Santo Magan Bhaya Man Mera #10

Chinmaya! It is not a matter of language here; it is a matter of feeling. And those who understand the language—do they really understand? Mere comprehension of words does not make you understand. What is being said may be expressed through language, but it is not confined to language. It is communicated by means of words, but it is not of the words. Only when you connect through the heart, through feeling, will you understand.

Many must wonder: those who do not understand Hindi—how could they be understanding? They may not grasp what I am saying, but they do understand what I am. And that is what is valuable. Not what is said, but where it is said from. My silence is the valuable thing. From that silence the words arise. Words are like ripples on a lake. Ripples are not the whole of the lake. The lake can be without ripples. They are looking at my lake; they do not see the ripples—that is the real thing.

And often it is the other way around: the one who understands the language fails to understand the feeling because he is caught in the language. I say something; you understand the words, and you fall into inner debate, into thinking and brooding; you begin to extract meanings. But those meanings will be yours. The words are mine; the meanings you graft onto them will be yours—and so it turns into mis-meaning. Hearing and “understanding,” all kinds of memories are stirred in you—what you have read, heard, calculated—it all gets agitated. A hubbub starts inside you, a marketplace springs up within. In that market my voice is lost. Disputes arise, arguments arise, doubts arise precisely because you understand the language. So very often, when the language is not understood and there is love, no dispute arises, no thought is born, no confusion takes birth. A hush descends. The interference of words is not there; a bridge forms out of the wordless.

Those who do not understand Hindi are not sitting here for no reason. They are sitting with a great understanding—one that many who know Hindi do not have. Because when I speak in English, those who know only Hindi take their leave; they disappear. They say, “We don’t understand English.” Just notice your blindness. Those who don’t understand Hindi sit here, day after day—you see this—and when I speak in English and you don’t understand English, you leave. You, too, should try sitting through it once—try connecting with me without language. And then perhaps language will no longer seem so important. Because what is happening here is not about talk. Talk is only a pretext, a toy for your mind. The real thing is something else altogether.

The real thing is the creation of a certain state—a field, a sky—in which you can resonate with me, in which you can come into rhythm with me; where your breath moves with my breath; where you join me so intimately that you can see with my eyes and hear with my ears; where you set out with me on that inner journey where the divine dwells. No philosophy is being taught here. This is not a school, not a college; this is a seat of meditation. Knowledge is not being given; the flavor of meditation is being imparted, the divine madness of meditation is being shared, the intoxication of meditation is being distributed. What has this to do with language? How much does it matter whether you understand what I said? Sit by me for a couple of hours; sway with me for a couple of hours; become one in cadence with me for a couple of hours. Bathe in my feeling, be dyed in my color, sway with my song, be bound by my melody—and it is done. In those few hours something happens that is valuable. In those hours you go beyond the world, go beyond the past, transcend. In those few hours a state beyond emotion, beyond mind is born.

So do not pity those who do not understand the language. Do not think, “Poor fellows, they are sitting here understanding nothing.” Merely by sitting here, something is happening. They are silent; nothing is being heard—yet in that very not-hearing something is happening. No inner ripples are moving; all is unrippled, stilled. Energy is dancing with energy; feeling is bonding with feeling; a rapture is on; a mystery is being exchanged.

I have to speak, because otherwise you will not understand. But the effort is that gradually you understand without words. Before I leave this world, this is my wish: that thousands of my sannyasins sit with me in silence and understand—no need to speak. That is the goal. When you come and sit silently by me, and the talk begins, and the talk is completed—and nothing has been said and nothing has been heard, no speaker remains, no listener remains—then the heights you rise to and the depths you descend into cannot be expressed in words. Words are very superficial. They cannot touch those depths. It is not in their power; it is not their nature. Words are of the marketplace, makeshift tools. What need is there of words in the temple?—there is need of ecstasy. What need is there of words in the tavern?—there is need of intoxication.

You have asked: “In your Hindi discourses seventy to eighty percent are Western sannyasins who do not know Hindi at all. It is surprising that you still speak with the same alertness, ease, and depth.”

I am not a speaker here—there is no orator here. If one is a speaker, he is bound by his audience. He looks at the audience to decide what to say. He follows the audience. He must take care to say only what pleases them, and avoid what displeases them. That is why a politician’s statements are never definitive—cannot be. He must change them daily according to the crowd, or speak in such a way that they can be interpreted in many ways, whichever suits the occasion. The political speaker is calculating: how far is the audience willing to go with me? He has to use the audience, climb on their shoulders; he must make steps out of them—he has a journey to make on top of the listeners. So he must cater to their preferences.

I am not a speaker. I do not want to make you into my steps. The truth is, I want to become a step for you. I want you to use me. Place your feet on my steps; climb onto my shoulders and look upon heights that perhaps you could not see standing on your own feet alone. Therefore I have nothing to say to win you over. That is precisely why so many are annoyed with me. If I will not speak to please, they will be annoyed. They feel pushed, uneasy, troubled. I am not here to please you. I want no votes from you. I do not wish to gather a crowd of followers. I have no vested interest in you. Something has come to me, and I want to share it. Whoever is present—I will share with them. If no human beings are there, I will share with animals and birds. If even they are not there, I will share with trees and mountains.

You have heard: when Mahavira spoke for the first time, there was no human being to listen. People had not yet heard that Mahavira had become enlightened. When he first spoke, no one was there to hear. The stories say gods were present. “Gods” means: no one was there. He must have spoken into emptiness. The storytellers must have been embarrassed—otherwise Mahavira would seem mad: no listener was visible, yet he was speaking. So to quiet their discomfort, they imagined gods—that he addressed the gods. Invisible gods were standing there. If you are not here, I too will have to speak to invisible gods.

You will be amazed to know that gradually people did come—news reached humans—and then not only humans, animals and birds also came. News reached them too. Now what would Mahavira speak to animals and birds? Do you think they understood his words? No—but they understood Mahavira. What was spoken may not have been understood, but the being of Mahavira—the heartbeat, the dance that had been born in him—that they understood. Perhaps better than humans. The dance happening inside Mahavira—the peacock would have understood it better than you, because you have forgotten how to dance. The peacock still knows how to dance. Do you hear the cuckoo’s call? The song Mahavira sang—the cuckoos would have understood it more; their note is still alive. Man’s note is lost. Man has forgotten to sing. He only knows how to weep; he hardly knows how to sing. Yes, sometimes even in singing he weeps—that is another matter—but where is the joy? Where is the celebration?

Perhaps the trees understood more, because flowers still bloom on them, color comes, fragrance arises. Trees still know how to rise toward the sky. Even now they converse with the stars. They dance in the winds, meet the sun. The plants and animals and birds may not have understood Mahavira’s words; they understood Mahavira. And it seems to me that they understood him more than humans did. At least they did not throw stones at him. At least they did not drive nails into his ears. They did not hound him from village to village. They did not get angry with him for being naked. Plants, animals, birds are naked. They must wonder why man wears clothes.

In all of nature only man is clothed. Only man hides himself. Only man is afraid of himself. Only man is frightened of his own body. Only in man has an inferiority complex about the body arisen—there is some sin in it, some evil—hide it. Animals, birds, plants are still naked. Only man is a little pathological. In England there are women who dress their dogs. These women’s minds are deranged. There is surely some deep disease in them.

You will be surprised to know that in the Victorian era even the legs of chairs were not left bare—because after all they are “legs”! Cloth was put on the legs of chairs, because legs should not be bare. Those who dress the legs of chairs—can you see their absurdity? Their nakedness? Their inner poverty? Their sickness? Their sexual obsession, their neurotic fixations? They are ill; they are unbalanced.

Mahavira was driven from village to village—because he was naked, like the plants, like the animals, like the birds.
Someone asked Jesus, “What is your essential message?” Jesus said: Ask the flowers; ask the birds; ask the fish—and they will tell you my real message. What is Jesus saying? Jesus is saying—nature is my message. Become natural again; that is my message.
Plants, animals, birds loved Mahavira more. It is no wonder they would come to listen. To say “come to listen” isn’t quite right, because language will not make sense to them; but they can see Mahavira, they can touch Mahavira’s vibration.

All over the world the police use dogs to catch criminals, to catch murderers. If dogs have enough sensitivity to recognize a murderer, to recognize the scent of a killer, can they not have enough sensitivity to recognize Mahavira’s fragrance, the fragrance of the wise? It follows from the same logic.

Now scientists say that when a woodcutter takes up an axe and approaches a tree to cut it, the tree becomes sad. There are ways to test this now. Instruments have been made. Just as a doctor places a stethoscope on your chest, or uses a cardiograph—if something has gone wrong inside you, the cardiograph detects it—so too instruments have been developed that begin to register a tree’s heartbeat, that capture the tree’s sensitivity. A graph appears on the machine showing what the tree is experiencing—whether it is happy, unhappy, dejected.

Seeing the killer approach, seeing the woodcutter approach, the tree becomes restless, sorrowful. You will be even more astonished to know that when one tree is cut, all the trees around it become sad and unhappy. And the same trees, when the gardener comes to water them, become filled with delight.

And it is also amazing that before the axe has struck—when the killer is merely approaching with an axe, still at a distance—the trees begin to grow sad and uneasy. Had the axe already struck, it would be understandable; had the blow landed on the tree, we could understand that the tree would feel pain. But a man coming from afar carrying an axe! And more amazing still: if he is only passing with an axe with no intention to cut, no tree is disturbed. Only when there is the intention to cut do they become disturbed. It means intentions too are being registered.

Not only human beings are sensitive—animals and birds are too; perhaps more so. One is not understood only through language; there are other ways of understanding, deeper ways. Language is a very makeshift device.

In the presence of a true master, language is the lowest means. It is a compulsion: because you have nothing else with which to understand, it has to be used.

I have heard: A commander kept an utterly dull-witted secretary with him—blockheaded. The emperor asked him, “Everything else is fine—you have intelligent people on your staff—but why have you kept this one fool? He is utterly dense.” The general said, “There is a reason for keeping him. Whenever I issue an order for the soldiers, I first give it to him to read. If he understands it, then I know that everyone in the world will understand it. If he does not understand, I have it rewritten. He is of great use—he is a very valuable man; I keep him with me. Whatever he understands, everyone in the world will understand.”

What is grasped through language is the last thing—the lowest level. Whatever you understand through language, anyone who knows the language will also understand; it has no great value. Learn to understand from silence; as the proportion of silence increases and that of language decreases, you begin to rise higher.

Those here who do not understand Hindi and yet sit silently are also understanding something. They are being tuned; they are understanding the vibrations. They are being sensitized. They have opened their hearts toward me. Something is stirring within them; a relationship of feeling, a bond, is being formed.

I would say to you: when I speak in English, do not run away. Sit and listen—you too should take this benefit. Understand it like this: when I speak in Hindi, I am speaking for those who do not understand Hindi; and when I speak in English, I am speaking for those who do not understand English. Understand it this way, and you will gain twice over—whatever can be grasped through language will be grasped through language, and that which cannot be grasped through language will also be understood when you sit silently near me.

As for my speaking—there is no speaker here. Otherwise there would be a hindrance. I too would think, “So many are sitting here who do not understand—then to whom am I speaking?” A flower blooms in solitude; does it worry about how many will pass by the road and be moved by its fragrance, how many will be affected, how many will come and offer thanks? Even a flower that blooms alone spreads its fragrance. In the same way I am diffusing a fragrance. Whether you are here or not is incidental. If you are, good; if you are not, good—the happening that is expressing through me will continue. Do not think that I speak because you are here. Understand that you are here because I am speaking. I am not here because of you; you are here because of me. Then your vision will change.

And as for me, whatever I do—whatever happens—can only be done totally. Whether you understand or not is of no consequence. But if I am to speak, I can speak only with total urgency; otherwise I will not speak. The day I feel I cannot speak with that urgency, I will not speak. Whatever cannot be done with total intensity I will not do. Only if I can pour my whole life-breath into something will I do it; otherwise I will not. For then the thing becomes false. That which lacks swiftness, intensity, spontaneity, totality—becomes incomplete, becomes false. When you can laugh, laugh totally; and when you can weep, weep totally. Do not do things by halves.
I understand your concern as well. Chinmaya has asked; so the reason is clear. Chinmaya would be surprised—if so many people don’t understand, and one still has to speak, he’ll wonder, “Whom am I speaking to? Is there no one here who understands?” The itch to explain. If a listener sits there ready to clap, then speaking becomes enjoyable. But that enjoyment is borrowed—dependent on the listener; it is stale. There is another kind of speaking that arises from the inner feeling. There is so much within you that it has to be shared—whether a worthy vessel appears or an unworthy one.
I have heard a Tibetan story. A very renowned fakir—people came from far and wide for his darshan—and for years they all offered the same prayer: “Why don’t you accept disciples?” The fakir used to say, “If I find a worthy one, I will accept. I see no worthy person.” And he had defined worthiness in such a way that if anyone had that kind of worthiness, he would already be a master himself—why would he be anyone’s disciple? His definition of worthiness was impossible to fulfill. No worthy one ever appeared, and he initiated no one. A man stayed with him for service and chores. He, too, was not a disciple, because the fakir simply did not make disciples.

Three days before he died, one morning he suddenly opened his eyes and said to the man who served him, “Go, descend the mountain, and bring everyone who wants to become a disciple.” The man asked, “Everyone? What about worthiness?” He said, “Forget talk of worthiness and all that; there is no time to lose now. Run! Whoever you find, whoever is willing to come.” The servant could not believe it, because all his life great and capable people had come—qualified men, seekers, sadhus, ascetics, people who had meditated for years, men of character and virtue—and all had been refused. The old man had set such conditions for worthiness that no one could meet them.

The servant went to the village and beat the drum: “The old master is now ready to accept anyone as a disciple—whoever wants to come!” People didn’t believe it either; many great men had returned empty-handed. Still, a few started out. They said, “Let’s go and see—what’s the harm? At least we’ll have his darshan.” Anyone and everyone—one kind of crowd—about twenty-five people arrived. None of them believed the master would accept them.

The master called them one by one and asked, “Why do you want initiation?” Their answers were very odd. One said, “My wife has died and I was sitting idle—truth is, I have nothing to do with initiation and all that—but I need some occupation. The wound is deep; I must get entangled in some activity. Just then this man was beating the drum, saying the master is ready to accept disciples, whoever wants to come—so I thought, ‘Why sit around doing nothing? Why not this? Idle spirituality!’ So I came.”

He asked another, “Why have you come?” He said, “I can’t find a job. I thought, instead of sitting around uselessly, better to chant the name of Ram. Maybe chanting Ram will get me a job!” Such people had come. One said, “The shop is closed today,” and another said something else. The one who served the master stood watching: How could such people be accepted as disciples? But the master accepted them all.

The servant fell at his feet and said, “Are you in your senses? What are you doing? Great knowers and great meditators were turned away—and this rubbish!” The master said, “Now understand the real truth. Back then, I had nothing to give. I hid my poverty by talking about their worthiness. I made their worthiness impossible for only one reason: there would be no one worthy, and my poverty would not be exposed. My ewer was empty. So I kept saying, ‘Bring golden vessels, vessels studded with diamonds and jewels, then I will pour from my ewer.’ My ewer was empty, and this poverty I did not want to reveal; that’s why I made such a din about worthiness. No one would be worthy, and the emptiness of my ewer would not be discovered. There would be no occasion to pour. Today my ewer is full; now what does worthy or unworthy matter! A clay vessel will do. And if someone has no vessel at all—if we must drink from a humble earthen cup, or from the hands—that will do too. If someone has no hands, I will pour straight into his mouth—that too will do. Today I must serve; today I have.”

Keep this in mind: a true Master does not give because of your worthiness. A true Master gives out of his own fullness. When the cloud is heavy, what will it do? It will rain. The lamp is lit; light will spread. The lotus has bloomed; fragrance will arise. Just so—effortless, natural.

Whatever I do—or whatever happens through me—can only be in totality. Whether you understand or you don’t; whether you are worthy or unworthy—keep that account yourself. I do not keep that account.

People come to me—“spiritual” types—and they say, “You give sannyas to anyone! At least consider worthiness!” I say, Existence gives life to everyone and does not consider worthiness—who am I to judge in between? If life can be given to the unworthy, why not sannyas? If Existence keeps even thieves and the dishonest alive—gives them breath, prana, soul—then why not sannyas? When Existence itself is ready to give to all, why should I set conditions? Whoever wants may take; whoever does not want need not take. Although this is true—only the worthy will be able to receive, and the unworthy will remain deprived. Because merely because the Master gives does not mean you receive.

Think again of that story. The old man was ready to give—his ewer had filled. But do you think all those who came for initiation would be able to receive initiation? They might pass through the ritual of initiation, but initiation will not happen. Because even as they bow at the Master’s feet, one man will still be thinking, “Let’s see if I get that job or not.” Another will be thinking, “My wife has died; what am I doing here? Better to go look for another wife. What mess have I gotten into?” A third will be thinking, “It’s time to go—how long will I sit here? The shop is about to open, I should get back. My wife will be waiting at home. Lunch must be ready. I’m getting hungry.” With such thoughts going on, if honey is poured, how will it reach them? The Master gives to all; the worthy are able to take, the unworthy are left out. Rain falls on everyone. The thirsty drink; those who are not thirsty turn their faces away.

Who told you that? Man’s ego has always thought this way: that earlier people—ancestors, forefathers—were very religious, and now everything has turned irreligious. Which ancestors are you talking about? Just open your scriptures and look—you will find the same kind of human being you find today. Don’t you see Yudhishthira gambling? Don’t you see Draupadi staked? Don’t you see Sita abducted? Don’t you see the war between Rama and Ravana? Don’t you see every kind of intrigue, every kind of ambush, every kind of violence? You think the modern man is irreligious and the ancients were religious? Then who are the characters of your epics? And if Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, the Tirthankaras, the prophets, the avatars were all teaching, what do you think they were teaching and to whom?

Buddha taught for forty years the same essentials—do not steal, do not cheat, do not lie, do not be violent, do not commit adultery. To whom was he speaking? To religious people? Those whom he addressed must have been thieves, dishonest, adulterous—otherwise Buddha would have been mad. If all the great ones of the world kept saying, “Don’t be crazy,” one thing is evident: they were preaching in a madhouse. To whom were these sermons given? Plainly, man was just the same.

And if you ask me, my own vision goes even further. Today’s man may not be bound by old molds and forms; therefore he may look irreligious—because he doesn’t perform the Satyanarayan Katha, doesn’t go to church on Sunday, doesn’t bow at the temple priest’s feet, doesn’t read the Bible every day. It may be that today’s man doesn’t do these things; that does not make him irreligious. If going to church made a man religious, then not going would make him irreligious. We know churchgoers. They are not religious. We know those who organize Satyanarayan Katha. They have nothing to do with satya (truth) nor with Narayan. We know the people who perform yajnas and havans—their sacrifices are fake, their offerings hollow. We know the pilgrims, the Hajjis—everywhere such people abound; where is religion among them? What fragrance of religion is there? What light of religion shines from within them? What little lamp has been lit? No—these things have nothing to do with being religious.

So do not label as irreligious those who do not go to temples or on pilgrimages. Priests will call them irreligious, because such people harm their trade. For the pandit-priest, religious means: whoever is caught in his net is religious; whoever accepts his exploitation is religious; whoever remains bound in the slavery he manufactures is religious. Whoever seeks to be free is irreligious.

And the truth is: a religious person always longs for freedom. Liberation is his aspiration. He wants to be free of everything—he will accept no bondage. He wants to go beyond all fetters. That yearning itself is dharma, that is mumuksha—the longing for moksha, to be free of all bonds. One who is moving beyond every bondage—will he adopt the petty shackles created by priests? One who wants to be free in every way will be free of ritual too. And the one you call religious is merely ritualistic, and you call that religion. Someone has grown a little topknot (shikha)—ah, what a religious man! What does a topknot have to do with religion? Is religion so cheap? Someone wears a sacred thread and becomes religious? Someone puts on a tilak and becomes religious? Religion cannot be associated with such things. Religion relates to something inner: meditation is lit, love wells up within, the flower of prayer blossoms. And I tell you, never before has man been as eager for meditation, for prayer, for the inner journey as he is in this century. And I also want to tell you: our definition of religion has risen so high that many appear irreligious.

The definition of religion has been raised. Our yardstick has been raised. Our touchstone has been raised. That is why people appear irreligious. In olden days the criterion was very low. Yudhishthira was called Dharmaraj. Today, could you call a gambler Dharmaraj? And not some trivial gambler—he even staked his wife. If Yudhishthira were alive today, he would be in Tihar Jail. To stake one’s wife—is that a joke? The world has grown civilized. There are some laws. For whom is Tihar Jail?

Who will call Yudhishthira Dharmaraj today, and on what basis? Those five brothers shared their wife. Is a wife a piece of property to be divided among five brothers? Then what is adultery? What is sin? Is a woman an object to be parceled out? Does a woman have no soul? In the old definition of religion, a woman’s soul was not acknowledged. Woman was treated as chattel—stri-dhan, “woman-as-property,” they called her. When a father married off his daughter he called it kanya-dan—donation of the maiden. Donation! Are you giving away some cash to someone? “Kanya-dan” is a grotesque word. “Stri-dhan” is a grotesque word—insulting, irreligious.

In China it was such that if a man killed his wife, no case could be filed. It was as if someone killed his own dog—what case? Or killed his cow, his horse—what case? It is his horse; let him kill or keep it. In China there was no law; a man could kill his wife. A wife’s soul was not acknowledged. Were these religious people? What kind of religiosity is that!

No—the old definition of religion was petty, narrow, crude. The definition has evolved. Man has evolved, he has come of age. Naturally, as time has advanced, human understanding has also advanced. Today no one can call Yudhishthira Dharmaraj. To be Dharmaraj today, one would have to go far beyond Yudhishthira. Hence many people seem irreligious: the standard has been raised and people can’t rise that high. Lower the standard and many will start looking religious. Religion too has been exploited a great deal—exploited in its name. People have grown restless and weary. In today’s world, those whom you call irreligious are the religious ones; even if they deny God, they deny because too much conspiracy and exploitation have occurred in God’s name. The very word has become unusable. It should be bid farewell.

A sufferer from life after life has come to show you his disease, O Giver,
For lifetimes I have suffered.
In the name of religion and righteousness I came to erase your blemish, O Giver—
What disguise is this you have put on?
This blind faith—what havoc it has wrought, O Giver,
And you paid it no heed.
Was it for this that I made you God, O Giver?
What I asked, what I got.
Shall I bring your unseen face into my meditation?
Shall I chisel mountains, lick stone, and amuse myself?
I myself make your image, I myself offer flowers.
By my own mistake for ages I have staged your sham, O Giver,
I squandered myself.
Today I have come to bring down your lofty palace of pride, O Giver,
I have come to settle accounts.

Man is exhausted. He is tired of your notion of God; tired of your ideas of sin and merit; tired of your doctrines of rebirth and karma—because behind them irreligion has marched. A man is poor—why? “He must have sinned in a past life.” This became a way to hide poverty, a cover. “Do good deeds.” And what are “good deeds”? Do the Satyanarayan Katha, go on pilgrimage, donate at holy places, feed Brahmins, bow at the feet of Brahmin gods—do “good deeds.” You’ll reap benefits in the next life.

No one knows the past, no one knows the next. On the accounting of the unseen before and after, you explain away what is right before the eyes. A man is poor—you say, his past-life sins. A man is rich—his past-life merits. The facts are exactly the reverse. Has wealth ever been accumulated by merits? Without sin it is impossible to amass wealth. Amassing wealth means it will be taken from someone else. It will leave another’s pocket to come into yours; it will be removed from somewhere to pile up for you. But looters and bandits were deemed virtuous—because they had wealth. Simple, straightforward people were deemed sinners—because they were poor. People are tired of this. These things were false. And they were not religion; they were the long net of the pandit and the priest.

Those who seem irreligious to you today are, in my vision, the religious ones—because they have broken out of all this. They want a new religion, a new definition, a new sky. Because they have not found a new sky, they are forced to declare themselves irreligious. My effort here is precisely this: that those compelled today to be “irreligious” may find a new sky for religion, a new doorway, a new temple—not of ritual, not dependent on the past; let religion be a fresh creation. Let there be a new language of religion, a new manner that speaks today’s tongue, that can be understood by this century. The old won’t work now.

One voice—God is watching everything.
Bow down to worship your Creator.
Come, you thirsty ones; at the river you will receive dew.
Do not be deprived of His favor—pause.
The honeyed songs of jingling pockets,
Whenever they sway and scatter upon the ear,
Faces smeared with thirst and hunger, emaciated,
Glow with the red sheen of gold.
Life screams: Do not disgrace me!
The belly says: At least find some fuel.
The soul says: This is an insult to man.
The body says: No—more, give me more.
Life, carrying the transparent demands of the belly,
Stands with hands outstretched in the queues.
Some song, some fragrance, some glittering shine of gold—
In that hope it stands pinned to the roadway.
One voice—this is destiny’s allotment:
May you receive a new dawn, and I a black night.
If there is God, He would not tolerate
That one be weighed in gold while another gets alms.

Today’s man is raising this question.
One voice—this is destiny’s allotment.
Thus far it has been explained that it is fate’s division that one will be poor, one rich. This is fate’s division.
One voice—this is destiny’s allotment:
May you receive a new dawn, and I a black night.
If there is God, He would not tolerate
That one be weighed in gold while another gets alms.

Now man asks: either that old God was false and never existed—there is no God—or find a new God. Carve a new God.

If there is God, He would not tolerate
That one be weighed in gold while another gets alms.

One begs, another is weighed in gold—this God cannot tolerate; it cannot be fate’s allotment. Somewhere there is human trickery. And up to now two kinds of people have colluded to torment man: the politician and the priest. They have always been together, supporting each other, sucking man dry. Man is tired. Good, intelligent people have turned their back on religion. But for that I will not call them irreligious. I say: they are the truly religious; the future is theirs. We will sculpt a new God, we will mint a new God. We will build new Kaabas—if the old Kaabas have become false, let them lie. We will give new meanings to religion, new gestures, new colors—we will breathe life into religion again.

If people are “irreligious,” it is because they no longer want to worship a corpse. Your religion has lost its worth. In the name of religion there is only filth, and a corpse lies there. Go and look at your holy places: except the corpse of religion, there is nothing. Anyone with a little understanding will not worship a corpse. Give proof of life—let religion give evidence of life.

I have heard: a chieftain named Habibullah once went to the Turkish king Qadir Hasan to sell his horse. The king asked, “What is its price?” The chieftain replied, “Only five thousand rupees, Your Majesty.” The king said, “My friend, it’s not worth more than five hundred.” But the chieftain would not sell for less than five thousand. The king liked the horse, so he bought it for five thousand—but also said, “Friend, you are cheating me.” The chieftain said nothing, slipped the money into his pocket, then suddenly vaulted onto the horse and shot out of the palace like an arrow. King Qadir sent twenty horsemen to catch Habibullah. After pursuing him all day, they could not catch him.

The next day the same chieftain appeared in King Qadir Hasan’s court. He placed the five thousand rupees before the king and said, “If you want to keep the money, keep it; if you want to keep the horse, keep it.”

He had given proof of the horse’s strength. What more proof was needed? Your twenty horsemen ate dust all day and could not even reach him. What more proof do you want? The king bowed his head—he paid five thousand as the price and five thousand as a reward as well.

Give proof. If people are irreligious, it is only because your religion has lost its life, it has lost its proof. Your religion lies dull and lifeless. It can persuade only the foolish. It cannot persuade the intelligent. And remember, whenever religion persuades only fools, it becomes worthless. When religion wins over the intelligent, only then does it have value.

Look back: the people who gathered around Buddha were not fools; they were the finest minds of that century. The fools were still busy with their Vedic havans, yajnas, yogas. Those who gathered around Buddha were intelligent, thoughtful—bright, gifted. Whenever a new religion is born, bright spirits come close to it—only the bright can; only they have the courage, the daring, the risk-taking. And only the bright come near because they are seekers; they are searching for truth. The third-rate remain stick-in-the-mud followers of old ruts.

Then Buddha died. Gradually Buddhism too became inert. Around it gathered a troop of fools. Then Shankaracharya called out. Around Shankara again a company of understanding people gathered—aware, alert. A new definition descended from the sky. In Shankara a fresh embodiment arose, a new brilliance of religion shone. A thousand years have passed since Shankara. Now again a troop of fools surrounds Shankara—people like the Shankaracharya of Puri. Search as you may, you will not find intelligence there; no sparkle of genius; only rule-bound rigidity—sticklers to the line who cannot move an inch beyond it.

Again a new religion is needed. A new religion will always be needed. There is an historical dynamic: whenever religion is reborn—meaning, whenever dharma takes on a new garb, the attire of a new century and language and descends—then intelligent people gather around it, and fools oppose it. And when the new religion slowly grows old and rigid, the intelligent depart and fools take over. When a religion is near death, it is in the hands of fools; when a religion is near birth, it is in the hands of the awakened.

If you see irreligion in the world today, there is one reason: there are too few to breathe life into a new religion. And people will not go back into the old. Nor should they. Life’s journey never goes backward. The journey is always forward, toward the future.

Bring down new Vedas. Sing new Upanishads. Let the Gita rise again. Then people will be religious. If you say, “Our old Gita—just follow that,” it is not possible now. Why should man follow the past? Time is a flowing river. But the pandit-priest relishes the past—his vested interests lie there. What has he to do with the future?

Understand this: religion lives from the future. The pandit-priest lives off the past. Therefore the pandit-priest and religion never truly meet. In my view, the pandit-priest is the most irreligious person in the world. He has only one concern—that his shop keep running. He drags in the old by any excuse. There is unrest in the world—he says, “Perform a yajna—a great Shatachandi—for world peace!” What has your fire sacrifice to do with world peace? How many have you performed already—has world peace come? Leave the world; bring peace to a single neighborhood and show us! Leave the neighborhood—those five hundred Brahmins who gather to burn up ten million rupees in a ritual, there is such turmoil among them—constant quarrels over who grabs how much. Go see after the yajna ends what a tug-of-war erupts—who got more, who got less. The same old strife—you were out to create world peace! Any excuse will do. A man remains absorbed in his trade.

I have heard: watching writers attack one another over conditions before and after the Emergency, a listener said, “When the heat gets too much, wear our company’s shoes.”

He is busy selling shoes! He cares not what is happening here. “When you feel more heat, wear our company’s shoes.” He must be a shoe-company agent. He saw the opportunity—now shoes will sell; don’t miss the chance.

Your pandit-priests do the same with every situation—somehow drag the old back in. You are ill—“This mantra, this recitation, this puja.” You can’t get a job—“This mantra, this recitation, this puja.” There is no love in the family—“This mantra, this recitation, this puja.” Bring any ailment; their answers are ready. And the irony is: their answers never solve anything—never. No one got a job, no one found peace at home. But when there is no peace after one priest’s mantra, you are foolish enough to think “This priest didn’t know the right mantra; let’s go to another.” Off you go to a second baba, then a third, and so you waste your life.

Religion is not the answer to your little, petty problems. Religion is the answer to the problem of your life as a whole. Understand this well. There is no cure in religion for your illness; no formula in religion for success in business; no arrangement there to win your court case. If you want to win in court, better take the advice of irreligious people—their ways work in court. If you want to succeed in business, forget religious talk—business runs on unrighteousness. Religion is not connected with such things. Religion is the answer to your whole existence. Only when your entire life appears to you as a single problem—when you feel, “Why am I? For what am I? What am I?”—then the answer of religion can be of use. And you will not get that answer from pandit-priests—you will get it from a true master.

A true master means: one who does not speak on the authority of scripture; one who is the authority of his own word; who is himself a witness; who says, “I have seen.” Who says, “I have known. Come, and I will open your eyes too. Come to me and look through my heart; this window will give you an experience of the Divine.” But do not think that from that experience you will win your lawsuit; if you were winning, you may well lose. Do not think you will gain success in the market; if you were gaining, it may all totter.

This world runs on untruth. God means Truth.

A new paradigm of Truth is being born, a new spirit is arising. Until that new spirit spreads widely, it will seem to you that people have become irreligious. People have not become irreligious; only the old religion has died. A new religion is needed—and is being felt as a deep thirst.

Veena! The restlessness will increase. And it will keep increasing. Because what you had taken to be peace till now was false. What you had taken to be a home was only an inn. Just think: a man is staying in an inn but believes it to be his home; then one day it dawns on him that it’s an inn—his restlessness will increase. Till yesterday everything seemed fine because he was settled, calling it home. Today he learns it is an inn. Then where is home? Now he must search for home—or create it. Earlier there was no worry: he had taken the inn to be home; no anxiety, no cares, everything reassured. Now all assurances have gone, all security is gone. That is what is happening. Those who come to me will be restless. I will snatch your peace from you—your false peace. And what is your “peace” anyway? Only that “everything is going fine.” Nothing is going fine.

I was a university teacher for many years. In the mornings I went for a walk; a few other professors also used to walk there. But gradually they stopped going on the path I took. Because I would ask, “Tell me, how are you?” They would say, “All fine.” And I would say, “Nothing is fine—tell me, what is fine? Your face says something else—that nothing is fine. That face is sad.” They would squirm. Who wants to hear this first thing in the morning! And when people say “all fine,” they don’t really mean all is fine; they mean: stop it, let it be; all’s fine—don’t take the conversation further! Don’t open that topic. I would go with them until it was settled whether things were fine or not. They began avoiding me. The path I walked became deserted; I said: that too is good!

People were angry with Socrates in Greece. One reason was just this: say anything and Socrates wouldn’t let you go. You made a polite remark and he’d catch hold of you, stop you in the marketplace, and say, “Now prove it.”

You know it too—the world knows it—that nothing here is really fine, yet we carry on as if it were. We have built a world of pious pretense.

Veena, when that world of pretense breaks, restlessness begins. Till yesterday you had a house, a husband, children—now nothing holds. How could you not be restless? Yesterday everything seemed to run well; it was a dream. I shook you and woke you. Now, with eyes closed, you try to patch the dream back together—no dream can be reassembled. Once it’s torn, it’s torn. Have you ever tried? You wake in the middle of a dream, close your eyes to complete it at least—but it won’t complete. What’s gone is gone. A broken dream cannot be finished.

So the restlessness will grow. It is a good sign. It will feel difficult—like a wound, like a dagger in the chest—and you are right: “It is a matter of a single glance of yours; my life hangs on it.” I know as much. That very glance has upset everything. That glance has created the restlessness. You have fallen prey to that glance. But it is auspicious. What is restlessness today will lead you to the real peace tomorrow.

There is a false peace, and there is a real peace. One is taking an inn for a home—and the other is actually finding the home. In the false peace, life is wasted. That is gone now. There is no going back. Once you have known it is an inn, you can try all you like—decorate the walls, hang festoons, arrange things anew, bring new furniture—but once you know it’s an inn, peace will not return. It cannot. This life is an inn.

There was a Sufi fakir, Ibrahim. He was an emperor. One night he was asleep in his palace and heard someone walking on the roof. He called out, “Who’s there, brother? What are you doing on the roof?” An emperor is always a frightened man as it is. Who has climbed the roof? What is he doing? An enemy perhaps? Will he lift a tile and jump inside? The man above said, “Sleep in peace. My camel is lost; I am looking for it.” Ibrahim was astonished: “Your camel is lost, and you search for it on the roof of the royal palace? How would your camel get onto the roof?” He got up, told the guards to seize the man—either he is mad and could be dangerous. But the man could not be caught; he slipped away.

Next day Ibrahim was despondent. He sat on the throne but was sad. He kept remembering—who was that man? How did he climb the roof with so much guard? And he even escaped. And the answer he gave—“I am searching for my camel!” If only two more words had been exchanged, perhaps the matter would have cleared. He couldn’t sleep all night, thinking of it. Just then he heard someone arguing with the gatekeeper.

A man at the door was saying to the gatekeeper, “Let me stay; let me stay in this dharmashala—this wayside inn. I will stay here.” The gatekeeper said, “Are you crazy? Is your head in order? This is not an inn; this is the emperor’s residence, the emperor’s own private home.” And the man kept saying, “Stop your nonsense—I know for certain this is an inn.” The emperor heard the voice from inside; it sounded familiar. Instantly he recalled: this is the same voice as the man talking on the roof last night—same sharpness, same distinctness. He said, “Bring this man in; don’t drive him away.” The man was brought inside—a carefree fakir.

The emperor said to the fakir, “Is this kind of argument befitting? You know well this is the emperor’s palace. Do you see me? Do you see this throne? Do you see this court? This is not an inn.” The fakir said, “I say again—it is an inn. And I will stay in it.” He spoke with such force that the emperor trembled within. Ibrahim asked, “On what proof do you say it is an inn?” The fakir said, “I have been here before. Then another man sat on this throne. He too said, ‘This is my house.’ Where is he now?” The emperor said, “Now I understand—he was my father. He passed away.” The fakir said, “Before that, I also came here. Then a third man sat here—an old man. He too said, ‘This is my house.’ Where is he?” The emperor said, “You are getting lost in useless talk. He was my grandfather.” The fakir said, “When so many people live here, each calls it his home, and each goes away—no one can stay—what kind of ‘home’ is this? Will you meet me here next time? Can you promise firmly that when I return, you will still be here?” Ibrahim’s hands and feet must have trembled, sweat must have come, a shiver must have run through his heart. The fact is true—there is no guarantee of tomorrow. So many have lived in this palace, each took it for home, and all have gone. If it were a home, they would have stayed. It is an inn. One halts for two days, another for two years, another for longer—but it is still an inn. Ibrahim stepped down, fell at the fakir’s feet, and said, “You stay. It is indeed an inn. I am leaving.” In that very moment Ibrahim left the palace.

The same kind of thing is happening, Veena! Restlessness is bound to be. I have told you your “home” is an inn. As the emperor was leaving, he asked just one more thing—the question from the night—otherwise he would keep churning on it all his life. “This is clear now—proved—that this is an inn. Stay here in peace. But that business of the camel on my roof last night—what was that?” The fakir said, “It was the same sort of business. I was trying to make you alert: just as camels are not lost on palace roofs, so bliss has not been lost in the world. And just as it is foolishness to go up on roofs to find camels, so it is foolishness to go outside yourself to seek bliss. Sitting on golden thrones does not bring bliss. Bliss is not lost there. It is lost elsewhere! As camels are not lost on roofs—this is impossible—so bliss does not come by sitting on golden thrones. That too is just as impossible. That is what I wanted to convey that night. You did not startle awake then, so I had to come again—this time with the news that this is an inn.”

So, Veena, you have begun to see that an inn is an inn. Therefore the restlessness.

“For a long time I have been very restless and withdrawn.”

You will become withdrawn too. When the home turns out to be an inn; your own no longer feel your own, nor others feel like others—if you don’t fall silent, what will you do? A profound quiet will descend. The old has been thrown into disorder. Now nothing old feels meaningful or fitting. A hush will come.

“I can’t laugh openly as I used to.”

That laughter was false. How can you laugh that way now? It was only a device to hide tears.

Friedrich Nietzsche was asked by a friend, “You are always laughing—what is the matter? Why are you so cheerful?” He said, “Don’t ask. Don’t ask this question. In truth I am not a cheerful man”—and he was not—“I am very miserable, but I keep laughing. If I do not laugh, I fear I will start crying. By laughing I hide my tears.”

In your laughter there was the ring, the hint, of tears. I have seen you laugh—I have seen Veena laugh—that laughter was false. It was on the surface. It concealed something. It was saying only this: what is the point of crying now? What’s the use? Who will listen? Who will understand? Why make oneself miserable by crying in vain? Get busy, keep yourself engaged in some activity. People keep seeking amusements. “Let’s go to a movie—two hours and we’ll forget ourselves. Let’s read a novel. Or turn on the radio; or some music; or go to the club—anywhere, keep yourself entangled. Sit with a few people, laugh, gossip—the worry will ease a little.” All those laughs are false.

Now real tears will arise. And after real crying, real laughter comes. The fake laughter goes; the surface coverings fall. Tears will flow. And after those tears, the eyes will be cleansed—not only the eyes, tears cleanse the heart too—then a laughter will arise, the laughter of the Buddhas, a flavor of bliss, a smile that spreads through every fiber of your being. Even when you sleep it will be there; it will accompany life and accompany death. It will be your very nature. Before that laughter can come, the false laughter must go.

To know the false as false is the only way to know the true. To recognize the nonessential as nonessential is the first step toward the essential.

“I can’t laugh openly as before. The darshan on both the 15th and 16th filled me with incomparable joy. But I haven’t slept for four nights, and this state has been there for a long time.”

When you come to me, sit near me, you get glimpses of your own future—that is what “darshan” is. You catch a faint sense of what should happen within you—like hearing music from afar. The closer you come to me, the closer your future draws to you. What has happened within me is to happen within you.

Buddha said to a disciple, “Do not be anxious, do not be sad, do not be troubled—for I too was anxious like you, sad like you, troubled like you. There was a day when I was as you are; there will be a day when you will be as I am. For in our nature we are the same. Now I am blissful, now I am at peace. Come a little closer to me; look at me intently—this is your future. You are my past; I am your future.” Veena, that is what I say to you. You are my past; I am your future. That is what all Masters have said to their disciples. And what else does “satsangi” mean? Only this: to see in the Master’s mirror the shadow of your own future. There will be joy; you will be drenched in ecstasy.

And you say, “I haven’t slept for four nights.” The old sleep has gone, the old dreams have gone. The very quality of sleep will change—soon it will. A new kind of sleep will begin—a sleep in which one is asleep and awake at once; a sleep in which the body sleeps but the life-energy is awake, and the lamp of consciousness keeps burning within. The old sleep is gone. Don’t try to bring it back. It cannot be brought back. I will not let it return. There will be trouble, difficulty—if sleep does not come through the night it will feel empty. Do not be afraid. Very soon a new sleep will take its place. Let the old vacate the space; the new guest is on the way. When the house is emptied of the old, the new arrives. A new sleep will come now. Yogis have called it “śvāna-nidrā”—the dog’s sleep. A dog sleeps and yet remains alert—at the slightest tinkle he is up; at the slightest sound his eyes open.

Krishna has said: “When all sleep, the yogi remains awake.” “Yā niśā sarva-bhūtānāṁ tasyāṁ jāgarti saṁyamī.” What has he said? It does not mean the yogi sits with open eyes staring at his ceiling! His eyes close; his body sleeps; but there is something within that does not sleep—something within that remains awake—consciousness remains alert. Right now your condition is such that you walk the road, work in the bazaar, sit in the shop—do everything—and you are asleep. Now you are “awake” in name only; in truth you are asleep. Then the yogi sleeps in name only; in truth he is awake. Now your day too is night; then your night too becomes day. That hour will also come soon. And for those who wait with patience, their begging bowl is certainly filled with unparalleled experiences.

“What can I tell you, my beloved,
Before you my condition is laid bare;
It is a matter of a single glance of yours,
My life hangs on it—
What can I tell you, my beloved...”

I know. I keep it in my awareness. Of those who are connected to me, I know each one—who is where, what is happening within, how it is happening. From the day I gave you sannyas, it became my responsibility that in life and in death, on every side, everywhere, I will accompany you. Only your readiness to be accompanied is needed. However far you may be, my hands will reach you.

Union is possible precisely because separation has not happened—only forgetfulness has. You are still connected with the Divine, connected this very moment—just as much as you were before, just as much as you will remain. You are as much in the Divine as I am. You are as much in the Divine as Krishna is, as Christ is, as Buddha is. In the Divine there is no way of being more or less. Our life is only by being in the Divine. Each breath of ours is his. Each heartbeat is his. But we have forgotten. Some have remembered; some have forgotten to remember.

A fish is in the ocean. The fish to whom it occurs, “This very ocean is it,” becomes a Buddha. And the fish to whom it does not occur that “This very ocean is it,” wanders asking, “Where is the ocean?” And… it is quite natural to ask. For being born in the ocean and growing up in the ocean—how is one to know the ocean? “Where is the ocean?” It thinks and ponders, it closes its eyes, practices yogasanas—“Where is the ocean?” It asks the gurus, goes to philosophers and thinkers—“Where is the ocean?” And a thousand answers are received. But all those answers are futile. Because the ocean is here. This is the ocean. The fish is in the ocean.

Kabir has said, “I burst into laughter to see a fish thirsty in the ocean! Mohe aavai bahut hansi, machhli sagar mein pyasi!” This is precisely our condition.

You ask: “Why is there separation from the Divine?”
No, there is no separation; there is forgetfulness—you have simply forgotten. And the reason for forgetting is precisely that the Divine is available twenty-four hours a day, around the clock, continuously available. What is continuously available is what we forget. Do you remember your breathing? It is continuously available. Only when there is some difficulty do you remember it. If you catch a cold, then you remember your breath; otherwise you don’t. Have you noticed—only when the head aches do you remember the head; otherwise do you ever remember you have a head?

In Sanskrit there is a word—vedana. It has two meanings: one is “pain,” the other is “knowing.” Vedana comes from the same root as veda. One meaning is knowledge, the other is suffering. How can one word mean both suffering and knowing? Because it is through suffering that knowing happens. And the Divine has never given you suffering; that is why there is no knowledge of him. He has given only bliss. From his side only a stream of joy has been flowing. He has not given you suffering; that is why there is no knowledge of him.

And whatever suffering you have, you have given it to yourself. Because of your own sufferings you seem far from him. You have created your own mazes. You have raised such a clamor around yourself, such smoke around yourself—of thought, of craving, of anger, of lust—that the Divine cannot be seen. And the Divine is encircling you from all sides—outside as well as inside.

Do not set out to search for God. If you set out to search for the Divine, you will miss. Wake up; fill yourself with awareness; find it here, find it now. As Rajjab said yesterday: the very instant of touch, it happens! At the very touch, in a single instant, this revolution occurs. To attain the Divine there is no journey in time. In a single instant this revolution occurs. Instantly. This very moment. Do not fall into thinking—this very moment. Do not fall into deliberation—this very moment. Just be present—silent, still. These sounds of the birds, these rays of the sun, this presence—and you quiet, in silence, in stillness. Then Kabir will not laugh at you. Then Kabir will see that at least this fish has found the ocean.

And the day Kabir no longer laughs at you, only on that day are you entitled to laugh. As long as Kabir laughs at you, you are entitled only to weep, not to laugh.

There has never been any separation from the Divine, nor can there be. The Divine is your very nature. Awaken and claim your right. The Divine is your inherent birthright. Not even for a moment have you lost it, nor can you lose it. Even if you want to, you cannot lose it. In the most sinful of the sinful, the Divine is just as much as in the virtuous. In his eyes there is no difference. There is not the slightest separation; therefore union is possible.

Trust this feeling. Look into my eyes. This is the feeling I want to pour into you. This is what I want to fill you with. But you look here and there; you avoid the eyes. You say, “We have to search for the Divine.” I say—he is here now, already found. You say, “How can that be? It looks impossible. I will search.” And it is by that very search that you are deprived. That very search keeps you wandering farther and farther away. Seekers wander; those who stop attain.

That’s all for today.