Santo Magan Bhaya Man Mera #16

Agehananda! Only when wealth comes do you recognize poverty. Only when health is tasted does illness become clear. One who has always been ill forgets what illness is. One who has lived only in chains and has never tasted freedom cannot even remember the chains. To know chains, you need the backdrop of freedom; otherwise the chains begin to look like ornaments. Man decorates his chains, polishes them, makes them beautiful. If you were born in a prison, opened your eyes there for the first time, and never saw the open sky, how would you know it is a prison? The very experience of freedom—even a little, a single drop—will make you restless. Then it becomes difficult to remain in the prison even for a moment. Then the longing for the open sky arises.

That is why the religious person becomes more restless than the irreligious. The irreligious person has no special restlessness—only petty unrest. What are his complaints? A little more money, a slightly bigger house, a somewhat larger shop. All this can happen; it is happening. He has no major complaint against the world because he has no major demand from it. If the balance in his bank increases a bit, his unrest will seem to settle.

The real agitation arises in the religious person, because his longing is for the infinite, the boundless, the vast, the immortal. He is not content with the little, the small. His discontent is vast. It cannot be fulfilled on this earth. Only the sky can satiate him. Hence the religious person gets into more difficulty than the irreligious. And then you will also understand why people are afraid of religion. There are unconscious reasons behind their fear. There is dread: life already seems difficult as it is, and if in this life a longing for the divine is also born, then what will happen? The petty is not obtained anyway; where will we go to seek the eternal? When the trivial is not coming into our hands, how shall we attain the vast? So better to deny that the vast exists at all.

The atheist is not really denying God; he is merely saying, “It would be better if you did not exist! I am already in trouble as it is, and if you also exist and a longing to attain you arises, what will become of me? Even now it is hard to sleep; sleep does not come. But if the search for you is born, how will I ever be able to close my eyelids?” In self-defense the atheist denies God. Atheism has nothing to do with God; it has to do only with protecting oneself. The atheist says, “You are not, and I have no need to seek you. This little courtyard is everything. Let me get possession, ownership of this small yard—that will be all.” He is saying there is nothing beyond this courtyard. He is saying, “If there is no bamboo, there will be no flute.” He is securing his defenses in advance.

The atheist is a frightened man. Generally people think the opposite; they think the atheist is very fearless—look, he even denies God! I tell you, it is exactly the reverse. The atheist is not fearless. If he were fearless he would deny this world and set out in search of God. What is there worth seeking in the trivial? If he were fearless, he would look for the infinite, seek the arduous; he would embark on the journey to that summit which is not easily reached, where the ascent is steep and difficult.

No, the atheist is not fearless; he is afraid—although he has found a great web of arguments to support his fear. He says, “God is not; if we go on a search, whom shall we search for? If we call, whom shall we call? If he were, we would surely call—but he is not.” In this way he closes his eyes. The man in the prison who says, “There is no sky; there are no wings that can fly in the sky; no one has ever flown there—these are all idle tales,” is simply saying, “Let me sleep in peace. Let me remain with my chains. This is not a prison; this is my home. I need nothing else; I ask for nothing more.”

You have commonly heard it said that the religious man is very contented. I tell you, that is wrong. The religious man only seems contented in the eyes of the world because all his discontent has been turned toward God. He has no discontent left to invest in his shop, so he appears content—not because he has become satisfied with the world. Who has ever been satisfied with the world? But discontent has a certain quantity, a limit. He has poured all his discontent into the search for truth. His thirst is inward; the worldly man’s thirst is outward. His eyes are searching outside; the religious man’s eyes are searching within. And the inward search is difficult. Reaching the moon and the stars is easy; reaching within oneself is difficult.

Why is it difficult?
Because between us and the moon and stars there is a distance; when there is a distance it can be traversed. But between oneself and oneself there is no distance—how will you travel it? That is why the pilgrimage is so arduous. And when I say pilgrimage, I do not mean to Kaaba or Kashi; I mean to the God who dwells in your innermost core, to the lamp of consciousness burning within you. There is no distance at all—so how to make a journey? That is the difficulty. How to attain what is already attained? That is the difficulty. If it were not already yours, you could at least try to get it. But how to know what is already ours? What has been ours from the very beginning? Like the fish in the ocean—how is it to know the ocean? Such is our state.

It could not have been otherwise. Until one meets the Sadguru, there is no complaint against life. Life seems to be everything; toys seem to be everything; garbage looks like wealth—what complaint could arise? And around you are people just like you: you chase the futile, they chase the futile. With everyone running in the same race, in the same direction, a person just keeps moving with the crowd. Where is the remembrance of what we are using our life for? Is life for this—to gather a little money and die? To build a slightly bigger house and die? To beget two or four children and die? Is life for that? Such questions don’t even arise. There is no leisure for such questions. Such questions don’t even seem relevant. The “relevant” questions of life are others: How to succeed? How to make money? How to acquire position? How to gain prestige?

No, you could not have had a complaint. Now that you have come to me, dissatisfaction with life will begin. You will feel: all that I have done till now was in vain; all that has been done till now is dust. If you have lived fifty years, those fifty years have flowed down the drain. Nothing has been attained from them. There will be panic, restlessness. That is why people avoid the Sadguru. They are not afraid to go to the pandit or the priest, because the pandit-priest belongs to your very world. There is no real difference between you and him. A pandit-priest cannot light the lamp of yearning within you; he cannot kindle the fire of holy discontent. A Sadguru is precisely the one who makes you so discontented that until the Divine is found, contentment does not come.

Jesus said rightly: I have not come to bring a message of peace; I have come with a sword. Yesterday we heard Rajjab say: the Master thrust a spear into my chest. Where a spear pierces the chest, know that there is a possibility of transformation. You have come here and felt a hint of something new, a whisper in your ear: life can be otherwise; life can take this hue, this color; life can sing such a song; such flowers can bloom in life. You sensed a little rustle. The life you were living is not the only way to live; there are other options. What you took to be wealth is not the only wealth; there are other treasures. What you took to be status is not the only status; there are other dignities. A new dimension opened. The eyes lifted a little higher. Beyond the prison wall you looked toward the sky. A sky studded with moon and stars appeared. Your wings began to flutter. Complaint against the prison began.

To meet the Sadguru is to meet a person who has tasted freedom. The experience of freedom is infectious. It cannot be taught, not really. But if you sit near one brimming with freedom, a few drops will spill over from his being into yours. You won’t even know when they slipped in—that is why I call it infectious. Sit near one filled with love, and a few drops of love will pass down your throat despite yourself.

You have experienced this at times. Sit near a depressed person and, unawares, you become depressed. Sit near an anxious person and waves of worry surround your mind. Sit near a laughing person and, even if you were sad, you forget your sadness in a flash and begin to laugh. Ten people sit in joy, in abandon; sit among them and the current of their abandon carries you away into some new direction. For a little while you become a traveler of another realm. You have also seen that we are touched by each other’s vibrations.

The vibration of truth is the greatest surge, a flood. Sit near one who has found truth and your first difficulty will be that, in comparison, your whole life will begin to look false.

You have heard the famous story: One day Akbar drew a line in court and said, “No one should touch it, but make it smaller—without touching it.” How to shorten a line without touching it? The courtiers thought and thought; the more they thought, the more they got entangled—because “making smaller” seems to require touching, erasing, trimming from here or there. Touching was not allowed. Then Birbal laughed and drew a bigger line beneath the first one. He did not touch the shorter line, and yet it became small. Without touching it, it became small—by comparison, by a background being created.

When you came to me, I became your background. The complaint began. To live life as you were living it is futile. And when the thought arises that living like this is meaningless, another thought arises: then what is meaningful? Once the false shows up as false, the true is not hard to find. Once the untruth is experienced as untruth, truth is almost at hand—just lower your head a little and look. Truth is within you; the eyes are entangled in the untrue, hence truth is not experienced. Come to me and discontent will be born, complaint too—and the gates of bliss will open. This paradox happens together. On one side, you will suddenly feel sad when you look at your life; and on the other, seeing the tremor of a new possibility in life, hearing the anklets of a new dance, you will be filled with supreme joy. New dreams will build nests in your heart.

To be religious means: this earth is not enough. This body is not enough. This mind is not enough. Use this mind, this body, this earth as a ladder. Transcend; go beyond; rise above. Because of this very urge to rise above, a great misunderstanding has come in: seeing Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna, Christ, Mohammed rise above, go beyond this life, though still inviting a new life, calling a new sky; seeing their effulgence, their ecstasy, their joy, the wine of bliss flowing around them, a new tavern arising near them—many became intoxicated and danced.

Those who connect with the living Sadguru are indeed intoxicated, but later a great obstacle arises. After the Master is gone, people translate “rising above the world” as “the world is the enemy; the body is the enemy.” They forget the rising; they clutch at enmity. “There is something above to be attained”—this is not remembered; “what is below must be abandoned”—this is what they keep in mind. The affirmative becomes negative. When Buddha is alive, religion with him is affirmative, positive. His presence gives it positivity. In the presence of Buddha you cannot miss. The light is in front—how can you forget? You begin to merge into that light, to connect your lamp with Buddha’s lamp—that is discipleship. A moment comes when your extinguished lamp draws so close that a flame leaps from Buddha’s lamp: in a single instant, revolution! You too are lit. You are alive for the first time. Your real birth happens. You become dvija—twice-born.

No one becomes twice-born without going to a Buddha. No one is born dvija. Dvija means born again. One birth is from mother and father; the second is from the Guru. Without going to the Guru, no one becomes dvija. Don’t think that by wearing the sacred thread you become twice-born, or that being born in a Brahmin family makes you dvija. Until you are born again near one who knows Brahman, you cannot be dvija. That alone is a Brahmin: one who has known Brahman. Until the knower of Brahman becomes your midwife and gives you a new birth, you remain a shudra.

All are born as shudras, and all should die as Brahmins. But not all die as Brahmins—only a few, rarely. It is unfortunate. Most are born as shudras and die as shudras. A Brahmin appears once in a while—some Nanak, some Rajjab, some Kabir. But whenever a Brahmin is alive, religion with him is affirmative. As you edge closer to him, you connect with his affirmative flame.

But as soon as that lamp spreads its wings and flies—udiyo pankh pasaar—when Buddha or Kabir departs, a dense darkness falls, denser than before. You have seen this: on a dark night you are walking; it is very dark, yet you are still walking, you can see a little—otherwise how would you walk? Suddenly a car passes, flooding your eyes with light. After it passes, you stagger; the darkness feels even darker. Your feet falter. It is the same darkness, you are the same, nothing has changed—but the flash of light has left the darkness more intense. After every Buddha’s death the world loses the affirmative quality of religion; negativity arises.

Negative religion means: the world is wrong—abandon it. Affirmative religion means: the Divine is right—attain it. Negative religion says: renounce this, drop that. Affirmative religion says: open your hands, open your heart, fill with light; the wealth of the Divine is raining—do not remain deprived; open your doors, let it in; the Guest is knocking.

Understand the difference.

Because of this, humanity falls into great confusion after every Buddha; negativity spreads. It is almost inevitable; it cannot be entirely avoided. That is why I say to you: as far as possible, seek the company of a living Buddha; otherwise there is every likelihood you will remain entangled in negative religion. Negative religion will not give you God; it will also rob you of the world. You will become like the washerman’s donkey—neither of home nor of the riverbank. That is the life of your so‑called monks and holy men: washerman’s donkeys—neither here nor there. God has not been found, and the world has been abandoned. Freedom has not been attained, and the prison is also gone. Now nothing remains in the hand. Wings were never grown, and the safety of the cage is also lost.

Have you seen this? If there is a parrot in your house who has long been in a cage, do not suddenly free him—the bird will be killed. He will not be able to fly. Being caged for so long, his capacity to fly has atrophied; he has lost trust in his wings. Trust comes through use. For so many days he hasn’t flown, he has forgotten that he can fly. The wings are there, but only for show now, formal. There is no faith within the wings. Without faith everything becomes lifeless. The parrot has no faith in his own wings—he has no memory left that he can fly. Yes, he has seen others fly, but “I cannot fly”—that hypnosis has sunk deep. Thinking this again and again, he has lost his connection with his wings. If you suddenly take him out of the cage today—he will die. He will gain no freedom, no joy of the open sky, no conversation with the moon and stars; and the safety and life of the cage will also be gone.

Such are your sadhus and sannyasins: negative. In the world there is still a little ripple, a little current of nectar flows—because God is present in the world. However much the diamond has fallen into mud, a diamond is a diamond. However much the soul has wandered in the body, the soul is still the soul. God is present in the world—in these trees, in the voice of the cuckoo, in the rays of the sun, in these gusts of wind, in me, in you, God is present. The diamond has fallen into mud; pick it up, clean it, wash it.

Affirmative religion comes from connecting with the Sadguru. Those who search for religion in scripture receive a negative religion.

Remember two words well: shasta and shastra. Shasta means: the living Master—where scripture is being born right now, where scripture is still breathing, where blood still flows in it, the heart still beats; where the Veda is being born, where the ayats of the Quran are rising; the Master is such a door through which God once again peeks into the world—clearly, intensely, concentrated, embodied; once again he is looking for man, calling to man, inviting: Come, I am waiting.

Shastra is when the Shasta has gone. The words no longer breathe; they have become ink on a page. Where there was light in those words when Buddha spoke—later only ink remains. Ink means darkness, blackness. Where there were luminous words, throbbing words, dancing words—now only dead words lie in books, corpses; stains on pages. Seek truth in them and what you will find will be negative. In that negativity you will be trapped and go nowhere. This life will be spoiled, and the other will not be found.

Affirmative religion means: rise above what is—not against it; use it as a means.

You have come to me, and you say: “But without you this life was not even life.” Life cannot be life without being linked to someone who is alive—and not everyone here is alive. Corpses walk the roads; the dead sit in the markets. Those who know nothing of their own life—how will you call them alive? Imagine a Kohinoor diamond is in your pocket, but you do not know it. Can you be called rich? The Kohinoor may indeed be in your pocket, but you stand begging by the roadside. What use is that Kohinoor? Its presence or absence is the same.

A wondrous Western master, George Gurdjieff, used to say: You do not have a soul. No one is born with a soul. He said something unique, for all scriptures say man is born with a soul—how else would you be born? How could you live without a soul? But understand Gurdjieff’s intent. He is not a theoretician; he is not an advocate of some doctrine; his gaze is scientific. He says: you do not have a soul—as long as you do not know it, how can you be said to have it? The Kohinoor is in your pocket, yet you beg—how can I call you wealthy, say you possess the Kohinoor? The soul is only a possibility; search and perhaps you will find it.

You have come to me: I do not want to give you God; I want to give you life. And whoever has life, finds God. Life is the first taste of the Divine. Because I want to give you life, I do not want to constrict you—I want to expand you. I do not want to bind you in proprieties; I do not want to make you a slave in the name of discipline. I want to give you all kinds of freedom, so that you can spread, become vast. I want to give you awareness, not mere conduct. I want to give you inner consciousness, not a conditioned conscience. I want to give you an understanding of living—of living in a thousand colors. I want to give you the art by which life becomes a rainbow; the hints by which you can dance, by which a flute can come to your lips. And my knowing is this: the person who learns to sing, vulgarities stop emerging from his mouth. I do not insist that you give up abuse; I want to teach you to sing. That is the affirmative.

One who sings—how will he abuse? In whose life flowers have begun to bloom, whose energy is becoming flowers—his energy will not turn into thorns. It cannot. In whom nectar begins to flow, poison stops flowing, because energy is one. When it goes wrong it becomes poison; when it goes right it becomes nectar. When it flows downward, it turns poisonous; when it rises upward, it becomes nectar. Energy is one.

I want to give you life. Life that dances, that sings—festive life. Once celebration enters your life, once you learn again to spread your wings, once faith returns, once you try a little and learn to fly—who can stop you then? The whole sky is yours. God will surely be found—just become alive. Or, say it another way: God will be found—become soul-full. The essential thing is the soul. Whoever is soul-full, God is his inheritance. The soul-full one receives God as a reward. If you have no soul, how could there have been life?

Agehanand, you are fortunate! Now there will be grievance with life, complaint will arise; this life will not seem sufficient; limits will appear everywhere. And a new life is dawning; a new ray is entering you—protect that ray. Do not get busy fighting the prison walls. Even within the prison, if you learn to dance, the walls will fall. My understanding is: one who dances rightly—if the courtyard is crooked, it straightens. One who rejoices rightly—his walls fall. Your gloom has raised your walls. One who becomes exuberant, in whom a flood of ecstasy arises—all prisons are swept away, all chains are washed away. I am not insisting that you break chains; I insist that you learn to dance. The one who has learned to dance—his chains break. They simply cannot cling to dancing feet.

Now complaint will arise against this life. And simultaneously a paradox will happen: toward the supreme Life, reverence will arise—gratitude, thankfulness.

When religion turns negative, it only destroys people, makes them sick.

“The custodians of the sanctuary stand with eyes cast down—
with what reverence they have sold God!”

Look closely at temple priests and ritualists, at the keepers of mosques—
“The custodians of the sanctuary stand with eyes cast down—
with what deference they have sold Yazdan (God)!”

How respectfully, how expertly, how devoutly they have sold God—if they did not feel guilty, what else would they feel? In the name of God, who knows what is going on! What should not go on. Death proceeds in God’s name. Poisons flow in God’s name. Empty rituals in God’s name. All sorts of stupidities in God’s name; superstitions persist.

“If there is any guilelessness left, it is at the tavern’s door—
to temple and mosque, go without belongings.”

The poet has given a right hint. If you go to temple or mosque, go without possessions—there are bandits there.
“If there is any unpretentiousness left, it is at the tavern’s door.”
If anywhere a little honesty remains—free of deceit—it is only in the tavern. There your belongings will be safe; you too will be safe. But in temple and mosque, you are sold off; you have been sold. Someone has sold himself as Hindu, someone as Muslim, someone as Christian. Only adjectives remain in people’s hands—ash remains in their hands. What does it mean now to be Hindu? What does it mean to be Muslim? To be human—that means something. But the Muslim cannot become human, for if he is Muslim, how to be simply human? And the Hindu cannot become human. If you are Indian, how to be human? If you are Pakistani, how to be human?

Upon being human, first and second labels have been stuck. A thousand fetters have been tied. You have encircled yourself with these bonds; you have been sold into someone’s hands. You do not even know when you were sold. You were sold in such childhood that you had no awareness. Your parents sold you; your family sold you—they too were already sold. Their parents had sold them. Thus generation after generation, people keep selling their children.

You do not even know that you have not yet sought religion, you have not searched—and you have become “religious.” You can become a Hindu without searching; you cannot become religious without searching. To become religious requires audacity, the courage to explore. One must take the risk of walking into the dark. You may go astray—that danger exists. But only those who risk getting lost ever arrive. And those who dare that risk—God does not let them go astray; he comes to their support. The helpless one always finds the support of the Divine.

But your temples and mosques have over-assured you that you know everything. Therefore no grievance arises with life either, because the taste of a larger Life never appears.

Now do not miss this opportunity. This little exuberance stirring in your heart, the little warmth rising in your breath—support it, cooperate with it.

“We learned the worth of life—thanks to the sword of tyranny!
Yes, it was we who, until yesterday, were weary of living.

“We have strolled the shore enough, O wave of the shore—do not bang your head.
How will those be amused by you who have been lulled by storms?

“When the instrument was raised, the hearts of the atoms warmed.
When the goblet came to hand, the sun and moon became our neighbors.”

I have placed a goblet in your hand, a cup brimming with nectar; if you dare to drink, soon you will be neighbors of the moon and stars.

“When the goblet came to hand, the sun and moon became our neighbors.”

I am making arrangements so that you can befriend the moon and stars. You need only a little courage. And of course, to befriend the moon and stars demands courage. The courage to expand so much. The courage to take the moon and stars within. Smallness will not do. All pettiness, all conditionings must be dropped. Only unconditioned will you be free. Only free of conditioning will you be free. I do not want to give you freedom only; I want to give you swachchhandata—truly, the free cadence of your own self. I want to awaken the rhythm of your own being.

Do not mistake swachchhandata for licentiousness. Within you sleeps a cadence. It can awaken; it longs to awaken; like a seed it aches for your attention—so that it may sprout, become a tree, blossom; so that it may fill the sky with fragrance. And know: until you become capable of filling the sky with fragrance, something is missing—something is missing.

Rajjab called the Master a slayer. He said: your burning thirst will not be quenched until you find the one who kills; your pain will not end until you find the one who kills; there is no release from this ache until you meet the slayer. He called the Master a slayer, and he said it with great depth. The true Master is where your ego dies; where your “I” is erased; where you burn to ashes; where, in the Master’s fire, in the Master’s love, you become a no. That is why he said “slayer.”

But the very thing that is death on one side is crossing-over on the other. When the ego dies, the soul is attained. What is a gallows on one side is a throne on the other.

When you first meet a Master, he is a slayer. And that is why people are afraid to meet a Master. They keep their distance. They find a thousand arguments to remain far away. “Why bow at someone’s feet? We’ll connect directly with God. What need is there to go and learn from anyone?” In this life, whatever you have learned, you learned from others; then you did not raise this question. But the moment it is about learning God, this question arises. The ego is spinning its webs. The ego says, “This is not right; will you bow still more? Become a disciple? Surrender?” The ego will protect itself. And it will raise a thousand thoughts against true Masters—very logical ones too. It is not difficult to produce thoughts. If you want to argue against anything at all, you can.

Try a small experiment for a day. Pick any person you see on the road—A, B, or C—and decide, “I’m going to think against this man.” Then follow him. Observe him for two or four days. Clamp down on a stubborn resolve: “I must find something against him.” You will find thousands of “facts.” And then decide instead: “I will find this man’s virtues,” follow him for two or four days, and you will discover thousands of good qualities in the very same man.

There was a Sufi fakir, Junayd. One night he dreamt he was standing before God. God said, “Do you have anything to ask?” Junayd said, “Just one curiosity—only one: Who is the most virtuous person in my village?” And God’s voice said, “Your neighbor.” He woke with a jolt—so shocked. The neighbor! The neighbor is the worst possible person in the world. No one sees any goodness in a neighbor.

Jesus has a famous saying: Love your neighbor as yourself. And another: Love your enemy as yourself. I once said to a Christian priest, these two say the same thing—because the neighbor and the enemy are not two; they are the same person. The neighbor is the enemy.

Junayd woke up. “The neighbor!” He had never even considered it. He had thought God would speak of his Master. And deep inside was even the hope that perhaps God would name him: “Junayd, who could be more virtuous than you in your village?” The craving was there. “The neighbor!” He had never seen anything good in that man. But if God says it, it must be right. He tried in a thousand ways to convince himself, but he could not make sense of how the neighbor could be the most virtuous.

The next night, by coincidence, the dream returned: again he was before God—perhaps because he had been thinking about it the whole day, wanting to clarify it. He said, “All right, what you said is fine, but one more question: Who is the worst person in my village?” God said again, “Your neighbor.” Now he was even more puzzled. It was the same neighbor. God laughed and said, “Do not panic or be anxious—it is all in how you look. If you wish, you can see the worst of the worst in your neighbor; if you wish, you can see the best of the best in your neighbor.”

This world becomes exactly what you see—or what you want to see. When someone wants to avoid a Master, they can find every manner of fault. It’s easy. No obstacle.

There is another note from Junayd’s life. He was working in his garden with a small hoe. In the middle he had to go inside for some errand, leaving the hoe there. When he returned, the hoe was gone. He looked around and saw his neighbor walking by. “Aha, it must be him!” he thought. He looked carefully: “If he stole it, it will show in his walk.” His gait looked exactly like that of a seasoned thief. He looked harder, went and stood aside near the wall, fixed his eyes on him: the neighbor seemed nervous, eyes downcast, ashamed—Junayd was certain. For two or four days he continued watching: whenever the neighbor came and went, his certainty grew—“He stole it.” His walking, his rising, his sitting—when Junayd said “Jai Ramji” in greeting, the man replied as if frightened—everything testified that he was the thief.

On the fifth day Junayd was again working in the garden when he found his own hoe buried in the soil. “Oh! I blamed that poor neighbor for nothing.” Just then the neighbor was passing by. Junayd looked at him again: what a good and lovely man! Look at that walk—just like a saint’s! Look at the expression on his face—so full of grace!

What you want to see, you will see. In a person you can find the devil, and in a person you can find God. Then look for the one with whom you wish to live. Some people prefer to live among devils—they search for the devil in everyone. Their world becomes hell. Everyone seems bad to them, and then they have to live among those “bad” people—where will they go? These are the people! And among these very people, a few live in heaven—because they see the good in everyone. In everyone, the good can be seen.

And a true Master is a profoundly paradoxical happening. He belongs to this world and also to that beyond. There is a great contradiction in him. He is in the body and yet outside the body. He is in the world, yet the world is not in him. Within him, two different arithmetics meet. Two sets of laws—utterly opposite—come together in him. You can see whichever you want.

If you want to see against him, you will see the laws of this world in him. If you want to see in his favor, you will see the law of the beyond in him. The ego finds arguments. You were with Buddha and you found arguments. You had found them—and some of you may have been there. For you are not new. No one here is new. All are old travelers. The dust of centuries, of births upon births, is on your heads. You have slipped past Buddha, you have slipped past Mahavira, you have slipped past Krishna—you found something wrong in each.

Think a little: if you want to find faults, is there any shortage of “faults” in Krishna? How many you could discover! If you do not want to pick faults, that is another matter. But if you want to, how many will you not find? Even from the viewpoint of fault-finding, Krishna is a “complete incarnation.” Others may have made mistakes, but small ones. Rama too must have made mistakes, and Buddha too, but there is a decorum to their mistakes. Rama is Maryada Purushottam—the highest in decorum—even his mistakes are within bounds. Krishna made such “mistakes” that they are beyond decorum. How many faults you could find in Krishna! Sit alone just once and think—and it may be that you are Krishna’s devotee, you worship his image in the temple, you have set up a cradle for him at home and rock him. Sit once, stop rocking the cradle, close your eyes, and ask: whom am I rocking? He had sixteen thousand women. They were not all his own; many were other men’s wives whom he had carried away. Then perhaps you will stop rocking! You will worry: how to escort this gentleman, cradle and all, out of the house?

But you do not think. When it’s just a dead idol, what does it matter—keep rocking. Had you been with the real Krishna, you would have faced trouble. There were troubles even with Buddha. Krishna’s “faults” are stark—no need to dig deep. Krishna is very open, straightforward. Only one whose insistence on faith is unshakable can have faith in Krishna—one who has decided: “Do what you will, I will trust.”

And this is Krishna’s glory. Because he challenges your faith so utterly; even so, if you can trust, you cross over. This is Krishna’s greatness. Never was there a greater Master, because no one ever put faith to such a test. Those who can trust him are saved—what remains then? If you have trusted Krishna, in whom can distrust remain? You have taken the final step, passed the ultimate test.

It is easier to trust Buddha. But even with Buddha, there are those who insist on distrust. They find small faults. They say: If Buddha is supremely knowing, why does he fall ill? Buddha died after eating poisonous food. His opponents say: If he could not know that the food on his own plate was poisonous, how can you call him knower of the three times? “Trikālajña” means one who knows the three times—what has been, what is, and what will be. The Jains raise this doubt against Buddha: he is not omniscient. Forget the three times—he is seated before his meal and cannot see that the food is poisonous; he eats it and dies of it. What kind of omniscience is this?

Look at the event—it will also strike you as reasonable: if omniscience is a sign of Buddhahood, then what sort of omniscience is this? But the one who has trust sees Buddha’s compassion. He says: Buddha could see that there was poison, but the man who had cooked had prepared it with such love that to tell him, “There is poison in this,” would wound his heart. Better to drink the poison than to hurt him. He did not want to wound him.

He was a poor man. For years he had been inviting Buddha. When Buddha came to his village, the man arrived at three in the morning—otherwise others would come first and invite him. When Buddha awoke and opened his eyes, the man was already there. “So early?” asked Buddha. “Today, the first invitation is mine,” said the man. Just then Emperor Prasenjit also arrived to invite Buddha, but Buddha said, “Now it is too late. The first invitation is his. I will eat at his house.”

He gave the invitation—but he had nothing to serve. A poor man of Bihar! Bihar is not poor only today; it has been poor for a long time. The people of Bihar are skilled at being poor—they have practiced it for centuries. He had nothing to feed him. In those days in Bihar—and perhaps even now—the poor would collect the mushrooms that sprout in the rains, dry them, and cook them as a vegetable through the year. Mushrooms are not exactly “food,” but when the stomach is empty, anything is food. Sometimes mushrooms are poisonous, for they sprout anywhere—often in filthy places—that is why they are called “kukur-mutta,” people think they grow where a dog has urinated. They often grow in damp, decaying wood and rubbish.

He cooked a mushroom curry—for he had no other vegetable—and it was poisonous. Those who love Buddha, who have trust, who wish to be with a true Master, say: Buddha saw it, but without a word he quietly ate. It was poisonous, bitter. Not only did he eat it, he thanked the man. He looked at the man’s love, not at the food. The food may have been bitter, but love had sweetened it. And sometimes it happens that you eat in the homes of emperors and it is not sweet, because the sweetness of love is not there.

Back at his hut, the first thing Buddha said to his monks was: “Go into the village and announce that that poor man is greatly blessed. In this world there are two supremely fortunate ones: the mother who gives the first food to an awakened one, and the person who gives his last meal. This man is blessed; he has given the last meal.” Ananda said, “What are you saying?” Buddha replied, “Go beat the drum in the village; otherwise, after I die, people will kill him. They will not forgive him. Announce that he is graced.”

The one who has trust sees this. The one who has trust wrote this story—wrote Buddha’s inner feeling. The one who has no trust says, “Ignorant! Couldn’t even tell that the food before him was poisonous—how can he know all times? What knowledge? He is ignorant like others. He cannot see the death standing before him; how will he show others the nectar of immortality?”

Do you see? Man can devise tricks. It has always been so; it will always be so.

The Master is a slayer. Only those can come to him who are ready to have their necks cut. Those who say, “We have tried living our way and found nothing; now let us lay our head at someone’s feet and live by his gesture—perhaps something will happen. We lived our way and reaped sorrow, pain, melancholy. Now let us walk at another’s signal. We have failed—perhaps someone else will win. Let us tie our fortune to another’s luck. Our fortune has become a dark night; maybe, joined to another’s, it will become a full moon.” Only one ready to die can come to a Master. The first experience of the Master is as a slayer. And the Master begins to strike. He cuts from every side. He will cut your religion, your scriptures, your ideas, your doctrines—he will hit you from every direction. If you cannot understand this, you will miss.

He will say a small thing against your religion—and what is your “religion”? If you truly had religion, you would not need to come to a Master! He will say a little something against you, and you will be disturbed and leave: “This place is not for me.” Did you come seeking a prop for yourself? Did you come seeking more arguments to support your arguments? Do you want the Master to strengthen what you already are? The Master is not your enemy. You are strong enough as you are—that’s why you have been wandering so long. Now you must be weakened. The ground beneath your feet must be pulled away.

So remember: if you are a Muslim and the Master says something against Islam, it has nothing to do with Islam—he is striking you. His purpose is different. If he says something against Hinduism, he is not speaking against Hinduism. What does he have to do with Hinduism? He is always on the side of dharma. But he is speaking against your “Hinduness.” He is saying: this insistence on being a Hindu is obstructing you—let it go, let it be washed away, be free of it; pull down this wall. He will have to strike many of your cherished notions.

Only yesterday I said: a snake bit Mahavira, and Jains say milk flowed from his wound. I said milk could not flow—by then Mahavira was at least fifty! By that time, curd would have formed. A Jain felt hurt and wrote to me. I tell him my statement was wrong. In fact it wasn’t curd—it was ghee that came out. Fifty years—curd would have long since set; there would even be a layer of butter on top. And Mahavira stood naked in the sun—surely it became ghee! I take back my words. Correct yesterday’s statement—ghee came out. Does this make the heart happy?

I am striking you—what have I to do with Mahavira? Even when I strike “Mahavira,” I am striking your Mahavira. I too have Mahavira—but that image is different. I am not striking that one. To reveal that original image, I must strike yours. For my Mahavira to appear to you, I must snatch away your Mahavira. It will be hard, painful—as if your skin were being flayed. With how much love you have adorned your statue, and I come with a hammer to break it! I am an iconoclast. But in truth, the statues being broken are not theirs; on the pretext of those, it is your statue that is being broken. They are your statues; you are their creator. If all your statues are shattered, your ego will collapse.

I will snatch the worship tray from your hand; I will snatch the prayers from your lips. I must. Only then can the natural prayer, which lies buried in your heart, be born. I can see it there, buried. I see a seed with a rock laid upon it; the rock must be removed for the seed to sprout. There is prayer within you, but you are stuck in learned prayers. You chant “Hare Krishna, Hare Rama!” while Rama is seated within you saying, “Remove the rock.” And you say, “Keep quiet—we are doing our bhajan; don’t disturb our devotion!”

So if, for the one who has come to me, I first appear like death, it is no surprise. The one who remains—even knowing it is death—will see the Master as the savior who carries across.

The Master becomes a savior the moment the disciple agrees to die. As long as the disciple tries to avoid dying, the Master remains a slayer. It is your clinging to life-as-you-know-it that makes him appear a slayer. Once you yourself consent to die, who needs to kill you? There is no longer any purpose in it. As long as you fight, he remains a slayer. When you drop all resistance, surrender, and say—Here is my neck!—everything changes.

Centuries ago, the extraordinary sage Bodhidharma went to China. There he announced: I will sit facing the wall until the real disciple arrives. He sat facing the wall for nine years. He was his own kind of man, a bit mad. All true Masters are a bit mad—meaning, they are utterly themselves, unique, incomparable; never repeated. Such a color and form Existence takes only once.

He sat for nine years facing the wall! Who knows how many came. The Emperor himself came and begged, “Please turn your face toward me. Why are you turned to the wall?” Bodhidharma said, “In all those faces I saw only walls. I am tired of them; this wall is better. When a face comes that is not a wall but a door, I will turn. You are not that face. Go—be off!” Great scholars came—there was a competition to see who could make Bodhidharma turn—but he sat facing the wall, unmoved.

After nine years a man came. His name was Hui Neng. Snow was falling, the cold was harsh, ice had formed. Bodhidharma sat, snow gathered around him, and he gazed at the wall. Hui Neng came and stood behind him, silent. He did not even say, “I beg you, look at me.” He simply stood—stood for twenty-four hours. In the end, Bodhidharma had to ask, “Brother, what are you doing here?” He had to ask—this man had stood for twenty-four hours without speaking; even Bodhidharma must have felt a bit alarmed: “What’s this? Someone crazier than me has arrived!” The snow kept piling up, the cold grew sharper, and still he stood.

Hui Neng said, “I have brought an offering for you.” He drew a sword, cut off his own arm, and offered it. Blood streamed. Hui Neng said, “Turn toward me—or I will take off my head.” They say Bodhidharma instantly turned and said, “Stop, brother—don’t sever your head. I have been waiting for you. One who is ready to give his head—there is no need to take it. One who is not ready to give it—there is a need to take it.”

Remember this distinction, keep it in your heart. The Master is a slayer only as long as you are fighting, protecting your neck. With a shield in your hands, wherever he strikes you block it. As long as you defend, the Master is a slayer. When you throw away the shield, place your neck before him and say—Lift the sword and cut off my head—at that very instant the Master becomes a savior.

You asked: “Does this depend on the disciple or on the Master?”

It depends on the disciple, not on the Master. The Master is forever a savior. The very meaning of Master is one who ferries you across—what else could it mean? But the disciple is afraid—afraid even of sitting in the boat—because he will not fulfill the conditions of the voyage. The Master says, “Come, sit in the boat, but that bag you carry—leave it on the shore.” He is carrying a pouch of gold coins. He says, “Let me come with the bag.” The Master says, “Come, but those scriptures on your head—leave them on the bank. This boat is not to be sunk. Scriptures are heavy; they will drown it.” He protests, “How can I leave the scriptures? This is the Ramayana! Not an ordinary book—this is the Quran! This is the holy Bible! How can I leave it? I will bring it along.” Then the Master seems a slayer. But the one who consents—who says, “Let the book go, let the idol go,” who is ready to drop everything—for him the Master becomes a savior instantly.

The Master was a savior all along; only the disciple’s vision changes. As long as you keep saving yourself from the Master—as long as you deal with him cleverly—he is a slayer. As long as you play politics with the Master, as long as you are diplomatic, he is a slayer. The moment you become simple, innocent, you behold his savior-form.

And whoever has understood life—seen its misery, recognized its futility—will not fight the Master. What is there in your hands to fight with?

All night I plant a streak of fire in my mind; at dawn
I reap some broken, dying star.
Who has ever found light in a glow-worm’s lamp,
Who has found assurance in the fairy-tale of dreams?
From morning until evening I am impoverished;
I become the broker of my own wares.
My masterpieces go for pennies;
Again and again my embers are quenched in the mud.

When you see that life is only dream upon dream, when you watch all your embers being doused in the mud—your hopes dying—you will not defend yourself against the true Master. There remains nothing left to save. You yourself will see that your doctrines could not carry you across; you will drop them without being told. You will see for yourself that your tilak and sandal-paste did not save you; you will drop them. You will see for yourself that your formal religion—rituals, temples and mosques—did not save you.

Who has ever found light in a glow-worm’s lamp?
Who has found assurance in the fairy-tale of dreams?
Who has found peace inside a dream? And even if bliss comes in a dream, by morning you wake to find nothing in your hands—not even ashes.

My masterpieces go for pennies;
Again and again my embers are quenched in the mud.

Look at your life a little—your embers lie in the mud, extinguished; each day they die out, each day you are dying out; death draws nearer. Soon the ember which is your life will be out. One who perceives this futility stops fighting and lays down his weapons. That is the very meaning of surrender—putting down your arms. He goes to the Master’s feet and says, “I have lived and seen; I tried every remedy, ran and rushed in every direction—nothing comes into my hand. Now, as you say! Whatever you say! Your command will be my life. My mind will no longer be my master; you are my master now. I will not listen to my mind. Let it say what it will—I will listen to you. Even if my mind remains opposed, let it; I will sing of you.” In that very instant the Master becomes a savior.

This restless, flickering night of the festival of lamps—
within its hem my streaming tears are nursed.
No fellow-traveler walks with my loneliness;
only a few shadows keep me company.
In my brimful eyes the monsoon pours,
and in my heart the trees of memory bear fruit.
Look, I too have celebrated Diwali here—
on my eyelids, the little lamps of tears are burning.

And what is your Diwali? Other than your tears, what lamps do you have?

This restless, flickering night of the festival of lamps—
within its hem my streaming tears are nursed.
All your life, what have you gathered in your bosom? Open your bag! What you took for jewels are nothing but your tears. Where you imagined pearls, there are only your tears.

No fellow-traveler walks with my loneliness;
only a few shadows keep me company.

What do you have? Only your shadow, and nothing else. Who is companion here, who is friend, who is truly yours? Not even your wife or husband is yours; not your son; not your friend. When you see that all worldly bonds are false, then a new bond appears—the bond between Master and disciple. It does not appear before. As long as you feel all other bonds are fine, and “this too is one more bond among many,” the Master will seem a slayer—because he breaks your bonds. He will awaken you to their falseness. There will be friction, pain. He will expose your wounds. He will not let you slip away so easily. The Master cannot accept that “you have a wife, a brother, a mother, a father, and among those bonds let there be this one more—the Master-disciple bond.” No. This is not one bond among others. Put all bonds on one side; this bond stands alone on the other. Even if all other bonds must be sacrificed, they can be sacrificed for the sake of this one. Only then does the Master become a savior.

No fellow-traveler walks with my loneliness—
you are utterly alone, completely alone—solitary.
Only a few shadows keep me company.
Beyond shadows, who is your companion here? When this is seen, one takes the hand of someone luminous. He says, “Enough of walking with shadows, with my own silhouettes; now a longing has arisen to walk with light.” To befriend a light—that is discipleship.

In my brimful eyes the monsoon pours,
and in my heart the trees of memory bear fruit.
Look, I too have celebrated Diwali here—
on my eyelids the little lamps of tears are burning.

You have nothing else—only memories of the past and fantasies of the future; eyes brimmed with tears. Your life is a long desert-journey with not a single oasis. The day this is seen, that day you bow in totality. In that bowing, the slayer-Master becomes the savior. He was the savior, but in your bowing you behold him.

The Master is a mirror. The face you bring is the face you will see reflected. If you come fearful, the Master looks like a slayer. If you come fearless, the Master is a savior. He simply returns your own picture to you. You see your own face there.

See how a mulberry leans over the river,
as if gazing into a mirror—
is it the tree’s reflection, or a green shawl
in which a coy breast is wrapped?
The boughs are heavy with blossoms,
the shade is fragrant with perfume—
as though, slipping from a bride’s hands,
a vial of scent had suddenly overturned.

Think of the Master as a lake. Become a tree on its shore. Bend, look in. Think of the Master as a mirror. Come near, closer; recognize your own face. The Master shows you as you are. Therefore, if all you see in the Master is a slayer, know that your fear is being reflected. If you see a savior, know that your fearlessness is being reflected. If you see a slayer, understand that your attachments still cling to this dying life. If you see a savior, understand that the taste of the deathless has begun to touch you—that your ties to this life have snapped.

And remember—let me repeat—I am not telling you to break your bonds with life; I am only telling you to know that they are makeshift. What is there to “break”? People who regard them as very important are the ones who run away to “break” them. One man says, “The wife is an important bond,” and another abandons his wife saying, “With a wife I cannot find God.” Both give the wife undue importance—so great that she could block God! Both are equally foolish; there is no difference. One stands on his feet—this is the householder, a natural posture. The other, whom you call a monk, is doing a headstand. But it is the same man doing a headstand—no real difference.

So I am not telling you to flee from worldly bonds. They have no intrinsic value—what will you flee from? What renunciation is there of dreams? Just know it is a play, an acting. And if it is acting, then play it lightly and joyously. If it is only a game, there is no need for seriousness. Enjoy it—like one plays cards: there are kings and queens and all the rest. They are “kings and queens” as the Queen of England is a queen—without real consequence. But while playing, kings and queens become important. Or in chess—the elephants and horses, vizier and king—very important! And yet, there is nothing there. For the poor, the pieces are wooden; for the rich, ivory or gold and silver—but still nothing. Yet the players get terribly involved. Sometimes swords are drawn over chess! Necks are cut—over nothing. Imagine! The kings and viziers, elephants and horses must be laughing when you draw your sword: “What a limit! There is nothing inside us—no king, no vizier, no horse, no elephant—and here swords are out!”

If you take life seriously, I call you worldly. If you take life non-seriously, I call you a sannyasin. That is the basic difference. Life is a game. There is nothing of ultimate value in grasping, and nothing of ultimate value in renouncing.

So awaken where you are. The day you see that it is all play—and you know this already, though you hide it because you fear this knowledge; you fear to see that it is a game, because you have invested your whole life in it, staked so much—you don’t want to see it is a game.

A friend of mine, an elderly university professor, was a guest in Japan. One day there was great bustle in the house, many preparations. He asked, “What’s happening?” The host said, “There’s a wedding today; please join us.” So the old man bathed, dressed well—when there’s a wedding, one should be presentable! But when he came out and saw the procession, he was astonished. The wedding was of dolls. The children of that house had arranged the marriage of their doll with a neighbor’s doll. Yet bands were playing, a grand celebration! The procession moved, and the village elders joined too. My friend went along, uneasy. On the groom’s horse sat only a doll—the Japanese make marvelous dolls—magnificent, riding a real horse. When they reached the neighbor’s house there was pomp, people gathered, the procession welcomed—as if it were a real wedding!

He could bear it no more. He asked, “What is this? I can’t make any sense of it. If the children had taken out this procession, all right—but the elders have joined too!” The host replied, “All weddings are play. This too is play. What harm? Why are you so upset? The children are enjoying themselves; our joining gives them even more joy—our participation lends the play a lovely seriousness, breath, power. We are participating knowingly that it is play. So we are both in it and not in it. The children, not knowing, think it is real. They too will grow up and understand it is a game.”

That is the only difference. The worldly man is still childish—he takes the game as real. The sannyasin has awakened, become a little mature—he recognizes the game as a game. Where would he run, and why? So many children are still entangled in their play; you too stand with them—but something has changed.

People ask me, “Why don’t you tell your sannyasins to leave the world?” Why should I? God himself has not left the world yet—why should a sannyasin leave? Is the sannyasin to go beyond God? Does he aspire to be greater than God? God is playing. That is why we call God’s play leela.

Understand leela. If you understand leela, you have understood the essence of all religions. It is a play—just don’t take it seriously. The day you know play as play, only one thing remains to be taken seriously in this world—the relationship between Master and disciple. That alone is not merely play.

Why? Because through it, truth is realized. All other means lead into further untruths. So understand my definition of play and non-play. A play is that which leads into more plays. That is not play which takes you beyond all plays. Here there is only one door—the Master-disciple relationship—which carries you across the world.

Satpal! Precisely so that they pierce your heart, I say those words. I am not going anywhere right now! But it should not happen that I leave and your heart has never been pierced. I want to go having cut your heart open; that is why, again and again, I strike in every way. This too is part of the blow.

If I strike Mahavira, the Jains feel wounded. But many among you here have nothing to do anymore with Mahavira or Buddha; you want everything from me—so I strike at me too. I say: now I am going, now take care; this lamp is about to go out. If you want to see, see now—light is present; open your eyes in this light. Do not remain in that sweet stupor of “What is there to do now? We have found the Master!” When the Master is found, that is when the real work begins. People often think, “We have found the Master; now what is there to do?”

They come to me and say, “Now that we have found you, what should we do?” I tell them, “My brother, now you must begin to do.” But they relax, “That settles it—now that we have found you, what is there to do?” Man is clever. They weren’t doing anything before either—not that they were—earlier too they were doing nothing for the search of the divine. Now see the trick: “Now we have found you; what is there to do?” Not before, not now. Then when will you do? And how?

You have to do something. Without it, sleep will not break. Have you noticed one thing? When a dream becomes a great nightmare, sleep breaks of its own accord. You are dreaming you are running, and a cheetah is after you—you aren’t even a hunter, why is a cheetah after you? But it wants its prey! You are running flat out; the hill grows steeper, the cheetah comes closer, the climb harder; you pant, you’re drenched in sweat, it’s noon, the sun blazes, the cheetah is closing in—you can feel its breath on your back: “Now I’m done for!” It lunges with a paw—and you wake up. Even after waking, the heart keeps pounding a bit. You check your back: what’s the matter? There’s no cheetah at all. Only your wife’s hand rests on your back. Nothing to it—what happens every day in life is playing out at night too; you’re being hunted. Yet the chest heaves, sweat trickles, you’re out of breath. After a moment you laugh, settle, and sleep again. When the dream becomes too painful, so painful that sleep cannot contain it, sleep breaks.

Ask a psychologist and you’ll be surprised: the latest research in psychology says dreams have a single function—to protect sleep. You will be amazed, because commonly you think dreams keep you from sleeping. People say, “Dreams kept coming all night; I couldn’t sleep.” They don’t know they’re saying the reverse. If dreams hadn’t come, they couldn’t have slept at all. The dream is a device to save sleep.

For example, you dream you’re very hungry. In reality, you may be hungry—say you’re a Jain, it’s the days of Paryushan, and you’ve taken a fast. If you don’t believe it, ask Sohan; she used to fast. You’ve gone to sleep, but in sleep one forgets vows; real needs are remembered, the artificial are forgotten. The belly is empty; it demands something. If that hunger keeps pressing, you can’t sleep. So the mind gives you a sop: in the dream you get up, walk to the fridge, open it, stand before it; everything is right there. You take out ice cream—on fasting days, lofty items come to mind; who eats dry chapati at night? On fasts, conversations are lofty too! You relish the ice cream in the dream; it saves your sleep. Having eaten your ice cream, you sleep soundly, because the dream has assured you: “You’ve eaten; the matter is settled. Released from Paryushan—now rest peacefully!”

You feel a strong urge to urinate, and in the dream you go to the bathroom, relieve yourself, return, and sleep. The pressure on your bladder would break sleep; the dream only gives you a cover story, spins a web of imagination, saying, “It’s done; the matter is over. Now sleep.” The pressure on the bladder is absorbed by the dream.

The dream works like the springs in a car. The car goes over a pothole; the springs swallow the jolt; you ride on. The more expensive the car, the better the springs. Railroad cars have buffers between them so if there’s a sudden stop, the cars don’t crash into each other. The buffers absorb the shock.

A dream is a buffer. It saves you through the night; otherwise a thousand disturbances would awaken you. A mosquito buzzes in your ear; you think it’s Lata Mangeshkar! The dream has saved you. Lata Mangeshkar is singing! The dream offers you a trick: “Why be bothered? It’s no mosquito; it’s Lata singing. Listen closely!” You start hearing a film song. The mosquito’s whine is drowned in the melody. A buffer has come in between and swallowed the bump. All night the dream protects your sleep.

But when a dream becomes something sleep cannot digest, cannot assimilate—when it becomes that terrifying—sleep breaks.

A true Master wounds you so that your sleep breaks, your buffers snap, your springs shatter, and you recognize life’s potholes.

You ask: “When in discourse you say ‘before I leave this world’ or ‘when I am no more,’ you tear my heart apart.”

But you don’t allow yourself to be torn. I do tear—but you don’t let the tearing happen. You defend. You slip aside. You cut the corner; the arrow passes by and you escape. A mere scratch touches you, and you call that “my heart being torn.” If the heart were truly pierced, the work would be done. Sleep would break. All dreams would end. You would awaken.

This wounding I will keep doing. I must. It is my work. I will go on laying your wounds bare. Not to soothe them, not to bandage them, but to expose them. The clearer and deeper the wound stands before you, the better.

“That wound once suffered upon the heart—where is its feeling now?
Only a small scar remains, which we sit cherishing as ‘memory.’”

I will not let you turn it into a memory. I will strike and strike again. I will keep the wound fresh and raw. That is the meaning of satsang: come daily and be wounded daily. How long will you sleep? A day will come when you awaken! There is a struggle on between your sleep and me. That is satsang.

“Thousands of moons have risen, thousands of suns have shone—
Yet, my friend, the same old gloom haunts the house of sorrow for years.”

So many moons touched the earth, so many suns—so many Buddhas, so many Krishnas walked here—yet you kept dodging. The darkness remains as it was. Moons and stars descend and depart, and you remain the same. Take the blow. Show willingness to be effaced. Let it not be this time that I keep striking and you keep escaping. This time, let the arrow lodge in your heart. By any means necessary, you must be awakened.

“Be it the call to prayer from the mosque or the bell from the Shiva temple—
My longing is only this: that somehow the dawn should break.”

Let morning come—by whatever awakens you:
“Be it the call to prayer from the mosque or the bell from the Shiva temple—
My longing is only this: that somehow the dawn should break.”

Every device will be used. You will be pierced from every side. The sooner you welcome the arrows, receive them with respect, and open your heart yourself—expose it—the sooner the work is done.

Satpal, I understand your pain. You also understand mine! I understand your hurt—you love me, you are attached to me. But if this attachment does not take you beyond the world, then it too is worldly and futile. Just another relationship among many—another false tie. This attachment is true only if it awakens you, if it annihilates you. Here, arrangements are being made for your death. Satsang is the arrangement for death. Blessed are those who consent to die—for the nectar is theirs. The reward of immortality is given in exchange for the price of death.

That’s all for today.