Santo Magan Bhaya Man Mera #4

A temple—here! You must have misunderstood. This is not a temple. At most, a tavern! In spite of prohibition, my trust is in wine—wine that, once it rises, never recedes. And it is not wine poured from the grapes outside, but pressed from the grapes within.

What temple, what mosque here? This is a gathering of drinkers. Only those who are ready to drink—and to pour—are welcome. Here we are not worshipping God; we are drinking God. Yes, after I am gone, perhaps a temple will be built. That responsibility will be yours; the fault will be yours. While I am here, it will remain a tavern!

This is precisely the snag for the temple-and-mosque people: that this is not a temple, not a mosque. That is their opposition, their annoyance. And you say a grand temple is rising here! A grand tavern is rising. Whenever a temple is alive, it is a tavern; and when a tavern dies, it becomes a temple.

Temples are the corpses of taverns. While Buddha was, it was a tavern. While Mohammed was, it was a tavern. The Muslim has the mosque; the Buddhist has the temple. These are lines left on the sands of time. The words have been seized, their juice has evaporated. No wine is poured there now; only scriptures are discussed. No one dances there; there is no upsurge of joy, no rain of love. Now there are deserts—of doctrines, arguments, disputes.

Here there is no dispute, no argument, no doctrine—here there is dance, song, and ecstasy—and you say a temple or mosque is being built! My trust is not in worship; my trust is in ecstasy. Yes, if from ecstasy worship arises—if ecstasy becomes worship—it is dear. Remember, worship has never produced ecstasy; whenever true worship has arisen, it has arisen out of ecstasy.

There are things in life you cannot do by resolve. Understand them well, or you will go on erring. For example, you cannot produce egolessness by determination. You can produce humility. They look alike. Egolessness does not happen through effort, device, or discipline. Egolessness is not a trait of character—it is freedom from character. Every character—of the bad man and of the good man—clusters around the ego. The impious and the pious both live on the ego. A saint is one who lives outside the ego. There can be no practice for egolessness. If you practice, you will certainly cultivate humility. Humility lies within the reach of resolve; and humility looks like egolessness—this is the danger.

The real danger lies in things that deceive. The ego itself is not the greatest danger—at least it is clearly ego. What danger is there in a bottle bearing the poison label? The danger is with humility—the bottle is poison, the label says nectar. Humility is dangerous because it looks like egolessness. It only looks so; it is not real. Humility can be cultivated. Egolessness descends—it is grace. It arrives when you are gone. While you strive, what you can manufacture is humility. Humility is the ego doing a headstand; egolessness is the dissolution of the ego.

When worship is born of joy, of ecstasy, you are no longer the doer—the priest disappears. Wherever the priest vanishes, that worship is true. But there is another worship—false, contrived, organized—from which the priest is produced. He does not vanish; he is born. Till yesterday you were not a priest; you started practicing worship, and now you have become a priest. A subtle pride arises: I am a priest, special, religious.

I am not teaching that worship here—the worship that breeds priests. I am distilling wine here—the intoxication that dissolves the priest. And where there is no priest, there is worship—transformative worship; worship that descends from the sky and fills you with rapture and light. It is not fashioned by your hands; it is God’s grace.

We are not building a temple. We are simply awakening those in whose presence, of its own accord, the sacredness of a temple is. Wherever they sit becomes a place of pilgrimage; wherever their feet fall, there is heaven.

We are not building a temple. We are awakening those consciousnesses whose very presence carries the fragrance of the temple by itself. Wherever they are, it will be. If they stand in the marketplace, there a temple will be. This is something altogether different; hence the trouble. That is why the people of temples, mosques, and gurdwaras are angry. They feel I am cutting their roots, pulling down their temples.

And you ask, “You are building a grand temple here!”
No temple is being built here. What is gathering here are the intoxicated. What is being shared here is ecstasy. A divine madness is rising—a madness that belongs to God.

Had there been no tavern outside the cloister and the Kaaba,
God knows where the rejected ones would have gone.

Good that our own madness came in handy;
else where would we have gone to convince the world?

Those who are tormented by temple and mosque also need a place. This is that place.

Had there been no tavern outside the cloister and the Kaaba…

There must be some tavern somewhere. Temples and mosques are killing you. Being dead themselves, they will kill you too. Being inert themselves, they will make you inert. Being stone themselves, they will turn you to stone. That is why Hindus and Muslims become stony, violent, hard. The heart is lost.

Do you not see the quarrels of Hindus and Muslims? Do you not see the holy wars of Christians and Muslims? Do you not see the bloodstains on the pages of human history? The charge lies chiefly at the feet of the religious. On this earth, no one has behaved as irreligiously as the so-called religious have. What evil have the devil-worshippers done? The burden of evil rests in the hands of those who worship God. Just turn the pages of history! Open your eyes and see what has been done in the name of religion!

Had there been no tavern outside the cloister and the Kaaba,
God knows where the rejected ones would have gone.

Leave some space somewhere. Leave some refuge somewhere. Let some Buddha run a tavern somewhere. Let some Mahavira mix that nectar somewhere. Let the thirsty ones drink. Yes, those who do not want to drink, who are afraid to drink, fine—let them go to temples and mosques. They too need false places, so they can keep the illusion of being religious without being religious. We are not explaining logic here. This is the illogical.

Good that our own madness came in handy…
If someone asks my sannyasins what binds them to me, what binds me to them—what answer do they have? There may be tears in the eyes, a smile on the lips, a rhythm of dance in the feet—but what answer?

Good that our own madness came in handy;
else where would we have gone to convince the world?

Will you be able to explain to anyone what your bond with me is? The more you explain, the less you will be understood. People will think you are mad.

No temple is being built here—or, the real temple is being built.

Hope for that future when the day will come that there will be no temples and mosques, only taverns.

On the long roads of life
there will be no absolute twists;
a time will surely come
when these cloisters and sanctuaries will not be.

These temples and mosques are fading; they should fade. They have already stayed on the earth more than enough. They are a burden. There is no need for Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain, Buddhist. There should be people who love God—that is enough. People who drown in prayer—that is enough. Hearts brimming with worship—that is enough. Where and how they worship—no authority should exist over that.

Worship is natural, personal, intimate. Prayer is a conversation between God and you—not borrowed, not taught. When you repeat learned words, everything becomes false. Say your own heart. The day you can speak your own truth to God, God will be able to speak His to you. As long as you are a gramophone record, no answer will come. If no answer comes, you think there is no God. The only thing it proves is that your prayer is learned, borrowed, false, artificial, formal, organized; not heartfelt, not rising from your innermost core, not breathing with your very life.

Here the trouble is for those who have become addicted to temples and mosques—who have sworn that they will never drink. They are in difficulty. They are in great distress. Our color and way put them to great discomfort.

Yesterday we swore this oath:
we will no longer touch the wine.
If only we had known beforehand:
today She herself would offer us the cup.

They sit with vows never to drink, never to be ecstatic, never to be blissful. Religion has taught you seriousness, not dance. Beware of any religion that teaches seriousness! For God is not serious. God is celebration. If you have eyes, see—His festival is all around! If you have ears, listen—His songs are everywhere! If you have a heart, feel—there is His dance in every gust of wind. In every green leaf is His greenness. In every journey of the river is His journey. In the surging waves of the ocean is His dance. Open your eyes and look around—does God look depressed to you? Does God look like your “great men”? God dances. He holds the flute in His hand. He wears the peacock plume.

But those who have sworn to be serious find it very difficult. Why this oath of seriousness? Every seriousness feeds the ego. The more serious a person, the more egotistical he becomes. And the more egotistical, the more he must be serious. Children are egoless because they are not serious. They do not yet have the seriousness upon which ego can stand. There is still innocence, simplicity.

Jesus said: You will enter my Father’s kingdom only when you become like little children. This is the message of all who have known.

I say to you: Drink, and pour! Life is only four days long; make it a dance! Make it a festival! Overflow! Do not sit like misers, bound and tight.

O Judge of Doomsday, what are you staring at?
I am that same carefree drunk!
Before you can question me,
I myself am a beggar for a goblet.

So says a drunkard… He has reached heaven, is standing at the gate; the judge of the Last Day sits before him. “O Judge of Doomsday, what are you staring at? I am that same carefree drunk! Before you can ask, let there first be some drinking!”

This is a tavern. All else that goes on here is only a device to give birth to the nectar within you.

Even in your paradise, O preacher,
the drinkers will surely drink.
If wine is not available,
they will drink the blush in the houris’ eyes.

If wine is not at hand, no worry; there will at least be the redness in the eyes of those who dwell in heaven—their ecstasy will be there; that they will drink.

I often think you will be greatly surprised when you reach heaven—you will not find any of your “great ascetics” there. Forgive me, but truth must be spoken. Your ascetics can only settle in hell—and they will enjoy it there. There is great seriousness there. If you want to lie on thorns, the thorns are huge. If you want to sit by a sacred fire, there is no need to light one—the fires are already blazing. If you want to fast, there is no need to arrange it—you will be hungry and there will be no food. If you want to remain thirsty, enjoy—there will be thirst and no water. It seems hell has been designed precisely for ascetics. In heaven you will find dancers, drinkers.

So either call this a tavern, or call it the real temple. The two mean the same.

Every person is riding a horse. The horses’ kinds and temperaments differ. Some have a poor horse—sad, frustrated, defeated. Some have a rich horse—full of exuberance, powerful, eager to break the reins and bolt, impatient to run. Everyone is mounted on a horse. In the world it simply cannot be that a person is not riding a horse. Even if it is a mule, even if it is a donkey—people are mounted all the same. The very meaning of the world is: riding. Even if it is the horse of frustration, even if it is the horse of despair.
And to the friend who has asked—their name is: Umang-bhai! I, too, have not changed his name. Seeing his condition I have given: Swami Umang Bharati. There is no umang (exultation). The parents too must have chosen the name thoughtfully. There is dejection, there is despair. But in this world, dejection and despair are what everyone gets, all of them. Whether the horses belong to the rich or the poor, all arrive at despair. And whether a man rides splendid costly horses or cheap donkeys, the destination is the same—death. And when the destination is one—death—then despair is bound to be the outcome. Ahead there is a dark night. There is no light ahead, no morning ahead. Morning is only an imagining, only a dream. Morning never happens. In this world morning never happens. In this world it is a dark night. But the night is so dark that if you do not trust in the morning, how will you live? The night is so dark that if you do not keep hope of the morning, how will the night pass?
That is why a dejected man is given the name: Umang. A blind man is called: Nayansukh (delight of the eyes). An ugly woman is called: Sundar-bai (Beautiful Lady). The journey of death is called: Mahayatra—the Great Journey! We choose sweet names! Behind them we hide something. By choosing these lovely names we deceive and we get deceived. Here there is nothing beautiful. Here beauty never happens. Here beauty cannot be. Beauty arises only when there is a relationship with the Divine. Beauty wells up only when the Divine becomes a bridge between you and Him. The flowers of beauty bloom only between God and man, and in no other way. There is no other means.

The joy of life lies in being with God. The exuberance of life lies in being with Him. And the meaning of the world is: we are not with Him. In brief, the meaning of the world is that we are trying to be happy without Him; nothing else. The straightforward commentary on the world is only this much: we are trying to be happy without God. This effort cannot succeed, because without God none of our efforts can succeed. With Him there is victory. Without Him there is defeat. And everyone is trying to have victory without taking God’s company.

Even in taking His company the ego suffers greatly. Because to take that company means one will have to bow. To take that company means one will have to extend the hand, raise the begging bowl. No, the ego says, don’t panic; a little more striving, a little more effort. Two or four steps more. The dawn is not far. And when the night is very dark, the morning is very near—don’t be afraid. And in every dark cloud a silver streak of lightning is hidden. If there is gloom, somewhere a lamp of hope must also be burning—don’t be afraid. A little more search, a little more digging. For now only stones are coming to hand; don’t panic, the water source will surely appear.

Thus the mind goes on speaking. The ego goes on explaining—till the very end, the final moment. Neither does the morning ever arrive, nor are those silver streaks found, nor does a water source come to hand. Man lives in vain and dies in vain.

Without God there is no victory.

You have heard the famous dictum, haven’t you: “Satyameva Jayate”—Truth alone triumphs. Truth triumphs. God triumphs. Falsehood may give you all kinds of assurances, but it cannot win. And the ego is the greatest falsehood. All other lies are its offspring; it is the great father. As Brahma created the world, so the ego has created the entire world of lies. To support one lie you have to take the support of a thousand lies.

You must have seen it: tell one lie and the trouble begins. Then you have to tell ten lies to save that one. Then to sustain those ten you have to tell another thousand. Then lie upon lie—and you get more and more caught, more and more entangled. Speak the truth, and you need not worry about anything. Therefore only a person with a good memory can lie. Otherwise lying is very difficult. If your memory is weak, do not lie, because you need a great memory—whom you said what to. You have to keep all the accounts. If the memory is not reliable, then speak the truth; there you do not have to remember. The truth does not have to be remembered. Truth is just as it is—standing exactly so—what is there to remember about it? If dawn occurred at six in the morning and you said, “Dawn occurred at six,” what is there to remember? But if to one you said it dawned at seven, to another you said eight, to yet another you said nine—now you will be in difficulty. Now you will have to remember that the three do not meet each other, that they do not talk to one another, that they do not find out! And then you will have to remember—what did you say to whom?

Truth is plain and simple. Falsehood is complicated. And what is the biggest falsehood in the world? The biggest falsehood is: “I am.” Why do I say it is the biggest falsehood? Because it simply is not the case. God is; you are not. Neither I am nor you are—God is. Neither trees are, nor mountains, nor peaks—God is. Neither the moon is, nor the stars—God is. Here only the One has residence. Only that One has a thousand-thousand waves, forms, colors, styles. That alone has expressed itself. All these waves are of that one ocean. But every wave is claiming, “I am”—not only “I am,” but also, “There is no wave greater than me.” Also, “I will not allow any wave greater than me to be.” And also, “I will last, I will remain, I will make a place for myself forever. I will become immortal.” And so the web of lies begins. What else will there be but defeat?

Therefore I say to you, Umang Bharati: in this world there is only loss, only defeat. But now you have taken sannyas. Understand the meaning of sannyas correctly. If the meaning of the world is the attempt to succeed without God, then the meaning of sannyas is clear. Sannyas means the attempt to succeed by being with God. Then one does not even have to strive; merely being with Him is success. The moment His company is found, the victory-journey begins. God wins; He cannot be defeated. By whom would He be defeated? Other than Him there is no one. How could He be defeated? His every step is a step of victory. And the one whose steps begin to fall in step with His—that one I call a sannyasin. By sannyasin I do not mean someone who has fled the world. By sannyasin I mean someone who has understood the basic process of the world. The world’s process was this: to try to win while remaining separate from God. That’s all. One drops that process. Now one adopts the other process—to win by being with God. There is nowhere to go, nowhere to run.
You have asked: “I have taken sannyas, but is my sannyas right?”
Sannyas cannot be improper. And if sannyas seems improper, it only means it has not really been taken. Sannyas is right by its very nature. The world is always wrong; sannyas is always right. How can there be wrongness in being with God? Yes, if you are not truly together—if outwardly you show togetherness while inwardly the old game continues—then you have not become a sannyasin at all. So a sannyasin is simply right; or he is not.

Merely changing clothes does not accomplish sannyas. The inner process, the whole inner machinery built over lifetimes, has to be dismantled. From now on, think in the language of being with God. From now on say: Thy will be done! From now on say: I am not; wherever You take me, I will go! If You drown me midstream, I will drown—because I will understand: this too is the shore. If You kill me, I will die—because I will understand this is the eternal life. Even if a sword falls on my head from Your hand, it will feel like a flower. Now I have no desire other than You; no thought different from You. This is sannyas. This is the very soul of sannyas.

You have taken sannyas—auspicious. This very feeling is auspicious. That is why I did not change your name, because now there is hope that a surge will arise. Your parents must have given it with another hope—that you would win in the world; I have given you the same name again, with the hope that until now you walked on the path of defeat, and now you have reached the turning toward victory. If you turn, the victory is yours—victory upon victory. For when you are no more, defeat is impossible. The very meaning of your victory is that you are not, and there is nothing but victory.

I bless you. That is precisely my effort. That is the great design unfolding here. Sannyas had fallen into the hands of escapees; it has to be wrested back from them. They have the strength of tradition, thousands of years of history. The past is on their side. The future is on mine.

The sannyas I am giving you has never existed on this earth. For sannyas here had become life‑denying, negative, escapist, the way of the runaway—“Run away!” I say: Where is there to run? Transform! Do not run—awaken! Wherever you are, awaken there. As you are, awaken as you are. Then everything is transformed right here; there is nowhere to go. Sannyas is not a geographical journey—it is an inner transformation. The arising of a new vision. A new philosophy. A new perspective. A new style of seeing. A new way of being. An innovation. A revolution.

Escapism caught hold of the sannyasin because it was the cheap sannyas. People understood that. People get bored with the world—bored with wife and children, with shopkeeping; one day a panic seizes them: What am I doing? It’s all futile, time is passing. They think, Let’s run away, far from all this. But where will you go? If the world were only outside, perhaps you could sit in a Himalayan cave and be done with it. But you won’t, because the world is a tendency within you. The insistence on standing opposed to the divine and fighting—that is the world. That tendency will travel with you. In a Himalayan cave you will continue your struggle. There too you will keep grappling like a warrior with God. Earlier you said, “I will have wealth”; now you will say, “I will have meditation.” What difference does it make? Before you said, “I will prove my victory in the world”; now you say, “I will build a house in liberation!” But build I must! I am the builder! The same old mood, the same groove. This is false sannyas. It is not real.

I have heard: a film actress was very clever. To protect her jewels from thieves she devised a trick. At night, when she slept, she would place a note with her jewelry: “These jewels are fake; the real ones are in the bank.” One morning she saw all her jewels were gone, and in their place lay another note. She eagerly read it: “I need only fake jewels, because I am a fake thief—the real one is in jail.”

Your world too is fake. From that fake world the sannyas that is born is also fake. The way you were worldly, in the same way you become a sannyasin; nothing changes. This will sound very paradoxical. People come and say: “Your sannyasins don’t change; if he used to keep a shop, he still keeps a shop.” And I tell them: the old sannyasin did not change; the way he fought with God, he still fights. In my sannyasin there is change, but it is inner. To see it you need a deep, subtle eye. He still sits in the shop, but now he is not fighting. Now the shop belongs to the divine; he only runs it. He still does a job—yesterday he did, today he does—nothing has changed, and everything has changed. Yesterday he was with his wife; today he is with his wife—and everything has changed. Yesterday there was a tie between them—“the wife is mine”; now the sense of “mine and thine” has dissolved. The wife is in her place, he is in his. Just as it is, it remains. Neither is the wife mine, nor am I the wife’s. We have met as fellow travelers on life’s road; we met along the way, encountered each other, shared a few moments, and then there will be parting—who belongs to whom! Wife in her place, husband in his, son in his, shop in its—everything is as it was—but inside, a perspective has changed. The way of seeing has changed. Now all is okay. Now there is no conflict. Now there is surrender to the divine.

If this much happens, all past failures are forgotten, all melancholy forgotten. Laughter arises—how we were entangled in such petty things, how in such small toys! One laughs at oneself. The whole past appears absurd.

“What concern for the world’s occupations in the grave?
At the goal, I forgot the road I travelled.”

Everything is forgotten; all becomes futile. It was dust and chaff—blown away; the mirror begins to empty.

Beware of escape! The one who runs does not change. He runs precisely because he is afraid to change. By running he saves himself. Inside everything remains the same; changing the outer, he deceives himself that he has changed.

I do not even allow you to change your outer situation—even if you want to. People come and say, “Why do you tell us to stay at home? We are ready to leave everything.” I tell them: it is not a question of your readiness. You must remain at home. Otherwise you will start changing the outer—and who will change the inner? Your energy will remain entangled outside; who will go within? Let the outer remain as it is; don’t touch it. It is already organized—let it run as it is. Turn all your energy inward. It will be simpler.

Think a little. Everything is settled: the shop runs well, the house is in order, the wife is there, the children go to school—everything is arranged. There is no hassle now; all runs on, your presence keeps things going: you sit in the shop, you come home, it all continues. There is no need to invest new energy here. If I say, “Leave home, go sit in a cave,” immediately questions arise—where to get food? Where are the clothes? Night falls, mosquitoes bite—where is the mosquito net?

And you know, mosquitoes have been ancient enemies of meditators!

I was a guest in Sarnath at a Buddhist monk’s home. So many mosquitoes in Sarnath that neither he nor I slept all night. So we sat and discussed the Dhammapada. What else to do? Next day I begged leave and left. He said, “It’s not only you who are troubled; even Lord Buddha came to Sarnath only once—never again. The reason must have been the mosquitoes. Everywhere else he went many times. To Rajgir at least thirty times. To Vaishali—who knows how many! To Shravasti—forty, fifty times. Only Sarnath he visited just once. There must have been some reason—the great mosquitoes of Sarnath!”

It is not that mosquitoes harass only you—they harassed Buddha too. In Jain scriptures, wherever meditation is discussed, mosquitoes are certainly mentioned: they will harass you; be careful then. And think of the Jain muni—naked; of course mosquitoes will harass him.

At home you had a mosquito net; everything was arranged. Now you sit in a cave and mosquitoes torment you. Now you must contrive something. Tomorrow hunger comes—you go begging. And the times have changed; people don’t simply give now. Wherever you stand they’ll say, “You look healthy enough—what freeloading is this?” Those days are gone when people would touch a sannyasin’s feet and feed him. They will scold you a dozen ways. If you get anything, consider yourself lucky. “Why live off others? Earn, work! Why climb on our chest? Why drink our blood?” Even getting a piece of bread is not easy.

Then illness comes; other difficulties arise. You will grow old—while you are young they say, “You’re still young”; when you grow old, old age brings its troubles: hard to beg, hard to rise. When will you meditate? How will you meditate? Because of such hassles people become sectarian—there is convenience in that. If you simply become a sannyasin—neither Hindu nor Muslim nor Christian—sit in a cave, you will starve there. So you choose: become a Hindu—Hindus will care for you; become a Jain—Jains will care for you.

But when you become a Jain sannyasin, a muni, a thousand rules arrive. Nothing is given free. They say: get up at such an hour, sleep at such an hour. Live like this. Don’t brush—brushing adorns the body. Don’t bathe.

You will be surprised to know Jain monks and nuns have to clean their teeth secretly. It has gone to that limit—of all the thefts to commit, was this to be stolen? If you must steal, at least steal something worthwhile! Jain nuns keep toothpaste hidden in their bundles—lest anyone find out.

A Jain sadhvi once came to see me. I generally keep a little distance from Jain monks and nuns. But she came right up to me, and there was no bad odor from her mouth. I said, “Something is off; you certainly brush your teeth.” She asked, “How did you know?” I said, “Is there anything to find out? A Jain monk can be smelled from far away. Is this even a matter of inquiry? Your mouth doesn’t stink.”

They will impose twenty‑five rules. They won’t let you urinate in a bathroom—it is against their rule. When Jain scriptures were composed, septic tanks did not exist; there is no rule for that. The scriptures say: do not urinate in water. A septic tank has water—now you are stuck!

Once I was a guest at Sohan’s house in Poona. Five or seven sadhvis came to see me and stayed the night. In the morning the watchman said, “Strange women! All night who knows what they were doing. They filled plates with urine and took them outside to throw.”

Understand their helplessness! Do you want to enter such a labyrinth—where you can’t even sleep at night, filling plates and taking them out?

Whichever sect you enter has its rules. A hair’s‑breadth deviation and your food stops. A slight difference and you are “corrupt,” honor ends. Will you become a slave for small daily needs? You set out to seek freedom and became a slave somewhere. Better to sit in a jail; the rules in jail aren’t this strict. There are rules in jail, but not so harsh, because they are made keeping human beings and their weaknesses in view.

These scriptural rules are not made with man in mind; they are made against man—in the zeal to drag him by force to some pinnacle of virtue. They are inhuman.

So if you live alone, you will starve; there will be no ease for meditation. And if you fall into the net of some sect, you will become a slave. Therefore I tell you: do not run anywhere. Wherever you are, whatever arrangement of life has settled, don’t disturb it even a little. An arrangement has been made—why needlessly break it and take on the hassle of a new one? Use this arrangement to your benefit. I am asking you to be intelligent. Be a little sensible. Use this arrangement. Your wife cooks—tomorrow someone else’s wife would cook anyway. If you fall ill, someone at home cares—tomorrow someone else would. The arrangement is in place. Its greatest benefit is that now, if you wish, you can turn all your energy inward. There is no need to organize energy outside.

So I say: wherever you are, as you are, set out on the inner journey right there—start slipping within. Then you will neither become anyone’s slave nor depend on anyone; you will remain self‑reliant, a lover of your own way. Arrange your life according to your own nature; there is no need to arrange it according to someone else’s. All these life‑arrangements have been made by someone; whoever made them made them according to himself—he knew nothing of you. Do you think Mahavira was thinking, “Brother Umang will take sannyas twenty‑five hundred years later—let’s frame rules to suit him”? Mahavira made them his way. People are of many kinds.

I suspect mosquitoes did not bite Mahavira. There is a reason. Some people mosquitoes do not bite. I lived for years with a gentleman whom mosquitoes simply wouldn’t bite. Let someone else sit nearby—mosquitoes would take his life—and they wouldn’t go near him. I said, “What is the matter?” Mosquitoes kept their distance. The scent of his blood didn’t appeal to them. I suspect Mahavira’s blood had such a scent—otherwise remaining naked would have been difficult! Surely mosquitoes didn’t bite or trouble him.

Ask physicians who test blood: mosquitoes have a taste for particular blood, and they rush to it. A specific odor attracts them. In the West devices are being made to catch mosquitoes. Their whole trick is a particular scent; as soon as a mosquito enters, it gets trapped—then it cannot get out. It can go in, not out. Once in, it dies.

Mahavira made rules according to himself. He lived his life in his own way, with his own ease. He rose early—it suited him. Scientists say some people are suited to rising early; if they don’t get up at five, they feel restless all day. And some are suited to getting up late; if they get up at five, they yawn all day, feel gloomy and uneasy, as if something is missing. Experiments show why: everyone’s body temperature drops for two hours at night—by two to four degrees. Those two hours are the deepest sleep. If they pass in sleep, you remain fresh all day. If you are awakened then, you will feel uneasy all day.

This has nothing to do with Brahma‑muhurta. For some, those two hours are between two and four; for others, four and six; for others, five and seven; for some, six and eight. They are helpless; it is not in their hands. What can you do? Whenever your temperature drops, you must sleep those two hours. If you learn rules from someone else’s scripture, you will be in trouble; he made rules his way.

And remember, scriptures were mostly written by old men. In those days even old men could barely write; what to say of the young? After a lifetime of a little learning, they wrote in old age. The sleep of the old decreases—that is natural. In the womb the child sleeps twenty‑four hours; after birth, twenty‑two; then twenty; then eighteen; decreasing to eight, seven, six, then five, four, three. An old man completes his sleep in three or two hours. If an eighty‑year‑old writes about how much people should sleep, he will say three hours are enough. If a twenty‑year‑old gets caught in that, he is finished—untimely finished! His life will be spoiled—by that same Brahma‑muhurta.

I know people who have been “killed” by Brahma‑muhurta—because they must get up; the book says get up at five. And their sleep is not complete.

A young man used to come to me. His parents brought him: “Please do something, he is going mad.” I said, “Tell me the whole history.” They said, “There’s nothing else; we came to you because perhaps you’re the one who can give him sense. He has the delusion of being religious. For three or four years he’s been tangled in Swami Sivananda’s books. The books say get up at three; so he gets up at three. Then he feels sleepy all day. He went to Swamiji; Swamiji said day‑sleepiness is a tamasic symptom. That means your food is tamasic; live only on milk.” So he stopped all other food and drinks only milk. He has become weak, dried up.

How much milk can you drink? Naturally, milk is for children. Have you seen any animal drinking milk after a certain age? Only man does this foolishness. Milk is for babies; it is needed for small children. As you grow older, milk ceases to be useful. Or take a little—fine. But will you live on milk alone? And the scriptures say—and in Swami Sivananda’s scripture it is emphasized—that milk is the only pure diet.

This is delusion and falsehood. Milk is pure blood—how will it be “pure diet”? The mother’s breasts have glands where blood is divided into two parts. There are two kinds of corpuscles—white and red. The breast separates the white corpuscles; that becomes milk—hence drinking milk increases blood. Milk is blood, pure blood. It belongs to a non‑vegetarian diet. There is even a sect—the Quakers—who do not drink milk because they say it is non‑vegetarian. They are pure vegetarians. Milk, curd, ghee—all are forbidden. But everyone has his notions: “Milk is pure food; rishis and munis have always drunk it!”

So the boy kept drinking milk. He became thin, weak. His brain began to wobble a bit—because the brain needs a particular energy; if it doesn’t get it, it starts breaking down. He became like a deranged person. All this—according to scripture.

I said to him, “Fool! Daytime sleepiness is not a sign of tamas; it only means your night’s sleep is incomplete. Sleep properly! Getting up at Brahma‑muhurta does not suit you. And you are not yet of an age to manage on four or five hours. You should sleep seven, eight, nine hours.”

After much explaining, he understood. He began to sleep properly; the daytime sleepiness vanished. I said, “See—your ‘tamas’ changed, didn’t it? Now change that diet too; you took it up because of ‘tamas’—now return to ordinary food.”

In six months he became healthy. But when he went for Swami Sivananda’s darshan, they said, “You have become corrupt.”

Here, to be healthy is to be corrupt! Here sickly and deranged types are accepted.

Always remember: rules made by others are not made for you. Shape your life in your own way. Just remember this much: from the master comes subtle guidance, not gross orders. From the true master comes direction, not a detailed blueprint. Remember only this: to be with the divine and to go within. Then decide the details yourself—when to get up, when to sleep, what to eat, what to drink, how to live—find what is in tune with you. That is why I give my sannyasin no discipline. All disciplines imposed from outside are the begetters of slavery. And a sannyasin has set out in search of freedom.

Suffering is a challenge—an opportunity for growth. Suffering is inevitable. Without it, you will not awaken. Who will wake you up? As it is, even suffering is not managing to wake you; you have slowly made peace with it.

You are like someone living at a railway station: trains keep coming and going, shunting goes on, noise and clamor continue—yet his sleep does not break. You have slept so deeply that now even suffering does not seem to wake you. But suffering has only one use in existence: it scours you, it awakens you. Suffering is not bad. Without suffering, you would all become heaps of dung. Suffering gives you a soul. Suffering is a challenge. Everything depends on how you take it. Take suffering as a challenge.

But you have been taught something else—that suffering is the fruit of your sinful deeds. All nonsense! Suffering is a challenge, an opportunity. Look at suffering and wake up. Let the arrow of suffering pierce within; from that very sting, remembrance of the Divine begins.

There was a Sufi fakir, Sheikh Farid. In his prayer there was always one line. His disciples asked him, “We don’t understand this. We pray too, we have seen others pray, but this we have never understood—why do you say every day: O Lord, give me a little suffering each day! Is that a prayer? People pray, Give me happiness; and you pray, O Lord, give me a little suffering each day!”

Farid said, “In pleasure I fall asleep, and suffering awakens me. In pleasure I often forget the Divine; in suffering I remember Him. Suffering brings me closer. Therefore I pray: O Lord, do not become so gracious as to give me only pleasures. I do not yet trust myself—if you give me only happiness, I will simply fall asleep! There will be nothing left to wake me—the alarm will be switched off. Keep ringing the alarm; give me a little suffering now and then, so that remembrance keeps arising, so that I cannot forget you.”

You see—everything depends on how you look.

What you are undergoing is not the fruit of sins and suchlike; it is part of life’s natural order.

If the mind and heart have insight,
even darkness lends the savor of light;
on the road of life, every stumble
bestows an understanding of life.

If the mind and heart have insight—
if there is the power to see, the capacity, an eye—
even darkness turns into light.

On the road of life, every stumble
opens life’s secret, unveils its mystery;
doors open, life’s glory is revealed, grace descends.
It all depends on you.

The storm of life’s mishaps
befriends you according to your capacity:
it sharpens the ardor of the accomplished,
and snuffs out the lamps of the unripe.

We shall take the very sorrows and pains,
and by them transform life;
and if we die, then in the dust of the world,
we shall be born in every particle.

If there were no sorrow in life,
there would be no taste of life.
If the road were easy, the traveler
would not savor even going astray.

There is a joy even in wandering, because there is a joy in finding after having lost. One who has not lost cannot relish the joy of finding. Whoever understands this paradox of life has understood life’s whole secret.

People ask, Why have we become distant from the Divine? Precisely so that we may come near. If you have never been far, there is no joy in coming close.

Take a fish out of the ocean and leave it on the bank—it writhes. For the first time it realizes what the joy of being in the ocean was. A moment earlier it was in the sea, yet there was no sense of the sea. If it falls back into the ocean now, there will be wonder; now it will know how immeasurably the ocean has graced it.

Without distance, the joy of nearness does not happen. Without the fire of separation, the flowers of union do not bloom; it is in the flames of longing that the blossoms of meeting open.

The storm of life’s accidents—
they suit you according to your worthiness.
You have seen it: when a storm comes, it puts out small lamps; but if a house or a forest is ablaze, it only heightens the flames. It is a strange thing: the little lamp goes out, and the forest fire soars. The storm is the same. Everything is according to capacity.

Wake up a little! Become a forest fire! Then you will find that every gale of life only lifts your flames; it cannot extinguish you. Every sorrow of life brings you closer to the bliss of the Divine.

It sharpens the ardor of the accomplished,
and snuffs out the lamps of the unripe.

And if there were no sorrow in life, there would be no relish in life. Without thorns, the rose has no flavor, no meaning. Without dark nights, there is no freshness of dawn. And without the darkness of death, where would be the light of life?

If there were no sorrow in life,
there would be no taste of life.
If the road were easy, the traveler
would not savor even going astray.

Look at it this way—and then the world, too, becomes a wayside halt on the path to the Divine. The world is not the opposite of God, not an enemy, but an indispensable part of the very endeavor to attain Him. This distance is the call to come near. This suffering is the summons to awaken.

Vijay Bharati! Whenever you ask a question, you ask the wrong kind. You seem to have a knack for wrong questions. Your first and constant mistake is that you ask about others—as if you yourself have no problems left! Sometimes you bring: Vijayananda said this. Sometimes: Arhat said that. Sometimes: now this Swami Om Prakash Saraswati has done such-and-such. Have all the problems of your life been resolved? Is the only work left for you now to solve everyone else’s problems in the world?
What business is it of yours? And who are you to decide that Swami Om Prakash Saraswati too, like Brahm Vedant, is advancing in a misguided direction? You, it seems, have gone even further than they have. Otherwise, how would you know they are moving astray? Who asked you to judge? How do you set yourself up as the judge?

This is all your ego. I know who is going in which direction. That is my responsibility. You are not Om Prakash’s guru. Don’t worry. That worry is mine. I myself told him to stop meditating now. He is not moving in a wrong direction. The work of meditation is complete.

No one has to keep meditating forever. Meditation is a medicine. When the illness is gone, the medicine has to be stopped. Otherwise, if you keep taking the medicine, the medicine itself becomes the illness.

Om Prakash’s work with meditation is complete. Now he is in that ecstasy which does not have to be produced by meditation—the current of ecstasy is flowing on its own. Now, whether sitting or standing, meditation is there. He is not in a wrong direction—you are. He is walking rightly; he is walking after asking me. In fact, when I told him, "Now leave meditation and the rest," tears came into his eyes. He did not want to leave it.

Attachments form. How to drop the meditation through which so much has been received? How to drop the medicine by which such health has been born? But I will have to make you drop even the medicines. A thorn gets stuck in the foot; you take it out with another thorn; then you throw both away, don’t you? It is not that you carefully keep the second thorn—the one with which the first was removed—tucked back into the wound because it is so dear.

Meditation is not some ultimate thing. Meditation is a device, a method. No method is ultimate. When the stroke of meditation has landed and the inner spring of awakening has begun to flow, then meditation is to be set aside. Now effortless meditation remains.

Om Prakash is on the right path.

But some people are always like this—entangled in concern for others! Vijay Bharati always raises this kind of question. Now do not ask such questions again. And I am not saying this only to Vijay Bharati; I am saying it to others as well. There are others who ask in the same way. If I do not answer, they write letters of resentment: Why did you not answer our questions?

Is it not enough that you have asked—that you must also get an answer? Because I will also see whether what you have asked is trash or not. So many people are sitting here; you ask any rubbish at all—and you waste everyone’s time, and you waste my time.

If Om Prakash has to ask, he will ask me. Whether to meditate or not is a matter between him and me. No other sannyasin needs to have any involvement in it.

Its only meaning is this: you must be greatly troubled—how has this Om Prakash gone ahead of us? That we still need meditation and he no longer needs it!

This has always happened. It has happened so much that I have decided that those whose state of samadhi has ripened—I will not even mention their names. Those who are approaching enlightenment—I will not give you any clue about them. Because you are a crowd. If I mention even one or two people by name—that this person has now come to the last stage of meditation—you will all become their enemies. Because you will all try to prove: No, how can this be? How can anyone else attain samadhi while we are around? We have not yet attained—how can you? You will go and start finding faults. You will search for some lapses in their conduct. And if you cannot, you will invent them, imagine them. But you will not be able to accept.

It happened in the past as well.

In China there was a famous Zen fakir, Linchi. When he attained to knowing, his master called him at midnight and said, You have attained. I have nothing else to offer you as a gift; this is my old robe—now I have no need of it, for I will soon leave the body. I was only waiting for someone to attain, so that my lamp might be kept burning. Now you have attained—take this robe and run from here, and go as far as you can. He said, But why is it necessary to run away? Linchi’s master said, You do not know—my other five hundred monks here will get together and kill you. They will not be able to tolerate it.

And there were many reasons for their intolerance. The first reason was that he was the most unknown disciple. No one even knew him. He was engaged in such a task that no one would ever know him; people did not even know his name. Among those five hundred monks were very famous people—whose names were known throughout the country, renowned; pundits, scriptural scholars, debaters, speakers, authors; they had fame, recognition, prestige—such people.

Fifteen days earlier the master had announced that my final time is near, and before I go, I want to know: who is it that has attained the lamp? Whoever thinks he has attained should come and write, at my door, in four lines, the essential taste of his life’s experience. From those lines it will be evident whether he has attained or not.

The one who was the greatest pundit, renowned far and wide, gathered the courage—the rest did not dare, because they knew it is not easy to deceive the master. The experience had not yet happened, so how could they write? If they wrote, it would be borrowed. They too had read the scriptures, they had read the words of experience in the scriptures; if they wanted, they too could have written four lines. But they said, This will create trouble. The master was no ordinary master; if a mistake was made he would beat you up, even break your head. Even this great pundit went at night and, in the dark, wrote four lines on the master’s door. The lines are very lovely and famous. They were: ‘The mind is like a mirror. On it the dust of karma and thought settles. If that dust is wiped off, the mirror becomes pure—this is attainment, this is samadhi.’

Now what else remained to be said? He had said it all! But even he wrote in the dark of night and did not sign. Because he knew: I am saying it, but this experience is not mine; this mirror of mine is not yet clear. In fact, it is the dust on the mirror that is speaking, not the mirror. He knew this. How will you deceive yourself? So he did not sign, that if the master says, Yes, it is right, then in the morning I will announce that I wrote it; and if the master says, Not right, I will remain silent, the matter will end—no one will know who wrote it. Even here he played a dishonest trick!

In the morning the master got up and said: Catch this man! Who has spoiled my wall? He will have to be thrashed.

But how to catch? There was no name. The matter came and went. In the whole ashram there was only one discussion: the lines are very beautiful! But the question is not the beauty of the lines. What is the truth of the lines? He had bound it in great poetry, written in a lovely way, the calligraphy was beautiful, the lines were beautiful, the words well-placed—and he had said the essence, the very gist of the scriptures—this was the topic of conversation. There was great excitement. Everyone was saying: What improvement could there be on this? Nothing pleases this old man! They were annoyed: Whoever wrote it, the lines are beautiful.

Talking thus, four monks were coming out of the dining hall, and Linchi was pounding rice—his job was precisely that, to pound rice. When he had come twelve years earlier and had said to the master, Accept me, the master had looked at him and said, Do you truly want to change? Do you want to be religious, or do you only want to know about religion? He had said, When a true master like you has been found, what will I do knowing about religion? I could have learned about religion from cheap pundits and priests anywhere—they were available in every village. I don’t want to know about religion; I want to know religion.

So the master had said, Then listen! Go to the ashram kitchen and pound rice! And now do not come to me again. Just pound rice and do nothing else. That alone is your meditation, your method, your practice; when the need arises, I will come.

Twelve years passed; neither did the master come, nor did Linchi go again to the master. He did not read scriptures in those twelve years—there was no time; he did not talk with people. And there were great pundits there, knowers and meditators—who would talk with Linchi! He was the lowest—call him a shudra. He pounded rice, from morning till evening pounding rice—pounding rice for five hundred monks is a big job! But pounding and pounding and pounding—there was nothing to think about either; the master had said, Do not do anything else, so he did nothing else and did not even think. Just pounding rice and pounding rice and pounding rice! In twelve years thoughts disappeared. The mirror became empty! There was no longer any need for dust to settle. Dust settles only if you keep collecting it every day. For twelve years he did not think at all! There was nothing to think about either. He had only to pound rice—what was there to think about in that?

These four monks, talking, were coming out when Linchi heard them repeating those lines: wonderful lines—‘The mind is a mirror; on the mirror, the dust of thought and action gathers; wipe off the dust and the mirror becomes pure—this is samadhi.’ Lovely words! But that old man doesn’t like anything. Now who can improve on this?

Linchi was pounding rice and began to laugh. Hearing his laughter, the four were startled. No one had ever seen him laugh. They asked, Why did you laugh? He said, The master is right. It is all rubbish.

They said, You say that—you who have been pounding rice for twelve years?... Just as, if one day I say that ‘Deeksha’ has attained samadhi—will you accept, ‘Deeksha’?... She runs the kitchen—how can she attain samadhi? Who will believe it?... So they, in mockery, said, Then you go and write it. He said, That is difficult, because in twelve years I have even forgotten how to write. You write it; I will speak.

He went and spoke four lines; someone wrote them on the wall. The four lines were: ‘Mind has no mirror—where will dust gather? Whoever has known this, has known.’

At midnight the master called him and said, You have found it; but now you run away. They will not be able to tolerate you. People will kill you.

He gave him the robe and drove Linchi out of the ashram. And certainly attempts were made; people pursued him; they tried to kill him. Because there were great pundits. And you know the ego of pundits! It was too great a blow for them that a rice-pounder should attain to knowing while we sat reading scriptures; we did worship, recited texts, chanted mantras and tantras, and this man did nothing, just pounded rice—and he attained? This is beyond tolerance!

Here many people are coming close. Many will come close. Many will attain. Here, in the dark night of many, a lamp is going to flare up! Many are coming to stand on the threshold. But I will remain silent. I will not tell you their names. You will not be able to tolerate them. You will begin to take revenge on them. You will start harassing them. You will put those simple, innocent people into trouble.

Vijay Bharati, stop asking this kind of question. Your concern should be with your own practice—nothing more. Whatever is happening with another is between me and that person.

I am looking only for atheists; they are the true recipients. Theists have become great hypocrites. Theists have become great liars. Where can one find a genuine person among believers now? Those days are gone when believers used to be sincere. Now, if you want to find a true man, you have to look among atheists.
There is a lie inherent in a theist’s very theism. He knows nothing of God, yet he believes. He knows nothing of the soul, yet he has faith. That is the beginning of a journey into untruth—and into big lies. When a man tells small lies, you forgive him—you should. But these big lies are not even forgivable. Do you know anything of God? Have you experienced? Had a glimpse? A vision? A direct encounter? Nothing has happened. You have heard it from your parents, from priests and pundits. There is an echo in the air all around that God is—and you’ve believed it. Out of fear, out of greed, out of conditioning. Such belief is worth two pennies. This is not authentic theism; it is counterfeit. Authentic theism begins with authentic atheism.

Who is an atheist? An atheist is one who says, “I don’t know yet; how can I believe? Until I know, how can I accept? When I know, I will believe—and until I know, I will not.”

I am looking only for such atheists. The one who says, “Until I know, I will not believe”—I am for him. Because I am ready to make you know. Come, I will take you in that direction. I have seen; I can show you.

The theist has no concern with seeing. He says, “I already believe—why the hassle? I already accept.” This is his strategy to avoid God. He has no curiosity about God—not even enough curiosity to deny. He treats God as a matter worth two pennies and says, “What’s the need to bother? Since everyone says so, it must be so.” He doesn’t even deem it worthy of conversation. He doesn’t want to waste time on it. He says, “It’s a formality—once in a while visit a church, pay a call at a temple, watch a Ramlila—fine. It’s good; it’s social etiquette. If you want to live with people, it’s convenient to live as they live. Everyone believes; I believe too. Why clash with the crowd? And is this matter even weighty enough to cause a fuss? Why waste time on it?”

You can see, people argue far more about politics than about religion. They argue fiercely about which party is right, which doctrine is right. The debate about religion has disappeared. Who debates religion? If you’re sitting in a hotel or a clubhouse and suddenly raise the question “Is there God or not?” everyone will say, “Surely there must be—now sit down, be quiet, and don’t create a scene.” Who wants to get into this so-called nonsense?

The atheist is still curious. To be an atheist means: God is still a question worthy of reflection, worthy of search, worthy of inquiry, worthy of adventure. “I will go and search.” The atheist is saying, “I am ready to stake myself; I will invest time.”

In my seen world, those who became supremely theistic began their journey with supreme atheism—because truth begins its search with truth. At least be this truthful: what you do not know, do not say you believe.

Where does the atheist err? Not in not believing in God. The atheist errs when he begins to believe that God does not exist. That is the mistake.

Understand the difference.

If a theist is honest, he will say only this: “I don’t know. How can I say He is? How can I say He isn’t?” He will declare his ignorance, but he will not give a definitive yes or no regarding God. This is the real atheist. The atheist who says, “I know God is not”—he is a false atheist, as false as the theist. The theist clings to one kind of lie—without knowing, he says God is. This one clings to the opposite lie—without knowing, he says God is not. Both are lies.

The real atheist says, “I don’t know. I am ignorant. I have not yet known; therefore I can give no decision, I can declare no conclusion.”

But that is exactly the seeker’s state. That is precisely where inquiry is born. From here, life’s journey begins.

You say: “I have absolutely no belief in soul-God, past lives-rebirth, mantra-tantra, miracles, fate, etc. I am a downright atheist.”

Then you have come to the right man. You need go nowhere else. Here is your satguru. I too am a great atheist. Friendship is possible. I will turn your No into a Yes.

But not by imposing belief—by an experience. And that experience has already begun. A ray has begun to descend.

You say: “There is a unique attraction in your talks, and the mind receives inspirations overwhelmed with joy.”

It has begun—because God is another name for bliss. God is nothing else but the supreme state of bliss, the ultimate peak of joy. God is just a name for bliss at its uttermost. It has begun. You have started listening and swaying with me; you have started listening and getting intoxicated; you have begun to drink from my decanter—so it has begun. You are being dyed in my color. Now there is no need for delay. Take sannyas. You will have to! Now there is no way to avoid it, no convenience left to run away.

In my sannyas the theist is welcome; the atheist is welcome. We make the theist a real theist—because today’s theists are false. We lead the atheist into ultimate atheism—because the ultimate theist and the ultimate atheist become one. It is only a difference in phrasing. In the final state there is no difference between “yes” and “no”; they become two ways of saying the same thing.

That is why a Buddha did not, in the end, say that God is. Mahavira did not say that God is. These are wondrous theists! Their theism does not depend on declaring God. But both said: there is bliss. God is a secondary matter; the real matter is bliss. Sat-Chit-Ananda—that is the ultimate. Above Sat comes Chit; above Chit comes Ananda. Beyond that, there is nothing.

If my words make you tingle, if waves are rising within, if my song has begun to be heard by you and your feet have started to throb—then the time has come. Do not hold back merely because you are an atheist. What I offer here is no weak religion. It excludes no one. Those are weak religions that say an atheist has no place with us. Those are impotent religions that say first believe, then come inside. I say: drop all beliefs; become quiet; then trust will be born.

Trust is not born of belief. Belief is the counterfeit copy of trust—false, a deception.

It is good that you are not a believer—you have saved me much work. When a theist comes, I first have to break his theism. You have already done half the work yourself. You are without beliefs. This is an auspicious moment. Your book is blank; nothing needs to be erased. In this blank book, God can appear very soon.

Religion is not bound to theism, nor is religion afraid of atheism. Any “religion” that fears atheism is not religion; any “religion” bound to theism is not religion. Religion is a wondrous thing—it holds the alchemy to transform both the theist and the atheist. Religion is a science.

Go to a mathematician and say, “I have no faith in mathematics—can I be a student?” He will say, “Be a student; faith will come later.” Go to a musician and say, “I have no faith in music.” He will say, “How could you? Enter music; through experience, trust will arise.” That is what I am telling you.

I understand your fear. You say, “Am I worthy of your sannyas?” For in your so-called temples and mosques you will have no entry. Your so-called Shankaracharyas, popes, and maulvis will not be able to accept you. Their hearts are too small.

I welcome you. You are blessed! We will begin the journey from right here. From atheism, true steps can be taken.

Wherever one stands, from there one must move toward God. And if the word “God” does not appeal, drop the word. It makes no difference. There is nothing in words. Say bliss, say nirvana, say truth, say liberation—say whatever you will. Or, if you wish, remain silent; say nothing about it. But come to the experience of That—for which there are all names and no name.

You say: “A unique attraction arises, inspirations that overwhelm the mind with joy are being born. The deep knots of the mind open.”

In the very untying of those knots, God will be revealed. God is lost in the mind’s entanglements.

“An unfathomable reverence fills the heart for you.”

You see—theism has begun! Reverence is the birth of theism. It doesn’t matter toward whom it arises; when reverence arises, it has begun. How will you deny bliss? If there is so much bliss in my words, how will you deny how much bliss there must be in the experience my words point to?

Reverence will surge. And this reverence is not imposed—it is coming of itself. It is grace, descending.

True experiences always descend—they are not fetched. The old gurus tell you, “Have reverence!” I tell you, “Do not have reverence.” Reverence comes—it cannot be done.

I was a university teacher for many years. In the universities one trouble has arisen: students do not respect their teachers. So several universities formed a committee to consider why students’ reverence for teachers has declined, and how to arouse it. I don’t know by what mistake they put my name on it! Then they ran into difficulty, because what I told them was not what they had come to hear—not even what they had imagined anyone could say. Everyone there was busy lamenting. I said to them, “Stop this nonsense. You are simply not worthy of reverence.”

Their faces were worth seeing. They began to suspect whether I was a teacher or had come on behalf of the students—what was going on? I said, “If you were worthy of reverence, it would arise. If it isn’t arising, you are not worthy—what more proof do you need? The matter is obvious. What is this babble about how to produce reverence? Who has ever managed to produce reverence? Can you produce love? If it happens, it happens. Can you produce reverence? If it happens, it happens. But there is one thing: where there is something worthy of reverence, reverence does arise. Where there is something worthy of love, love does happen. One cannot be saved from it.

“So this is only the proof that those you call gurus are no longer gurus. This is merely a sign in the winds. Students are only saying: reverence no longer arises in us for you. Now you must do something—not with the students, with yourselves. You must change. You are no longer worthy of reverence.”

The scriptures say: one should have reverence for the guru. I tell you: the one for whom reverence arises is the guru. Is “reverence for the guru” a matter of willing it? Can it happen by wanting it? The one toward whom reverence happens—that is the guru. The one toward whom, even if you try, you cannot keep reverence from arising—that is the guru. The one toward whom, despite yourself, reverence springs—that is the guru.

Now, you are an atheist—and the urge for sannyas is arising. Just think! Have you ever seen or heard such a thing? An atheist feeling the call to renounce! That is reverence. Reverence makes the impossible possible.

My sannyas is an art of loving existence.

Come now, let us love afresh from the beginning;
let us turn the desert of the heart into a thriving city of joy;
let us turn the circling of the heavens into a vault of delight;
let us make our cheerless life the capital of ecstasy.
There is still time—come now, let us make love;
come now, let us love afresh from the beginning.

Come, see that I am sheer hidden sorrow;
like a candle, I am a single burning flame.
My heart is broken, oppressed, distressed—
pain bears witness that I am a supplicant for healing.
If only you would come, we would cast all complaints far away—
come now, let us love afresh from the beginning.

If you have a grievance against me, tell me;
if I have erred, then let me know.
If you are angry with me, come close and show me—
but burn me no more with the grief of distance.
Let us turn the wail of pain into a melody of joy—
come now, let us love afresh from the beginning.

To relate with God is to give love a new mode, a new style. It is the same love you had for your wife, your mother, your sister, your friend—yet it is a new series, a new dimension of the same love.

Sannyas means: to fall in love with me. And I am a door—nothing more. Fall into me so that you go beyond me. A door is only a door—to pass through. I have opened a window for you and I am calling you: come, look through this window. The world beyond is very beautiful—open sky, white clouds, the moon and stars. Do not get stuck on me—go beyond me.

A slight thrill of joy has arisen in your life; sannyas will make this tremor into a deep flood. Now you listen from afar; then you will come close. Then you will not only hear my words, you will hear my heartbeat. Then you will hear not only what I say—you will also hear what I do not say.

Come now, let us love afresh from the beginning;
let us turn the desert of the heart into a thriving city of joy;
let us turn the circling of the heavens into a vault of delight;
let us make our cheerless life the capital of ecstasy.
There is still time—come now, let us make love;
come now, let us love afresh from the beginning.

Sannyas is a new journey of love. Dismount from the horse! You have walked long with this wedding procession; you have gone far with this crowd. Now walk with the One who is alone. And in walking with the One who is alone, for the first time you will taste the joy of your own aloneness, your own solitude. That very experience of solitude, one day, becomes the experience of God.

God is not a belief—He is an experience. God is not a doctrine—He is reverence. And the beginning of reverence has happened. The miracle has happened: an atheist wants to become a sannyasin!

That’s all for today.