is not.

Hence mystics say the world is maya, illusion, a mirage. There is truth in what they say—and yet, not entirely. It is true in the sense that they are reporting: now the eye has turned within, and the outer has gone as though it were not. And it is not true in the sense that merely closing your eyes to the outer does not annihilate it.

So I am not in agreement with the Mayavadins. I understand the truth in their statement, but I cannot call it the whole truth. Their statement is exactly as true as yours.

You say, Abdul Qadir:
“Chamk-chamak kar hazar aftab doob gaye,
hum apni shaame-alam ko sehr bana na sake.”
A thousand suns flashed and sank; yet our dusk remained dreary, dark, joyless—we could not bring celebration into it, could not illumine it. No melody arose there; no song was born; no flute played; no cuckoo called, no papiha cried pi-pi. Within there was only a desert. Outside countless flowers bloomed and fell, fragrance flew everywhere—but inside, nothing. Your statement is as true as the Mayavadins’: they say when the inner lamp was lit, the outer world vanished. Outside all became dark, false.

Both worlds are. Both are equally true—two facets of the one truth, like the two sides of a coin.

In this sense I am non-dualist: though there are two faces, there is one coin. And in this sense I am dualist: though the coin is one, the faces are two. Try as you may, you cannot mint a coin with only one face.

The materialist tries to make a one-faced coin—and fails. He breaks himself in the attempt. The so-called spiritualist tries the same in reverse: he declares only the inner is true; the outer is false.

There was a Sufi fakir, Rabia—an extraordinary woman. Few women on this earth have reached the height we call the Buddha’s peak; among those few is Rabia. Even the men who arrived can be counted on fingers, women fewer still—a sorry fact for which men are responsible. Men did not allow women to rise, to awaken. For centuries they were forbidden to study the Vedas; they were denied entry to mosques; in Jewish synagogues they sit behind a veil on the balcony, far away, without the right to sit with men in the temple courtyard. Jains say women cannot attain liberation in a female body; they must first be reborn as men. All these are proclamations of male ego, nothing else. The result: very few women could attain Buddhahood. Yet some did—Meera, Sahajo, Daya, and Lalla of Kashmir, who rose so high that Kashmiris say: we know only two names, Allah and Lalla. Among them is Rabia.

A Sufi fakir, Hasan, was her guest. At dawn he stepped outside the hut. Rabia sat within, eyes closed, swaying in ecstasy. Hasan saw the sun rising—a morning of such beauty as he had never seen: the clouds flushed with color, birds singing, buds bursting into bloom, fragrance on the breeze, the cool soft wind of dawn. He called, “Rabia, what are you doing inside? Come out! See what a lovely world God has made! What a morning! What colors fill the sky! What songs he has put into birds’ throats! What fragrance he has breathed into flowers! What a cool breeze! Come out! What are you doing inside?”

Rabia burst into laughter—so free that Hasan was startled, as if a madwoman were laughing. Then she said, “Hasan, how long will you roam outside? Come in! I say to you: granted God has made a very beautiful morning—you say so, and you wouldn’t lie—but come inside and see the One who made the morning sun, who opened these flowers, who put songs into birds’ throats. How long will you look at creation? Look at the Creator. Come within!”

Hasan had said one thing; Rabia changed the very direction. This is the art of the true master: you ask one thing, he answers another; even if your question has no life, he breathes life into his answer; by hearing him you recognize how much life there was in your question. Hasan never imagined the conversation would turn so spiritual. But in hands like Rabia’s even a pebble becomes a Kohinoor; a corpse rises alive; what Ganges water she touches becomes wine—whoever drinks is intoxicated forever. Hasan said, “Rabia, you changed the whole point; you’ve embarrassed me. Forgive me—I am coming in. You are right.”

And Rabia said, “Outside is all maya, illusion; truth is within.”

There I do not agree. Outside is true, within is true. Wherever your gaze falls: if you look only outward, you miss the truth within; if you look only inward, you miss the truth without. And until now this is what has happened. The East looked within and missed the outer truth; hence it is poor, hungry, famished, forlorn, wasted—as if on its deathbed. If the outer is all maya, who will give birth to science, who will wrestle with the truths of the so-called illusion?

The poverty of this land owes much to your spiritualists—whether knowingly or not, but it does. It cannot be denied.

And the West? It got stuck with the outer truth and never looked within. The West says: there is nothing inside. All this talk is nonsense; what is, is outside.

Notice, both sides use the same logic. Between Shankaracharya’s logic and Karl Marx’s there is not a hair’s breadth of difference. Shankara says: the outer is false, truth is within. Marx says: the inner is false, the outer alone is true. Both are non-dualists; both insist on one. That is their mistake; that is where they miss.

I want a human being who can create a meeting between inside and outside, who can build a bridge between the two; who is so skilled that when he closes his eyes he sees the Creator within, and when he opens them he sees creation without; who does not deny the outer for the sake of the inner, nor the inner for the sake of the outer; who does not deny at all. Whose acceptance is so vast that both within and without are contained in it. Then religion and science meet. Then East and West meet. This is what I hope for from my sannyasin: that both meet in him—materialism and spirituality.

Therefore my sannyasin will have to bear criticism from both sides.

The materialist will say, “What nonsense—talking spirituality!” Communists oppose me; their objection is that I set people moving in a delusive direction called meditation, turning millions inward while the real issue is outside. Revolution must happen outside—sun is outside, moon is outside, light is outside—and I am distracting people within, stealing them away from revolution. “He is an enemy of revolution.”

And the spiritualists are angry too. All their sects are against me—for the reason that I teach my sannyasin materialism. I do not tell him to renounce the world; I do not say the world is maya. I tell him: live, live to the full! I make him a bhogi, a lover of life; I separate him from yoga; I lead him astray, corrupt him.

I will have to bear both criticisms. Their beliefs are centuries old.

It is a curious thing: until now, the two sides never agreed about one person; they never joined hands to criticize the same man. This is new. Whom the spiritualists criticized, materialists generally supported; whom materialists criticized, spiritualists supported. Now I have become a puzzle to them: why are they both agreed about me? Because the logic of both is the same—they accept only half.

Mulla Nasruddin said to his wife, “Bring me half a glass of water.” After a while he shouted, “You’re taking too long! Bring half a glass of water!” She replied, “I was just wondering—what do you want it for? Half full or half empty? First make that clear.”

Fazlu’s mother must have been a philosopher. What a question! Half empty or half full?

People of half-and-half glasses have ruled the earth.

I want your eyes to be fluid, your vision fluid—neither inward-turned nor outward-turned. If you become inward-turned, you break from the outer—and pay for it. The East has paid dearly. If you become outward-turned, you miss the inner—the West is paying for that: tensioned, tormented, hectic, no rest, no peace, meaning drained away. Wealth will be there, palaces will rise, highways, industry, technology, marvels of science—even the power to reach the moon and stars—but within, not even a candle will be lit; darkness will remain. And with inner darkness, what will you do even if you reach the moon? You will still be you; going to the moon won’t make your inner moon rise.

Abdul Qadir, you say, “A thousand suns flashed and sank.” Even if you reach the sun, nothing will happen—your inner darkness will remain untouched.

Both traditions have failed, tired, broken. Their days are over. I call both incomplete, hence diseased. Man needs a fluid vision.

Understand this phrase—fluid vision. If you grasp it, my language will become clear to you, the way I see life will be clear. I am neither inward-turned nor outward-turned, nor do I want you to be. Do not choose—remain fluid. Close your eyes when you wish, as naturally as you blink; sleep at night, open your eyes in the morning—with that same ease. Do not become rigid. Do not bind yourself in one circle. Moving in and out should be effortless—like going in and out of your house. In the morning you step into the garden; the sun feels pleasant. After a while it grows hot, sweat begins; you quietly go back into the shade. A moment ago the sun was lovely; now the shade is. Be that simple. Do not insist, “I am inward-turned, I will sit inside even if I shiver with cold, even if my teeth chatter.”

Mulla Nasruddin went to the doctor complaining, “I feel terribly cold, as if I have a fever.” The doctor asked, “Do your teeth chatter?” Mulla said, “I haven’t noticed; at night I put my teeth on the table before sleeping. I’ll get up tonight and see.”

If your teeth are separate from you, that’s another matter! But if you insist on sitting inside, your teeth will chatter; you will live in darkness. If you insist on staying outside, you will be drenched in sweat and suffer needlessly. Do not be obstinate. Save yourself from stubbornness.

We have honored stubbornness so much we made a whole yoga out of it—Hathayoga! We honor the obstinate: the rigid, cranky, vain, stiff-necked. So stiff that even when the rope is burnt, the kinks remain. Someone stands on one leg for years—we call him a great yogi. He is merely pigheaded, dull-witted; only the dull are obstinate. Someone eats once a week; someone drinks only milk; someone lives only on water; someone stands on his head; someone has kept one arm raised for years and now cannot put it down—the muscles have lost their flow. We wash their feet and drink that water, calling them ascetics and wise. They are only stubborn. Look into their eyes—you will not find intelligence, joy, celebration, or a glimpse of God.

Stubbornness makes you compulsive. All compulsions are dangerous. Do not be compulsive about the outer or the inner. Do not be compulsive at all. To be non-compulsive is to be religious.

I do not even ask you to be a satyagrahi—an “adherent of truth.” The moment truth becomes an adherence, it turns false; adherence is poison, it poisons even truth. Do not adhere. Be without adherence—fluid, simple, flowing, supple. When needed, go within; when needed, go without.

So I tell my sannyasin: when you find time, close your eyes, dive within, gather the inner pearls. And when needed, work in the outer world—it is yours too, a gift of God. The outer sun and moon are yours—and the inner sun and moon too. There is a sky outside, and there is a sky inside.

The great Western psychologist Carl Gustav Jung divided people into two types: introverts and extroverts. Regarding the old human being, I agree his division was accurate. But for the future human being, it will become false—it must become false. My whole effort is to make Jung false. We need a person who cannot be put into categories; who is in the marketplace and meditative; who is meditative and still among the crowd; who can be alone in a crowd; who, sitting in the bazaar, closes his eyes and the gates of the Himalayas open.

You ask, Abdul Qadir, “Now tell us what to do.”

Your expectation was wrong; your longing was misguided. You thought the outer sun and stars would become inner light for you—that notion was mistaken. You have not done anything yet. You ask as if you have done much and now wonder, “What next?” You have done nothing. You have lived in a false assumption. Your hope itself was delusive.

Mulla Nasruddin went to a bank on some work. He bent, picked something up, and shouted, “Has anyone dropped a bundle of hundred-rupee notes tied with string?” Five or seven men—this is India, after all!—rushed up saying, “Yes, ours! Hundred-rupee notes tied with string!” Mulla said, “Peace! Peace! So far I’ve found only the string—no notes yet.”

These are the signs of the optimist: the moment he finds a string, he imagines bundles of hundred-rupee notes! And here there is a whole congregation of the dishonest—five or seven rushed, not just one!

A man lost his bag of money on a bus. He announced, “I had ten thousand rupees in a bag. If anyone finds it, I will give him a thousand and be greatly obliged.” A man at the back shouted, “I’ll give two thousand!”

Here dishonesty becomes an auction.

You have done nothing, yet you ask, “Now what shall I do?”

India’s most wondrous scriptures begin with a unique word: athato. The Brahma-sutra—peerless in the world—begins, “Athato Brahma-jijnasa”—Now, therefore, the inquiry into Brahman. Likewise Narada’s Bhakti-sutras—peerless regarding devotion—begin, “Athato bhakti-jijnasa”—Now, therefore, the inquiry into devotion. This “now” declares: you have done much else, through countless lives; whatever could be done you have done, and found nothing. Now let us set out in the right direction.

You too ask, Abdul Qadir, “Now tell us what to do.” Athato? But you have done nothing yet. I doubt whether even the string has come into your hands! You simply clung to hope—that the inner would be lit by the outer light. Hence you found despair. The fault is not with the sun and stars but with your expectation. If someone tries to extract oil from sand and fails, is it the sand’s fault? It is his own mistake. Until now, you have done nothing.

Drop this delusive notion. Within, a lamp is already lit—that is your very life. You are alive; that much is certain. If you are alive, the flame burns—how else could life be?

If you can ask, the answer lies hidden within you. In the depth of the very question the answer is concealed. Dig a little and you will find it.

Now meditate. Go within. But remember: do not sever yourself from the outer; do not break away. Keep your feet planted firmly outside too, or you will remain incomplete—one incompleteness replaced by another. The human mind easily goes from one extreme to the other, from one delusion to another.

First people say, “The world is true; Brahman is false”—the atheist’s declaration. Then so-called theists say, “Brahman is true; the world is false.” Both are incomplete. Neither the atheist nor the theist is religious. Religion is wholeness. The religious person says: the world is true and Brahman is true. The world is Brahman’s circumference; Brahman is the world’s center. Your body is true; your soul is true. The body is the expression of your soul; the soul abides in the body. The flame in the lamp is as true as the clay lamp itself. Together they are the whole truth.

Therefore I do not want to erect any barrier between the outer and the inner, nor any opposition. Enough damage has been done by that conflict. Because of it, man has become fragmented within—so-called religious and irreligious alike have remained incomplete. Now we need a whole human being and a whole culture in which the music of the theist and the atheist is harmonized into one. There is a certain glory to atheism and a certain glory to theism; together they reveal the supreme peak.

My theism assimilates atheism—it does not deny it. Go within, and also keep your feet firmly grounded without. Do not withdraw your hand from the outer; learn also the art of arriving within. Do not turn your back on the world—do not be an escapist. I do not want you to flee to the Himalayas and sit in caves. I want you to remain where you are—at home, in the family—and reserve an hour or two for yourself. Out of twenty-four hours, give twenty-two to the world, to wife, children, family—gladly, not grudgingly; the world needs it. Give joyfully.

How much God gives to the world! Could a single moment pass without his giving? He is our very breath, the fragrance of flowers, the colors of all things, the vastness of space. Without him all would shrivel and die, a universal fall. From him spring the springtime and the honeyed month; from him life expresses itself in myriad colors and modes—what a manifold expression! And through all this expression, what harmony, what rhythm, what unison resounds!

Let such harmony be in your life too. Give the world twenty-two hours; save two for yourself. In those two, forget the world and drown within. Then come out again—like a dip in water: you dive, then you emerge.

Three children were bragging at school—vanity begins early. One said, “My father dives and stays under for five minutes.” The second, “That’s nothing; my father stays for half an hour.” The third, “That’s nothing; my father dived, and it’s been seven years—he hasn’t come up yet.”

I am not asking for that sort of dive! Dive and come out—again and again. Let there be no conflict between the two. One foot inside, one foot outside. One foot in time, one in the timeless. One foot on matter, one in the divine.

These are not two boats; they are two modes of one boat—two cabins of one craft; not two horses, but one horse with two colors: from one side black, from the other white.

In America there was a man, Robert Ripley—fond of oddities. He collected the world’s strangest things and wrote books called Believe It or Not. Nothing in his collection is the sort you accept at first glance. He had a fish that swims upside down, the only one of its kind. He paid a great price for it. He had a human hair on which a love letter was written—you may have seen rice grains with Ram-Ram inscribed, but a whole love letter on a single hair! He had the oldest piece of human skin, seven thousand years old, with a complete statement printed on it. He had a human skull that, no matter how you throw it, always rights itself.

When did that man die? Ten or fifteen thousand years ago, scientists say. But what a stubborn fellow—his skull is still adamant. The rope has burnt, the kinks remain! You cannot keep it upside down; it always sits upright because it is heavier below than above. Life must have been difficult—his head would hang down, or a servant had to hold it up. Some children are born with large heads and small bodies; their heads wobble or hang to one side. This man’s skull must have been like that—heavy below, light above. Throw it any way, it rights itself. In a dark room it would be scary: you turn it over and it sits straight—one would wonder if a ghost inhabits it!

Ripley painted his car in two colors, half black and half white, right down the middle. He drove absurdly and often had accidents. Court cases were fun, because witnesses contradicted each other. Those on one side swore the car was black; those on the other swore it was white. He stood laughing: “Let them first agree on the color!” Only later did they discover the car was half-and-half. With contradictory witnesses, the case collapses.

God is half outside, half inside. You too must be so. Live life that way. Life is an art.

It is easy to be worldly—and it is also easy to be a sannyasin of the old sort. Both are easy. The old sannyasin is an escapist. My sannyasin is not—he is neither merely worldly nor merely renunciate; or say, he is both at once: sannyasin and householder; yogi and bhogi together. You cannot corrupt him, lure him, or make him fall—where will you push him? He has his feet planted on both facets of life.

This is what I say to you, Abdul Qadir: learn this new definition of sannyas; understand this new form of religion; enter the art of living in totality. Then your dusk will become morning; your night will turn into day. Turning twilight into dawn is not difficult; it is simple—like turning a key and the lock opens. But if you go on banging at the lock with hammers and stones, you only make it harder; even if you later find the key, the lock may not open. The key opens effortlessly. Hitting does not open locks; perhaps it ruins them.

I find life very simple, very easy—there is no complexity in it. The complexity is in our vision. Change your vision a little, and the creation changes.

Prem Narayan! Me, an ocean of knowledge! You’ve made a mistake. You are the ocean of knowledge! You haven’t asked a question; you’ve delivered a verdict. I am ignorant, supremely ignorant—one who knows nothing. How did a knower like you land up here? It’s our great fortune you came, bestowed enlightenment, and woke up a sleeper; otherwise I would have slept on!
You’ve written a whopper. You wrote: “You look like an ocean of knowledge.”
I may look like it; I am not. Not even a drop—yet you’re talking oceans! Here, not even a drop remains, and you’re talking oceans!
You know everything! Why ask this at all? Wise ones like you don’t go around asking questions. You must have come out of sheer compassion.
You say, “In your doctrine or teaching…”
Who ever said I have a doctrine? Have I ever said so? I don’t talk metaphysics. How would an ignorant man talk metaphysics? I speak simple things: two plus two equals four—such things. Where’s metaphysics in that? You’re imposing your imagination and getting troubled by it. If I claimed to be a metaphysician, your question would have weight. But I don’t; I call myself ignorant.
It’s written of Socrates that when he grew old he said, “I know only one thing: that I know nothing.” The day he said this, the famous oracle at Delphi proclaimed, “Socrates has become supremely wise.” Some people came to tell him: “Did you hear, Socrates? Dance! Celebrate! Feast your friends! Beat the drums in Athens: the god of Delphi has declared you supremely wise!”
Socrates said, “The god must have erred. Why not? If men can err, so can gods. Some mistake has happened. Me, supremely wise? I am supremely ignorant. Go tell the god Socrates refuses the title.”
They were stunned.
They returned to Delphi and said to the god—Delphi had an idol, hollow inside; the priest would stand within. It was believed the priest became possessed, lost himself, and the spirit of the world spoke through him. Perhaps it did—this incident at least suggests so. They said, “O Lord! You call Socrates supremely wise. We went to tell him; he says, ‘There must be a mistake. Take your words back. I am supremely ignorant.’ What do you say now?” And the Delphic oracle declared, “That is exactly why I called him supremely wise.”
Metaphysicians aren’t truly knowers of truth; they’re knowers of words and scriptures. Those who have actually known the essence don’t remain “knowers”; they merge with the essence. Then where is knowledge? Where is the knower, the known, the object of knowledge? All distinctions dissolve.
I have no metaphysics, no philosophy, no system. I am not teaching a philosophy here! I am not a teacher. I don’t teach; I help—so that the way I forgot, you too may forget.
A German philosopher, Count Keyserling—a very famous one; and by a strange coincidence, his nephew is here and is our sannyasin—once came to Ramana Maharshi and said, “I have come from faraway Germany to sit at your feet and learn.” Ramana hardly spoke, but that day he said, “Then you’ve come to the wrong place. Go elsewhere. If you want to learn, go somewhere else. Sitting with me is dangerous.” Keyserling asked, “What danger?” Ramana said, “Here we don’t teach, we un-teach. Whatever you’ve learned, we erase. If you want to forget, stay. If you want to learn, there are many universities, many acharyas, world-teachers, metaphysicians, spiritualists—go to them.”
Keyserling was taken aback for a moment—he hadn’t expected this. But he wasn’t an Indian scholar; otherwise he would have thought, “What am I doing with this ignoramus! He looks like a knower, an ocean of knowledge, and turns out to be ignorant”—and would have left. He stayed.
He said, “Teach or erase—no matter. I have recognized your eyes. I have caught your fragrance. Now I won’t move. If you must annihilate me, do it.” And Count Keyserling returned annihilated. He returned awakened. Not as someone who had “known”—knowing is child’s play; knowing always leaves the knower and the known separate. Awakening!
What happens here is not metaphysics, nor am I teaching. This is a process of awakening.
But you have your own lens. You must have heard Puri’s Shankaracharya, Acharya Tulsi; Swami Akhandananda; Ramkinkar Maharaj—your head is stuffed with so-called knowers. From that confusion you look at me and want to slot me in the same category. I don’t fit there. Better you understand: I am ignorant.
People see through their own eyes.
Chandulal was standing on the 30th floor of a building in Bombay. He looked down and saw what seemed a rupee coin gleaming. He came down. The lift was shut—power cut—so he took the stairs. By the 20th floor he was panting. He looked again carefully: not a rupee—seemed like a larger silver coin. “What coin could be bigger than a rupee? Maybe a silver ornament,” he thought, and hurried faster, forgetting his panting. Ten floors to go, breath going in-and-out, he looked once more: now it looked even bigger, like a slab of silver! He ran flat out, life or death! At the bottom he found—nothing. A beggar’s plate. The beggar had washed it at the tap, wiped it, and set it to dry, and was sitting nearby under a bush. Chandulal slapped his forehead.
People see through their assumptions. Some people see money everywhere; wherever they look, they see money.
Two Christian mendicants were walking. Evening bells began to ring at a church on a hill. One said to the other, “Do you hear those lovely bells? They tickle the heart, make it overflow.” The other said, “I’ll hear what you’re saying only if that stupid bell stops! Because of that dumb bell I can’t hear you at all.”
Now what is there left to say? The first wondered, “What now?” He was praising the church’s melodious bells; the other reduced them to “that stupid bell,” stripped them of all sweetness. Still, the second asked, “What were you saying?” The first said, “No point now. I was praising those very bells—how sweet.” The second said, “Nonsense! What sweetness? The church is so far away, and the market here is so noisy—and you hear its sweet bells and great music!”
The first mendicant instantly took a rupee from his pocket and flung it hard on the road. It clinked. A hundred people rushed at once, crowding, “My rupee fell! My rupee fell!” The first said, “See? The market is in uproar—shops closing, shutters banging, bullock carts rolling, trucks being loaded, porters shouting, ‘Hurry up, it’s evening!’ Everyone wants to get home. Yet the clink of one rupee—and a hundred people heard it!”
If your ear is tuned to money, no matter the noise, you will hear the clink of a coin. We hear what our conditioning holds.
Your taste must be for metaphysics, so you’ve projected metaphysics onto me. It isn’t my fault. Your taste is for knowledge. Don’t blame me! Knowledge and such don’t attract me. My eagerness is to wipe away your knowledge. You are full of knowledge—junk. Your skull contains nothing but garbage. Even parrots can memorize scriptures; that doesn’t make them knowers of truth.
When all thoughts cease in your consciousness, then awakening is born, Buddhahood is born. But you sit with your assumptions as a veil; so you heard “metaphysics.”
And “teaching”? Who is teaching here? Am I some schoolmaster? And if I ever “teach,” it is in the Marathi sense. Good “shiksha”! In Marathi, shiksha has an important meaning—“a thrashing.” Maharashtra has its charms! What a meaning for shiksha! And Maharashtra itself—what a wonder! A nation (rashtra) is already a disease, and a great-nation (Maha-rashtra) within a nation—an aggravated disease! Magicians pull boxes from boxes, but have you seen anyone pull out a bigger box from a smaller one? Only in India can such wonders happen! This is a land of conjurors. Sai Babas everywhere pulling out ash—yet here they pull a Maharashtra out of a rashtra!
Still, Maharashtra has merits: at least it has the correct sense of shiksha. Elsewhere, few know its true meaning! So if I ever give “shiksha,” it’s in the Maharashtrian sense. While I’m in Maharashtra, I should learn something from it. My Marathi doesn’t go far, but that much suffices.
What “teaching”?
And you say, “There is a total absence of devotion.”
Do you have eyes? Or are you wearing glasses—bricks for lenses, through which nothing can be seen? Here, what is there besides devotion? But perhaps not the devotion of your notion. Your notion will not be supplied here. Only if you leave your notions at the door will you see anything. Otherwise, nothing. Here there is devotion—only devotion. But it has its own gesture. Not your kind. I know neither worship nor ritual. You won’t find such devotion here—no plates waved, no aarti, no “Jai Ganesh, Jai Ganesh,” no Hanuman Chalisa before the idol. That kind of bhakti you won’t see.
It’s just as well Charles Darwin didn’t come to India before he wrote his theory of evolution. Had he seen Hanuman’s idols and the devotional fervor, he would have taken it as clinching proof that man evolved from the monkey: “Look—the greatest evidence is the worship of Hanuman!” He would have concluded that Hanuman worship is the remembrance of that ancient primal ancestor, the first monkey who came down from the trees and stood up on two feet—the worship of the prime father. Otherwise, why would humans worship a monkey!
You won’t find idols here with people sitting before them, ringing bells, offering flowers, burning incense and lamps. Naturally you’ll feel: “There is no devotion here.” You won’t find devotion according to your notion. But a nameless Ganges of devotion is flowing here. Only devotees gather here. Yet this devotion stands on something else; its current is different. Devotion based on belief is false, impotent. For belief means: you don’t know, yet you accept.
When you wave a lamp before an idol—do you know what you’re doing? Are you aware of your act? Do you have any proof of God’s existence? Have you known God? Any experience? If you have, then what on earth are you doing with this fuss? If you haven’t, what on earth are you doing—and calling it devotion? Only two possibilities: either you have experienced—which makes all this unnecessary. Or you haven’t—then your devotion is fake, superficial, imposed from the outside.
I don’t emphasize devotion and prayer—certainly not of that kind. Because that emphasis only breeds hypocrisy. The earth is full of hypocrites. Who is responsible? You teach small children devotion!
When I was small, I too was taken to temples. My father told me, “Bow.” I said, “Why should I bow? I see nothing here. Granted, these are lovely stone gods—why bow? I can make them bow.” He said, “Don’t talk like that.” When no one was there, I would go and make them bow, see?—nothing to it; they bow! Push from here, push from there; they do nothing—not even cry, “Help! Religion is in danger!” They can’t do a thing. I would slap them, and seeing they did nothing, I thought, “Why bow before them? What for?”
“Bow before the scriptures!” my father said. I told him, “You don’t know—I come alone and beat up these scriptures.” He said, “Never do that! Don’t come to the temple at all! I’ll tell the priest not to let you in alone.” I said, “The priest also goes here and there. He doesn’t sit. He comes when devotees come—he has other work too. And in these books there is only ink. Even if fine words are written—what is there to bow to? There is something to understand.” The stone idol is beautiful; I can praise the artist’s craft—but I see nothing else.
If you force little children to bow, they’ll go on bowing their whole lives, imagining their bowing is devotion, worship. And the lie imposed on day one keeps chasing them.
I don’t want to force anyone to bow—to anything. There is no need. After realization, a sense of “Ah!” arises. That “Ah!” is devotion. A grace begins to flow—gratitude. That is devotion. It is not noisy or ostentatious. One doesn’t go around shouting “Jai Ganesh,” but a soft music begins inside. Life becomes suffused with love.
Look at the lives of my sannyasins—you won’t find lives more love-filled anywhere on earth. But you don’t count love as devotion. You take hollow things to be devotion. I take love to be devotion’s foundation—not fear. Yet you have taken fear to be devotion.
In every language there are such absurd expressions: “God-fearing.” Is there fear in love? Where fear is, can love be? But you have Tulsidas by heart! Tulsidas says, “Bhay bin hoy na preeti”—without fear there is no love. No one has ever said anything more wrong. I tell you loudly: as long as there is fear, love cannot be. Fear and love? Then what is hatred? The one you frighten will hate you; he cannot love you.
Existenсe is not frightening you—not a bit. If you understand existence—if you break your sleep and the net of hollow words—you will see the whole cosmos is flooded with love. Love alone flows. It is the green in the trees, the red in flowers, the glow in the sun, the scatter in the stars. It hums as a sweet sound in your life-breath, gurgles in the brook, dances in the peacock, calls in the pied cuckoo. It is hidden within you too. Love needs to be awakened. And to awaken love, no belief or blind faith is needed. Love needs the refinement of meditation. And there, Prem Narayan—your very name means “Love is the divine.” Perhaps you have never understood your name. Prem Narayan means: love itself is God—there is no other God.
Meditation cuts away the obstructions that block love’s flow. Here I teach meditation, not devotion. Devotion is the fruit. I sow seeds. If you watch someone sowing, you may think, “What is he doing? We thought he’d sow flowers, and he’s putting in seeds. Where are the flowers, the fruits? What a distance!” But those who want fruits and flowers must sow seeds. I am sowing seeds. You’ll need eyes to see. From these seeds will come fruit, flowers, fragrance.
Meditation is the seed; prayer is the fruit. It begins with meditation and culminates in prayer. Prayer is the final flowering, the ultimate gift. Meditation is the discipline; prayer is God’s grace. You cannot “do” prayer. If you do, it will be false. That’s why I don’t tell you to pray. Why should I, when I know that if you practice meditation, one day prayer will arise on its own. And when it arises on its own, its beauty, its flavor, its joy are altogether different. Then it is not Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Buddhist, Jain—just prayer. And meditation is not Hindu or Muslim either; it is scientific. Keep these two things in mind.
Meditation is a scientific process. When you go to a doctor you don’t say, “I am a Hindu—give me Hindu medicine.” He’ll say, “Get out! Don’t come back.” Medicines aren’t Hindu; diseases aren’t Hindu. Whether you’re Hindu or Muslim, penicillin works on your TB. The physician diagnoses the disease.
What is your disease? Mind is your disease. Erudition is your disease. Knowledge is your disease. Scriptures are your disease. Scriptures are Hindu; knowledge is Hindu, Muslim, Jain, Christian. I am not a metaphysician; hence I don’t make anyone a Hindu or a Muslim here. If a Hindu comes, slowly he becomes simply human. If a Muslim comes, he becomes human. If a Christian comes, he becomes human. These diseases drop. To become human is enough.
I give you only one alchemy to free you from your net: meditation. It simply means: how to become silent within, how to become still. When the mind is utterly quiet, you hear the inner voice. That voice is prayer, worship, reverence. Then it has no ritual, no prescribed method, no sacrifices, no priests. It simply wells up from within you—as light streams from a lamp, so prayer streams from meditation. Then there is a devotion that only those with eyes can recognize. You cannot—because you cling to your insistences.
Insistence is misery. The insistent person sees in such a way that his very seeing goes wrong.
Dhabbuji went to his doctor and said, “Doctor, wheat is growing in my ear.” The doctor was startled. “Is that what makes you uneasy?” “No,” said Dhabbuji, “that doesn’t bother me at all.” The doctor was more puzzled: “Then why have you come?” Dhabbuji said, “The uneasiness is because I had sown rice.”
If you’ve sown one assumption and something else sprouts, you’ll be uneasy.
You come with a notion; you’ve already sown something. You see something else here. I don’t fit your notion—thus your difficulty.
A woman complained to her husband, “These days beggars are such frauds. I gave a rupee to a blind beggar yesterday, and he said, ‘May God preserve your beauty.’” The husband smiled, “Then you should have no doubt about his blindness. I thought I alone was blind; apparently there are two of us—me and that beggar.”
A mother asked her daughter, “You won first prize in the speech contest—what did your father say?” The daughter replied, “He looked a bit sad and said, ‘You’re taking after your mother.’”
If your notions are strong, you will hear only through them.
A judge asked an accused, “You’ve started stealing again? What did you do in the two months in between?” The accused said, “Sir, I fell ill.” The judge said, “Such small disputes you people should settle outside the court.” “Your honor, that’s exactly what we were doing—when this constable dragged us in.”
You have a fixed notion; because of it, you see what isn’t here and miss what is, Prem Narayan. But how are you to blame? Everyone grows up in notions, and clings to them as if they were great treasures—ready to die and kill for them, as if their notions were more precious than life.
Dhabbuji once asked Mulla Nasruddin, “Nasruddin, why do you always talk to the barber about the weather when he’s shaving you?” Nasruddin replied, “Do you mean I should debate politics or religion with a man holding a razor to my throat?”
He’s right. With a razor on your neck, one second decides it. Better to talk weather—no quarrel there: “What a rain today!” Indeed. “What a sunny day!” Indeed—no argument.
The English talk only about the weather—it’s considered bad manners to argue. If you won’t argue, the only non-controversial topic is weather. Two Englishmen can talk for hours about weather. What is there to say? You see the sun; I see the sun.
It’s said of Lao Tzu: when he went for walks, a neighbor often joined him. One day the neighbor had a guest who asked to come along. The neighbor said, “Let me ask Lao Tzu. He doesn’t like any conversation.” The guest promised, “I won’t speak at all.” “Then come,” the neighbor said.
The three walked. An hour passed—beautiful hills, the sun rising. The guest had managed to remain silent—must have been a disciplined man. But how long can you hold it? He said, “What beautiful hills! What a lovely sunrise!” Lao Tzu stopped and said, “Send this man back. He’s a chatterbox.”
The man was shocked, and the neighbor said, “Chatterbox? He spoke a single sentence in an hour!” Lao Tzu said, “He thinks I am blind? I can see the hills are beautiful, he can see, you can see; the sun is rising—what is there to say? Send him back. And from tomorrow, you don’t come either—if you think he is not a chatterbox, you too will speak one day. Forgive me. What is there to say about such things?”
This is Lao Tzu. Had he gone to England, he would have been in trouble—people there talk weather only. I don’t follow such etiquette. I raise matters that transform life—not the weather.
You must be getting uncomfortable.
You say, “In your doctrine or teaching there is a total absence of devotion.”
You’ve startled me! And those around me must be startled too. What are you saying? At least say something factual! Even if there’s a shred, make a snake out of it. But here there isn’t even a shred, and you’ve made a snake. Reconsider. Squint your eyes, splash some cold water, and look again. Here it is nothing but devotion, nothing but love. This is a gathering of lovers and madmen, a world of the intoxicated. This is a tavern of the blissful drunk. Here we drink and serve the wine of love. Who cares for knowledge!
And you say, “In spirituality, knowledge without devotion only displays a man’s ego.”
A telling point! You know everything—why have you come? What’s lacking in you? You troubled yourself needlessly. Send word and I would have come to serve you—and learn at your feet!
True—where there is no devotion, there is only ego. What else can there be? But here it is only devotion. Where is ego? Yet you see it. There’s a knot within you. You have jaundice; everything looks yellow. It’s said, “To one who became blind in monsoon, the world is forever green.” He lost sight when all was green; even when it dries, memory stays green forever.
You must be filled with ego; the egotist projects ego everywhere. They saw ego in Mansoor al-Hallaj when he declared “Ana’l Haqq”—I am the Truth. “I am the Truth”—ah, ego! If you were to meet the rishis of the Upanishads and they said “Aham Brahmasmi”—I am Brahman—you would say, “There! Ego!”
You are projecting your inner ego. But when one says “Aham Brahmasmi,” he means: I am no more—only the divine remains. Yet we must use your language—hence the problem.
I too must use your language, so listen carefully to the words I choose—else you will stumble. The one who said “Aham Brahmasmi” also said “Tat Tvam Asi”—you are that. But here is the delicious irony!
For twenty years I traveled village to village across India, saying to millions, “I bow to the God within each of you,” and not one person objected. People told me, “When you say you bow to the God within us, our hearts overflow, and tears well up.”
Then I said, “Enough of this after twenty years.” One day I declared, “Aham Brahmasmi!” and said, “Now bow to the God within me.” They said, “What are you saying? That is ego!”
Twenty years it wasn’t ego when I declared their divinity. When I declared my own, I became egotistical. If I inflate your ego, your hearts melt and your eyes weep. But when I declare “Ana’l Haqq,” your ego is wounded.
Yet I am saying the same thing I said before: the same dwells in you, in me, in all. There is none else. But those whose eyes used to overflow disappeared when I declared my godhood. They were hurt: “He has become egotistical.”
For twenty years I declared their godhood and was not an egotist! What a joke! No one asked then.
Think, Prem Narayan—where is ego here? I am not; only God is. You are not; only God is. But you still feel you are; you cling to your “being.” You can only see within your boundary. In front of a mirror, what will you see? If a monkey comes to a mirror, will he see a god? He will see a monkey. If he gets irritated, the mirror-monkey will look irritated too.
A dog once got trapped overnight in a glass palace—a hall of mirrors. In the morning they found him dead. All night neighbors heard a dog’s howling like never before. Wherever he looked, he saw dogs. Seeing dogs, he barked; they barked. He lunged; they lunged. He kept smashing into mirrors. In the morning his corpse lay there, blood on every mirror. There was no other dog—he was alone.
I am just a mirror—no more. If you see something, first ask: is it inside you? Whatever is inside will appear. If you sit with me emptied, you’ll see emptiness here. Those who sit sannyasins, having set aside their ego as one removes shoes, see no ego.
But you are new—understandably. Don’t get lost in this palace of mirrors. Think a little; otherwise you’ll bark meaninglessly and suffer.
You say, “An egotist cannot be a great guru.”
Who said an egotist can be a guru? Guru means: one in whom light has happened—and more: whose light can awaken light in others. His lamp is lit, and if you have the courage to bring your unlit lamp near, it too will be lit. But the way you’ve asked your question is not a way of coming near—it builds a wall. You’ll come and still miss; you’ll come empty and go empty.
What I’ve said may hurt you, may make you uneasy. I like to speak plainly. If a wound must be given, let it be given—only then perhaps you will smart and wake up. Perhaps you will be restless today and sleepless tonight. May your sleep break forever! May you awaken once and for all! May such a restlessness seize you that it does not relent until peace is found. Those who wish to come to me must bring that much courage.
Do not look at me through your notions. Listen a little, understand a little, savor a little. Come a little closer, inch nearer. Don’t build walls; build bridges. Don’t bring doctrines between us; spread love. Join this celebration a little. Drink a little of this wine. This is no temple; this is a tavern. This is a brotherhood of drinkers. Rinds have gathered here. Don’t start scriptural debates here! Don’t drag in the scriptures! Don’t try to see me from behind words—they are all devices to avoid. Here, dance! Tie anklets on your feet! Strike the drum! Beat the mridang! Sing! Join the celebration! This is a great festival. Here, every day is Holi; every day is Diwali!

Sukhdev Singh! Neither does every person need to be a Buddha, or a Krishna, or a Christ—and even if one wanted to, one couldn’t. Each person has to be himself. Why be a Christ? Why be borrowed, second-hand? Why get into acting? And if you act, it will remain only on the surface; it won’t reach within. You can play Rama in the Ramlila a hundred times—you will still remain only the Rama of the Ramlila. Go about with bow and arrows, Sita following, Hanuman at your side, Lakshman behind—nothing will happen! The Ramlila’s Rama will remain the Ramlila’s Rama.

In truth, in this existence no two persons have ever been born alike, nor can they be. It’s been two and a half thousand years since Buddha—has there been a second Buddha? Why not? Was there a lack of effort? Did too few people try? Millions tried, staked their lives, put everything on the line—and yet no one could become a second Buddha. It simply cannot happen. It’s as mad as a rose wanting to be juhi, juhi wanting to be champa, champa wanting to be kewra, and kewra wanting to be lotus. They’d all go mad—the whole forest would go mad. But forests don’t go mad: juhi remains juhi, champa remains champa. Who cares? Juhi never worries about becoming champa; champa doesn’t fret about becoming night‑blooming jasmine; night‑blooming jasmine has no anxiety about turning into narcissus.

These insanities mount only on man—and then he gets into trouble. Someone is striving to become Jesus, and ends up a Christian—poor fellow, he cannot become Christ. And to become a Christian is a carbon copy. Trying to become Rama, one ends up a Hindu—doesn’t become Rama. Trying to become Buddha, one becomes a Buddhist—doesn’t become Buddha.

Friedrich Nietzsche said it aptly: the first and the last Christian died on the cross two thousand years ago. First and last—remember! He was a bit cranky, but sometimes cranks hit the bull’s-eye. He spoke right to the point.

How can someone else’s life be your life? And there’s no need either. The world would become very drab. Just imagine—archer Ramas everywhere; wherever you go, Lord Ramachandra walking by, each with a Hanuman beside him, a Sita following, Lakshman bringing up the rear. Wherever you look—your head would spin! The diversity of life would be lost, its beauty gone. Wherever you look, Krishna‑Kanhaiya standing there, flute in hand, one foot crossed over the other in a dancer’s pose, playing; Rukmini sitting at home weeping, and who‑knows‑whose Radha dancing around him—there would be havoc! One Krishna is enough.

Sukhdev Singh, you become Sukhdev Singh! The Divine has given you a uniqueness, a personality. Don’t get caught in these falsities.

I have heard: Once Akbar called his court together and said to his nine jewels that he was growing old and had been hearing great praise for the Ramayana in this land. “I am no lesser a king than Ram. Can’t a Ramayana be written about my life?” Eight jewels stayed silent. What could they say? However great an emperor Akbar might be, how could a Ramayana be written about him? One jewel spoke—Birbal. He was no mere jewel; he was a great jewel.

He said, “It can be written. Why not? What do you lack? Ram’s kingdom was smaller than yours. Your empire is greater—you are the emperor of emperors. He was only King Ram. I will write it. But the work is laborious, the scripture is vast: one hundred thousand gold coins in advance, and one year’s time.” Akbar said, “Do it. No worry—take the hundred thousand right now. One year’s leave.”

Taking the gold, for a year Birbal lived it up. He didn’t write any book—there was nothing to write; he was a great jewel! Now and then Akbar would inquire, “What’s happening?” “It’s being written,” Birbal would say. “It’s being written; the day the year is complete, I will present it.”

The year ended. Birbal came—empty‑handed. Akbar asked, “Where is the book?” Birbal said, “Everything is done. One detail remains—only you can tell it; without it the Ramayana will not be complete. Our Ram’s Sita was abducted by Ravana. Your queen—by which Ravana was she abducted? Give me his name. Who is that bastard, that thug?”

Akbar flared up, drew his sword: “Are you mad? Let anyone even lift an eye toward my queen—I’ll have his eyes gouged out! Let anyone open his mouth—I’ll have his tongue cut out! What nonsense are you talking?”

Birbal said, “Maharaj, then the Ramayana cannot be written. Because our Ram’s Sita was carried off by Ravana, kept in Ashok‑vatika in Lanka for three years, and then rescued. Without this, there is no Ramayana; the fun is gone, the very life out of it.”

Akbar said, “If we have to get into all that, then we don’t want a Ramayana written. To hell with the Ramayana!” Birbal said, “As you wish—but my year’s hard work went to waste! Then, if you say, I can write the Mahabharata.” Akbar said, “I have heard even more about the Mahabharata. That is an even bigger book.” “Two hundred thousand gold coins in advance,” Birbal said. Akbar: “You’ll get them, but tell me first—does Ravana come in this one? There won’t be any abduction of Sita?” “Never. Ravana doesn’t appear at all. Sita’s abduction doesn’t happen. Don’t worry—there’s no such hassle in this one.” Akbar said, “You should have said so earlier. A year wasted and a hundred thousand gone. No matter—what’s done is done. Here, take two hundred thousand.”

For another year he reveled. With twice the gold, even more delight! He kept sending word in between: “It’s coming along, coming along.” The last day arrived. He came—again empty‑handed. “Where is the book? Where is the Mahabharata?” “Maharaj,” he said, “one detail—only you can provide it; without it the book will remain incomplete, the fun won’t be there. Draupadi had five husbands. Your queen—you are one husband; who are the other four rogues? Give me their names!”

The first time Akbar had only put his hand on the hilt; this time he drew the sword: “Wait, Birbal, you wretch! What do you take me for? As long as I am alive…!” Birbal said, “Maharaj, what can I do? Please sheathe your sword. You yourself say, ‘Write a book’; when I write, obstacles arise. Then, if you say, I’ll write the Vedas!” Akbar said, “We don’t want anything written. One thing is clear: you can’t paste someone else’s story onto someone else.” Birbal replied, “You understood quickly. Many are such fools they don’t understand for lifetimes.”

You cannot paste someone else’s story onto someone else. You don’t have to be Krishna, or Rama, or Buddha, or Christ—become yourself; that is enough. Let your flower bloom, let your fragrance spread, let your lamp be lit! Certainly, when you blossom, the same glory will be within you that is in Krishna, and the same glory that is in Buddha—but the story will not be the same. The essence will be the same; the color will not. The experience will be the same; the expression will not. The instrument will be the same, but the tune will be yours; the song will arise in you as yours.

And thank the Divine that he has left you no opportunity to become false. You cannot, no matter how hard you try. You can only become what you are—what in truth you are. The nature you were born with is what is to be expressed.

Do not fall into imitation. Many have gone astray in imitation.

Enough for today.