My beloved Atman! What is love? To live it and to know it is easy, but to say it is very difficult. As if someone were to ask a fish: what is the ocean? The fish can point, can gesture: this is the ocean, all around, only this. But if one says, say what it is, do not merely show it, then it becomes very hard for the fish. That which is supreme, beautiful, and true in a human life can be lived, can be known, can even happen to one, but to say it is exceedingly difficult. And the misfortune is this: that which ought to be lived and become, about that humanity, for five or six thousand years, has done nothing but talk. Talks of love go on, songs of love are sung, hymns to love are sung—and love has no place in human life. If you search within a man there is no other word more untrue than the word love. And those who have proved love to be false, who have blocked all its streams—the greater misfortune is that people think these very ones are the birth-givers of love. Religion talks of love, but the very kind of religion that has hung like a misfortune over humanity till today has closed all the doors of love in human life. And in this there is no difference between East and West, no difference between India and America. The stream of love has not been able to manifest in human life at all. And when it does not manifest, we lay the blame upon man—that man is bad, therefore it has not appeared. We blame the mind—that the mind is poison, therefore it has not appeared. The mind is not poison. And those who have called the mind poison have themselves poisoned love; they have not allowed love to manifest. How can the mind be poison? In this universe, nothing is poison. In this whole enterprise of the Divine, nothing is venom; all is amrit. But man has turned all amrit into poison. And in this poisoning the greatest hand is that of teachers, sadhus, saints, and the so-called religious people. This much must be understood a little. Because unless this is seen, love will never be possible in human life, not even in the future. For the very causes that have prevented love from arising, we continue to make those same causes the very basis for love to manifest! The situation is such that if false principles are repeated for thousands of years, we then forget that the principles are false; and it begins to appear that man is false, because he cannot fulfill those principles. I have heard: beneath the palace of an emperor a man selling fans used to pass, crying loudly that he had fashioned unique and wondrous fans. Fans such as these had never been made. These are fans never before seen. The emperor peered out of the window to see who it was that had brought such unique fans! He already possessed all kinds of fans—whatever could be found in the corners of the world. And below, in the corridor, a man stood with what must have been ordinary two-paisa fans, crying, unique, incomparable. He was called up and asked, what excellence do these fans have? What is the price of these fans? The fan-seller said, Majesty, the price is not much. Considering the fan, the price is very little: only a hundred rupees. The emperor said, a hundred rupees! This two-paisa fan that is found in markets everywhere—and the price a hundred rupees! What excellence does it have? The man said, excellence! This fan lasts a hundred years. Guaranteed for a hundred years. It will not break down before a hundred years. The emperor said, just looking at it, it seems difficult that it could last even a week. You are trying to deceive? Plain dishonesty—and that too before an emperor! The man said, you know me well; I sell fans daily in this very corridor. The price is a hundred rupees, and if it does not last a hundred years, I am responsible. I am present here every day. And then you are the emperor—where would I go after deceiving you? The fan was purchased. The emperor did not believe it, but was amazed that this man could speak such an obvious falsehood—upon what strength does he dare speak so! The fan was bought for a hundred rupees and the seller told to present himself on the seventh day. In two or four days the handle came off. By the seventh day it was utterly dead. The emperor thought, perhaps the fan-seller will not come. But he arrived exactly on time the seventh day and said, speak, Majesty. The emperor said, nothing to say—here lies the fan, broken. In seven days it has reached this state. You said it would last a hundred years. Are you mad or a cheat? What are you? The man said, it seems you do not know how to fan. The fan indeed lasts a hundred years. The fan is guaranteed. How did you fan yourself? The emperor said, listen to this too—now I must also learn how to use a fan! The man said, kindly tell me how you managed to bring it to this state in seven days. In what manner did you fan? The emperor lifted the fan and showed how he had done it. The man said, I see the mistake. The fan is not used in this way. The emperor said, then what is the method of fanning? The man said, hold the fan steadily in front and shake your head. The fan will last a hundred years. You will be finished, but the fan will remain. The fan is not wrong; your way of fanning is wrong. This man has been born—the man who is the fruit of five-six or ten thousand years of culture. But the culture is not wrong—this man is wrong. Man dies away daily, and the chorus of culture goes on—great culture, great religion, great everything! And this is its fruit, this man, who has passed through that culture and this is its result. But no—the man is wrong, and the man must change himself. And no one dares to say: is it not possible that the culture and religion which in ten thousand years could not fill man with love, that very culture and religion are wrong? And if in ten thousand years man has not been filled with love, is there any possibility on the same basis that man will be filled with love in the future? What has not happened in ten thousand years is not going to happen in the next ten thousand. For man is this, and tomorrow he will be the same. Man has always been this and will always be this. And for the culture and religion whose slogans we go on shouting, and the saints and mahatmas whose citations we go on giving—we are not ready to consider that perhaps the basic direction of our thinking is itself wrong. I want to say that it is wrong. And the proof is this very man. What better proof could there be? If we sow a seed and the fruit is poisonous and bitter, what is proven? It is proven that the seed was poisonous and bitter. Though in the seed it is hard to discern what fruit will come—bitter or sweet. Break it open—no clue shows what fruit will be born. Sow the seed—perhaps a hundred years will pass—the tree will grow, spread into the sky, then fruits will come—and then it will be known that they are bitter. In ten thousand years the seeds of culture and religion that were sown—this man is their fruit, and he is bitter and full of hatred. Yet we keep citing those very seeds, thinking that from them love will arrive. I want to tell you, from them love cannot come. Because the basic possibility for love’s arising, religion has killed; into it they have poured poison. More than in man, love appears in animals, birds, and plants; who have no culture, no religion. Compared with cultured, civilized, and refined people, more love appears in the uncivilized, the forest-dwellers; who have no developed religion, no civilization, no culture. The more civilized a man becomes, the more refined, the more he begins praying in temples and churches under the influence of so-called religions, the more empty of love he becomes—why? Surely there are reasons. And I want to consider two reasons. If they are seen, the obstructed sources of love may break, and the Ganga of love may flow. It is in every person; it is not to be brought from anywhere. Love is not something to be sought elsewhere. It is. It is the thirst of the life-breath in each one, the fragrance of life-breath in each one. But around it is a fort wall, and it does not manifest. All around are stone walls; the springs cannot burst forth. So the search for love and the sadhana for love are not a positive, constructive seeking and sadhana—as if we should go and learn love somewhere. A sculptor was breaking a stone. Someone went to see how a statue is made. He saw that no statue was being made; only with chisel and hammer the stone was being broken. The man asked, what are you doing? Will you not make the statue? I came to see the making of the statue. You are just breaking the stone. The sculptor said, the statue is hidden within the stone; it does not need to be made—only that useless stone around it needs to be removed, and the statue will manifest. The statue is not created; the statue is only discovered, uncovered, unveiled. Within man love is hidden, it is only a matter of unveiling. It is not a matter of producing it; it is a matter of dis-covering it. There is something we have put on from above which does not allow it to appear. Ask a physician, what is health? And no physician in the world can tell you what health is. It is astonishing! The whole science of medicine stands upon health, and no one can say what health is. Ask a physician, what is health? He will say, regarding diseases we can tell what they are; their symptoms we know; the distinct definitions of each disease we know. Health? Of health we have no definition. We can only say that when there is no disease, what remains is health. Health is hidden within man; therefore it is beyond definition. Disease comes from outside; thus it can be defined from outside. Health comes from within; it cannot be defined. At most we can say that the absence of diseases is health. But where is the definition of health in this? We have said nothing about health; we have only spoken about disease. The truth is that health is not to be produced; either it gets hidden in diseases or, when diseases are removed, it manifests. Health is in us. Health is our nature. Love is in us. Love is our nature. Therefore it is wrong to instruct a person to produce love. The question to ponder is: why is love not happening? What is the obstacle? What is the hindrance? Where has the blockage been put? If there is no hindrance whatsoever, love will appear; no teaching is needed. If over a person there are no wrong cultures and wrong conditionings and blockages, then each person will attain to love. It is inevitable. No one can escape love. Love is nature. The Ganga flows from the Himalayas. It will flow; it is its very life, it has the waters. It will flow, and it will find the ocean. It will ask neither a policeman nor a priest where the ocean is. Have you seen the Ganga standing at a crossroads asking where the ocean lies? Hidden in its life-breath is the search for the ocean, and there is energy; it will break mountains and plains and reach the ocean. The ocean may be far, may be hidden, but it will be found. There is no map, no guide-book; yet it arrives. But if dams are built, if fort walls are raised on all sides—nature’s obstacles the Ganga can break and reach the ocean, but if the engineering obstacles of man are erected, it may be that the Ganga cannot reach the ocean. This distinction must be understood. No obstacle in nature is truly an obstacle; hence the Ganga reaches the ocean, cutting through the Himalayas. But if man invents and arranges obstacles, he can prevent the Ganga from reaching the ocean. Nature is a cooperation; nature is a harmony. There, what looks like an obstacle is perhaps a challenge to awaken strength. What appears as opposition is perhaps a call to bring out what is hidden in the life-breath. Perhaps there is no obstacle at all. We press the seed into the earth; it seems that a layer of soil lies over it, giving resistance. But it does not resist. If that layer were not there, the seed could not sprout. It appears as if the soil presses the seed down; yet the soil presses so that the seed may be pressed, rot, break, and become a sprout. From above it looks like resistance, but the earth is a friend and is cooperating in the manifestation of the seed. Nature is harmony, a musical rhythm. But what man has engineered over nature—what he has tried to nail down with his mechanical notions—by this the Gangas have been stopped; here and there they are dammed. And then man is blamed. No seed needs to be blamed. If it cannot become a plant, we will say the soil was not right, the water was not right, the sunlight was not right. But if, in a man’s life, the flower of love does not bloom, we say—you are responsible. And no one says, perhaps the soil was not right, the water was not right, the sun not right; hence this human plant remained obstructed, could not develop, could not reach the flower. I want to tell you: the basic obstacles have been raised by man. The Ganga of love can flow and reach the ocean of Paramatma. Man is made so that he may flow, that love may flow, and reach to Paramatma. But what are the obstacles we have erected? The first thing: till today all cultures have opposed sex, kama, vasana. This opposition has destroyed the very possibility of love’s birth within man—this negation! For the truth is, the primary point of the entire journey of love is kama, sex. The birthplace of love, the Gangotri—from where the Ganga of love arises—is sex, kama. And all are its enemies—all cultures, religions, gurus, and mahatmas. So they struck at the Gangotri itself, stopping it there. Sex is sin; sex is low; sex is poison. And we did not even think that it is the very energy of sex which transforms finally into love. The growth of love is the transformation of the power of kama; it is its transmutation. A lump of coal lies there, and you may never imagine that coal, transformed, becomes diamond. Between diamond and coal there is no fundamental difference. In diamond are the very elements that are in coal. And coal, passing through processes of thousands of years, becomes diamond. But coal has no value; if one keeps it in the house, one keeps it where it cannot be seen. And diamond people hang upon their chests, that it may be seen. Diamond and coal are one! Yet we do not see the inner connection, the journey between the two. The power of coal becomes a diamond. And if you become an enemy of coal—which is easy enough, for in coal nothing appears—then the possibility for diamond is also ended, because only coal could have become diamond. The power of sex, of kama, becomes love. But all are opposed to it, all are its enemies. Good people are its enemies. And this opposition has not allowed even the sprout of love to break forth. From the very ground, from the first step, the building was destroyed. Then coal cannot become diamond, because the acceptance required for its growth, the process needed to transform it—this never arises. That which we have become enemies of, against which we have set ourselves in conflict, with which we are continuously fighting—man has been made to fight with his own energy, with the power of sex. And then we are taught to drop conflict. The teachings say do not be in inner conflict, do not fight. Yet at the base all the teachings are teaching: fight. Mind is poison—so fight the mind. One must fight poison. Sex is sin—so fight it. And on the surface it is said, drop conflict. The very teachings that fill man with conflict, those same teachings say, drop conflict. On one side make man mad, on the other open madhouses to treat them. Spread the germs of disease on one side, then open hospitals saying, here is the cure. One thing must be understood in this regard. Man will never become free of sex. Sex is the primary point of his life; from it he is born. Paramatma has accepted the power of sex as the root point of creation. And what Paramatma does not consider sin, mahatmas declare as sin! If Paramatma considers it sin, then there is no greater sinner than Paramatma in this world, in this universe. You see a flower in bloom. Have you ever thought that the flowering is also a sexual act! The blossoming of the flower is an event of kama, an event of vasana! What is there in the flower’s bloom? Nothing but points of pollen, seeds of virya, which butterflies will carry to other flowers to give new birth. A peacock is dancing—and poets sing songs, and even saints seeing it will be pleased. But they do not remember that the dance is a sexual act. The peacock is calling to his beloved or his lover. His dance is to entice someone. The papiha sings; the cuckoo calls; a man becomes young; a young woman unfolds in beauty—all these are expressions of sexual energy. All this flowering is of kama. The whole life, the whole expression of life is of kama. And over this kama, culture and religion pour poison into the human mind. They attempt to make man fight it. They have tangled man in a battle with his fundamental power. Hence man has become mean, impoverished, empty of love, hollow and nothing. Do not fight sex; make friendship with sex, and lead its stream to higher altitudes. Some rishi, blessing a new bride and groom, once said: may you have ten sons, and in the end may your husband become your eleventh son. When vasana is transformed, the wife can become a mother. When vasana is transformed, kama becomes love. But it is kama that becomes love, it is the energy of sex that develops and fruits as the energy of love. Yet we have filled man with opposition to sex. The result has been this: love did not arise—for it is a further development that comes with the acceptance of sex—love did not develop; and because man stood in opposition to sex, his mind became more and more sex-obsessed. Our songs, our poetry, our paintings, our temples, our statues—all, circling round and round, have become centered on sex. Our mind has become centered around sex. No creature in the world is as sexual as man. Man has become sexual twenty-four hours a day. Waking and sleeping, sitting and standing—sex has become all in all. A wound has formed in his very life—because of opposition, enmity, hostility. What was basic to life cannot be escaped; but in the attempt to fight it, the whole life can certainly become sick—and it has become sick. And this excessive sexuality of mankind has behind it the basic hand of so-called religion and culture. Behind it are not the wicked, but the good and the saints. Until humanity is freed from this abuse of the good and the saints, there is no possibility of the development of love. I remember an incident. A fakir left his house to visit a friend. He had just set out when a childhood friend arrived on horseback and stood at his door. He said, friend, you stay at home; for years I have waited that you would come, then we would sit and talk—and the misfortune is I must go to meet someone; I have given my word. I will return in an hour as quickly as I can; till then you rest. His friend said, I have no peace; better I go along with you. But he added, my clothes have become dusty on the road. If you have some fine clothes, give them to me, I will put them on and go along. It so happened that the fakir did. Some emperor had gifted him a precious coat, a turban, and a dhoti. He had kept them safe, thinking if ever needed he would wear them. The occasion had not come. He brought them out in joy. When the friend put them on, a little jealousy arose in the fakir. Dressed in them, the friend looked like an emperor. The coat was precious, the turban, the dhoti, the shoes—splendid. Next to him the fakir looked like a servant, poor and humiliated. He thought, this is difficult, this is wrong. To whose house I go, their attention will go to him, no one will attend to me. My own clothes, and today because of my own clothes I become poor and humiliated. He reasoned with his mind again and again: I am a fakir, one who speaks of soul and Paramatma. What is there in coat and turban—let it be! Let him wear them; what difference does it make! But the more he tried to persuade himself that coat and turban are nothing, the more the coat and turban whirled in his mind. The friend spoke of other things; but inwardly—outwardly he spoke of something else—yet his mind was not there. Within, only coat and turban! My coat, my turban! Whoever looked at them on the way did not see him; all eyes went to his friend. He fell into a great difficulty: I have made a mistake—a mistake by my own hand. They reached the house they had to visit. He introduced him, saying these are my friend Jamal, a childhood friend, a very lovely man. And suddenly, unawares, out of his mouth it came: as for the clothes, the clothes are mine. Because those they visited were looking at his clothes! And within him the refrain went on: coat-turban—my coat, my turban—and because of them I am troubled. It slipped from his mouth: as for the clothes, the clothes are mine. The friend was bewildered, the household too—what absurdity is this! After speaking it, he realized and repented—this was a blunder. Repenting, he pressed his mind down further. Outside, he begged forgiveness: forgive me, a great mistake has happened. The friend said, I was amazed—how did it come out of you? He said, nothing, only a slip of the tongue. Though the tongue never slips. When something is churning within, sometimes at the wrong time it slips out of the mouth. There is never a slip. Pardon me, a mistake happened. I do not at all understand how such a thought came. Though he understood very well how it had come! They went to another friend’s house. On the way he resolved firmly that whatever happens, he will not say that the clothes are mine; he would fix his mind. At the door he made a firm resolve not to raise the matter of the clothes. But the poor fool did not know that the more he resolves, the more he is announcing that the feeling is digging in more strongly—that these clothes are mine. Why is a vow taken at all? A man says, I take the firm vow of brahmacharya! It means his sexuality is pressing strongly within. Otherwise, why take a vow? A man says, I swear from today I shall eat less! It means he needs to swear because his mind wants to eat more. Then inevitably conflict is born. That which we want to fight is precisely our weakness. Conflict becomes natural. He went in fighting, carefully saying, these are my friends. But while he spoke, no one looked at him; those in the house looked at his friend. Then again the thought arose—my coat, my turban. He said, I have vowed firmly not to raise this matter. What are clothes to me! Whose are clothes! This is all the world, all maya! But this he is telling himself. The reality is turning inside out and outside in. He introduced, these are my friends, childhood companions, very lovely men; as for the clothes, the clothes are his, not mine. The people of the house now thought—clothes are his, not mine—such an introduction had never been seen. Going out he begged pardon: great mistakes are being made; what shall I do, what shall I not do—what has happened to me! Till today clothes have never gripped me like this. They grip no one; but if you use a certain trick, clothes can grip you. The friend said, I will not go along with you. He folded his hands: no, do not do that. It will be sorrow for life that I behaved badly. Now I swear by God I will not raise the matter of clothes—absolutely swear by God I will not speak of them. Always be cautious of those who swear; because whoever swears has within him something even stronger than the oath, against which he is swearing. And that which sits within is deeper; the oath is above and outside. The oath is taken by the conscious mind. That which sits within pervades the layers of the unconscious. If the mind is divided into ten parts, the oath is taken by one, and nine parts stand in opposition within. One part vows brahmacharya; nine parts invoke God for what He Himself has made and go on speaking for it. They went to a third friend’s house. He now imposed control even on his breathing. The self-controlled are dangerous, because within them volcanoes boil, and on the surface they maintain control. Remember: that which has to be controlled requires such labor that it cannot be maintained all the time. Relaxation will be needed; there will be a slackening. If I clench my fist tightly, for how long can I keep it clenched? Twenty-four hours? The tighter I clench, the sooner I will tire and the fist will open. Whatever requires labor cannot become your life; it can never be natural. Labor will be needed; then a time for rest will come. Hence the more controlled a saint is, the more dangerous he is; because his hour of rest will come. In twenty-four hours, for that hour of slackness, all the sins of the world will stand up within him. Hell will appear before him. So he controlled even his breath and vowed: I will not raise the matter of these clothes. But imagine his condition! If you are even a little religious, your own experience will tell you what his condition would have been. If you have taken vows, oaths, resolutions, you will know well what happens within. He went in. Sweat trickled from his forehead. So much labor! His friend was frightened seeing his sweat, the tautness of every vein. He spoke word by word—these are my friends, old companions, very good men. And for a moment he paused, as if a strong thrust arose from within and everything was swept away, a flood arrived and all was carried off. And he said, as for the matter of clothes, I have sworn not to speak of the clothes. What happened to this man has happened to the whole of humanity regarding sex. Sex has been made into an obsession, a disease, a wound, and all has been poisoned. It has all been poisoned. Little children are taught that sex is sin. Girls are taught, boys are taught that sex is sin. Then this girl will become young, this boy will become young; their marriage will happen and the world of sex will begin. And within both is the feeling that this is sin. Then the woman is told, consider your husband as Paramatma. How can the one who takes you into sin be considered Paramatma? How is it possible that the one dragging you into sin is God? And the boy is told, this is your wife, your companion. But she takes you to hell! In the scriptures it is written that woman is the gate to hell. This gate to hell—companion, partner? This my half—this half of mine going toward hell—what harmony can be made with it? The conjugal life of the whole world has been destroyed by this teaching. And when the life of a couple is destroyed, there remains no possibility for love. Because if a husband and wife cannot love one another—which is the most simple and natural love—then who will love whom? From this love it is possible to expand, that the love of wife and husband become so developed, so uplifted, so high that gradually the dam breaks and it spreads to others. This can happen. But if even this is ended, broken, poisoned—what will spread? What will grow? Ramanuj stayed in a village and a man came saying he wished to attain Paramatma. Ramanuj asked, have you ever loved anyone? The man said, I have never fallen into that complication; I wish to search for God. Ramanuj said, you have never done the ‘complication’ of love? He said, I tell you truly. And the poor fellow was speaking as he thought right. For in the religious world, love is a disqualification, an unfitness. He thought, if I say I have loved, he will say, first drop these attachments; leave all this raga and come then. So he went on saying, I have not loved, I have not loved. Who is there who has not loved even a little? Ramanuj asked a third time, tell me something—at least a little—ever, anyone? He said, pardon me, why do you keep asking the same question? I have not even glanced toward love. I wish to seek Paramatma. Ramanuj said, forgive me, go seek elsewhere. My experience is that if you have loved someone, that love can be made so vast that it reaches to Paramatma. But if you have not loved at all, then you have nothing which can be made vast. You have no seed which can become a tree. So go, ask elsewhere. And when there is no love between husband and wife—if a wife has not loved her husband, and a husband has not loved his wife—if you think they can love their children, you are mistaken. The wife will love the son in the same measure in which she has loved her husband. Because this son is the fruit of the husband; his reflection, his refraction. The love for the son will be exactly as much as she has loved and cherished the husband. This is the very form of the husband, returning anew. If there is no love toward the husband, the love toward the son can never be true. And if the son is not loved—nursing, nourishing, and bringing up is not love—how will the son love the mother? How will he love the father? The basic unit of life, the family, has been poisoned—by calling sex impure, by condemning it, by reviling it. And the family is what spreads out to become the whole world, the whole cosmos. And then we say, love! Love is nowhere to be seen! How will it be seen? Though everyone says, I love. The mother says, the wife says, the father says, the brother says, the sister says, friends say, we love. In the whole world everyone says, we love. Yet seen collectively, love is nowhere to be found! If so many people loved, there would be a rain of love in the world; flowers of love would bloom everywhere; lamps of love would be lit in every house, and the whole world would be illumined with love’s light. But what we see is the light of hatred, the light of anger, the light of wars. Love is nowhere to be found. This talk is false! And as long as we go on believing this falsehood, there can be no search for truth. No one is loving anyone. And until the nature of sex is accepted by the total soul, no one can love anyone. I want to tell you: sex is divine. The power of sex is the power of Paramatma, the power of Ishwar. And that is why energy arises from it and new life unfolds. It is the most mysterious force. Drop the enmity against it. If you wish that someday there be a rain of love in your life, drop the hostility toward it. Accept it with joy. Accept its purity, its blessedness. And search in it more deeply, more deeply—you will be amazed! The more purely sex is accepted, the more it becomes pure; and the more one opposes sex with a vision of impurity and sin, the more sex becomes sinful and ugly. When a man goes to his wife as one goes to a temple, when a wife goes to her husband as one truly goes to Paramatma—because when two lovers approach through sex, when they pass through union, then truly they pass by the temple of God. There, in their closeness, Paramatma is at work. There the creative power of God is functioning. And my own vision is this: that the first experience of Samadhi, of meditation, that man ever received in human history, was in the moment of union and not otherwise. In the moment of union, for the first time the remembrance has arisen in man that such a rain of bliss is possible. Those who observed, who meditated, who contemplated upon the matter of sex and union, they saw that in the moment of sex, in the moment of maithuna, the mind becomes empty of thoughts. For a moment all thoughts stop. And it is that cessation of thought, that stopping of the mind, which becomes the cause of the rain of bliss. Then they found the secret: if the mind can be freed of thoughts by some other method as well, then the same bliss can be had. Then all the arrangements of Samadhi and Yoga developed—meditation, samayik, meditation and prayer—these arrangements were developed. At the root of them all is the experience of union. And then man discovered that without going into sex the consciousness can become empty; and the taste of bliss that was felt in sex can rain without sex. Then union may be momentary, because energy flows out and is spent; but meditation can be continuous. I want to tell you: the bliss that a couple experiences in the moment of union, a yogi begins to experience twenty-four hours a day. But between these two bliss-states there is no basic opposition. Hence those who said Vishayanand and Brahmanand are brothers have surely spoken the truth. They are born of the same womb, developed from the same experience. Surely they have spoken truth. So the first sutra I want to give you: if you want to know what the element of love is, the first sutra is—accept the sacredness, the divinity of sex; accept its godly feel with the whole heart. And you will be amazed—the more total the acceptance of sex becomes, the more you will be freed of sex. The more there is rejection, the more you are bound. As that fakir was bound by the clothes. The more there is acceptance, the more you are free. If there is total acceptance—total acceptability of life’s nature—you will find that I call that total acceptance theism; that very theism frees the person. I call atheists those who reject life’s nature, who negate—this is bad, this is sin, this is poison, drop this, drop this, drop this. Those who preach dropping are the atheists. Accept life as it is and live it in its totality. That very totality raises you step by step. That very acceptance lifts a man upward. And one day there is a vision of That which could not be seen in sex. If sex is coal, then one day the diamond of love appears. This is the first sutra. I want to tell you the second sutra. This too has been strengthened within us by culture, by civilization till today, and by religions. The second sutra is also to be remembered. Because the first will transform the energy of sex into love, but the second stands like a gate and blocks the flow of that energy; it will not be able to flow. The second sutra is the feeling within man that I am; the ego, the sense of I am. The bad may say I am. The good say it more loudly—I am, and I must go to heaven, I must attain moksha, I must do this, I must do that. But I—the I stands inside. And the stronger a man’s I, the less capacity he has to be joined with another. Because I is a wall, a declaration that I am. The declaration of I says: you are you, I am I. Between the two is a distance. Then even if I love and hold you to my chest, still we are two. However close the chests, still between us is a gap—I am I, you are you. That is why the nearest experiences do not really bring us near. Bodies sit side by side; men remain far apart. As long as the I sits inside, the other does not vanish. Sartre has said a remarkable sentence somewhere: the other is hell. But Sartre did not say: why is the other, other? Why is the other other? The other is other because I am I. And as long as I am I, everything in the world is other, different, separate. And as long as there is separateness, the experience of love is not possible. Love is the experience of oneness. Love is the experience that the wall has fallen and two energies have merged and become joined. Love is the experience that all walls between one person and another have fallen, and the life-breaths are joined, have met, have become one. When the same experience flowers between a person and the Whole, I call that experience Paramatma. And when it flowers between two persons, I call it love. If between me and any other person the experience happens that our walls fall, that on some inner plane we become one, one music, one stream, one life-breath—that experience is love. And if the same experience happens between me and the Whole—that I dissolve and the All and I are one—this experience is Paramatma. Thus I say: love is the ladder, and Paramatma is the final destination of that journey. How can the other disappear? Until I disappear, how can the other disappear? The other is born of the echo of my I. The louder I shout I, the more the other appears. The other is the echo on the other side of my I. And this ego, this I, stands like a wall at the gate. And what is this I? Have you ever thought what is this I? Is your hand the I? Your foot? Your brain? Your heart? What is your I? If you become still for a moment and search within: where is the I, what thing is I?—you will be utterly amazed—no I is to be found within however you search. The deeper you search, the more you will find—within is a silence and a void; there is no I there, no ego. A monk Nagasen was invited by Emperor Milind to court. The envoy who went to invite him said, Bhikshu Nagasen, you are invited by Emperor Milind. I have come to invite you. Nagasen said, I will surely come; but let me say one thing with humility at the outset—there is no such person as Bhikshu Nagasen. This is only a name, a working label. If you say so, I will come, but there is no such person anywhere. The envoy returned and told the emperor, a strange man—he says, I will come; but remember, there is no such person as Bhikshu Nagasen; this is only a working name. The emperor said, strange talk. When he says ‘I will come’—he will come! He came seated on a chariot. The emperor welcomed him at the gate and said, Bhikshu Nagasen, we welcome you. He laughed. He said, I accept the welcome; but remember, there is no such person as Bhikshu Nagasen. The emperor said, you speak in riddles. If you are not, then who is? Who has come here? Who accepts the welcome? Who answers? Nagasen turned and said, do you see, Emperor Milind, the chariot on which I came? Yes, said the emperor, this is the chariot. Then Nagasen said, let the horses be unyoked and taken aside. The horses were set aside. He asked, are these horses the chariot? The emperor said, how can the horses be the chariot? The horses were set aside. The front pole by which the horses were tied was removed. He asked the emperor, is this the chariot? How can two poles be a chariot? The poles were set aside. The wheels were removed. Are these the chariot? The emperor said, these are wheels, not the chariot. One by one the parts of the chariot were taken away. Of each part the emperor had to say, no, this is not the chariot. Finally, nothing remained behind but emptiness. Where is the chariot now? Where is the chariot now? All the things I removed, you said, this too is not the chariot; this too is not the chariot; this too is not the chariot! Now where is the chariot? The emperor stood startled—there was no chariot left behind; and in those parts taken away, there was no chariot either. The monk said, do you understand? The chariot was a combination. The chariot was only a collection of parts. The chariot has no being of its own, no ego. The chariot is a mere sum. Search—where is your I? You will find a joining of infinite energies; nowhere an I. As you think away one part after another, all the parts fall away; then only a void remains. From that void love is born, because that void is not you; that void is Paramatma. In a village a man opened a fish shop. It was a big shop, the first in that village. He had a beautiful signboard made, on which was written—Fresh Fish Sold Here. On the first day the shop opened and a man came, saying, Fresh Fish Sold Here? Fresh fish? Are stale fish sold anywhere? What need to write fresh? The shopkeeper thought, that is true. This may create the unnecessary idea of staleness. He removed the word fresh. The board remained—Fish Sold Here. The next day an old woman came and said, Fish Sold Here? Do you sell them anywhere else? The man said, the word here is foolish. He removed another word from the board; now it read—Fish Sold. On the third day a man came and said, Fish Sold? Do you give them free also? The man said, this sold is also useless. He removed sold. The board now read—Fish. An old fellow came and said, Fish? Even a blind man smells it from a mile. Why hang this board? Fish also went. Empty board remained. A man came and said, why hang this board at all? It blocks the shopfront. That board too went; nothing remained there. Elimination went on. One after another, things were removed. What remained behind—the void. From that void love is born, because in that void there is the capacity to meet another’s void. Only emptiness can meet emptiness—nothing else. Two voids can meet; two persons cannot. Two individuals cannot meet. Two vacuums, two emptinesses can meet, because now there is no barrier. Emptiness has no wall; everything else has walls. So the second thing to remember: when the person dissolves, is no more; when one finds, I am not; what is, is not I—what is, is all; then the gate falls, the wall breaks. Then the Ganga that is hidden within and ready flows. It is waiting for emptiness—that someone become empty so that it may surge forth through him. We dig a well. The water is within; water is not to be brought from elsewhere. But between, there is mud and stone. Remove them and bring them out. What do we do? We create an emptiness, a hollow, a space. To dig a well is to make an empty space—so that into that space the water hidden within can find room to manifest. It is inside; it needs space to appear. There is no room; the well is filled with mud and stone. Remove the mud and stone; the water bubbles forth. Within man love is full. It needs space, a place where it may manifest. And we are filled with our I. Each person goes on crying—I. Remember: as long as your soul cries I, you are a well filled with mud and stone. In your well the springs of love will not burst forth; they cannot. I have heard: there was a very old tree. Like an emperor, its arms spread in the sky. When it blossomed, birds from far away came to take in the fragrance. When it bore fruit, butterflies flitted. Its shade—its spread hands—in the winds, its stance in the sky was very beautiful. A small child came daily to play in its shade. And that big tree fell in love with that small child. The greater can love the smaller, if the greater does not know he is great. The tree had no idea that I am big—this awareness belongs only to man—so it fell in love. Ego always tries to love those higher than itself. Ego always connects itself to those above. For love, there is no high or low. Whoever comes—love connects. That small child used to play near the tree; the tree loved him. But the tree’s branches were high, the child small; so the tree would lower its branches for him, that he might pluck fruit and flowers. Love is always ready to bend; ego never agrees to bend. If you approach the ego, its hands rise higher so that you cannot touch them. Whoever can be touched is small; the one who cannot be touched, who remains far away on the throne in Delhi—that one is great. The tree’s branches would bend down when the child came to play! And when the child plucked its flowers, the tree was very happy. Its life-breath filled with joy. Whenever love can give, it becomes happy. Ego is happy only when it can take. Then the child grew. He would sometimes sleep in its shade, sometimes eat its fruit, sometimes make a crown of its flowers and wear it—and become emperor of the forest. Whoever is showered with the flowers of love becomes an emperor. And wherever ego closes in, there darkness is, man becomes poor and destitute. The boy wore a crown of flowers and danced, and the tree was very happy; its life-breaths filled with joy. The winds whispered and it sang a song. The boy grew bigger. He began to climb, to swing on its branches. He would also rest on its limbs—and the tree was delighted. Love rejoices when love becomes shade for someone. Ego rejoices when it snatches away someone’s shade. But the boy kept growing; days passed. When he grew up, other tasks in the world came, ambitions arrived. He had exams to pass, friends to win. He then came sometimes, sometimes not; but the tree waited for him—come, come! All its life-breaths called—come, come! Love is continual waiting—come, come! Love is a waiting, an awaiting. But he would come sometimes, sometimes not, and the tree would be sad. Love has only one sadness—when it cannot share, it becomes sad. When it cannot give, it becomes sad. And love has only one blessedness—that when it gives, when it pours itself out, it becomes blissful. The boy grew still more and came to the tree less and less. The more one grows in the world of ambition, the less capacity there is to come near love. The boy’s ambition was growing. What tree—where to go! Then one day passing by, the tree said to him, listen. In the winds its voice resounded—listen, you do not come; I wait for you! I look for your path, I watch for you! The boy said, what do you have that I should come? I need money! Ego always asks, what do you have that I should come? Ego demands—if there is something, then I will come. If there is nothing, what is the need to come! Ego is purpose; it is for a purpose. If my purpose is fulfilled, I come! If there is no purpose, why should I come! And love is purposeless. Love has no purpose. Love is its own purpose; it is utterly purposeless in itself. The tree was startled. You will come only if I can give you something? I can give you everything. Because love does not want to hold anything back. What is held back is not love. Ego holds. Love gives unconditionally. But money I do not have. Money is only man’s invention; trees have not acquired this disease. The tree said, and because of this we are so blissful—so many flowers bloom, so many fruits grow, such a great shade we cast; we dance so much in the sky, sing so many songs; birds come and make music upon us—because we have no money. The day we too have money, we will sit in temples like men, listening to how to find peace, how to find love. No, no, we have no money. He said, then why should I come to you! Where there is money, I must go there. I need money. Ego asks for money because money is power. Ego wants power. The tree thought much, then had an idea—do one thing, pluck all my fruits and take them, sell them and perhaps you will get money. The boy too had the idea. He climbed and plucked all the fruits. Even unripe ones he shook down. Branches broke, leaves fell. But the tree was very happy, very blissful. Broken, love still rejoices. Ego, even after receiving, is not happy; even after receiving it remains miserable. The boy did not even return to say thanks. But the tree did not notice. Thanks had been received already in that he accepted its love, took its fruits and sold them in the market. But he did not come for a long time. He had money and was trying to breed more money from money. He forgot. Years passed. The tree was desolate, its life-breath flowing in longing that its lover should come and take its sap. Like a mother whose breasts are full of milk and her child is lost—her whole being aches for the child she must find, who will lighten her, unburden her. So the tree’s being began to ache—come, come! All its call became this resounding—come! After many days he came. By now that boy had become a grown man. The tree said to him, come to me! Come into my embrace! He said, leave this nonsense. These are childish things. Ego thinks love is madness, childish. The tree said, come, swing from my branches! Dance! He said, leave these foolish things. I have to build a house. Can you give me a house? The tree said, a house? We live without houses. Only man lives in houses. No one else lives in houses, only man. See the condition of the man who lives in houses? As his houses grow bigger, the man grows smaller. We live without houses. But one thing can be done—cut off my branches and take them; perhaps you will make a house. The grown man came with an axe and cut off the tree’s branches. The tree was left a stump, naked. But the tree was very blissful. Love is always blissful, even if its limbs are severed—if someone will take, if someone will share, if someone will join, become a partner. The man did not even look back. He built his house. Time passed. The stump kept watch, wanted to call, but now it had no leaves, no branches. The winds came and it could not speak, could not call. But in its life-breath there was only one resonance—come! come! Many days passed. By then the child had become an old man. Passing nearby he stood by the tree. The tree asked—what more can I do for you? You have come after long! He said, what can you do? I must go to a distant land to earn wealth. I need a boat! The tree said, cut me further and from my trunk a boat can be made. And I shall be very blessed if I can become your boat and take you to distant lands. But return quickly and return safely. I will wait for you. The man sawed down the tree. Then it remained a small stump. And he left on a long journey. The stump too waited that he would come. But now there was nothing left to give. Perhaps he would not come; because ego goes only where there is something to take; ego does not go where there is nothing to take. I was a guest one night at the side of that stump, and the stump said to me, my friend has not yet come! It gives me great pain—perhaps the boat has sunk; perhaps he is lost on some far shore; perhaps in a foreign land he has forgotten; perhaps he has drowned; perhaps he is finished! If only some news would come—now I am near death—if only some news would come that he is safe, then nothing else matters—then all is well. Now I have nothing left to give; even if I call, he may not come, for he understands only the language of taking. Ego understands the language of taking. Love is the language of giving. Beyond this I will say no more. Let life become such a tree, and may the branches of that tree spread to infinity; may all be under its shade and may its arms extend to all—then it can be known what love is. Love has no scripture, no definition, no doctrine. So I was very much in wonder—what shall I tell you, what is love. It is difficult to tell. I can come and sit—if it shows in my eyes, it can be seen; if it shows in my hands, it can be seen. I can say—this is love. But what is love—if it does not appear in my eyes, if it does not appear in my hands—then by words it cannot be shown at all, what love is. You have listened to my words with so much love and peace; I am deeply obliged. And in the end I bow down to the Paramatma seated within each of you. Please accept my pranam.
Osho's Commentary
What is love?
To live it and to know it is easy, but to say it is very difficult. As if someone were to ask a fish: what is the ocean? The fish can point, can gesture: this is the ocean, all around, only this. But if one says, say what it is, do not merely show it, then it becomes very hard for the fish.
That which is supreme, beautiful, and true in a human life can be lived, can be known, can even happen to one, but to say it is exceedingly difficult. And the misfortune is this: that which ought to be lived and become, about that humanity, for five or six thousand years, has done nothing but talk.
Talks of love go on, songs of love are sung, hymns to love are sung—and love has no place in human life. If you search within a man there is no other word more untrue than the word love. And those who have proved love to be false, who have blocked all its streams—the greater misfortune is that people think these very ones are the birth-givers of love.
Religion talks of love, but the very kind of religion that has hung like a misfortune over humanity till today has closed all the doors of love in human life. And in this there is no difference between East and West, no difference between India and America. The stream of love has not been able to manifest in human life at all. And when it does not manifest, we lay the blame upon man—that man is bad, therefore it has not appeared. We blame the mind—that the mind is poison, therefore it has not appeared.
The mind is not poison. And those who have called the mind poison have themselves poisoned love; they have not allowed love to manifest. How can the mind be poison? In this universe, nothing is poison. In this whole enterprise of the Divine, nothing is venom; all is amrit. But man has turned all amrit into poison. And in this poisoning the greatest hand is that of teachers, sadhus, saints, and the so-called religious people.
This much must be understood a little. Because unless this is seen, love will never be possible in human life, not even in the future. For the very causes that have prevented love from arising, we continue to make those same causes the very basis for love to manifest! The situation is such that if false principles are repeated for thousands of years, we then forget that the principles are false; and it begins to appear that man is false, because he cannot fulfill those principles.
I have heard: beneath the palace of an emperor a man selling fans used to pass, crying loudly that he had fashioned unique and wondrous fans. Fans such as these had never been made. These are fans never before seen. The emperor peered out of the window to see who it was that had brought such unique fans! He already possessed all kinds of fans—whatever could be found in the corners of the world. And below, in the corridor, a man stood with what must have been ordinary two-paisa fans, crying, unique, incomparable.
He was called up and asked, what excellence do these fans have? What is the price of these fans? The fan-seller said, Majesty, the price is not much. Considering the fan, the price is very little: only a hundred rupees. The emperor said, a hundred rupees! This two-paisa fan that is found in markets everywhere—and the price a hundred rupees! What excellence does it have? The man said, excellence! This fan lasts a hundred years. Guaranteed for a hundred years. It will not break down before a hundred years. The emperor said, just looking at it, it seems difficult that it could last even a week. You are trying to deceive? Plain dishonesty—and that too before an emperor! The man said, you know me well; I sell fans daily in this very corridor. The price is a hundred rupees, and if it does not last a hundred years, I am responsible. I am present here every day. And then you are the emperor—where would I go after deceiving you?
The fan was purchased. The emperor did not believe it, but was amazed that this man could speak such an obvious falsehood—upon what strength does he dare speak so! The fan was bought for a hundred rupees and the seller told to present himself on the seventh day.
In two or four days the handle came off. By the seventh day it was utterly dead. The emperor thought, perhaps the fan-seller will not come. But he arrived exactly on time the seventh day and said, speak, Majesty.
The emperor said, nothing to say—here lies the fan, broken. In seven days it has reached this state. You said it would last a hundred years. Are you mad or a cheat? What are you?
The man said, it seems you do not know how to fan. The fan indeed lasts a hundred years. The fan is guaranteed. How did you fan yourself?
The emperor said, listen to this too—now I must also learn how to use a fan!
The man said, kindly tell me how you managed to bring it to this state in seven days. In what manner did you fan?
The emperor lifted the fan and showed how he had done it.
The man said, I see the mistake. The fan is not used in this way.
The emperor said, then what is the method of fanning?
The man said, hold the fan steadily in front and shake your head. The fan will last a hundred years. You will be finished, but the fan will remain. The fan is not wrong; your way of fanning is wrong.
This man has been born—the man who is the fruit of five-six or ten thousand years of culture. But the culture is not wrong—this man is wrong. Man dies away daily, and the chorus of culture goes on—great culture, great religion, great everything! And this is its fruit, this man, who has passed through that culture and this is its result. But no—the man is wrong, and the man must change himself. And no one dares to say: is it not possible that the culture and religion which in ten thousand years could not fill man with love, that very culture and religion are wrong? And if in ten thousand years man has not been filled with love, is there any possibility on the same basis that man will be filled with love in the future?
What has not happened in ten thousand years is not going to happen in the next ten thousand. For man is this, and tomorrow he will be the same. Man has always been this and will always be this. And for the culture and religion whose slogans we go on shouting, and the saints and mahatmas whose citations we go on giving—we are not ready to consider that perhaps the basic direction of our thinking is itself wrong.
I want to say that it is wrong. And the proof is this very man. What better proof could there be? If we sow a seed and the fruit is poisonous and bitter, what is proven? It is proven that the seed was poisonous and bitter. Though in the seed it is hard to discern what fruit will come—bitter or sweet. Break it open—no clue shows what fruit will be born. Sow the seed—perhaps a hundred years will pass—the tree will grow, spread into the sky, then fruits will come—and then it will be known that they are bitter.
In ten thousand years the seeds of culture and religion that were sown—this man is their fruit, and he is bitter and full of hatred. Yet we keep citing those very seeds, thinking that from them love will arrive. I want to tell you, from them love cannot come. Because the basic possibility for love’s arising, religion has killed; into it they have poured poison.
More than in man, love appears in animals, birds, and plants; who have no culture, no religion. Compared with cultured, civilized, and refined people, more love appears in the uncivilized, the forest-dwellers; who have no developed religion, no civilization, no culture. The more civilized a man becomes, the more refined, the more he begins praying in temples and churches under the influence of so-called religions, the more empty of love he becomes—why?
Surely there are reasons. And I want to consider two reasons. If they are seen, the obstructed sources of love may break, and the Ganga of love may flow. It is in every person; it is not to be brought from anywhere. Love is not something to be sought elsewhere. It is. It is the thirst of the life-breath in each one, the fragrance of life-breath in each one. But around it is a fort wall, and it does not manifest. All around are stone walls; the springs cannot burst forth. So the search for love and the sadhana for love are not a positive, constructive seeking and sadhana—as if we should go and learn love somewhere.
A sculptor was breaking a stone. Someone went to see how a statue is made. He saw that no statue was being made; only with chisel and hammer the stone was being broken. The man asked, what are you doing? Will you not make the statue? I came to see the making of the statue. You are just breaking the stone.
The sculptor said, the statue is hidden within the stone; it does not need to be made—only that useless stone around it needs to be removed, and the statue will manifest. The statue is not created; the statue is only discovered, uncovered, unveiled.
Within man love is hidden, it is only a matter of unveiling. It is not a matter of producing it; it is a matter of dis-covering it. There is something we have put on from above which does not allow it to appear.
Ask a physician, what is health? And no physician in the world can tell you what health is. It is astonishing! The whole science of medicine stands upon health, and no one can say what health is. Ask a physician, what is health? He will say, regarding diseases we can tell what they are; their symptoms we know; the distinct definitions of each disease we know. Health? Of health we have no definition. We can only say that when there is no disease, what remains is health.
Health is hidden within man; therefore it is beyond definition. Disease comes from outside; thus it can be defined from outside. Health comes from within; it cannot be defined. At most we can say that the absence of diseases is health. But where is the definition of health in this? We have said nothing about health; we have only spoken about disease. The truth is that health is not to be produced; either it gets hidden in diseases or, when diseases are removed, it manifests.
Health is in us. Health is our nature.
Love is in us. Love is our nature.
Therefore it is wrong to instruct a person to produce love. The question to ponder is: why is love not happening? What is the obstacle? What is the hindrance? Where has the blockage been put? If there is no hindrance whatsoever, love will appear; no teaching is needed. If over a person there are no wrong cultures and wrong conditionings and blockages, then each person will attain to love. It is inevitable. No one can escape love. Love is nature.
The Ganga flows from the Himalayas. It will flow; it is its very life, it has the waters. It will flow, and it will find the ocean. It will ask neither a policeman nor a priest where the ocean is. Have you seen the Ganga standing at a crossroads asking where the ocean lies? Hidden in its life-breath is the search for the ocean, and there is energy; it will break mountains and plains and reach the ocean. The ocean may be far, may be hidden, but it will be found. There is no map, no guide-book; yet it arrives.
But if dams are built, if fort walls are raised on all sides—nature’s obstacles the Ganga can break and reach the ocean, but if the engineering obstacles of man are erected, it may be that the Ganga cannot reach the ocean. This distinction must be understood.
No obstacle in nature is truly an obstacle; hence the Ganga reaches the ocean, cutting through the Himalayas. But if man invents and arranges obstacles, he can prevent the Ganga from reaching the ocean.
Nature is a cooperation; nature is a harmony. There, what looks like an obstacle is perhaps a challenge to awaken strength. What appears as opposition is perhaps a call to bring out what is hidden in the life-breath. Perhaps there is no obstacle at all. We press the seed into the earth; it seems that a layer of soil lies over it, giving resistance. But it does not resist. If that layer were not there, the seed could not sprout. It appears as if the soil presses the seed down; yet the soil presses so that the seed may be pressed, rot, break, and become a sprout. From above it looks like resistance, but the earth is a friend and is cooperating in the manifestation of the seed.
Nature is harmony, a musical rhythm.
But what man has engineered over nature—what he has tried to nail down with his mechanical notions—by this the Gangas have been stopped; here and there they are dammed. And then man is blamed. No seed needs to be blamed. If it cannot become a plant, we will say the soil was not right, the water was not right, the sunlight was not right. But if, in a man’s life, the flower of love does not bloom, we say—you are responsible. And no one says, perhaps the soil was not right, the water was not right, the sun not right; hence this human plant remained obstructed, could not develop, could not reach the flower.
I want to tell you: the basic obstacles have been raised by man. The Ganga of love can flow and reach the ocean of Paramatma. Man is made so that he may flow, that love may flow, and reach to Paramatma. But what are the obstacles we have erected?
The first thing: till today all cultures have opposed sex, kama, vasana. This opposition has destroyed the very possibility of love’s birth within man—this negation! For the truth is, the primary point of the entire journey of love is kama, sex. The birthplace of love, the Gangotri—from where the Ganga of love arises—is sex, kama. And all are its enemies—all cultures, religions, gurus, and mahatmas. So they struck at the Gangotri itself, stopping it there. Sex is sin; sex is low; sex is poison. And we did not even think that it is the very energy of sex which transforms finally into love. The growth of love is the transformation of the power of kama; it is its transmutation.
A lump of coal lies there, and you may never imagine that coal, transformed, becomes diamond. Between diamond and coal there is no fundamental difference. In diamond are the very elements that are in coal. And coal, passing through processes of thousands of years, becomes diamond. But coal has no value; if one keeps it in the house, one keeps it where it cannot be seen. And diamond people hang upon their chests, that it may be seen. Diamond and coal are one! Yet we do not see the inner connection, the journey between the two.
The power of coal becomes a diamond. And if you become an enemy of coal—which is easy enough, for in coal nothing appears—then the possibility for diamond is also ended, because only coal could have become diamond.
The power of sex, of kama, becomes love.
But all are opposed to it, all are its enemies. Good people are its enemies. And this opposition has not allowed even the sprout of love to break forth. From the very ground, from the first step, the building was destroyed. Then coal cannot become diamond, because the acceptance required for its growth, the process needed to transform it—this never arises. That which we have become enemies of, against which we have set ourselves in conflict, with which we are continuously fighting—man has been made to fight with his own energy, with the power of sex. And then we are taught to drop conflict. The teachings say do not be in inner conflict, do not fight. Yet at the base all the teachings are teaching: fight.
Mind is poison—so fight the mind. One must fight poison. Sex is sin—so fight it. And on the surface it is said, drop conflict. The very teachings that fill man with conflict, those same teachings say, drop conflict. On one side make man mad, on the other open madhouses to treat them. Spread the germs of disease on one side, then open hospitals saying, here is the cure.
One thing must be understood in this regard.
Man will never become free of sex. Sex is the primary point of his life; from it he is born. Paramatma has accepted the power of sex as the root point of creation. And what Paramatma does not consider sin, mahatmas declare as sin! If Paramatma considers it sin, then there is no greater sinner than Paramatma in this world, in this universe.
You see a flower in bloom. Have you ever thought that the flowering is also a sexual act! The blossoming of the flower is an event of kama, an event of vasana! What is there in the flower’s bloom? Nothing but points of pollen, seeds of virya, which butterflies will carry to other flowers to give new birth.
A peacock is dancing—and poets sing songs, and even saints seeing it will be pleased. But they do not remember that the dance is a sexual act. The peacock is calling to his beloved or his lover. His dance is to entice someone. The papiha sings; the cuckoo calls; a man becomes young; a young woman unfolds in beauty—all these are expressions of sexual energy. All this flowering is of kama. The whole life, the whole expression of life is of kama.
And over this kama, culture and religion pour poison into the human mind. They attempt to make man fight it. They have tangled man in a battle with his fundamental power. Hence man has become mean, impoverished, empty of love, hollow and nothing.
Do not fight sex; make friendship with sex, and lead its stream to higher altitudes. Some rishi, blessing a new bride and groom, once said: may you have ten sons, and in the end may your husband become your eleventh son.
When vasana is transformed, the wife can become a mother.
When vasana is transformed, kama becomes love.
But it is kama that becomes love, it is the energy of sex that develops and fruits as the energy of love. Yet we have filled man with opposition to sex. The result has been this: love did not arise—for it is a further development that comes with the acceptance of sex—love did not develop; and because man stood in opposition to sex, his mind became more and more sex-obsessed. Our songs, our poetry, our paintings, our temples, our statues—all, circling round and round, have become centered on sex. Our mind has become centered around sex. No creature in the world is as sexual as man. Man has become sexual twenty-four hours a day. Waking and sleeping, sitting and standing—sex has become all in all. A wound has formed in his very life—because of opposition, enmity, hostility. What was basic to life cannot be escaped; but in the attempt to fight it, the whole life can certainly become sick—and it has become sick.
And this excessive sexuality of mankind has behind it the basic hand of so-called religion and culture. Behind it are not the wicked, but the good and the saints. Until humanity is freed from this abuse of the good and the saints, there is no possibility of the development of love.
I remember an incident. A fakir left his house to visit a friend. He had just set out when a childhood friend arrived on horseback and stood at his door. He said, friend, you stay at home; for years I have waited that you would come, then we would sit and talk—and the misfortune is I must go to meet someone; I have given my word. I will return in an hour as quickly as I can; till then you rest.
His friend said, I have no peace; better I go along with you. But he added, my clothes have become dusty on the road. If you have some fine clothes, give them to me, I will put them on and go along.
It so happened that the fakir did. Some emperor had gifted him a precious coat, a turban, and a dhoti. He had kept them safe, thinking if ever needed he would wear them. The occasion had not come. He brought them out in joy.
When the friend put them on, a little jealousy arose in the fakir. Dressed in them, the friend looked like an emperor. The coat was precious, the turban, the dhoti, the shoes—splendid. Next to him the fakir looked like a servant, poor and humiliated. He thought, this is difficult, this is wrong. To whose house I go, their attention will go to him, no one will attend to me. My own clothes, and today because of my own clothes I become poor and humiliated.
He reasoned with his mind again and again: I am a fakir, one who speaks of soul and Paramatma. What is there in coat and turban—let it be! Let him wear them; what difference does it make! But the more he tried to persuade himself that coat and turban are nothing, the more the coat and turban whirled in his mind.
The friend spoke of other things; but inwardly—outwardly he spoke of something else—yet his mind was not there. Within, only coat and turban! My coat, my turban! Whoever looked at them on the way did not see him; all eyes went to his friend. He fell into a great difficulty: I have made a mistake—a mistake by my own hand. They reached the house they had to visit. He introduced him, saying these are my friend Jamal, a childhood friend, a very lovely man. And suddenly, unawares, out of his mouth it came: as for the clothes, the clothes are mine. Because those they visited were looking at his clothes! And within him the refrain went on: coat-turban—my coat, my turban—and because of them I am troubled. It slipped from his mouth: as for the clothes, the clothes are mine.
The friend was bewildered, the household too—what absurdity is this! After speaking it, he realized and repented—this was a blunder. Repenting, he pressed his mind down further. Outside, he begged forgiveness: forgive me, a great mistake has happened. The friend said, I was amazed—how did it come out of you? He said, nothing, only a slip of the tongue. Though the tongue never slips. When something is churning within, sometimes at the wrong time it slips out of the mouth. There is never a slip. Pardon me, a mistake happened. I do not at all understand how such a thought came. Though he understood very well how it had come!
They went to another friend’s house. On the way he resolved firmly that whatever happens, he will not say that the clothes are mine; he would fix his mind. At the door he made a firm resolve not to raise the matter of the clothes.
But the poor fool did not know that the more he resolves, the more he is announcing that the feeling is digging in more strongly—that these clothes are mine. Why is a vow taken at all?
A man says, I take the firm vow of brahmacharya! It means his sexuality is pressing strongly within. Otherwise, why take a vow? A man says, I swear from today I shall eat less! It means he needs to swear because his mind wants to eat more. Then inevitably conflict is born. That which we want to fight is precisely our weakness. Conflict becomes natural.
He went in fighting, carefully saying, these are my friends. But while he spoke, no one looked at him; those in the house looked at his friend. Then again the thought arose—my coat, my turban. He said, I have vowed firmly not to raise this matter. What are clothes to me! Whose are clothes! This is all the world, all maya! But this he is telling himself. The reality is turning inside out and outside in. He introduced, these are my friends, childhood companions, very lovely men; as for the clothes, the clothes are his, not mine. The people of the house now thought—clothes are his, not mine—such an introduction had never been seen.
Going out he begged pardon: great mistakes are being made; what shall I do, what shall I not do—what has happened to me! Till today clothes have never gripped me like this. They grip no one; but if you use a certain trick, clothes can grip you. The friend said, I will not go along with you. He folded his hands: no, do not do that. It will be sorrow for life that I behaved badly. Now I swear by God I will not raise the matter of clothes—absolutely swear by God I will not speak of them.
Always be cautious of those who swear; because whoever swears has within him something even stronger than the oath, against which he is swearing. And that which sits within is deeper; the oath is above and outside. The oath is taken by the conscious mind. That which sits within pervades the layers of the unconscious. If the mind is divided into ten parts, the oath is taken by one, and nine parts stand in opposition within. One part vows brahmacharya; nine parts invoke God for what He Himself has made and go on speaking for it.
They went to a third friend’s house. He now imposed control even on his breathing.
The self-controlled are dangerous, because within them volcanoes boil, and on the surface they maintain control. Remember: that which has to be controlled requires such labor that it cannot be maintained all the time. Relaxation will be needed; there will be a slackening. If I clench my fist tightly, for how long can I keep it clenched? Twenty-four hours? The tighter I clench, the sooner I will tire and the fist will open.
Whatever requires labor cannot become your life; it can never be natural. Labor will be needed; then a time for rest will come.
Hence the more controlled a saint is, the more dangerous he is; because his hour of rest will come. In twenty-four hours, for that hour of slackness, all the sins of the world will stand up within him. Hell will appear before him.
So he controlled even his breath and vowed: I will not raise the matter of these clothes.
But imagine his condition! If you are even a little religious, your own experience will tell you what his condition would have been. If you have taken vows, oaths, resolutions, you will know well what happens within.
He went in. Sweat trickled from his forehead. So much labor! His friend was frightened seeing his sweat, the tautness of every vein. He spoke word by word—these are my friends, old companions, very good men. And for a moment he paused, as if a strong thrust arose from within and everything was swept away, a flood arrived and all was carried off. And he said, as for the matter of clothes, I have sworn not to speak of the clothes.
What happened to this man has happened to the whole of humanity regarding sex. Sex has been made into an obsession, a disease, a wound, and all has been poisoned. It has all been poisoned. Little children are taught that sex is sin. Girls are taught, boys are taught that sex is sin. Then this girl will become young, this boy will become young; their marriage will happen and the world of sex will begin. And within both is the feeling that this is sin. Then the woman is told, consider your husband as Paramatma. How can the one who takes you into sin be considered Paramatma? How is it possible that the one dragging you into sin is God? And the boy is told, this is your wife, your companion. But she takes you to hell! In the scriptures it is written that woman is the gate to hell. This gate to hell—companion, partner? This my half—this half of mine going toward hell—what harmony can be made with it?
The conjugal life of the whole world has been destroyed by this teaching. And when the life of a couple is destroyed, there remains no possibility for love. Because if a husband and wife cannot love one another—which is the most simple and natural love—then who will love whom? From this love it is possible to expand, that the love of wife and husband become so developed, so uplifted, so high that gradually the dam breaks and it spreads to others. This can happen. But if even this is ended, broken, poisoned—what will spread? What will grow?
Ramanuj stayed in a village and a man came saying he wished to attain Paramatma. Ramanuj asked, have you ever loved anyone? The man said, I have never fallen into that complication; I wish to search for God.
Ramanuj said, you have never done the ‘complication’ of love?
He said, I tell you truly.
And the poor fellow was speaking as he thought right. For in the religious world, love is a disqualification, an unfitness. He thought, if I say I have loved, he will say, first drop these attachments; leave all this raga and come then. So he went on saying, I have not loved, I have not loved. Who is there who has not loved even a little?
Ramanuj asked a third time, tell me something—at least a little—ever, anyone?
He said, pardon me, why do you keep asking the same question? I have not even glanced toward love. I wish to seek Paramatma.
Ramanuj said, forgive me, go seek elsewhere. My experience is that if you have loved someone, that love can be made so vast that it reaches to Paramatma. But if you have not loved at all, then you have nothing which can be made vast. You have no seed which can become a tree. So go, ask elsewhere.
And when there is no love between husband and wife—if a wife has not loved her husband, and a husband has not loved his wife—if you think they can love their children, you are mistaken. The wife will love the son in the same measure in which she has loved her husband. Because this son is the fruit of the husband; his reflection, his refraction. The love for the son will be exactly as much as she has loved and cherished the husband. This is the very form of the husband, returning anew. If there is no love toward the husband, the love toward the son can never be true. And if the son is not loved—nursing, nourishing, and bringing up is not love—how will the son love the mother? How will he love the father?
The basic unit of life, the family, has been poisoned—by calling sex impure, by condemning it, by reviling it. And the family is what spreads out to become the whole world, the whole cosmos. And then we say, love! Love is nowhere to be seen! How will it be seen? Though everyone says, I love. The mother says, the wife says, the father says, the brother says, the sister says, friends say, we love. In the whole world everyone says, we love. Yet seen collectively, love is nowhere to be found! If so many people loved, there would be a rain of love in the world; flowers of love would bloom everywhere; lamps of love would be lit in every house, and the whole world would be illumined with love’s light.
But what we see is the light of hatred, the light of anger, the light of wars. Love is nowhere to be found. This talk is false! And as long as we go on believing this falsehood, there can be no search for truth. No one is loving anyone. And until the nature of sex is accepted by the total soul, no one can love anyone.
I want to tell you: sex is divine. The power of sex is the power of Paramatma, the power of Ishwar. And that is why energy arises from it and new life unfolds. It is the most mysterious force. Drop the enmity against it. If you wish that someday there be a rain of love in your life, drop the hostility toward it. Accept it with joy. Accept its purity, its blessedness. And search in it more deeply, more deeply—you will be amazed! The more purely sex is accepted, the more it becomes pure; and the more one opposes sex with a vision of impurity and sin, the more sex becomes sinful and ugly.
When a man goes to his wife as one goes to a temple, when a wife goes to her husband as one truly goes to Paramatma—because when two lovers approach through sex, when they pass through union, then truly they pass by the temple of God. There, in their closeness, Paramatma is at work. There the creative power of God is functioning.
And my own vision is this: that the first experience of Samadhi, of meditation, that man ever received in human history, was in the moment of union and not otherwise. In the moment of union, for the first time the remembrance has arisen in man that such a rain of bliss is possible. Those who observed, who meditated, who contemplated upon the matter of sex and union, they saw that in the moment of sex, in the moment of maithuna, the mind becomes empty of thoughts. For a moment all thoughts stop. And it is that cessation of thought, that stopping of the mind, which becomes the cause of the rain of bliss.
Then they found the secret: if the mind can be freed of thoughts by some other method as well, then the same bliss can be had. Then all the arrangements of Samadhi and Yoga developed—meditation, samayik, meditation and prayer—these arrangements were developed. At the root of them all is the experience of union. And then man discovered that without going into sex the consciousness can become empty; and the taste of bliss that was felt in sex can rain without sex. Then union may be momentary, because energy flows out and is spent; but meditation can be continuous. I want to tell you: the bliss that a couple experiences in the moment of union, a yogi begins to experience twenty-four hours a day. But between these two bliss-states there is no basic opposition. Hence those who said Vishayanand and Brahmanand are brothers have surely spoken the truth. They are born of the same womb, developed from the same experience. Surely they have spoken truth.
So the first sutra I want to give you: if you want to know what the element of love is, the first sutra is—accept the sacredness, the divinity of sex; accept its godly feel with the whole heart. And you will be amazed—the more total the acceptance of sex becomes, the more you will be freed of sex. The more there is rejection, the more you are bound. As that fakir was bound by the clothes. The more there is acceptance, the more you are free.
If there is total acceptance—total acceptability of life’s nature—you will find that I call that total acceptance theism; that very theism frees the person.
I call atheists those who reject life’s nature, who negate—this is bad, this is sin, this is poison, drop this, drop this, drop this. Those who preach dropping are the atheists.
Accept life as it is and live it in its totality. That very totality raises you step by step. That very acceptance lifts a man upward. And one day there is a vision of That which could not be seen in sex. If sex is coal, then one day the diamond of love appears. This is the first sutra.
I want to tell you the second sutra. This too has been strengthened within us by culture, by civilization till today, and by religions. The second sutra is also to be remembered. Because the first will transform the energy of sex into love, but the second stands like a gate and blocks the flow of that energy; it will not be able to flow. The second sutra is the feeling within man that I am; the ego, the sense of I am. The bad may say I am. The good say it more loudly—I am, and I must go to heaven, I must attain moksha, I must do this, I must do that. But I—the I stands inside.
And the stronger a man’s I, the less capacity he has to be joined with another. Because I is a wall, a declaration that I am. The declaration of I says: you are you, I am I. Between the two is a distance. Then even if I love and hold you to my chest, still we are two. However close the chests, still between us is a gap—I am I, you are you. That is why the nearest experiences do not really bring us near. Bodies sit side by side; men remain far apart. As long as the I sits inside, the other does not vanish.
Sartre has said a remarkable sentence somewhere: the other is hell. But Sartre did not say: why is the other, other? Why is the other other? The other is other because I am I. And as long as I am I, everything in the world is other, different, separate. And as long as there is separateness, the experience of love is not possible.
Love is the experience of oneness.
Love is the experience that the wall has fallen and two energies have merged and become joined.
Love is the experience that all walls between one person and another have fallen, and the life-breaths are joined, have met, have become one.
When the same experience flowers between a person and the Whole, I call that experience Paramatma. And when it flowers between two persons, I call it love.
If between me and any other person the experience happens that our walls fall, that on some inner plane we become one, one music, one stream, one life-breath—that experience is love. And if the same experience happens between me and the Whole—that I dissolve and the All and I are one—this experience is Paramatma.
Thus I say: love is the ladder, and Paramatma is the final destination of that journey. How can the other disappear? Until I disappear, how can the other disappear? The other is born of the echo of my I. The louder I shout I, the more the other appears. The other is the echo on the other side of my I. And this ego, this I, stands like a wall at the gate.
And what is this I? Have you ever thought what is this I? Is your hand the I? Your foot? Your brain? Your heart? What is your I?
If you become still for a moment and search within: where is the I, what thing is I?—you will be utterly amazed—no I is to be found within however you search. The deeper you search, the more you will find—within is a silence and a void; there is no I there, no ego.
A monk Nagasen was invited by Emperor Milind to court. The envoy who went to invite him said, Bhikshu Nagasen, you are invited by Emperor Milind. I have come to invite you. Nagasen said, I will surely come; but let me say one thing with humility at the outset—there is no such person as Bhikshu Nagasen. This is only a name, a working label. If you say so, I will come, but there is no such person anywhere.
The envoy returned and told the emperor, a strange man—he says, I will come; but remember, there is no such person as Bhikshu Nagasen; this is only a working name. The emperor said, strange talk. When he says ‘I will come’—he will come!
He came seated on a chariot. The emperor welcomed him at the gate and said, Bhikshu Nagasen, we welcome you. He laughed. He said, I accept the welcome; but remember, there is no such person as Bhikshu Nagasen.
The emperor said, you speak in riddles. If you are not, then who is? Who has come here? Who accepts the welcome? Who answers?
Nagasen turned and said, do you see, Emperor Milind, the chariot on which I came? Yes, said the emperor, this is the chariot. Then Nagasen said, let the horses be unyoked and taken aside. The horses were set aside. He asked, are these horses the chariot?
The emperor said, how can the horses be the chariot? The horses were set aside. The front pole by which the horses were tied was removed. He asked the emperor, is this the chariot?
How can two poles be a chariot? The poles were set aside. The wheels were removed. Are these the chariot?
The emperor said, these are wheels, not the chariot.
One by one the parts of the chariot were taken away. Of each part the emperor had to say, no, this is not the chariot. Finally, nothing remained behind but emptiness. Where is the chariot now? Where is the chariot now? All the things I removed, you said, this too is not the chariot; this too is not the chariot; this too is not the chariot! Now where is the chariot?
The emperor stood startled—there was no chariot left behind; and in those parts taken away, there was no chariot either.
The monk said, do you understand? The chariot was a combination. The chariot was only a collection of parts. The chariot has no being of its own, no ego. The chariot is a mere sum.
Search—where is your I? You will find a joining of infinite energies; nowhere an I. As you think away one part after another, all the parts fall away; then only a void remains.
From that void love is born, because that void is not you; that void is Paramatma.
In a village a man opened a fish shop. It was a big shop, the first in that village. He had a beautiful signboard made, on which was written—Fresh Fish Sold Here.
On the first day the shop opened and a man came, saying, Fresh Fish Sold Here? Fresh fish? Are stale fish sold anywhere? What need to write fresh?
The shopkeeper thought, that is true. This may create the unnecessary idea of staleness. He removed the word fresh. The board remained—Fish Sold Here.
The next day an old woman came and said, Fish Sold Here? Do you sell them anywhere else?
The man said, the word here is foolish. He removed another word from the board; now it read—Fish Sold.
On the third day a man came and said, Fish Sold? Do you give them free also?
The man said, this sold is also useless. He removed sold. The board now read—Fish.
An old fellow came and said, Fish? Even a blind man smells it from a mile. Why hang this board?
Fish also went. Empty board remained.
A man came and said, why hang this board at all? It blocks the shopfront.
That board too went; nothing remained there. Elimination went on. One after another, things were removed. What remained behind—the void.
From that void love is born, because in that void there is the capacity to meet another’s void. Only emptiness can meet emptiness—nothing else. Two voids can meet; two persons cannot. Two individuals cannot meet. Two vacuums, two emptinesses can meet, because now there is no barrier. Emptiness has no wall; everything else has walls.
So the second thing to remember: when the person dissolves, is no more; when one finds, I am not; what is, is not I—what is, is all; then the gate falls, the wall breaks. Then the Ganga that is hidden within and ready flows. It is waiting for emptiness—that someone become empty so that it may surge forth through him.
We dig a well. The water is within; water is not to be brought from elsewhere. But between, there is mud and stone. Remove them and bring them out. What do we do? We create an emptiness, a hollow, a space. To dig a well is to make an empty space—so that into that space the water hidden within can find room to manifest. It is inside; it needs space to appear. There is no room; the well is filled with mud and stone. Remove the mud and stone; the water bubbles forth.
Within man love is full. It needs space, a place where it may manifest.
And we are filled with our I. Each person goes on crying—I. Remember: as long as your soul cries I, you are a well filled with mud and stone. In your well the springs of love will not burst forth; they cannot.
I have heard: there was a very old tree. Like an emperor, its arms spread in the sky. When it blossomed, birds from far away came to take in the fragrance. When it bore fruit, butterflies flitted. Its shade—its spread hands—in the winds, its stance in the sky was very beautiful. A small child came daily to play in its shade. And that big tree fell in love with that small child. The greater can love the smaller, if the greater does not know he is great. The tree had no idea that I am big—this awareness belongs only to man—so it fell in love.
Ego always tries to love those higher than itself. Ego always connects itself to those above. For love, there is no high or low. Whoever comes—love connects.
That small child used to play near the tree; the tree loved him. But the tree’s branches were high, the child small; so the tree would lower its branches for him, that he might pluck fruit and flowers.
Love is always ready to bend; ego never agrees to bend. If you approach the ego, its hands rise higher so that you cannot touch them. Whoever can be touched is small; the one who cannot be touched, who remains far away on the throne in Delhi—that one is great.
The tree’s branches would bend down when the child came to play! And when the child plucked its flowers, the tree was very happy. Its life-breath filled with joy.
Whenever love can give, it becomes happy.
Ego is happy only when it can take.
Then the child grew. He would sometimes sleep in its shade, sometimes eat its fruit, sometimes make a crown of its flowers and wear it—and become emperor of the forest.
Whoever is showered with the flowers of love becomes an emperor. And wherever ego closes in, there darkness is, man becomes poor and destitute.
The boy wore a crown of flowers and danced, and the tree was very happy; its life-breaths filled with joy. The winds whispered and it sang a song.
The boy grew bigger. He began to climb, to swing on its branches. He would also rest on its limbs—and the tree was delighted.
Love rejoices when love becomes shade for someone.
Ego rejoices when it snatches away someone’s shade.
But the boy kept growing; days passed. When he grew up, other tasks in the world came, ambitions arrived. He had exams to pass, friends to win. He then came sometimes, sometimes not; but the tree waited for him—come, come! All its life-breaths called—come, come!
Love is continual waiting—come, come! Love is a waiting, an awaiting.
But he would come sometimes, sometimes not, and the tree would be sad.
Love has only one sadness—when it cannot share, it becomes sad. When it cannot give, it becomes sad. And love has only one blessedness—that when it gives, when it pours itself out, it becomes blissful.
The boy grew still more and came to the tree less and less. The more one grows in the world of ambition, the less capacity there is to come near love. The boy’s ambition was growing. What tree—where to go!
Then one day passing by, the tree said to him, listen. In the winds its voice resounded—listen, you do not come; I wait for you! I look for your path, I watch for you!
The boy said, what do you have that I should come? I need money!
Ego always asks, what do you have that I should come? Ego demands—if there is something, then I will come. If there is nothing, what is the need to come! Ego is purpose; it is for a purpose. If my purpose is fulfilled, I come! If there is no purpose, why should I come!
And love is purposeless. Love has no purpose. Love is its own purpose; it is utterly purposeless in itself.
The tree was startled. You will come only if I can give you something? I can give you everything. Because love does not want to hold anything back. What is held back is not love. Ego holds. Love gives unconditionally. But money I do not have. Money is only man’s invention; trees have not acquired this disease.
The tree said, and because of this we are so blissful—so many flowers bloom, so many fruits grow, such a great shade we cast; we dance so much in the sky, sing so many songs; birds come and make music upon us—because we have no money. The day we too have money, we will sit in temples like men, listening to how to find peace, how to find love. No, no, we have no money.
He said, then why should I come to you! Where there is money, I must go there. I need money.
Ego asks for money because money is power. Ego wants power.
The tree thought much, then had an idea—do one thing, pluck all my fruits and take them, sell them and perhaps you will get money.
The boy too had the idea. He climbed and plucked all the fruits. Even unripe ones he shook down. Branches broke, leaves fell. But the tree was very happy, very blissful.
Broken, love still rejoices.
Ego, even after receiving, is not happy; even after receiving it remains miserable.
The boy did not even return to say thanks.
But the tree did not notice. Thanks had been received already in that he accepted its love, took its fruits and sold them in the market.
But he did not come for a long time. He had money and was trying to breed more money from money. He forgot. Years passed. The tree was desolate, its life-breath flowing in longing that its lover should come and take its sap. Like a mother whose breasts are full of milk and her child is lost—her whole being aches for the child she must find, who will lighten her, unburden her. So the tree’s being began to ache—come, come! All its call became this resounding—come!
After many days he came. By now that boy had become a grown man. The tree said to him, come to me! Come into my embrace!
He said, leave this nonsense. These are childish things.
Ego thinks love is madness, childish.
The tree said, come, swing from my branches! Dance!
He said, leave these foolish things. I have to build a house. Can you give me a house?
The tree said, a house? We live without houses. Only man lives in houses. No one else lives in houses, only man. See the condition of the man who lives in houses? As his houses grow bigger, the man grows smaller. We live without houses. But one thing can be done—cut off my branches and take them; perhaps you will make a house.
The grown man came with an axe and cut off the tree’s branches. The tree was left a stump, naked. But the tree was very blissful.
Love is always blissful, even if its limbs are severed—if someone will take, if someone will share, if someone will join, become a partner.
The man did not even look back. He built his house.
Time passed. The stump kept watch, wanted to call, but now it had no leaves, no branches. The winds came and it could not speak, could not call. But in its life-breath there was only one resonance—come! come!
Many days passed. By then the child had become an old man. Passing nearby he stood by the tree. The tree asked—what more can I do for you? You have come after long!
He said, what can you do? I must go to a distant land to earn wealth. I need a boat!
The tree said, cut me further and from my trunk a boat can be made. And I shall be very blessed if I can become your boat and take you to distant lands. But return quickly and return safely. I will wait for you.
The man sawed down the tree. Then it remained a small stump. And he left on a long journey. The stump too waited that he would come. But now there was nothing left to give. Perhaps he would not come; because ego goes only where there is something to take; ego does not go where there is nothing to take.
I was a guest one night at the side of that stump, and the stump said to me, my friend has not yet come! It gives me great pain—perhaps the boat has sunk; perhaps he is lost on some far shore; perhaps in a foreign land he has forgotten; perhaps he has drowned; perhaps he is finished! If only some news would come—now I am near death—if only some news would come that he is safe, then nothing else matters—then all is well. Now I have nothing left to give; even if I call, he may not come, for he understands only the language of taking.
Ego understands the language of taking.
Love is the language of giving.
Beyond this I will say no more.
Let life become such a tree, and may the branches of that tree spread to infinity; may all be under its shade and may its arms extend to all—then it can be known what love is.
Love has no scripture, no definition, no doctrine.
So I was very much in wonder—what shall I tell you, what is love. It is difficult to tell. I can come and sit—if it shows in my eyes, it can be seen; if it shows in my hands, it can be seen. I can say—this is love.
But what is love—if it does not appear in my eyes, if it does not appear in my hands—then by words it cannot be shown at all, what love is.
You have listened to my words with so much love and peace; I am deeply obliged. And in the end I bow down to the Paramatma seated within each of you. Please accept my pranam.