Santo Magan Bhaya Man Mera #12

I am all! You are all too. I remember; you do not. That is the only difference. The whole legacy of humanity is yours. Not only humanity—the entire bequest of existence is yours. Whatever has happened till today is yours, and whatever will happen tomorrow is also yours. Within you the entire past is hidden—and the entire future too. Buddha has happened within you, Mahavira too. And the Buddhas yet to come will awaken within you, be born, live; they will walk, rise, speak. You are one with this vastness. I speak on all of them to remind you of this.

In the past man made very narrow circles; they must be broken. Whoever follows Kabir gets locked in Kabir’s enclosure. Whoever follows Christ gets locked in Christ’s enclosure. People have made little puddles. I am breaking all the puddles so that the ocean may be revealed. Kabir has his own way; Krishna his own; Mahavira his own, and Mohammed his own. These are differences of approach. But the life-current, the river of nectar that has flowed, is one. These are different ghats, different pilgrim places on the same river of nectar. Stop seeing them as separate. Seeing them as separate has created great obstacles. Much blood has been shed in the name of religion. In the name of religion much irreligion has happened. In its name, many boundaries, hypocrisies, formalities, pettinesses have been created. All of them must be broken.

Temples, mosques, gurdwaras, churches—their forms may be many, but the Master for whom they are built is one. I want to remind you of that Master. Then let each be drawn to whatever way speaks to the heart. The difference is only of taste. If someone is drawn to Krishna’s way, by all means walk in that way; dance to the music of that flute. If someone is drawn to Buddha’s way, then connect your being with Buddha. But always remember: do not make a puddle. Your love for Buddha should be so vast that within it Mahavira, Mohammed, Christ, Zarathustra all can be contained. If love is small, it turns into hate. It is because of its smallness that it becomes hate.

Everyone on this earth loves, yet hatred reigns. What could be the reason? People’s love is small, fragmented. Love remains love only when it is vast. Love remains love only when it is immense. Vastness is love’s essential quality. Do not love courtyards. Even if you must live in courtyards, let your love be for the sky. The sky in your courtyard too is part of the vast. You have built a wall—someone has stacked stones, someone has laid bricks, someone has raised a wall of marble—but these are differences of walls. The sky that has descended into your courtyard has no difference. One person’s courtyard is oblong, another’s is slanted, another has given it some other shape—that is your whim. It is your courtyard; make it as you wish. But remember, the sky that descends has no form. The sky is formless.

The formless was forgotten; the form was clutched in the hand. The courtyard itself was forgotten—for it is only a part of the sky—and the wall enclosing it became important. Thus you became Hindu, Muslim, Jain, Christian. And the more you became Muslim, Hindu, Jain, Christian, the less you remained a human being. Be a human being. The entire legacy is yours. Let the Quran resound within you, and let the song of the Gita arise; all of it is yours. From so vast a treasure, why choose the petty and make yourself poor? But the ego can connect only with the small. To be joined with the vast is death—the ego has to dissolve. If the drop befriends the ocean, it will be lost. People are afraid of this, so they make small arrangements.

And once you make a small arrangement, everything different from it begins to look opposed. Whoever is not with you seems an enemy. Then politics is born and religion is destroyed. It is the language of politics: whoever is not with me is my enemy. Whoever does not sing my song is my enemy. Whoever does not play my flute is my enemy. Whoever does not dance in my way is my enemy. Thus, in the world, friends become few and enemies many.

This whole universe is pervaded by the Divine. Make friendship only with this Divine. And remember: red is red, green is green, blue is blue. They differ greatly, yet are not separate, for they are all parts of one light—parts of a single rainbow. And the world is beautiful because it is seven-colored. Here, the Buddha has descended in many forms. The lamp has been lit in many ways. The moths do not care whether the lamp is of clay or of gold; they recognize the lamp, befriend it, and are consumed. They recognize the flame.

I speak of all this so that you can recognize the light. I speak of all this so that you can become vast. Do not be small.

In the spacious gathering of the world, we shall never concede
That there be only one cup-bearer and a single goblet.

In so immense a world, such vastness, such infinity—what stubbornness is this, that there should be only one cup-bearer and one cup! What obstinacy, that you will drink only from this tavern, when his wine is raining everywhere.

In the spacious gathering of the world, we shall never concede
That there be only one cup-bearer and a single goblet.

Drink from every decanter. All taverns are yours. All temples and mosques are yours. Pray wherever the mood arises. Worship wherever is at hand. Rise a little, and you will be startled to find that if you can worship in the temple and in the mosque and in the gurdwara and in the Shivalaya and in the Chaityalaya, you will suddenly find your heart beginning to expand. Your prayer will grow, spread, become vast. You are carrying little, little prayers! When so great a sky is available, you are crawling on the ground! And you ask me why I am speaking on Krishna, Christ, Kabir—on everyone!

Ask them; as for me, there is no other. When I speak on Buddha, I become Buddha. Right now I am speaking on Rajjab, so I have become Rajjab. For me, there is no other. Why they did not speak on others—if someday you happen to meet them, ask them. I can answer why I am speaking: for me, there is no other. The taste of Buddhahood is one. Just as all oceans are salty, so the taste of Buddhahood is one. From the outside you taste it as love; from the inside you taste it as meditation. Go within and taste it—you will find its flavor is meditation; let it flow outward toward others—its flavor is love. One side of the coin is love; the other side is meditation. Some buddhas emphasized one side, some emphasized the other—because by attaining one, the other comes of its own accord. Buddha said, attain meditation and love becomes available by itself. And Meera said, attain love and meditation becomes available by itself. Attain one, and the other arrives on its own. I am reminding you that, if you wish, you can attain both together. As you like—if you want to begin with one, begin with one; the other will follow. If you want to have both at once, have both at once.
For me, there is no other.

In my view, there is no one here who is not a buddha. You may not know it. But that is what you are. You are asleep, in a stupor, lost—yet that is what you are. Buddha said, “The day I became a buddha, that very day for me the whole existence became buddha.” I say the same to you. It may be that the poets whose lines I quote do not yet remember who they are. But in knowing myself, recognizing myself, I have also come to recognize that the same voice speaks within all. And sometimes, even from a sleeping man, such a lovely call arises! Sometimes a sleeping man, in the sweetest words, echoes that very presence!

In truth, whatever is great poetry is not created by the poet; it simply flows through him. In those moments the poet is effaced, and only the Divine is. It doesn’t last long; then the poet returns—and not only returns, but becomes the claimant of his poem, which is not his, which came from beyond and flowed through him. He signs it: “This is my poem.” Yet all the thoughtful poets of the world have said that whatever is higher that is born through us does not come from us; it comes from beyond us.

Rabindranath has said that whatever is best in his songs is not his. Here and there a line has become wondrously golden; it is not his. Its shine is of some other light. Yes, my lips were used, he says. Think of this: you write a song with a pen—if the pen could speak, it would say, “I wrote the song.” The pen cannot speak; that is the only trouble. If it could, there would be a mess: “Without me you could not have written—so I wrote it; I am the owner.”

In his deepest moments the poet becomes only a pen. That is why we have always held that the Vedas are apaurusheya—not of human authorship. This does not mean that no person wrote them. People wrote them, of course—writing, whenever it happens, needs a pen; without a pen how will you write? Men wrote them, human beings wrote them, but in the very moment of writing they had disappeared. They had become a doorway. Through them the sky flashed; the moon and stars shed their light; the Divine could speak through them. They gave space, stepped aside, ceased to be an obstacle, removed the barrier, and said, “I am available—use me.” They became instruments, mere conduits. Just as the pen is a mere conduit. The pen does not compose the poem; it is only an instrument—through it the poem is written, but it comes from elsewhere. Not only the Vedas are apaurusheya; the Quran is apaurusheya, and the Bible too. But even if we accept the Vedas, the Quran, and the Bible as apaurusheya, in my view even in the most ordinary poet, sometimes that element descends; its glimpse appears. He does not know; his awareness is not yet deep enough to recognize from where that voice came. His insight is not yet deep enough to re-cognize through which door that ray descended. He thinks it is his, becomes the claimant. But when he awakens, he will discover that nothing is his.

So you have rightly asked that I sometimes quote even those whom ordinarily no one would call enlightened.

But I also speak of trees, of mountains, of the moon and the stars; in these too, for me, the buddha is asleep. In the tree the buddha is green; in the mountain he is in a very deep sleep—he will awaken someday. A moment will come when even the mountain will awaken and attain buddhahood, and the tree too will awaken and attain buddhahood. Once you too were a tree, and once you too were a mountain. Journeying and journeying, you have now become a human being. Now take one more step—and you will become a buddha.

What is the definition of your nature? There is only one: that which will ultimately be realized within you—that is your nature. Your final peak—that is your nature. For only that can be your final peak which has always been hidden in your innermost core. A seed’s nature is not recognizable at first. The seed is closed—how will you recognize it? Locks are on the seed; the doors are shut; no key is to be found. Then you place the seed in the soil; it breaks, it sprouts; then a tree arises; one day you find it laden with blossoms—and now you know what the seed’s nature was. It was gulmohar. Today, filled with scarlet flowers, it has flung its blossoms like flames into the sky. Laden with flowers—this was its nature. In the seed it could not be recognized, but in the blossoms it is recognized. You are a seed; in the buddha the flowers have bloomed—but your seed holds the same. Your seed carries all of this within it. You are not small. However small you have made yourself, you are not small.

So I even choose from those whom you would ordinarily not call enlightened. For me the difference between buddhas and the unenlightened is very small—just a little. Buddhas are awake; the unenlightened are asleep. In nature, not a shred of difference. And sometimes a sleeping man also speaks such things; sometimes small children say things before which elders and the learned are humbled. From the mouths of little children—who still lisp, who have not yet learned to speak properly—truths emerge before which great thinkers, thinkers of truth, grow pale and small. This is the mystery of life. So I have no difficulty.

Nor do I worry about the poet’s intention. I take the poet’s words; the meaning I pour in is my own. Perhaps the poet, if he reads or hears, will himself be startled—perhaps those were not his meanings, perhaps he never thought that way. He may have written a song of wine for wine, but when I quote it, for me the wine is no longer wine; it becomes the bliss-essence of the Divine. Raso vai sah! The meaning I pour in is my own, the color I pour in is my own. I may pick up someone’s decanter, but the nectar I pour is my own. I want to remind you that you are not far from buddhahood. It is only a matter of awakening. It can happen in a single instant. And devotion can be kindled; flowers can bloom.

Who is outside, who is inside? Where is outside, where is inside? Drop this division of inside and outside. Here, all is one. Here nothing is outside, nothing is inside. This is my poetry—where nothing is outside or inside; nothing mine and nothing another’s. Dive into this one taste.

But you like narrow circles. You find it very troublesome to accept that I speak on Kabir, on Farid, on Rumi—you are much troubled by this.

I was speaking on a Jain saint; in the middle I mentioned Farid—and Farid, after all, was a Muslim. A gentleman sitting right in front was enjoying himself immensely; suddenly he started, stood up, and walked out. Later he sent me word: “While speaking on a Jain saint you mentioned a Muslim fakir—this is not right. Where ahimsa, and where violence? Where the dispassionate Jain saint, and where Farid? You compared the two! Our hearts were deeply hurt by this.”

People have become so petty. They know nothing of Farid. Farid is as dispassionate as any Jain saint of theirs—perhaps even a little more. What is their difficulty? Their difficulty is that their Jain monk left his wife and went away, while this fakir did not leave his wife. But it could well be that the one who left his wife was afraid of her—fearful that if he stayed near, desire might arise; while the one who remained with his wife was so dispassionate that near or far made no difference. If the inner lust has been burnt to ash, what need is there to flee from the wife? No one runs from the wife; one runs from one’s own desires, one’s own diseases, the snakes and scorpions hidden within. But they go right along with you. Yet we are habituated to looking from the outside. We sit with labels. We have pasted on labels and sit guarding our own label—and we do not allow another to enter our little boundary.

Everyone is annoyed with me. They ought to have been delighted, for I am speaking of everyone’s saints—but everyone is annoyed. Annoyed because, had I spoken only of their saint, it would have been fine. But I have brought other saints into the picture! I am praising all of them! This has shaken their boundaries. It has made them uneasy.

You have erected great distances between the enlightened ones. Jains do not accept Buddha as a knower; nor do Buddhists accept Mahavira as an attained siddha. Leave others aside—these two were so close to each other, Mahavira and Buddha—yet the followers of the two cannot accept one another. Your minds are small, narrow. You construct a mold; whatever fits that mold is right, and only that. I am dissolving your molds. I am leading you to that space where one day you can say, “All is right”—not on the basis of any mold, but because life can only be right; how could it be wrong? All is right because all is pervaded by the divine; all is his play—how could it be wrong? The day you can see the right even in the wrong, know that you have seen the right. As long as wrong and right appear separate to you, you have not yet seen the right. The day you see light even within darkness, know on that very day that you have recognized light. Before that, you have not recognized it.

For me, there is no difference among buddhas; nor is there any difference between buddhas and non-buddhas. In my vision there is no difference at all. All are accepted, all are embraced. And it is my effort that such all-acceptance arise within you.

Have you ever smelled dried jasmine garlands?
Do not crush them—
how wounded they are,
and yet they give a delicate fragrance.
Do not throw them away.
Try to understand the dust-laden, dimmed faces too—
do not only look at them.
Tend also to the blisters on the hands,
to the calluses—
apply a healing balm,
do not only prod and tease.
Have you ever smelled dried jasmine garlands?

All these are dried garlands. How many flowers bloomed in the past.

Have you ever smelled dried jasmine garlands?
Do not crush them—
how wounded they are,
and yet they give a delicate fragrance.
Do not throw them away.

The whole past is something to be absorbed within. The whole past is yours. And remember, I am not a traditionalist. I do not want you bound to the past. But neither do I want you to become enemies of the past. I want you to assimilate the past within you, and move beyond it. Whatever has happened is yours—and much more is yet to happen. Do not stop at the past.

There are two kinds of people in the world. One, the past-oriented: they remain stuck in the past—their eyes turned backward. They go on searching only in the Vedas. For them, whatever has happened behind is right; everything ahead is wrong. Opposite to them are the second kind. They say, only what will happen ahead is right; what happened behind is all wrong. I tell you, what happened behind is right too—and what is ahead is to be even more right. Preserve the wealth of the past within you; you will become richer. And upon that richness, the palaces of the future will be raised and the temples of the future will arise. From what the past has known, much more will be known in the future—because we can stand upon the shoulders of the past. That is why I speak on Kabir, on Christ, on Krishna—so that you can take support from all these shoulders; so that, standing upon them, you can rise higher.

Have you seen a small child standing on his father’s shoulders? Then he can see far. Use all these shoulders—they are your steps. Climb them, so that you can see farther and vaster. Do not worship them; assimilate them. You have fallen into worship—worship is a device to avoid. I am not teaching you worship; I am teaching you the process of assimilation. That is why I revive them—now I am speaking on Rajjab, and my effort is this: if you read Rajjab directly, nothing much will come into your hands—only words will remain. I pour my life into Rajjab; I speak to you as Rajjab would speak. I give you a chance to sit in satsang with Rajjab. This is not a commentary on Rajjab; I am no pandit, no linguist, no historian. This is not a lecture on Rajjab. I am inviting Rajjab: use me—give people once again, for a little while, the opportunity of satsang; let your voice come alive again.

Have you ever smelled dried jasmine garlands?
Do not crush them—
how wounded they are,
and yet they give a delicate fragrance;
do not throw them away.
Have you ever smelled dried jasmine garlands?

I am making these dried garlands green again—so that once more your nostrils may be filled with their incomparable fragrance. Who knows which flower will seize you and transform you? Who knows which voice will touch the strings of your heart? Who knows whether Meera will awaken you, or Mahavira? Who knows whose call will churn your sleeping life? That is why I call them all.

The satsang that is becoming available to you has never before been available to anyone on this earth. That is why I call them all. I am making the whole Ganga available to you. Whichever ghat you like, wherever, in whichever boat you wish to sit—sit. The crossing is what matters. Cross over—by any pretext, cross over. Do not get stuck. That is why I speak on all. I am all. You are all. I remember; you do not. I am speaking to help you remember.

Hema! That is exactly what it means for the chains to have broken. There are no chains. If you take them to be, they are. Where is the world? If you take it to be, it is. Awaken, and the chains turn into anklets—that is the joy of it—samsara becomes nirvana. That is why I say: do not run away from the world, awaken. In running away we have already conceded that nirvana cannot happen in the world; we have conceded that the chains are real and must be broken. The chains are false, a dream. The very seeing, and the anklets begin to ring. There is no slavery, there is a misunderstanding; understand it and bondage dissolves. The music of freedom begins to arise.

The flagon does not spill and you reel with ecstasy; not a drop is had and the thirst is quenched—this is the mettle of the drinker, not any miracle of the cupbearer.

One needs the knack of drinking, the style of drinking—then such a wondrous event happens:

The flagon does not spill and you reel with ecstasy; not a drop is had and the thirst is quenched.

Not even a drop goes down the throat and the thirst is gone. The ewer does not even overflow and the goblets fill. This is the mettle of the drinkers; it is no miracle of the one who pours.

Let the art of drinking arrive, the art of being a true drinker, and the world is nirvana, matter is God; the ordinary becomes extraordinary. Getting up and sitting down turn into worship. Love becomes prayer. Whoever meets you in this world, it is the Divine who meets you. Change the eye, and all is changed.

Hema, you say it rightly: “The chains have not broken, but now those very chains are ringing like anklets.” That is precisely what the breaking of the chains means. Where are the chains now? Now there are only anklets. The chains are gone—that was our illusion. As when someone saw a rope lying on the path and mistook it for a snake. Light came, or a lamp was lit, the eyes opened, you looked closely: it is a rope; the snake is gone, the fear of the snake is gone. So it is with this world. We have taken it to be something else.

That is why I say: do not run away from relationships. The very wife you are leaving—God dwells in her. The husband you are leaving—God dwells in him. The son you are leaving to go to the forest—there too it is only God who has come. Where are you going? In how many forms has God come seeking you—wife, son, daughter, mother, friend, neighbor! He is searching for you from every side, and you are heading for the jungle!

It is only a matter of awakening; everything changes. Tears turn into smiles. The prison becomes a temple.

The state of the heart became revealed;
silence turned interpreter.
The account of life’s condition
became a sorrow-laden tale.
All quests for favor and grace
proved to be fruitless efforts.
The saga of the grief of longing,
as it swelled, became boundless.
Life’s illusion was uncovered;
every breath became a trial.
When you looked at me with a smile,
life became a singer of songs.

Just that—your one smiling glance:

When you looked at me with a smile,
life became a singer of songs.

The days of weeping are gone; the days of song have arrived—

life became a singer of songs.

Tears turn into smiles. And where you had found nothing but sorrow, there you find not only sorrow—you find everything. Where you had found hell and only hell, suddenly you are amazed—where has hell gone? Heaven has descended.

Heaven and hell are nowhere else. They are here, in your vision; your seeing is your world. Learn the art of seeing; learn the art of drinking. Life is an opportunity to learn the art of living. Therefore I do not wish to separate you from life even a little; I wish to join you to life. With a sense of totality, become one with life—see it, recognize it, live it. Somewhere here the secret is hidden.

Yogini! The intention is perfectly right. One has to steal the Master. One has to steal the Master and seat him in one’s heart. There is no other way. You won’t have to toil to ‘kidnap’ me; I am ready to go with you of my own accord. Make room. Vacate the throne. Let the ego step down from the throne. Then I am with you this very moment. And whenever the ego steps down from the throne of your mind, each time the togetherness happens. Whenever the ego sits on the throne again, the togetherness breaks. All this depends on you. If you wish, you can keep me with you twenty-four hours. It is up to you.

So if anything is to be done, it will have to be done within. There, make the remembrance dense. There, let the sense of “I” go. This “I-sense” is seated so deeply, its roots have penetrated so far down that if you go on cutting the branches and twigs, nothing will happen; new shoots will keep sprouting. The root has to be cut.

How is the root cut?
There are only two ways. Either the root is cut through love, or it is cut through meditation. Choose one of the two. That is the way to ‘kidnap’ me. Either be so full of love that the ego drowns in it; or be so full of meditation that awareness becomes so dense you can see the ego simply is not and never was. It was a lie, a notion. And the lover also sees it—because the lover drowns the ego; that false notion is swept away in someone’s love. A flood of love comes and the false notion of ego is carried off. One of these two ways.

And I have given you the name Anand Yogini. I gave it for this very reason—meditation is your path. Meditation is your yoga. Yoga means meditation, awareness. More and more, be awake. Rising, sitting, sleeping, let there be a single remembrance: whatever I do, whatever happens through me, let there be no unconsciousness in it. Walk with awareness, sit with awareness—just hold to awareness. The very moment awareness is held, one day you will suddenly find that everything has happened.

That the world puts obstacles is natural. There is nothing unnatural in it. If the world did not obstruct, there would be no need for sannyas. The very challenge is that the world resists—and the courageous accept the challenge.

You are not to abandon society. I am not saying, “Leave society,” but there is no need to obey society in everything. The individual is free. His inner intelligence is free. Proclaim your individuality. The world will oppose sannyas because it does not want you to have individuality. Individuality is dangerous for society, for the world. The world wants you to be an efficient machine—nothing more. There should be no soul in you; a soul creates complications.

If a soldier has a soul, he will not remain a soldier—because a soul raises a thousand questions. He will ask, “Why should I shoot this man? He has done me no harm. I don’t even know him—how can there be enmity? Before there is enmity there must at least be acquaintance, perhaps even friendship. I have never seen him before. Why should I shoot him? And just as my wife waits for me at home, his wife must be waiting for him. My children must be praying I do not die; his children must be praying he does not die. Just as I have staked my life for bread, he has staked his for bread. We two are companions, not enemies. If bullets must be fired, then we should both turn and fire at those who command us to fire.” If there is a soul, it is dangerous: there will be no soldiers in the world.

Society wants slaves, not free, thoughtful people. The world wants obedient people—not rebellious, not questioning why they should do this or that. Society wants slaves. You read in history books that there used to be slavery—this is false. Slavery is still here, exactly as it was. Only the names have changed, the paint on the surface has changed; the reality is the same. Society is frightened to accept a free individual because a free individual is free—that very fact is the difficulty. He will live in his own way, walk in his own way. Tell a free person with individuality, “This is Lord Ganesh—worship him,” and he will say, “What Lord Ganesh? This is a lump of clay you have molded and set up. What worship? How can I worship what man has made? If I must worship, I will worship the One who made all. You have just fashioned this; it is your hand-made toy—call it Ganesh, Hanuman, a thousand names—how can I worship it? And if I do, it will be false, not from my heart.”

Where there is a soul, there will be the voice of the soul. Where there is a soul, there will be conscience. Such a person will say, “I will not bow before man-made things. I will bow before the One who made all—who made me, who made you, who made your Ganesh. Before that Master I will bow.” Then problems arise. How will you celebrate Ganesh festivals? How will you make the rowdy fun of Holi? How will Lakshmi be worshiped at Diwali? Anyone with a little intelligence, awareness, understanding will say, “Worshiping coins? Worshiping money—in this so-called religious country where the delusion prevails that we are the most spiritual people on earth!

“Nowhere else in the world is money worshiped—except in this country—and this is a ‘spiritual’ country! The rest of the world is materialist—and we alone are spiritual! Yet at Diwali lamps are lit and Lakshmi is worshiped—piles of coins set up, mantras intoned before them! Such worship of money, so shameless, so brazen—nowhere else in the world.” If you have a little individuality, a little reflection, you will ask, “What am I doing—worshiping pots of silver and gold? And this is the land of Buddha and Mahavira! We talk of Buddha and Mahavira—and worship wealth!” You will begin to see the contradiction. How will you go on living in this whole farce as it is? It will be difficult to go along with the pretense. And if each person refuses to go along with the pretense, this society will fall apart. This society will indeed fall, and a new society will be born. This society does not want to disintegrate—it has vested interests. It wants to continue—and it can continue only by destroying you. It can live only by killing you.

That is why, as soon as a child is born, society begins to murder him. Every child has been killed. Do not live under the illusion that you are alive. You have not been allowed to be alive. Before your life could flower, you were murdered. All children were killed in their childhood; now only corpses are moving about. Hence the stupidity, the darkness, the slavery, the violence, the hostility in the world. There are no real human beings here.

If you wish to be a sannyasin, you are in rebellion. You are saying, “I will not allow my murder. This is my life; I will live it in my own way, in my own colors. I have my own song to sing. I will not dance to someone else’s flute. If I feel to dance, I will dance; if not, I will not. But you cannot pipe and make me dance.”

The world will obstruct. But there is no need to be frightened. Turn this obstruction into a challenge. This is an opportunity. Confront it.

“Our free nature—how many nooses bind it!
How melodious the clanking of chains has been made!”

This whole arrangement for slavery has been done very skillfully—so skillfully that even if the chains jingle, they give off a sweet sound, a charming music, like a flute, so that you forget they are chains. The chains have been gilded with gold and silver so you mistake them for ornaments. Far from leaving them, you set about guarding them lest someone steal them. The prison has been painted so colorfully you think it is your home.

“Our free nature—how many nooses bind it!
How melodious the clanking of chains has been made!
There, each day the walls of the living prison are raised higher;
Here, the concern for freedom grows more and more complete.”

Day by day the prison walls are being raised higher, the jail is being strengthened, new guards posted. But if one has courage, then as the prison walls rise, the longing for freedom grows deeper.

“Let the winds be adamant that not a single straw remain;
Here the resolve to build the nest grows ever firmer.”

Granted, there are storms and tempests; the world, the family, society—all together will try not to let the nest of your sannyas be built; they will cut off your rebellion, not let your soul be born. Granted—

“Let the winds be adamant that not a single straw remain;
Here the resolve to build the nest grows ever firmer.”

If you have courage, then strengthen your resolve to build; let the aspiration to build the nest become more intense. The stronger the storm, the stronger your commitment. If the tempest insists that not a single straw be saved, you too insist: the nest will be built. The joy of building a nest is precisely in the storm.

“Surely, someone truly thirsty has come into the tavern—
For I keep drinking, and the thirst only deepens.”

When the thirst is real, the more you drink, the more the thirst increases; you drink here, and the thirst there grows more intense.

Sannyas is a wine. Courage will be needed. You will have to become a drunkard. I know there are obstacles. You say, the world is putting obstacles in sannyas. The family is against it. The family has its reasons—because what has gone on till now in the name of sannyas has been anti-family, anti-life. Your wife is afraid you will become a sannyasin and leave home. Explain to your family that this is a new flowering of sannyas. Here nothing is to be abandoned. Here one is not to run away from wife, family, responsibilities, duties. In truth, becoming a sannyasin you will be able to be far more loving to your family than without sannyas. I am teaching love.

The family will be afraid; the wife will be afraid—naturally. In the name of so-called sannyas, how many wives became widows while their husbands were alive! Collect the numbers and you will be shocked. You say, fifty thousand people took sannyas with Mahavira—fine. What happened to their fifty thousand wives? Those wives had small children—what happened to them? They begged, grew up in orphanages, died untimely, remained ill, without education. These fifty thousand became sannyasins—very glorious—but of the fifty thousand abandoned wives, how many were forced into prostitution? Keep some accounts! How many had to beg—in the name of religion! And their mouths too were shut, because the husband had done something great; they could not even speak.

This old notion of sannyas was so anti-life, so anti-joy, that the imprint of thousands of years remains on people’s minds—the word “sannyas” itself creates fear. The word “sannyas,” and a tremor arises; the unconscious trembles. Perhaps your wife too has suffered because of some sannyasin in a former life; in her unconscious the memory lingers—“Again sannyas! Again the same tale of sorrow! Again hell! What will happen to the children?” Such a fragile household—what will become of it? If she trembles, it is no surprise. Explain: this sannyas is a fresh vision of life, a new philosophy. Here we tell no one to renounce. We are not producing escapees. We are creating people who are meditators in the marketplace, who remain in the family and are filled with the longing for God. This life too is given by the divine; to abandon it is to betray the divine. Receive wholly the gift he has given. Make it an opportunity. Through it, grow. It is a challenge. Then your wife will understand, your family will understand.

But be careful to understand my sannyas rightly; often when you take my sannyas your idea is of the old process. You too carry the same notion.

People have taken sannyas from me and then written, “Since you gave me sannyas, I no longer feel like being at home, I cannot settle to work—and you won’t let me leave home! Please permit me to go to the forest.” The forest seems easy. If going to the forest were needed, existence would have birthed you in a forest! It has birthed many in forests. It made you human; it has some hope from you. It could have made you a wolf and kept you in the wild. Existence hopes something greater from you: that living in the world you will bring the forest within. You are not to go to the Himalayas; you are to awaken the Himalayas in your soul—just that much peace, that much patience, that much stillness, that much silence, that virginal beauty within you. The animal lives in the jungle; in the sannyasin the jungle lives—that is the difference. If you too go live in the jungle, you will become an animal. I am not in favor of going to the forest.

People think my sannyas is easy—those who haven’t taken it. Those who have taken it know it is difficult. Generally people think, “He has made sannyas utterly simple: nothing to leave, nowhere to go, no obstacles; live at home, keep your job, your shop, your children, your wife—everything remains—and become a sannyasin too.” Utterly simple? You have not understood yet. Try it.

Sannyas sitting in the forest is simple—you are beyond entanglements. Sitting in a shop is very difficult: now you must see the divine in the customer. That is the obstacle. If you see God in the customer, how will you pick his pocket? If you pick his pocket, God disappears. If you see God, the pocket won’t be picked. Now there is difficulty! Be at home and be unattached—all the instruments of attachment are present, and remain unattached. If the instruments are absent, a man will entangle himself anywhere—chanting the Lord’s name loudly, reading the Hanuman Chalisa—he can distract himself, forget. But here all the instruments are present! Try fasting while sitting in the kitchen, while your wife cooks delicious food.

On fast days, do you know what people do? They go to the temple. During the Jain Paryushan, they fast and do not stay at home—home is dangerous. Food will be cooked for the children, aromas will drift in; the tinkle of utensils from the kitchen—everything will call. Today it will call loudly. On other days you never heard it—you were reading the newspaper. But today the stomach is empty; you cannot focus on the paper; the mind keeps running to the kitchen. The children are squealing with delight: “Mother, the kheer is wonderful today!” Now the life of the fasting man is in danger! So he goes to the temple. There he finds other fasters—others as foolish as he is. They all sit there, giving one another support. Everyone is hungry, but others are sitting so silently—who wants to disgrace himself? He too sits silently, listening to the monk’s discourse—praising fasting, denouncing food. Those who are eating today are certainly bound for hell. The mind feels pleasure: “Fine—let them wander later; let them suffer later. I bear the hardship today; never mind—each thing will be repaid.” Great joy arises: “I am virtuous; the rest of the world is sinful. Poor fellows don’t know.” Thus you fool yourself.

My sannyas is such that you sit at home, in the marketplace; all the instruments are present, all the challenges that arouse desire are present—and there you remain at ease. Nothing touches you, nothing obstructs you. You call that easy? Then you do not know the meaning of easy and difficult.

This is the propaganda going around the country—that my sannyas is easy. Come, become a sannyasin—and then know! From the outside it looks easy; inside, it is deep difficulty.

They will oppose you. They do not know. Explain to them. And do not explain only in words—explain through your presence. Let it be evident to your wife, from your coming to me, that you have become more loving; only then will you persuade her. Otherwise you won’t. Words do nothing. Wives do not listen to husbands’ words—remember. Wives take husbands’ words as blather. You blather; they don’t listen. Wives are more practical; they look at your being. Have you become more loving? Has more compassion come into your life? Has your attachment and greed lessened? Has your lust thinned? These are the proofs.

If your wife sees you are as you were—perhaps angrier now. You sit to meditate, the child makes noise, and you come out like sage Durvasa, ready with a curse—to destroy for many births! If she sees this, she will not trust that this sannyas is any different. Let her taste the difference. Let a little dance come into your life, a little stream of juice flow. Women are practical. No need for intellectual arguments; their way of understanding is existential—they will recognize by seeing you. Their eyes will fill with tears of joy; they will begin to cooperate in your sannyas. Not only that, they will themselves become eager for sannyas.

I am giving you life; I am not taking life away. Give evidence of this.

As for “all are condemning you—what should I do?” Either join them—if you want to avoid sannyas. Poor people, they too are condemning to save themselves. I have become a danger for them. My presence makes them restless; it robs them of their peace, their contentment. My presence reminds them there is another way of being, life can be lived in another manner, given another color. Their lives are dull, full of regret, a record of defeat. My presence suggests that what they have done till now has been futile. But the ego won’t allow them to admit their error. Who is willing to admit, “I lived fifty years in ignorance—fifty years!” No one is willing. A man defends his prestige.

They are busy condemning me to save their prestige. If I am right, then they all are wrong. There will be no compromise here; I am not a compromiser. Either two plus two make four, or they do not. I speak straight—and the straightness pricks them like an arrow. Their condemnation is not of me; it is self-defense. They are engaged in self-protection. So if you too want to avoid sannyas, join their condemnation—that is the way to avoid it. But if you want to enter sannyas, let them condemn! What difference does it make? What is happening between you and me is not made false by their condemnation. If something is happening—if a bridge is being built, if threads of love are spreading between you and me, if an experience is deepening between us—what difference does their condemnation make? Smile at it.

Their condemnation makes you restless because you are still wavering. Otherwise it would not. I have no concern about their condemnation—the whole world may condemn! If they enjoy condemning, let them enjoy; they have the right to their pleasure. It does not obstruct me.

In truth, their condemnation only proves that there is some truth in what I am saying. Truth has always been condemned; it has always been treated so. The same treatment is happening with me—and it will increase. As more people are colored in my color, as this breeze spreads, as these waves reach the far corners of the earth, this behavior will increase.

Yesterday I heard that in Brazil the government has had my centers closed. The police have raided; centers have been shut. What harm am I doing to the Brazilian government! I have never been to Brazil—nor will I go. What harm are my sannyasins doing there? They meet, dance, sing, meditate, speak a few words of love—what harm are they doing? What is disturbing them? What is obstructing them? This will grow.

A woman just came from Switzerland. She said that when she went to the Indian embassy there, they gave her a list with eight ashrams and said, “You can go to any of these eight—but by all means, do not go to Poona.” Which eight? Those are orthodox ashrams—“Go to Baba Muktananda’s,” and such—because from those ashrams society faces no danger. The woman was prepared to come here; she wanted to come here, was coming only here. She had already put on ochre; she was ready for sannyas. At the embassy they said, “Your ochre clothes suggest you are going to Pune. You must not go to Pune. If you insist on Pune, we cannot grant you a visa.” She had to lie that she would not come to Poona.

A letter came from the BBC: they are trying; they shot half a film on this ashram; midway the Indian government blocked them. They are still trying, but the government will not give permission to enter. If they are to film this ashram, there is no permission to enter India. They have been going repeatedly to the Indian High Commissioner in England; he says there is no possibility—we cannot permit it. It is no coincidence that the person who is India’s High Commissioner in London is from Poona. He will have difficulty—great difficulty. He has met me; even then he was uneasy—because to align with my words requires courage. Politicians have no courage—none. They have no soul; they sell their soul, and only then can they be politicians. The one who can sell his soul most adroitly rises fastest. One reaches high office by selling one’s soul.

This turmoil will increase. News is coming from other countries too. From Germany: if they say they are going to Poona, they will not be permitted to leave Germany. They have to lie, saying they are going elsewhere.

This vise will tighten day by day; the difficulty will increase—because I am a fire. The ochre robes I have given you are the color of fire. I want this fire to spread across the world. As it spreads, condemnation will increase, obstacles will increase. All this will happen. But it has always been so. This is how man has always treated truth.

“Frighten your companions with the raging waves—
It is they who sink the boats.
Never once lift your eyes toward the pure breeze—
Or else you will melt and climb beyond the glass.
Caravans have set out through valleys of darkness,
Their bleeding foreheads become lamps to light the way.
Let no one accept you—what is that to you, Majrooh?
Walk your path; let the fault-finders go astray.”

Whether anyone accepts you or not—forget it.
“Let no one accept you—what is that to you, Majrooh?
Walk your path; let the fault-finders go astray.”

Those who are condemning—let them take pleasure in their condemnation. You walk your path. If truth is with you, slowly others will join you. With truth, people join slowly—and they are few—only the courageous. How many gathered around Mahavira? Around Buddha? A few. And they had to endure all the condemnation you now endure. How many were with Christ? Very few. They had to bear it all. Christ was crucified; his disciples suffered all their lives—driven from village to village. The same can happen again—because man is the same, his tendencies are the same.

But if you have courage, there is no path other than sannyas. If you have courage, there is no path other than truth.

Do not be afraid. Use the whole situation. This whole situation can either become a reason to stop you—or the very shove that moves you onward. It depends on you. A stone on the path—either you stop before it, or you step upon it and make it a stair. Make this whole situation your stair.

The fifth question is also related to this.

Sannyas is freedom. It is neither in destiny nor not in destiny. Sannyas is not a matter of fate at all. What is in destiny is dependence. Sannyas is your choice—consciously, voluntarily. No one is born with “sannyasin” written into his lot, as though Existence had decreed he will be a sannyasin or he will not. Sannyas is outside destiny. It is the one thing that stands outside the writ of fate. Almost everything else is more or less fixed.

How many days you will live is largely fixed. How much lifespan you inherit from your parents is settled at birth; the map is handed over. Whether you will be male or female is determined by your parents. Whether you will tend toward sickness or health is, to a great extent, determined by them. Your color, your looks—also determined. And you carry your bundle of desires and tendencies with you as well. But there is one thing you do not bring with you—that is your supreme freedom: whether, in this very world, you will bring about nirvana or not. About that there is no predetermination.

There is a mention in Buddha’s life. Buddha was passing along a river; his footprints were impressed in the wet sand. An astrologer was walking behind him. He had just returned from Kashi after twelve years of studying astrology—so he was fresh with zeal, under the spell of study, eager to test it. He saw those beautiful footprints in the sand and bent down. Such beautiful footprints—and in them he saw a mark that belongs only to a chakravarti, a universal monarch. He was amazed. A universal monarch, walking barefoot on the sand by this dirty little river, near a small village, in the blazing afternoon! A universal monarch? Impossible. He was thrown into a quandary. “Twelve years wasted! Either all my astrology is worthless, or now universal emperors wander village to village, barefoot! A chakravarti would not climb down from his palace, would not descend from his throne, would not step out of his chariot—and here, barefoot, in the scorching sand, by this poor, desolate village of a hundred, a hundred-and-fifty houses!”

Following the trail of footprints, he went in search of the man. Buddha was resting under a tree. Seeing him made the puzzle even greater. He looked like a universal emperor—and yet he was a beggar; an alms bowl by his side, a patched robe on his body; his body gleaming like gold, an extraordinary aura on his face; eyes as soft as the petals of a lotus, and bare feet—no sandals. The astrologer sat by Buddha and said, “You have put me in a fix—please untie my knot. My twelve years have gone in vain. These scriptures I have brought from Kashi”—he was clutching them under his arm—“are they worthless? If they are, I’ll throw them into the river; twelve years wasted—I should do something else. For my scriptures say these footprints belong only to a universal emperor. There is a wheel-mark in the foot. May I see your foot?” He looked—the mark was perfectly clear; there was no room for doubt.

Buddha said, “Do not be troubled. There is no need to throw away your scriptures; ordinarily your astrology will apply to people. Only, do not try to apply it to sannyasins. Ninety-nine percent your science will hold. But sannyas is not in the lines of the hand, nor in the lines of the feet. And a universal emperor can also be a sannyasin. What obstacle is there? Sannyas can blossom in anyone’s life. This flower can bloom in a poor man’s life or a rich man’s; in the learned as well as the unlearned; in the beautiful or the ugly.”

No, sannyas has nothing to do with fate. But it seems you want to hide behind fate. You think, “If it is in my destiny, it will happen by itself; and if it isn’t, it won’t.” You want to avoid the issue. It will happen by your choosing it, not by destiny. Destiny is your excuse, your trick, your cover. Don’t deceive yourself. If you don’t want to take sannyas, don’t take it—but know that it is not a matter of fate; it isn’t written. Sannyas means going beyond fate, beyond predetermination, beyond the readymade.

“To complain of destiny is meaningless—you simply do not consent to live.
That you could not shape your own fate—no one is that helpless.”

This gathering is of the lovers of the heart; here we are all drinkers, we are all cupbearers.
To go seeking diversion among mere humans is not the custom of this assembly.

What mornings are there in which your enchantment is not awake?
What dark nights are there that are not steeped in my intoxication?

They say that from thorns to the rose lie a hundred thousand wastelands on the way—
But the resolve of mad love says: from desert to garden is not far.

“Majrooh! The breeze of dawn has risen bearing the signs of storms—
Each drop of dew may turn into a flowing stream; it is not far.”

“To complain of destiny is meaningless.” Don’t bring destiny in. Don’t complain that “What to do?”—and at the time of death don’t say, “What could I do? Prayer wasn’t in my fate; chanting wasn’t in my fate; sannyas wasn’t in my fate; worship wasn’t in my fate.” Don’t say such a thing.

“To complain of destiny is meaningless—you simply do not consent to live.
That you could not shape your own fate—no one is that helpless.”

Compulsions are many—but not in this matter. Everyone is entitled to attain the divine. There is no distinction there. In that, no one is more deserving or less deserving. In that, all are equally entitled. It is our inborn right.

Understand—

But the resolve of mad love says: from desert to garden is not far.

From the desert to the garden is not far—it is very near. From the world to nirvana is not far; very near. It is only a matter of taking one step. That step is called sannyas. And that step is every person’s right.

From the sanctuary to the tavern was the journey of a lifetime, O cupbearer—
Had our continual stumblings not supported us, what could we have done?

O preacher, if only you could bestow on the clay the temperament of the rose!
What use to fret over Adam’s paradise, so far from the earth?

Their question, their answer, their silence, their address—
In their assembly, if we did not bow our heads, what else could we do?

Sannyas is the art of losing your head. Sannyas is the art of effacing yourself. It is the art of being no-one.

Their question, their answer, their silence, their address—
In their assembly, if we did not bow our heads, what else could we do?

Listen to what I am saying to you. Weigh what I am saying. Through me your future is speaking to you. Recognize it. And if even a faint ray of recognition arises, then be courageous—rise, move. “From desert to garden is not far.” It is close; it is only a matter of a single step.

But we keep inventing new tricks. Someone says, “It’s not in my karma.” Someone says, “It’s not in my fate.” Someone says, “When God wills.” And for everything else you do not think like this; for everything else you run on your own. Only when some revolution in life comes close do you get tired, you hesitate, and you begin to say, “If it is in my fate, it will happen; what can I do now? It’s not in my hands.” In this way you make excuses; in this way you save yourself. You have been saving yourself like this till now—and thus you go on wasting your life. I want to remind you: everything else may be in fate, everything else may fall within prediction—but sannyas does not. Sannyas is a decision taken out of your free will. Sannyas is the proclamation of your ultimate freedom. If you want to remain a slave, remain a slave—but remember, you are a slave by your own choice. If you want to be free, be free. Without your consent nothing will happen. Even God cannot make you free without your consent. He has granted man that much dignity, that much respect.

The last question:

Nothing can be said about samadhi. Samadhi lies beyond talk. Samadhi is an experience. I can tell you how samadhi can happen, but what is in samadhi, what happens in samadhi—I cannot tell; no one can. No one has ever told it, and no one ever will. Samadhi does not fit into words. It is a wordless experience, timeless; beyond all attributes, far from expression, a condition beyond feeling.

You ask: “Please say something about the inner state of samadhi.”
First, nothing can be said about samadhi. But if you learn to sit near me, you are sitting near samadhi. If you learn to look into my eyes, you have peered into samadhi. If you take my hand in yours, you have taken the hand of samadhi.

Once, a painter brought a portrait of Ramakrishna. Ramakrishna looked at it and bowed his head at the feet of the picture. It was his own portrait. The disciples were startled, a bit uneasy. One of them, sitting close by, said, “Paramhansadev, what are you doing? Are you in your senses? This is your portrait; you are bowing to your own picture!” Ramakrishna said, “Good that you reminded me; I bowed to samadhi. This portrait is of samadhi. It bears my form and color, but that is secondary. The painter has captured, a little in color and a little in form, the inner mood within me. I saluted that mood-state.”

About samadhi I cannot say anything, but what is speaking to you is samadhi speaking. What you are seeing is samadhi. Come close to me, taste me; drink a little wine from my decanter.

And second, samadhi is not an inner state—there, nothing inner remains and nothing outer. The distinction of inside and outside has dissolved. We call it an inner state just for the sake of saying something, but in truth there is neither outside nor inside. All dualities end there—even inside and outside is a duality.

People say samadhi is the experience of God; that too is not so. There is no experience there and no experiencer. People say samadhi is the vision of God. Who will witness, and of whom? There are not two there. Knowledge requires two—the knower and the known; seeing requires two—the seer and the seen. Samadhi is a unitive experience. It is not the vision of God; it is the realization, “I am the Divine.” Aham Brahmasmi! Such is the proclamation of samadhi.

Then the word “state” is not right either. Because “state” suggests something static, like stagnant water—no flow. Samadhi is a river, dynamism, energy, dance. Call it inner dance—better; call it inner energy—better; call it inner current—better. Like lightning flashing, like a river flowing—such is its flow, from infinity to infinity. The word “state” makes it seem as if everything is stopped. For misfortune, the word “state” fits—there, everything is stuck. Samadhi is not a state. Think of a dancer in dance—is the dance a “state”?

The body of a dancer in rapture—
Like the flame of a lamp, like the hood of a cobra,
Like a bud that bursts, like a garden that sways,
Like clouds swelling, like rays breaking forth,
Like a storm rising, like a fire flaring,
Like a heart at one’s side, like devotion in the heart,
Like a river that bends, like the wind that flies,
Like a butterfly’s wing, like a bumblebee’s mind,
Like the ache of separation, like stolen wealth,
Like a pang in the soul, like a deer in the forest—
The body of a dancer in rapture.

Samadhi—like the flame of a lamp, like the hood of a cobra.
Samadhi—like a bud that bursts, like a garden that sways.
Samadhi—like clouds swelling, like rays breaking forth.
Dynamism, energy, flow, aliveness. The Divine is not something static. The Divine is an eternal flow. That is why the Divine is life. The Divine is not a stone; the Divine is a flower.

Know samadhi—and only then will you know. I am ready to take you into samadhi; don’t ask from the outside. I will say something, and you will understand something else. If you ask from the outside, you will miss. Come, come inside; the doors are open—there isn’t even any need to knock. Come inside. And if you muster a little courage to cross this threshold, you will know what samadhi is.

Samadhi is the disappearance of the self and the manifestation of the Divine. Samadhi is the solution—that is why it is called samadhi: the solution to all problems. Then no problem remains, no question remains, no anxiety remains. All is quiet; all questions drop, all problems vanish; a void remains. But in that very void the Full descends. Become empty; the Full is poised to enter. From your side samadhi is emptiness; from the Divine’s side samadhi is fullness.

But always remember: whatever is said about samadhi—including what I am saying—is provisional. You have asked, so I am speaking. You ask, so it has to be said. But what is, does not come through saying. What is, comes through knowing, through experience. Whatever I say must use words. The moment it is brought into words, that vast sky of samadhi shrinks into something very small. And this is a great impossibility.

A little child was reading a history book and came across Napoleon’s famous line, “Nothing is impossible in the world.” He burst into laughter. His father asked, “What’s the matter? Are you reading or laughing?” The boy said, “I’m laughing because it says here that nothing is impossible in the world.” The father said, “He’s right—nothing is impossible.” The boy said, “Wait, this morning I tried something that is absolutely impossible.” The father asked, “What?” He said, “I’ll bring it.” He ran off to the bathroom, brought the tube of toothpaste and said, “First squeeze the toothpaste out, then put it back in again. That’s impossible—maybe in Napoleon’s time there was no toothpaste. That’s why I laughed. I tried hard this morning, tried a hundred times—but it just won’t go back in.”

Samadhi means: first come out of the mind—the toothpaste is squeezed out. Now, to tell about samadhi means: put the toothpaste back into the tube, bring it back into words—impossible. Perhaps the toothpaste could somehow be forced back in; some method might be found. But samadhi is known outside words; to bring it back inside words is impossible. There can only be pointers. I have given only pointers. These are all pointers—

Like the flame of a lamp, like the hood of a cobra,
Like a bud that bursts, like a garden that sways,
Like clouds swelling, like rays breaking forth,
Like a storm rising, like a fire flaring,
Like a heart at one’s side, like devotion in the heart,
Like a river that bends, like the wind that flies,
Like a butterfly’s wing, like a bumblebee’s mind,
Like the ache of separation, like stolen wealth,
Like a pang in the soul, like a deer in the forest.

Pointers. Don’t grasp them; they are not definitions. But if these pointers begin to call you, if they become a thirst, if they start to pull you—an irresistible attraction arises, an aspiration is born: “We will know”—then the work is done. Through what I speak here I cannot make you understand samadhi; but if my words kindle thirst in you, then one day the flower of samadhi will bloom within you. It is your right. Claim your right.

That’s all for today.