Santo Magan Bhaya Man Mera #20

I am here, you are here, and there is no barrier, no obstruction between us—that is satsang. Not debate but dialogue—that is satsang. A void here, a void there—the meeting of two zeros is satsang. A lamp here, a lamp there—two lamps kindling together is satsang.

Satsang is a state of feeling, not of thought. Satsang is the heart opening, like the lotus that blooms in the morning to the sun. Between the sun and the lotus there is satsang—the sun gives unconditionally, the lotus receives unconditionally. There is no hesitation in giving, none in receiving. The giver is not miserly in giving, the receiver is not miserly in receiving. There is no giver, no receiver—on both sides there is stillness, an egolessness. That is satsang. These trees standing silently in the morning, these sunbeams pouring down, the chatter of birds, and you sitting here in silence—whenever the stream of thought within you stops, satsang happens.

I am a void. When you are filled with thought, you are far from me. The way to come near to the void is to be a void yourself. Only like can approach like. When you are filled with thought, you are very far away—somewhere among the moon and stars, not here. Somewhere else, somewhere else—there can be a thousand “elsewheres.” The moment a little wave of thought arises, one thing is certain: you are no longer here—you will be somewhere else. Satsang is broken. The thread snaps. The bridge is gone. We are in two different worlds, with no connection between us. If thought goes—even for a single moment—if no-thought becomes dense, and you simply sit there silent, open, free, welcoming—if you do not give even the slightest resistance, do not raise even the slightest barrier, do not manufacture the “I”—a moment’s interval is enough—right there satsang happens. And a single moment of satsang gives what a whole lifetime of thought cannot give. What infinite lifetimes cannot grant, a moment of satsang bestows.

But satsang happens only sometimes. That is why I go on speaking every day. If it does not happen today, it may happen tomorrow; if not tomorrow, then the day after—who knows in which moment it will happen? Who knows which word will strike home? Who knows in what inner mood you will suddenly open—your lotus will open and you will drink in the sun? Once satsang clicks, once the connection fastens, then it starts occurring again and again. Once you understand, once you taste it, there is no longer any hindrance in receiving it again and again, because the key is in your hands. You have a grip on the “mathematics” of it. Then you can quietly call forth that inner state any time. Then even sitting here is not necessary; even far away, satsang can happen. To make such satsang possible I have created the device of sannyas—so that you can be connected even from a distance. So that far away, you can still be close to me.

Remember, even sitting close one can be far. Someone may be sitting here brimming with thoughts—thinking, arguing, reasoning, doubting, bringing in his prejudices and preconceptions—then he is far. And somewhere far away, thousands of miles away, across seven seas, you may be sitting quietly, thought-free, raising no waves, wave-less within, your inner lamp not trembling but stilled—at that very instant satsang will happen. Distance dissolves, time dissolves, intervals vanish—you come close in a flash. Satsang is the art of coming near. The art of coming near even while far. The art of touching without touching. Satsang is a great alchemy. Hence its glory has been sung so much.

With the guru we learn the lesson of satsang, but the real satsang is to be with the Divine. Once the secret is in your hands, you can open anywhere, anytime—courage to open arises, and you see this truth clearly: by opening you lose nothing; by opening you gain—by remaining closed you lose. Let this essential rule enter your understanding: thought gives nothing—thought is impotent; no-thought gives—no-thought is wealth. Thought is a beggar, no-thought is an emperor. Let this become your direct sense. Sitting with the guru is only for this realization. And once this realization happens, then—if opening to the guru gives so much—how much more when you open to the Ultimate, to the Whole, to the sky itself! Then there is only wealth upon wealth. Then there is no poverty, no sorrow, no misery. Then you are an emperor; then you are a master.

This is the innermost core of satsang.

To reach this satsang, discussion of the Divine, the words of saints, the experience-soaked speech of true masters, reflecting on it, swaying with it, dancing with it, becoming intoxicated with it, sipping a little wine from the Vedas, the Quran, the Bible—this too is satsang in a formal sense. Like when we teach a small child in school and say: “G is for Ganesh.” G has nothing essentially to do with Ganesh—G is also for donkey; Ganesh has no exclusive claim. We say “A is for aam (mango)”; A is also for aadmi (man)—there is no necessity that it be mango. But one needs some device to teach a child. The child doesn’t know the letter A, he knows the mango; he knows the taste of the mango, not the taste of the letter A. He has seen a picture of a mango, its color—mango is already in his experience. We use mango as a pretext, so that via mango—climbing the mango’s steps—he becomes acquainted with A. But one is not going to stick with “A for mango” for life! That whenever you read a book and come to A, you say, “A for mango,” and when you come to G, “G for gadha (donkey).” Then you will drown in donkeys and mangoes and read nothing at all—because every word will bring the question: “A is for what?” and you will never grasp what is written.

The child drops that device. Once he understands, recognizes, its use is over. It was a means, not the end. Have you seen children’s books? The pictures are large. As the child grows, the pictures shrink. Children’s books are very colorful because color attracts the child. As the child matures, the pictures lose color and get smaller. By the time he reaches school, the pictures start disappearing; by university, pictures have no role at all—now the child reads directly.

So formally, as a means, discussion of God is satsang. Where bhajans are sung, where people get drenched in the feeling of devotion—that too is satsang. But understand—only formally. One has to go beyond bhajan, because bhajan is like “A for mango.” In the same way, “bhajan for Bhagwan (God).” One must go beyond it. Ultimately, one comes to silence. From the standpoint of satsang we are all children—old people too are children.

Shaam-e-firaaq ab na poochh—do not ask about the evening of separation;
it came and, having come, slipped away.
The heart changed again, the life-breath steadied again.
In the assembly of imagination, the candle of your beauty was lit.
The moon of pain went out, the night of separation waned.

When I remembered you, the morning began to fragrance.
When I awakened your sorrow, the night began to writhe and quiver.

With the heart we had set every matter straight and clean.
Yet speaking before them, the words kept changing and changing.

The fellow-travelers of the last watch of night, Faiz—who knows what became of them?
Where did the morning breeze get left behind; which way did the dawn depart?

Many stations come, many halts arrive.
With the heart we had set every matter straight and clean.
Yet speaking before them, the words kept changing and changing.

You will begin with bhajans; you will pray in a thousand hues; you will make a thousand preparations; you will imagine, “When I meet the Lord I will say this, and this, and that”—but the words will keep changing. And in the end, there will be no words at all. When you stand before the Divine, only silence remains. Only the void remains.

With the heart we had set every matter straight and clean.
Yet speaking before them, the words kept changing and changing.

You will not be able to recite a Vedic richa, nor hum a Quranic ayat. No—none of that will be of use; its work is over. That was the beginning of the alphabet—thought, word, scripture. Where is the end? The end is in no-thought. The end is in meditation. The end is in love.

Shaam-e-firaaq ab na poochh—do not ask of the night of separation; it came and passed.
Do not ask of the night of longing! Whenever the devotee remembers God, the night of separation both arrives and passes.

Shaam-e-firaaq ab na poochh, aayi aur aa ke tal gayi.
Dil tha ki phir badal gaya, jaan thi ki phir sambhal gayi.

As soon as the devotee remembers the Divine—the beginning of satsang—everything changes. “The heart changed again.” There is one heart when God is not remembered—it is a dark heart; it is the night of no moon. And when memory of the Divine arises, gooseflesh comes, tears well in the eyes, the heart is overwhelmed—“the heart changed again.” The no-moon night turned to full moon; “the life-breath steadied again.” What was being torn apart with sorrow, what had no path, all was tangled—everything suddenly settled. A single ray of remembrance arrives—what can it not do! If remembrance alone can do this, what will the direct meeting do? It is hard even to reckon.

In the assembly of imagination, the candle of your beauty was lit—
even in mere meditation, not yet in direct vision.
The candle of your beauty was lit in the court of thought.

The moon of pain was snuffed out, the night of separation waned.
In that very instant the night of separation waned, the moon of pain set. You were transfigured into another world; you entered another realm.

When I remembered you, the morning began to fragrance.
There is one kind of morning that those know who pass their morning without remembering the Divine. And there is another morning—the one only the fortunate know—who, with the rising sun, also raise within themselves the remembrance of God. The morning you have known without knowing God is like a blind man turning his eyes toward the sun. It is like a deaf man going to listen to classical music. A deaf man will see the instruments, the musician, the plucking of strings—he will see that something is happening—but music is not something to be seen; it is to be heard. Eyes are of no use there. He will see everything, but understand nothing of what is happening. He may even feel a little restless—“What are people sitting here for? What are they seeing? One person is plucking strings, another is beating a drum, someone else has a flute to his lips blowing—nothing seems to result.” It will all seem disjointed, meaningless. Meaning arises only if there are ears to hear.

Those who watch the rising sun without remembering the Divine are like the deaf man who watches someone play the flute. The essential thing never reaches them. They will have no experience of the hands hidden behind the sun. They will not sense that beyond the sun there is a Great Sun, from which this sun receives its light—without which the sun would have been spent long ago. They will look at a human being and see bones, flesh, marrow—but not experience the soul within. Those who do not experience God in the world cannot experience the soul in man. Things will be visible to them, but the thread running between things will not be visible. Life will appear accidental.

Satsang gives life meaning. A new way of seeing, a new way of hearing—one that ties scattered things together. In the midst of everything a context of the Divine arises, and the meanings of all things change. Have you noticed? You love someone, and she gives you a handkerchief worth a few coins. If you show it in the marketplace, people will say, “It’s worth four annas—why are you guarding it as if it were the Kohinoor diamond?” But for you, the Kohinoor is dull beside it. You have a context of love the other person lacks. He sees only a thing worth a few coins. For you it is not a matter of price; it is a gift of love—the beloved is contained in that small kerchief. Its fragrance no one else can ever know—only you.

For the devotee this world ceases to be mere matter, a trifle of a few coins. His beloved is contained in it. It is the beloved’s gift. Satsang is a step in that direction.

In the assembly of imagination, the candle of your beauty was lit.
The moon of pain was snuffed out, the night of separation waned.
When I remembered you, the morning began to fragrance.
When I awakened your sorrow, the night began to dance and sway.

His union is far off; even his separation is beloved. In his separation too there is great ecstasy. His union—how can one measure it? Difficult to compute! Blessed are those in whom even his remembrance has begun to arise.

The primary meaning of satsang is: where a few intoxicated ones gather; where a few mad lovers sit and speak of their madness; where a few beloveds sit and sing the praise of the Beloved, awaken his remembrance, scatter his essence—and sometimes it happens that in their scattering of essence, some of it reaches even the one who came empty. From their brimming pitchers, something spills into him too.

Friends, speak of those eyes and lips—without whom
neither the garden has any color nor the tavern any name.
Friends, speak of those eyes and lips—without whom
neither the garden has any color nor the tavern any name.

Then flowers again perfumed the gaze, and in the heart again candles were lit.
Imagination once more took the name of going to that gathering.

Blessings upon the moral censor—his stature too is raised by that same grace,
as are the drunkard, the cupbearer, the wine, the jar, and the measure.

Friends, speak of those eyes and lips...

Satsang means: one who knows, who has received some news—he gives that news to the one who has not yet received it. One who has gone two steps ahead calls back to the one two steps behind: “Come along, move forward—there are further streams of nectar, further beauty ahead.” The one who has seen awakens the thirst to see in the one who has not. The one who has found, shares. Thus satsang is twofold: from the guru’s side, it is giving; from the disciple’s side, it is drinking.

Friends, speak of those eyes and lips—without whom
neither the garden has any color nor the tavern any name.

Without the Divine, flowers are not truly flowers—for there is no one left who flowers them. Trees are green, and yet not green—for all greenness is his. Without him everything is dry wood. Without him the moon still rises—but ownerless, forlorn. In his presence, with his experience, the moon takes on a new meaning, a new grace. Small things become meaningful. The small experiences of life become precious and deep.

Friends, speak of those eyes and lips—without whom
neither the garden has any color nor the tavern any name.

Without him, even wine has no intoxication. He is the real intoxication. Only the one who has drunk him knows what true intoxication is. In the wine pressed from grapes, that quality is not there—only an illusion, a deception, a counterfeit coin. Seek the true coin. Satsang is a fellowship of drinkers—a tavern. There is one here whose decanter is full, overflowing; whoever longs to drink, may drink.

Great is the glory of satsang. Its glory is greater even than that of God—because it is through satsang alone that God is found. Without satsang no one has ever experienced the Divine. This journey is fulfilled only in satsang. Sannyas is a form of satsang—being dyed in one color. The rest are only symbols: setting out together on a journey, turning toward one direction.

What is happening here is satsang. You are passing through a living experience. You do not need any verbal explanation. You do not need to look up the dictionary meaning of satsang. Close your eyes, look within. Become silent and understand. Become silent and listen.

“As it is now, your gathering was never like this.
Who is it that today has snatched away my patience and composure?
Restlessness, O heart, was never like this.
God knows what magic their eyes have worked,
My heart was never so drawn as it is now.
The killer eyes were always my enemy, but
Never were they so murderous as they are now.”

Taru! You are beginning to go mad. That is precisely the fruit of satsang. In satsang, madness is intelligence—such is its paradox. Speaking will become difficult.

“Speaking was never this difficult for me.”

Keep this in mind: Those who have nothing to say never find speech difficult. They can draw out words from where there is nothing to talk about. Those who have nothing to say chatter all day long. Only when there is truly something to say does speaking become difficult. For when something real is given to be spoken, one discovers how hard it is to put it into words; it will not lend itself to narration, to form. When there is something to say, saying becomes hard. As long as there is nothing to say, you can say whatever you like—chit-chat, persuade yourself and persuade others. When something arrives to be said, you will turn dumb; words will not come. One has to learn to speak afresh. One has to graft new meanings onto words. Ordinary words must be given extraordinary meanings. One has to use language in ways no linguist will approve.

You have an experience, and your language fits that experience. When the experience changes, what will you do? Then you need a new language. But who will understand it? And yet you must still speak the language people speak, and speak it in such a way that they can also understand. There will be difficulty.

If people understand you completely, you will find you have said nothing. If they don’t understand at all, they will say, “What nonsense is this?” You will have to find a middle way: some of it is understood, some of it not. All the saints have faced this. Therefore linguists call the saints’ language sadhukkadi—meaning: a bit of this place, a bit of that; some from here, some from beyond. One foot on earth and one in the sky. Only those who listen with deep sympathy will understand; those unwilling to listen sympathetically will say, “It’s nonsense. We can’t make head or tail of it. Stop these mysteries. Speak plainly. Two and two should make four.”

But here is the saint’s difficulty: in his world two and two no longer make four. Here one plus one becomes two; in the saint’s world, one plus one remains one—it never becomes two. In truth, they were two before; on meeting, they become one. The old arithmetic fails. All your words are saturated with duality. If you say love, hatred is standing right behind it; your love has no meaning without hate. Hate sets love’s boundary—just as a neighbor’s house sets the boundary of your home. If there were no neighbor, where would you raise your wall? How would you determine, “This is my house”? You would be in trouble; you need the neighbor. You draw a line together. The meaning of love—strange as it sounds—comes from hate. If someone asks you, “What is love?” you will say, “That which is not hate.” And what is hate? “That which is not love.” And so round and round you go. Neither love nor hate is truly known. What is night? “Not day.” And day? “Not night.” Then what are day and night? They stand together as a pair. The meaning of your life is hidden in your death. The saint knows a life that has no death—how is he to speak? If he uses your word “life,” it causes trouble, for your word contains death within it. Your word means life that ends in death; death sets its boundary, gives its definition, hides its meaning.

How can the saint say, “What I have known is life,” when there is no death there? How can he say, “What I have known is love,” when there is no hate there? How can he say, “What I have known is compassion,” when there is no anger there? Great difficulty arises. Use any of your words and duality is invoked—and the saint’s experience is of nonduality, of freedom from opposites. So he falls silent. Or else he must use words in such upended ways that linguists and philosophers will not agree.

“Speaking was never this difficult for me.”

It will grow more difficult day by day now, Taru. This difficulty is going to increase. Those who hear me rightly will become more and more mute. If you ask them something, they will smile. If you ask, they will laugh. But they won’t be able to speak. They will laugh at you, and at themselves too. Your question will seem pointless, and giving any answer will feel futile. This is the mute one’s jaggery.

“Speaking was never this difficult for me,
As your gathering is now, it never was before.”

The gathering has always been like this; only you, Taru, have changed. When a person changes, the gathering changes. Everything is as it is, but when a new eye to see arrives, suddenly it seems, “What’s happened? Everything is altogether different! I never saw like this before; I never recognized like this!” Imagine that one day suddenly you find all the trees alive. Till yesterday you passed them by, never thought to greet them, never considered them. And one day you see that all are alive, all have soul; they gaze at you intently; they are sensitive. If you greet them, they will answer—in their language—but now you will understand that language. You have heard many stories of saints; they are not just stories, though as you have grasped them, they have turned into mere tales.

You must have heard, Saint Francis spoke with birds, with plants, with fish. Understand this rightly. It does not mean he chatted as you converse with each other. It means that now birds, plants, trees—all are alive to him; each has a personhood. Their sensitivity appears to him. He recognizes when a tree is sad or glad. Seeing a tree sad, Francis would go to it, place a hand on it as one would on the shoulder of a sorrowing man, and say, “Brother, get up, wake up. Why are you lost in sadness? Why so despondent? Dawn is not far; night does not last forever. Do not be so hopeless.” Satsang has happened—with a tree. Sometimes Francis is speaking with birds: not that birds and Francis speak the same tongue; their tongues differ. But Francis now knows there is personhood there.

If you go to a country whose language you do not know and you feel thirsty, you can still make a gesture: cup your hands, lift them to your mouth, and he will understand. Without language, he will understand. After all, the mute manage; they speak without speaking. That is the meaning of these stories of the saints.

“As your gathering is now, it never was before.”

It has always been like this, Taru—always and ever thus. This assembly is set just so. The world is submerged in such revelry, in such intoxication. Holi and Diwali are on here—every day. We do not have eyes to see how many lamps are lit, how many flames are burning; how many syringes spray color, how much gulal is tossed, how much ecstasy there is, how the rasa is in flow—we do not see.

Imagine Krishna dancing, Radha dancing, the gopis and the cowherds dancing—and one man lies asleep under a tree right there. The rasa is unfolding beside him; its intoxicated waves are falling upon him too, but he is fast asleep. He hears neither the flute of Krishna nor the anklets of Radha, neither song nor dance; nothing is heard, nothing seen—he is in deep slumber. If he awakens, he will say,

“Speaking was never this difficult for me,
As your gathering is now, it never was before.”

“What is happening? I had no idea anything like this was!” If one night suddenly you open your eyes and see Krishna dancing in your room, you will be startled. But I tell you, the dance is going on. Krishna is dancing from door to door, in house after house, in infinite forms. But you have fixed a single image; you say, “Only when he stands in such a pose, wearing a peacock plume of this color, in this manner—then will we recognize him.” Look closely at the trees: they wear the peacock plume. Look closely at the moon and stars: the flute is playing. Listen closely to the birds: these are the anklebells, their tinkle. Look intently. You have made the image too small; the image is vast—so vast you cannot behold it all at once; you can see only a limb at a time. Such giant images exist; they were made for this very reason.

In Barwani there is a Jain image, fifty-two yards high. Fifty-two yards! A great image. The little toe is six feet long—equal to the height of a man. From below you see only the feet; by the time you lift your head to the face, your cap falls off. You must climb steps to look upon the face, upon the eyes—and the eye is that big! What kind of people made such an immense image? Why? It is a symbol.

It is the symbol: Do not seek the Divine in tiny idols; His image is vast. So vast that this whole cosmos is His image. You can climb step upon step—but you will never take it in all at once; if you glimpse a little toe, you are blessed; if you catch a foot, blessed you are. If you glimpse a single eye, that is enough—one eye will be an ocean, that foot the Himalayas. This whole universe is the rasa. The dance is ongoing. This gathering is always in session. It never adjourns. It is eternal.

“Who is it that today has snatched away my patience and composure?
Restlessness, O heart, was never like this.”

A mere glimpse and there will be trouble—unease will come; your patience and composure will be gone. How can there be calm when such nectarous bliss is showering and you sit deprived of it? A flame will blaze; a storm of longing will arise. That very storm is rising—that is my effort. I do not want to give you peace; I want to give you such unrest that you will find no peace without the Divine. If you have come seeking peace, you have come to the wrong place—I want to make you restless. So restless that your sleep breaks, your arrangements are uprooted; so restless that until you experience the Divine, you cannot rest again. I am arranging to awaken in you a divine discontent. This is satsang.

“God knows what magic their eyes have worked,
My heart was never so drawn as it is now.”

When your eye opens, you will be amazed to find that the Divine Eye has always been gazing at you unblinking. He is the witness, the supreme witness; His eye follows you. Wherever you are, He sees you. Not for a single moment are you hidden from His gaze. Whether you turn your back or face Him, whether toward or away—His eye is always upon you. Therefore the scriptures say: He has a thousand hands, a thousand eyes.

Why?

Those who will not enter a sympathetic testing of such symbols dismiss them as fancy: “A thousand hands?” A thousand is a symbol—it means infinite. Carving more than that in stone is difficult; a thousand is already hard. But the point is: He has as many hands as there are beings—so that each one may receive His hand. For you too there is a special hand—seeking you, following behind you. The day you will, that day His hand will be in your hand. For you too there is an eye that is only for you. You are unique, glorious; for you there is a particular eye, witnessing you alone—your good deeds, your bad, your thoughts, your thoughtlessness—everything is being seen. The day you grow still, thought-free, silent—the day the eye of meditation opens—you will find: “Ah! That eye has been tracking me since forever.” Then a magic will suffuse your life such as never before. A little of His eye’s color will shine in yours. Your eyes will deepen, become like the sky.

“God knows what magic their eyes have worked,
My heart was never so drawn as it is now.
The killer eyes were always my enemy, but
Never were they so murderous as they are now.”

On the journey to know the Divine there comes that hour—the hour of annihilation—when His sword falls and, like a slayer, He cleaves you in two. Only when you are broken do you meet Him. Your being is the obstacle.

“Carrying Your beauty in my eyes I rose,
The very air has cleared—as if in Your raiment.
The breeze has passed through Your bedchamber,
My dawn is scented with the fragrance of Your body.”

Let a little be tasted, and the morning breeze will carry the scent of His body; in falling flowers His smile, in the night’s stars the music of His intoxication.

“It took You long to come—thanks, at least You did come.
Hope did not desert the heart, though yes, I did get flustered.
Crimson dawn, rainbow, moonlight, cloudbanks, stars, melodies, lightning, flowers—
What all lies in that hem—if only that hem were in the hand!
In exchange for yearning we would sell even our will—
If only there were a buyer of the heart, someone to make us their own.
Not hearsay this—this has happened to me:
Flowers spring from flames—if longing sets the fire.”

Let the fire of the urge to attain Him be kindled; in that very fire flowers bloom.

“Not hearsay this—this has happened to me:
Flowers spring from flames—if longing sets the fire.”

Only one thing is needed for longing: a divine madness. A tepid desire won’t do; total longing is needed—integrated. Let all your desires be gathered into one desire; let the rivers of desire become one ocean: to attain the Divine—and to attain, come what may. It will take time.

“It took You long to come—thanks, at least You did come.”

It will take time, for to integrate the entire river of life, to bring all life’s streams into a single current—right now we flow in a thousand streams. West and east, south and north; up and down; everywhere. We are in fragments: one leg going this way, the other that; so we never arrive—we fall where we are and die. Then we rise, are born again, and standing there, die again.

Imagine a bullock cart with bullocks yoked on all four sides, each pulling in its own direction. The cart will go nowhere; its bones will come loose; the journey cannot happen. Journey happens only when the bullocks move one way. Or imagine a cart with two bullocks, but at odds: when one moves, the other won’t; when the second moves, the first stops; they are enemies—what difficulty! So it is with you: one part of the mind wants to do something; another part refuses. With one hand you build a house; with the other you pull it down. Where will you get? To attain the Divine you must be integrated. That is the meaning of yoga: joined, gathered together.

“It took You long to come—thanks, at least You did come.
Hope did not desert the heart, though yes, I did get flustered.”

Great flusterings will come. Many places will come where it seems, “What madness have I entered? What path have I taken? Who knows if there is anything to gain?” Slowly you will be alone—crowds do not go there; only the rare go. Soon you will find that the few who started with you dropped away; you are left alone.

There is an ancient Tibetan tale. A master sent his disciple to the distant mountains to open an ashram. When it was built, the disciple sent word: “I need one assistant.” Months passed; the message came late—the mountains were far and travel was on foot. When the message arrived, the master said, “Fine.” He gathered his disciples and chose a hundred. The messenger was astonished: the request was for one assistant; the master was sending a hundred! He asked, “Did you read the letter right? Only one is needed.” The master said, “A hundred will go; then one will arrive. If I want one to arrive, I must choose a hundred.” It made no sense to the messenger—this was over the top. Even two would do, he thought—one might fall ill, a lion might eat someone on the way—some mishap. But a hundred? Still, since the master had said it, he kept quiet. He set off with a hundred monks.

Very soon the master’s words proved out. In the first town where they lodged, the emperor had died; his son was to ascend the throne. Ninety monks were needed to bestow blessings—such was the tradition. Finding ninety monks was impossible; but that night, in the dharmashala, a hundred monks had arrived. The king sent word: let ninety monks stay; whatever reward you ask will be given. It was a great temptation. Many wavered. “Whatever we ask!” they thought. “What’s the point of going on? And anyway the request was for one assistant; sending a hundred is absurd—the master is eccentric.” They found a thousand reasons. “We will take the reward and then go; what is a delay of a fortnight?” So ninety stayed.

They encamped in a second town. The priest there had died; for long they had been searching for a worthy man. They needed ten monks. The people pleaded. The post was good, with fine facilities; one stayed.

And so it went; they kept losing men. At the last stop before the ashram, only two remained. The messenger began to feel assured the master was not eccentric after all; two remained—just as he had thought two were enough. But that night one of the two was cut off. In the village was an atheist who challenged them: “I don’t believe in this Buddha or this dhamma; it’s all nonsense. I challenge you to a debate.” One said to the other, “Don’t get into this mess; we must reach our master. Who knows how long the debate will last? Ninety-eight have dropped away; don’t you drop now.” But the other said, “Whatever happens now—I cannot tolerate anyone defaming the Buddha. This is life and death. Even if it takes my whole life, it doesn’t matter. You go; I will defeat him and then come.” He stayed. His companion pleaded, “The master sent a hundred; at least two should reach.” But he said, “No use now; I have accepted the challenge. This is an assault on our dharma, a blow to our soul. I am not impotent.” He boomed great words—and stayed.

When the messenger arrived, only one man reached. The ashram’s founder said, “So, one companion has come. Tell me—how many did the master send?” The messenger said, “Did you too think he would send too many?” He replied, “Certainly. For a hundred must set out if one is to arrive. I asked for one, because had I asked for a hundred, he would have sent a thousand. So I asked for one, knowing he would send a hundred.”

Such is this journey. Difficult, mountainous. If a hundred set out, you will find yourself blessed if one or two remain.

In Gurdjieff’s life it is written: thirty friends—great seekers of truth—decided to travel the world, to enter different traditions: one to Tibet, one to India, one to Iran, to Egypt, China, Japan. After twelve years they would gather, each bringing the essence of what he had learned; the thirty would compile it and extract a synthesis—the quintessence of all religions.

The thirty set out, but none returned. When Gurdjieff came back after twelve years, he arrived alone. No one else came; what became of them is unknown. One fell in love; news came he had married and had four or five children—what truth? One opened a shop and made money. One took a fine job. This happened and that. Of the thirty, not one returned. Twelve years is a long window.

Here such windows open every day. Someone takes leave with a promise: “I’m going to Norway, to Sweden; I’ll be back in fifteen days.” He returns after three years. “What happened to your fifteen days?” “What to tell you? On the plane I met a woman; I fell in love. Great entanglement; it took three years to get free.”

To get entangled is easy; to get free is not. Hard business. One entanglement births another.

Someone goes and never comes back. Who knows where he went? Then news comes: he is in jail. What happened? The man had come, good man, to meditate, had taken sannyas—how did he land in prison? He had tried to make money with some fraud. Now he is in jail for three years; after that he will come. People live almost by accident. To gather yourself, wholly, in one direction is very difficult. Hence the delay.

“It took You long to come—thanks, at least You did come.
Hope did not desert the heart, though yes, I did get flustered.”

Many times you will feel, “Let’s stop here. How much farther?” No companions left. Many times despair will clutch you; dejection will come; failure will seem inevitable. But if you keep at it—as Taru has kept at it—hope not abandoning the heart, though much flustered—then the hour is near.

“Speaking was never this difficult for me,
As your gathering is now, it never was before.
Crimson dawn, rainbow, moonlight, cloudbanks, stars, melodies, lightning, flowers—
What all lies in that hem—if only that hem were in the hand!”

In the hem of the Divine is everything. If His hem is in your hand, the whole world is in your hand. Those who set out to grasp anything else will end up with nothing. Grasp the One and all is accomplished; chase all and all is lost. Catch hold of His hem; catch hold of Him, and the rest comes of itself.

“In exchange for yearning we would sell even our will.”

That much readiness is needed—your will. Jesus’ last words on the cross were: “Father, Thy will be done.” In that very instant transformation happened—Jesus was no longer Jesus; he became the Christ. Enlightenment bore fruit. A moment before he had said, “What are You showing me? What are You doing to me? Have You forsaken me?” There was complaint—the sense that things were not going according to his will. “What is happening is not how it should be; something is going wrong. Have You left me?” Then he awoke to himself: “What am I saying? This is my will asserting itself.” At once he changed—and with that change the revolution happened. Sometimes a small utterance—those four small words, “Thy will be done”—changed Jesus’ life; samadhi descended; resolution happened.

“In exchange for yearning we would sell even our will.
If only there were a buyer of the heart, someone to make us their own.
Not hearsay this—this has happened to me.
Flowers spring from flames—if longing sets the fire.”

Where the fire of longing takes hold, there is satsang. I sit here with fire. Come a little closer—do not fear. As you draw near, this flare, this flame will catch you. Because of the color of fire, ochre has been the color of sannyas—it is the color of flames, the color of revolution. You do not know who you are. Burn—and you will know. For only what you are not will burn; what you are will remain. The trash will burn; the diamond will remain. The gold will emerge refined.

“Each limb lit with light, the rays kissing my body—
Had I been of the solar lineage, I would speak with You.”

I tell you: you are of the solar lineage. Speak with the sun; befriend the rays; wed the light—marry illumination. If you must take the wedding rounds, take them with the Divine. Anything less will end in divorce after divorce. Marriage is only with Him.

Courage is needed—the daring to risk, indeed audacity. Then the hour arrives when there is something to say and no words can be found; when a song rises within and the tongue falters; when a dance rises within and the feet fall here and there, anywhere.

A blessed hour. Such an hour is what all must seek. If with me this can happen to you, only then were you truly with me. Otherwise you came and went, but you were never near.

Meera! If you call the world “mud,” you will not be able to get out. In calling it mud there is condemnation. Because of that condemnation you will be deprived of the lotuses that arise from the mud. If mud were only mud, the matter would be very simple and clear; there would be no such entanglement. But lotuses are hidden in the mud—hence the great perplexity. Whoever runs away from the mud will be deprived of the lotus. And he had set out to attain the lotus; he left the mud to gain the lotus! So he falls into ambivalence, into great difficulty, into inner conflict.

You say: “How long must I be entangled in this mud?”
As long as you take it to be mud, you will be entangled. My whole effort here is this: do not take the world to be mud—the Divine pervades the world; even the mud is not merely mud; the same One is hidden in it. The day this realization begins to deepen in you, where is there to leave, where to go, where to flee? When liberation comes seeking you—that is the joy! Where will you go to seek liberation? Is there any less mud in the Himalayas? Will you go and sit in some ashram—there is less mud there? Everything is made of mud; this body too is made of mud. Run—where will you run? You will run with the help of this same mud, will you not! These very feet will carry you on distant pilgrimages, and this same mud-filled head will bow in temples and in mosques. Where will you go? Temples and mosques too are made of mud.

Mud is not just mud; the mistake lies in your way of seeing. You have looked only on the surface. Peer a little carefully into the mud: hidden lotuses are there—layer upon layer, nothing but lotuses. Let the mud sing its own note. Give the mud a little help in bringing out its lotuses.

I do not want to take you anywhere else; right here, where you are, I want to awaken you. I am not against the world. But I understand your difficulty: religion has always taught you world-denying ideas. So when you come to me, those same religious notions keep circling in your head.

And this is exactly what I keep explaining every morning and evening: it is not mud here—lotuses are hidden within it. Does one get entangled in a lotus? Savor the lotus’ nectar. Whatever the Divine has given, accept it as prasad, as a sacred offering. Don’t call it mud—that is an insult to the Divine, because it is his gift, his offering to you. Life is his offering. And you are calling such a precious life “mud.”

Your mahatmas have poisoned you. Your so‑called sadhus and saints have filled your mind with a vile poison, with condemnation. They have condemned everything. They have not allowed your life to expand; they have shriveled it. They have made you rot. And your way of seeing has become so wrong, so negative, that you have begun to see evil in everything; you just count thorns, you do not see the flowers. You count nights, you do not see the days.

I have heard a Zen story—
A Zen monk, through some mistake, was caught and thrown into prison. A politician was also in the jail. They arrived there together. It was the night of the full moon; the moon had risen; both stood by the bars. The politician said, “What filth this place is!” For in front there was a stagnant pool, and in it, garbage. Naturally, the politician was angry. A politician lives on anger. When he holds office, those who want it are angry with him; and when his office is taken away, he is angry with those who hold office. He was furious: this rule is wrong, this system is wrong, this government is wrong; what is this mess—so much filth, the pool is full, not even cleaned! In the pool he noticed the dented tin cans.

And the monk said, “My brother, the pool is very small, the sky is vast. Why don’t you look toward the sky? The moon has risen, the full moon, and the night is so lovely! You see the broken tin can in the pool, but you do not see the moon being reflected there! Why tie your fate to a can?” The monk said, “If you hadn’t reminded me, I wouldn’t even have noticed the pool; I was enchanted by the moon. Looking at the moon, looking at the sky, I even forgot that there were bars in front of me, that I was holding the bars, and that chains were on my hands. While gazing at the full moon, who remembers chains? And the one who remembers chains—how will he ever see the full moon?” These are ways of seeing. Both stand in the same place; in front of both is the pool, and in front of both is the moon.

Mud? Meera, don’t call it mud. If you call it mud, it becomes mud. You create your life and your world yourself. Look a little carefully: in the mud the moon’s reflection is forming. Look a little carefully: in the mud a lotus is about to bloom. Look a little more carefully, and in the mud you will find God. Here, everything is suffused with him. This experience I call liberation. The day you begin to see in everything only the color of the Divine—that day is liberation.

I am saying something else entirely: I am asking—how can I bring liberation to your doorstep? You need not go to any gate of liberation. And where is there such a gate for you to go to?

The Jewish mystics—especially the Hasidic ones—say it well: God cannot be sought. If you consent, God finds you. God is searching for you. The Hasids say he has been searching ever since Adam left God and came into the world. It’s a lovely story!

God told Adam, the first man, “Do not eat the fruit of this tree—the Tree of Knowledge.” The story is extraordinary; there is no more wondrous parable in any scripture, because its meanings are unique and the essence of great life is concealed within it: “Do not eat the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge, otherwise you will be deprived of me.”

But he ate the fruit of knowledge. And when he ate it, he suffered, he was troubled; he felt guilty and afraid—“What will happen now? I have disobeyed!” And God came looking for him, as he came every day; every day they walked together, gossiped, sang, sat together and rose together. But that day Adam hid behind a bush, and God went about calling, “Adam, where are you?” Adam kept hiding behind the bushes. He was avoiding God. That day he no longer had the strength to stand before God in innocence. That day he had sinned.

It is a great irony: the fruit of knowledge became the cause of sin! My feeling is the same. The more man has become knowledgeable, the farther he has gone from God. This is the story of the entire human race. The fuller the head is with knowledge, the less love remains. And now, Meera, you too are talking the language of knowledge—“the world is mud, the world is bondage.” These are notions of knowledge. Be innocent! And ever since then, God has been calling, “Adam, where are you?” He is searching for you too, Meera, because everyone is Adam. And everyone is hiding. All have made screens for themselves—someone hides in a mosque, someone in a temple, someone in a shrine; all are hiding, all are afraid. And the joke is: they ring bells, they say prayers, they call the azan, and they cry, “O God, how can we unite with you?” And God is searching for you! While you are employing every device so that he does not find you.

You have nowhere to go; you only need to awaken thirst. You need only to be filled with prayer. When the fire of prayer is lit within you, God—who is already seeking—will find you. In that fire, the barriers will burn, the obstacles will burn—knowledge will burn. The fruit of knowledge that you have eaten will be vomited out. Become again innocent, like a small child; liberation will come looking for you.

Talk of union and separation is false—mere consolations for the heart.
Yet, before you go, at least hear a ghazal from me.

The whole world is hostile to wisdom—who here is truly wise?
For no reason they brand us “mad, mad.”

You have made a habit of it—just to listen, to feel shy and pass on.
Everyone has some haven; which haven is ours?

From town to town there are millions of doors, and at each door a hundred thousand friends;
But we have forgotten how to spread the hem of our robe.

We are false, you are false; only His name is true—
From whom the lamp learned to burn and the moth to die.

Just learn that much—the lamp’s burning, the moth’s dying; learn to spread your veil. That is prayer.

From town to town there are millions of doors, and at each door a hundred thousand friends;
But we have forgotten how to spread the hem of our robe.

God stands at every door, but we do not hold out our begging bowl. We have kept the heart locked. We have forgotten to spread the hem; we have forgotten to bow. To bow is prayer; to spread the hem is prayer. Hold out your bowl a little, ask a little of Him; you will receive—people have received; the laws have not changed. Jesus says: Ask and it will be given; knock and the doors will open; ask and you will be answered.

From town to town there are millions of doors, and at each door a hundred thousand friends;
But we have forgotten how to spread the hem of our robe.

That is the only lack. There is no need to go to any “gate of liberation”; learn to spread your hem. And wherever you spread it, you will find that the wealth has poured forth and your hem is full.

We are false, you are false; only His name is true—
From whom the lamp learned to burn and the moth to die.

Just learn that much—burn like the lamp, be ready to die like the moth. Let your prayer ripen; God is here, now. There are difficulties, obstacles—I know it. There are entanglements—I know that too. But do not call it mud. Do not insult it, do not condemn it. Whatever is—accept it; from that acceptance the path will emerge. There are storms, but do not make enmity by calling them storms; take them as challenges.

I can endure the shocks, I can risk my life; I do not refuse that—
But you have no standard of fidelity.

Is this any way—that the intoxicated remain forever distant?
Is the moon’s youth a faithless paramour, or does the bird not know love?

If there is love, distance will disappear. If love is there, distance has already vanished in its very being.

Is this any way—that the intoxicated remain forever distant?
Is the moon’s youth a faithless paramour, or does the bird not know love?

People talk about prayer, but they do not pray. People say they want to attain God, but place your hand on your heart and think: do you really want it? If God stood before you and, on the other side, lay a heap of gold, and you were given the choice—choose one—ask your own heart: what would you choose? You would say, “We will see God later—what’s the hurry? First, let’s choose the gold. Life is for a few days; let us enjoy. God is eternal—we will find him later.” You would choose the gold. Think: if God stood before you and, on the other side, there was an office saying “become President,” choose one—you would reject God. That is not thirst.

There is only a small heart here that you could break and pass through;
It is not a collar of gold, not a wall of silver.

The sailors have scorned the waves from shore to shore,
Yet none is ready to go as far as the whirlpool.

And without entering the whirlpool, there is no way.

Let the flood of tempests rise again, O people of the shore:
Either the boat sinks this time, or this time there is no midstream left.

Once, a decision has to be made.

Either the boat sinks this time, or this time there is no midstream left.

Now it must be one of two: either we drown, or we cross. Either the boat will not survive, or we will not let the midstream survive. Today, it has to be one of the two. When such a resolve arises, when such vast energy condenses and surges within you, in that very instant the union with God happens. If you ask—it will be given. If you knock—the door will open.

I can endure the shocks, I can risk my life; I do not refuse that—
But you have no standard of fidelity.

Is this any way—that the intoxicated remain forever distant?
Is the moon’s youth a faithless paramour, or does the bird not know love?

There is only a small heart here that you too could break and pass through;
It is not a collar of gold, not a wall of silver.

The sailors have scorned the waves from shore to shore,
Yet none is ready to go as far as the whirlpool.

Let the flood of tempests rise again, O people of the shore:
Either the boat sinks this time, or this time there is no midstream left.

And I am ready to go with you. What else is my presence? So do not even think that I am not supporting you. My hand is outstretched—but Meera, you are the one pulling your hand back, and cleverly. Even saying, “I am willing to go; there is just no one to take me,” is another trick for avoiding. Your mistake begins exactly where you called the world mud. With one who calls the world mud, I cannot connect—because I do not call the world mud. I call the world God himself. Seen with blind eyes, God appears as the world; when the eyes open, this very world appears as God. The world and nirvana are not two. There is only one existence here, seen in two ways: the blind man’s way, with closed eyes, and the aware man’s way.

I have seen thousands upon thousands of lotuses bloom right here, in this very mire. That is why I say to you—do not call it mud. Whoever calls it mud insults God’s hand. If you condemn Picasso’s painting, you have condemned Picasso. If you denounce Tansen’s music, you have denounced Tansen. If you deride the garden, you have derided the gardener.

The world is being condemned in the name of religion, and people think that is something religious. And this very world is his creation—and the same people keep saying so. People’s minds are not clear. The same people keep saying that God created the world and at the same time keep saying the world is mud—avoid it, beware of it! If God created it, then to avoid it, to beware of it—does that befit? Either God did not create it—the devil did; then talk of avoidance makes sense. But if God created it, then dive in—enter deep. Only by entering his creation will you find the Creator. There is no other way.

There aren’t “marks” in the plural—there is the mark. Like a lotus in water.
Don’t ask in the plural. A sannyasin has not many traits; there is only one—ask in the singular.
He lives in the water and yet the water does not touch him.

There are no obstacles, there are challenges. They are chances, opportunities to awaken the God asleep within you. When will you learn to think affirmatively? How long will you stay entangled in the negative? Every day I try to release you from negation so that affirmation becomes your way of being—but you keep slipping back into the negative. “No” has become your style of life; I want “yes” to become your style.

A stone lies on the road—why call it an obstacle? Why not call it a step? Step on it, and you will reach a height. Every storm is a chance to broaden your chest. Every difficulty is an opportunity for victory, for awakening! There are no obstacles anywhere. Just look—look a little in my way, peer through my eyes—there are no obstacles anywhere.

Someone insults you, and you call it an obstacle, because meditation gets disturbed, the mind wavers. If you take it as an obstacle, it becomes one. But if someone abuses you, be glad: “Today he insulted me—now let me see whether my meditation is disturbed or not. Today I will make sure it is not.” The abuse is given, but I will not receive it. The insult comes, circles around, rises like smoke and surrounds me, but inside I remain untouched. I will not let this opportunity pass. This man has shown great grace—so early in the morning he gave me abuse! Now sit down to meditate; decide, between meditation and the abuse, who is your master. If meditation is your master and the insult leaves no trace, won’t you feel gratitude toward the one who abused you? He gave you a chance—unasked—at dawn. Offer him thanks.

Have you not heard Kabir say: “Keep your critic close; build him a hut in your courtyard.” You understand, Raj? Keep the critic right by your side—put a little hut for him in the yard so he doesn’t wander off. Serve him well: “Brother, stay here. Every morning, abuse me. Every morning, I will meditate. You give the strongest insults you can; don’t be stingy—pour it out, right at daybreak—and in that very moment I will meditate, I will sing my bhajan (devotion). We’ll see: does the abuse win or the bhajan?” Let the bhajan win, let the insult be defeated. This is the strength you need.

But you sit down to weep and cry, “An obstacle has come.” Such little, little things become obstacles for you! You sit to meditate; a child drops a toy with a clatter—an obstacle! You burst out—become like the irascible sage Durvasa—start cursing the whole house! People tell me that if even one person becomes “religious” in a house, the whole house falls into crisis. Often it’s the elders. They start fingering their rosary; if anyone makes the slightest mistake—speaks loudly, drops something, anything happens—their temper flares, they raise the roof, create an uproar. “Religious” people become very angry. What an inversion! If the religious are angry, then who will be compassionate? No—the mistake is that you are calling things obstacles. Everything depends on the way you look; your way of seeing creates your world.

I was once a guest in a rest house. A politician, a minister, also stayed there that night. For some reason all the village dogs were fighting and barking around the rest house. The minister couldn’t sleep. I fell asleep, but he came into my room and shook me: “You’re sleeping! I can’t sleep—it’s one in the morning and these dogs are making such a racket. I woke the watchman several times to chase them away, but they come right back. There will be no sleep tonight. How are you sleeping?”

I said, “Do you imagine the dogs read the newspapers and know a minister is staying here, so they’ve come to surround the place, to strike, to shout slogans—‘Down with so-and-so!’? They know nothing. They’re busy with their own affairs. They haven’t made a special arrangement for you. I was here last night too—they were here then as well. You weren’t here, and they were still here; you won’t be here tomorrow, and they will still be here. Don’t worry—they aren’t worried about you; they don’t even know you exist. It’s your feeling—‘the dogs are obstructing me’—that’s creating the trouble. Accept it. Own it. Listen to their sound as you would listen to music.” He said, “Music? Dogs barking—and music?” I said, “It’s all in the listening. Someone who doesn’t understand classical music and hears a vocalist go ‘aa—’ also wonders, ‘What on earth is this?’”

I told him: “Once Mulla Nasruddin attended a concert. When the classical singer began a long ‘aa—,’ tears suddenly rolled from the Mulla’s eyes. His neighbor said, ‘Mulla, I never knew you were such a lover of music—tears in your eyes!’ Mulla said, ‘Music be damned! This fellow is going to die. My goat died just like that—aa—aa—. My tears are for my goat; what have I to do with music?’”

“If to one man classical music can sound like a goat’s bleat, why can’t another hear classical music in a dog’s bark? Try it—what’s the harm? You’re not sleeping anyway. Accept it; lie down loose and quiet; say, ‘All right, dogs—bark. Sing me a lullaby. You’re giving me such delight.’”

He had no choice—he didn’t really want to follow me, but there was no other way. He said, “All right, I’ll try.”

In the morning I asked, “What happened?” He said, “Strange—though I did it half-heartedly, as soon as I tried, something shifted. For a while I could still hear the barking, and then I don’t know when I fell asleep.” The moment the attitude of resistance drops, everything changes. Then even in a crowded marketplace, meditation is possible.

These singing upheavals, these dancing currents of storm;
poor sailors, unaware of the wind’s intentions.
The ploughs of the tempest began to furrow the fluid fields;
the boat came and sank upon shores of glittering sand.
The transparent walls of waves shattered against the hulls;
then waves rose again upon the foreheads of resolve.
Voices began to clash with the blue of the sky;
on the lines of the path, lamps flared with song.
The winds cannot cease, the turbulence cannot be stilled;
but we cannot bow our heads before wave and wind.
The ships are buffeted by the blows of the storm;
yet the boatmen keep on singing their songs.
There are sorrows whose wine turns to ecstasy;
there are songs whose flame runs faster than the wind.
Those whose paths are drawn upon the storm’s own currents
can scarcely fall asleep upon the safety of the shore.
Learn to sleep in storms! Learn to live in storms!
The winds cannot cease,...

And remember: the winds will not stop for you. They won’t give you a special chance: “First let all storms subside, all winds fall silent, all turmoil vanish from the world, then I will sit to meditate.” Nothing will stop; the world will go on in its own way.

The winds cannot cease, the turbulence cannot be stilled—
nor will the gusts halt. Because you have lit the lamp of meditation, do not expect the winds to stop. In truth, seeing a lamp lit, the winds are more attracted.

The winds cannot cease, the turbulence cannot be stilled;
but do not bow your head so quickly before wave and wind.

The ships are buffeted by the storm’s blows—
but that brings no real hindrance. Take it as a festival of joy. Dance your way forward.

The ships are buffeted by the storm’s blows,
yet the boatmen keep on singing their songs.
Sing your song, and let the world do what it does. If you can sing your song amid the world’s entire disorder, only then have you truly sung.

There are sorrows whose wine intoxicates with rapture;
there are songs whose flame runs faster than the wind.
Little lamps go out; great tongues of fire blaze higher in the wind. You want to seek God—become a flame.

There are songs whose flame runs faster than the wind,
whose course is traced upon the storm’s own currents—
and once you know that life’s true delight is to be unperturbed in the midst of tempests, you will be astonished: true peace is not on the shore; it is midstream, where the storm rages. True meditation is in the marketplace. True sannyas is in the world.

That’s all for today.