Santo Magan Bhaya Man Mera #6

Sheela! Fear is absolutely natural. Every question is a search for an answer. An answer may either inflate your ego or shatter it—nothing is certain. My answers will certainly not puff up your ego; they will break it. More important than your question is that, under the pretext of the question, your ego be broken. The question is only a situation. Answers are not received from the outside. If the ego is fractured, the answer is within you, hidden in the very question. So fear is natural.

Where there is no fear and asking questions feels like fun, know that transformation will not happen there. That is how it is with pundits and priests: asking them questions feeds your ego. Your question announces your knowledge. Your question proclaims your curiosity, your search, your pursuit of spirituality. There is a relish in asking. And any answer you receive from a pundit-priest cannot be one that breaks you, because he has no courage to break you. He lives off you. He is your servant; you are his master. He must decorate your ego. He is bound to console you. He will apply balm and bandages, hide your wounds under flowers. There can be no sword in his hand. At his door you are welcomed—and the one who asks is welcomed even more than the one who doesn’t, because the questioner gives him a chance to display his knowledge. Mutual ego-gratification takes place.

The one who asks enjoys that people should know he is a knower—people often ask to show they know. They pose lofty questions that bear no relation to their lives: Is there God or not? Is there heaven or not? How many hells are there? The doctrine of karma and rebirth—and other weighty, grave matters that have nothing to do with how they live, that have no use at all. It’s verbiage, philosophical flight! When someone asks about spirituality, the beyond, listeners feel: yes, this person is advanced, a knower. Look at his curiosity! See his soaring! See how high his wings climb! And the pundit-priest gets an opportunity to display what he has collected from scriptures under the cover of your question.

Here, the situation is entirely the opposite. Your question declares your ignorance, not your knowledge. For when one asks from knowledge, he does not truly ask—and I do not answer such questions. Do you think I answer every question? Questions asked from knowledge go straight into the wastebasket; I don’t even look at them again. If you already know, what need is there for my answer? The one who asks from the place that announces “I know,” who cites the scriptures, quotes authorities, and says, “I know, I just want your opinion as well”—here, no opinions are being given; no viewpoints, no certificates are being handed out. Such a question I throw away. It isn’t worth two pennies. That question’s answer you can get elsewhere—from pundits and priests. I answer only those questions that are asked in a moment of not-knowing.

So first, asking from not-knowing causes a tremor: my ignorance is exposed, I don’t even know this much; my helplessness is revealed. And then the answer I give to your humility is bound to come like a sword. For if I don’t cut off your head, I’m of no use to you. Unless your head is separated from your trunk you will not have the vision of the Divine. When the head falls, the Divine is seen. It is in the stiffness of the head that God is lost.

So nervousness, Sheela, is natural. Ask any question, a fear will arise: who knows what I will say now? And if my answers were predictable, you might at least find reassurance: I said the same yesterday, the day before yesterday, so I’ll say it again today. But there can be no forecasting my answers.

You saw just yesterday: Samadhi asked some months ago about Brahm Vedant; I gave one answer. Yesterday Vijay Bharati asked a similar question—probably in the hope that, just as I said in reply to Samadhi that Brahm Vedant has fallen into delusion and should return from it, that they should not mislead people, that the hour of siddhi has not yet come—Vijay Bharati thought, “Good chance, I’ll ask the same kind of question.” He asked about Om Prakash—and got into trouble! The sword fell on his neck! If he has even a little understanding, he won’t ask such a question again. But he asked expecting that I would repeat myself. My answers are not tied down. I have no ready-made answers. Your question itself gives birth to the answer within me. And even more than the question, your state of mind shapes my response. What I said yesterday, I will not say today; what I say today, there’s no guarantee about tomorrow. Hence the fear grows even more.

Even if it were clear what my answer would be, you would relax. I cannot leave you in that ease. Your true ease will come only when every trace of “I-ness” has vanished within you—then there will be no fear of my sword. For my sword cannot cut your soul. Nainam chhindanti shastrani, nainam dahati pavakah—remember Krishna’s words: that soul is not cut by weapons nor burned by fire. My sword cannot cut your soul. It can only cut your ego. Because the ego is false, lifeless; it can be cut, it can fall, it can burn—it should fall, it should be cut, it should burn. The sooner it burns, the better.

So fear is natural. But now move beyond this natural fear. The truth is, the day you took sannyas, from that very day the sword has been hanging over your neck—whether you ask or not! Why fear asking now? The sword is already suspended. Those who don’t ask will also be beheaded. They cannot rest easy thinking, “I asked nothing, so there is no danger.” Sannyas means you have placed your neck before me—you have prayed to me: now raise the sword and cut off my head. What else does sannyas mean? Only this: I bow down; I pray—burn my ego. Left to me, this ego will not leave; left to me, it keeps growing. Whatever I do, it grows. If I pray, the prayer becomes an ornament of ego; if I worship, ego sprouts new wings; if I study scriptures, ego becomes learned; if I practice austerities, ego becomes an ascetic; if I do meritorious deeds, ego sits pompously as a virtuous soul. Whatever I do, it thickens, strengthens. By my doing, I will not be rid of it.

You cannot do it by your own effort. The gap between you and your ego is so small you cannot raise the sword; and the danger is you will think you are cutting the ego, but the sword will actually be in the ego’s own hand. It will cut something else. In the end you will find it has saved itself and chopped some other rubbish. That is why so-called mahatmas and sadhus become even more ego-ridden than ordinary people. Their ego becomes denser. Look—on the faces of sadhus you will see a statue of ego you don’t see on ordinary faces! The ordinary person feels, “I am a sinner; what have I to be proud of?” The saint feels, “I am virtuous; I have something—I have earned, I have capital.”

When you took sannyas you laid your neck before me. Now I am simply waiting for the right moment. Ask or don’t, when the right moment comes, the sword will fall on your neck. That will be the moment of your good fortune, too. In that very vanishing is the attaining. In that very becoming nothing is true being. After becoming a sannyasin, you cannot be spared for long.

Hold your hem tight—
Life is a dance of sparks.
Here embers are dancing. Even if you hold your hem tight, how long will you keep it safe? The embers are bound to fall into it. They have already begun to fly—and when you became a sannyasin, you spread your hem yourself for the embers. Let this neck fall.

There’s upheaval on the river; what meaning has the tale of a little boat?
If you must fight the whirlpool, what help is a straw?
Stop this lament for the boat; become the very surge of the storm.
The shore will be beneath your feet—what use longing for the shore?
Do not hanker after the bank. The art I am giving you here is to make the storm itself your shore.

There is a great storm—life is a storm.

There’s upheaval on the river; what meaning has the tale of a little boat?
If you sail out in these tiny boats, how will they survive? They will sink. Your boats of mantras, of yantras, of yogic techniques—these little dinghies won’t do. The river is in a tempest, in a fierce gale. Your boats are paper boats—toys, not vessels. They will sink. And the more you try to save them, the deeper in trouble you’ll be.

There’s upheaval on the river; what meaning has the tale of a little boat?
If you must fight the whirlpool, what help is a straw?
And when you have to contend with such a storm, what will little straws do? Your ego is more hollow than a straw. It’s not even a straw—it’s only a notion, just a thought, a dream seen in sleep.

Stop this lament for the boat; become the very surge of the storm.
Leave off fretting about boats; merge with the storm—become the storm’s own wave. Align yourself with it. That is sannyas. Abandon the effort to save yourself. Make friends with disappearing. Drop the insistence on life; embrace death.

Stop this lament for the boat; become the very surge of the storm.
The shore will be beneath your feet—what use longing for the shore?
We will make the storm itself our shore; make the storm our boat. We will make death the gateway to nectar. This neck will fall—and in that, you will rise.

So nervousness is natural. But you must go beyond it. Nothing becomes true merely because it is natural. Beyond this nature there is another nature. This is the lowest stratum, where fear grips us—the fear of disappearing. Disappearing is inevitable. One way or another, one disappears. No one survives here. Even Alexanders vanish; the poor and humble vanish; emperors vanish. Vanishing is built in here. Whether a sword falls or not, the head will fall. Then make use of the fact of vanishing.

Everyone dies; the one who uses death attains the deathless. What is the use of death? To die willingly. Sannyas is a willing acceptance of death. It is the readiness that, since death must come, does come, I myself bow to it; I will not trouble death—I consent to die. In this consent, a revolution occurs within you; you go beyond death. Then who is left to die—if you have already agreed to die, who can die now? The one who has accepted death becomes immortal in that very acceptance. He was always immortal; in the acceptance he becomes aware of it.

A mind parched, dust upon the heart—what is this?
This is a caricature of life; what is life?
What we call life is a mockery of life, a mere facade, a dream.

A mind parched, dust upon the heart—what is this?
This is a caricature of life; what is life?
Take a step forward—new destinations are calling.
What is this numbness, this fatigue, this defeat?
Do not look with contempt at dry thorns;
Ask the flowers the secret of blossoming.
Do not stop at the sight of thorns; if you would know life’s secret, ask the flowers. Do not ask those who are dying; if you would know the secret, ask those who have tasted a little of the nectar. If you would ask the secret of life, ask a laughing flower. It knows the art of smiling in the midst of death. Death surrounds it on all sides, yet the flower keeps smiling. Death surrounds everything—yours, mine, Buddha’s, Krishna’s, Christ’s; but you are frightened of death while Buddha is not. That is the only difference. In your fear you are crushed by death. Buddha looks at death without fear—what is to be will be; let it be as it is; thus and thus it is ordained. In that very moment a note arises within you that is of the eternal; a ray descends that is of the Divine.

Take a step forward—new destinations are calling.
What is this numbness, this fatigue, this defeat?
This idleness, this exhaustion, this surrender—what is it?
Do not look with contempt at dry thorns—
Do not keep counting the thorns; do not keep tallying death.
Ask the flowers the secret of blossoming.
What is the secret of laughing? There is only one: the acceptance of death. Only a sannyasin can laugh. Do you know why this land chose the ochre robe for sannyas? It is the color of fire, the color of flames. In ancient times, when someone was initiated, a funeral pyre was prepared and he was laid upon it. Then the pyre was set alight and it was proclaimed: what you have been until now is finished; you have died to what you were. Now rise into a new life! The sannyasin would rise from the burning pyre, be given a new name and the ochre robe—so that he would remember fire, flames, death; remember that whatever is mortal is not you; remember that whatever dies is not you.

So, Sheela, don’t be nervous! Place your neck forward. Let the sword fall. What is cut is not you.

When Alexander was returning from India, he remembered that when he first set out his teacher, Plato, had said: “When you return from India, you will bring back many things you have plundered. If possible, bring a sannyasin as well. Sannyas is India’s glory—its gift to the world.” Plato had said well, “You will bring wealth, jewels—do me this kindness, bring a sannyasin. I want to know what sannyas is.” As Alexander, having plundered everything, was leaving the last villages of Punjab, he remembered that he had forgotten to bring a sannyasin. He sent word to the village: “Is there a sannyasin?” People said, “Yes, there is one. He has lived naked for years by the river.” Alexander sent two soldiers: “Tell the sannyasin to mount the horse and come with us. And tell him, if he disobeys, these naked swords will sever his neck at once.”

The soldiers went with drawn swords. The sannyasin stood there—naked, blissful, in the morning light… conversing with the sun, flying in the sky, joined to the infinite, carefree, in ecstasy, in dance. For a while the soldiers stood silently with their naked swords; they had never seen such a sight! Such abandon they had never seen! They had seen drunkards, but never one so intoxicated! And the sannyasin seemed not even to notice that two men with naked swords were standing there. Finally they said, “Don’t you see? We’ve been standing here a long time. Alexander commands—the great Alexander—that you mount the horse and come with us to Greece. Every facility will be provided; you will be the royal guest. Also know, if you refuse, these naked swords will drop your head right now.”

That sannyasin laughed so heartily their soldierly hearts must have skipped a beat. He said, “Tell Alexander he does not know how to address sannyasins. He doesn’t know how to speak with them. Bring that ignoramus himself, so he may also see what happens when a sannyasin’s head is cut off. As for coming and going, years ago I abandoned coming and going. I am settled.” He was speaking high things the soldiers could not comprehend. “I have given up coming and going; I am settled.” He was defining the sannyasin as Krishna did: sthitaprajna—whose wisdom is settled, who neither comes nor goes. As Rajjab said: “Whatever comes and goes is maya.” The one who neither comes nor goes, who is ever still—sannyas is the name of that stillness. “So where would I come and go now? Years have passed; I am settled. What India, what Greece! Don’t waste words. As for cutting the head—if you must, cut it. Alexander may cut it. As far as I am concerned, I cut off this head long ago. This head has nothing to do with me.”

The soldiers didn’t dare cut. This man was something rare. They had seen many men: one kind pulls his sword when threatened, ready to fight; another kind shows his back and runs. This man did neither—he laughed aloud! They had seen many battles, killed many, seen many killed, themselves faced death—yet they had not seen such a man. They thought it best to inform Alexander first.

One remained to watch the sannyasin; the other ran to Alexander. “He is a man worth seeing! Your teacher, Plato, said right—bring a sannyasin. We have seen many men, but this man is of another kind. He is not a man like other men. At the mention of death he laughed—laughed in a way you would not believe! Either he is mad, or he is in a height to which we have no access. You must come yourself. If anyone is to cut, you must cut. And he says, ‘I have already cut off my head.’”

Alexander himself came. He has written, “Twice in life I felt small: once when I met Diogenes—the naked Greek sage—and once when I met Dandami, the Hindu sannyasin. Twice I felt I was nothing. I saw great emperors and renowned men of the world; before them I was always great. They were nothing compared to me. But these two fakirs—both naked—filled me with embarrassment.”

Standing before Dandami, Alexander said, “You will have to come, otherwise this sword—know that I am a hard man; I do what I say—this neck will be cut now, this head will fall now.” Do you know what Dandami said? “Drop it, drop it—let the head fall. I will watch it fall; you will watch it fall. And what more can you do now than what my Master has already done? This head is only stuck on, not really joined. It is already a severed head. What is the point of cutting what is already cut? Still—cut! You will see it fall; I will see it fall.” They say Alexander’s sword returned to its sheath. Astonished by the radiance and presence of this man, he turned back. As he left, the sannyasin said, “And remember: any sannyasin who agrees to go with you is not worth taking. He is no sannyasin. For a true sannyasin, what coming, what going! Thus and thus it is—ever the same.”

So, Sheela! Let the neck be cut. Once it is, the bother is over. Then fear also ends. While it remains, fear remains. Rise above fear.

Vedant! Of course there will be fear. With eyes closed, sweet dreams are going on. Open your eyes and those dreams will be scattered, shattered. With eyes closed, the lamp of hope is lit. Open your eyes and that lamp will go out.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin one night dreamt that an angel appeared and said, “Take this—ninety-nine rupees, take them!” Mulla said, “Ninety-nine!” As the human mind is—anyone, even you would say—“What’s this? Ninety-nine? If you are giving, then at least make it a hundred. Something always feels off with ninety-nine.” You’ve heard the story of “the circle of ninety-nine,” haven’t you? There’s something troublesome about ninety-nine—so the mind says, “Just one more. Let it be complete!” Even in dreams, our arithmetic doesn’t break. Mulla said, “If you’re giving, brother, then at least make it a hundred! Give me a full bundle—what is this, ninety-nine!” The angel insisted, “If you want it, take ninety-nine.” And Mulla kept saying, “I’ll take it only if it’s a hundred. For one single rupee, why make such a fuss? You’ve come from so far and you’re being miserly over a single rupee!” In this quarrel, his sleep broke. When his eyes opened, there was neither the angel nor the ninety-nine rupees. Mulla was distraught. He quickly shut his eyes again and said, “Brother, all right—give me ninety-nine!” But now there was no one there. “Fine—give me ninety-eight, give whatever you like—just give me something!” But there was no one anymore.

That is why opening the eyes feels scary—lest the dream break. You are busy trying to make ninety-nine into a hundred. In fact, that is the very definition of dreaming: whoever is engaged in turning ninety-nine into a hundred is dreaming. And ninety-nine never becomes a hundred. It never does. Ninety-nine remains ninety-nine. Let me tell you a story; it will make it clear.

A barber who massaged the emperor would come daily and give him a rubdown for an hour or two in the morning—an old tale. He received one rupee a day. In those days a rupee was a lot. He ate, fed his neighbors, and lived carefree! The emperor envied his carefree joy. No other work: two hours’ massage and then free the rest of the day—he’d play the flute. He lived just opposite the palace. Sometimes the emperor would even hear his flute. From his house always came fountains of laughter—friends gathered, bhang was brewed, songs arose, the drum thumped, the flute sang. Then next morning he’d come, work two hours, and be carefree again. The emperor said to his vizier, “I have everything, yet I’m not as at ease as he is. I can’t play the flute—no time—and I can’t laugh like him either. He has nothing!” The vizier said, “That’s precisely the point—he has nothing. He hasn’t yet entered the circle. Don’t worry; I’ll cure your envy. I’ll put him into the circle tomorrow.”

At night he went and tossed a pouch with ninety-nine rupees into that poor man’s house. In the morning the barber opened his eyes—ninety-nine rupees! He counted carefully: ninety-nine. And the circle of a hundred began. He said, “Today’s rupee—no rabri today, no bhang will be brewed. It’s just a matter of one day; I’ll save one rupee and make it a hundred.” The human mind is strange—why it won’t be content with ninety-nine is a mystery! “Let it be a full hundred!” That day no flute sang, no drumbeat sounded, no friends came, no fountains of laughter burst forth—how can a hungry, thirsty man laugh? He was waiting for tomorrow: “This one rupee—once that’s added, it’ll be a hundred.”

The emperor said to the vizier, “What did you do? This is too much! Where has the barber gone—what’s happened to him?” The vizier said, “Now laughter won’t arise again, and the flute won’t sing again. Don’t worry. Soon you’ll see his condition deteriorate.” And it did. Because once a hundred was reached, another anxiety arose: “If it keeps going like this, it could become two hundred. A hundred is done—halfway already—how long can two hundred take? If I save every day…” He began to eat dry scraps, broke off friendships—this is why the wealthy don’t do friendship. In the world of the poor there is friendship; in the rich man’s world, where is friendship? There it’s only business ties, business relations—no friendship, no camaraderie. Who wants the expense, the trouble! The rich man is afraid to give—he has, but fears giving. The poor man has nothing, so he has no fear of giving—he has nothing anyway; what more can be taken from him? “Take whatever little I have—what do I lose!”

But now this man had a hundred rupees—and trouble began. Several times a day he’d go and touch, count his rupees. A fear arose: if a thief comes to know, with so many people coming and going it’s not safe. He stopped people coming to his house. He himself stopped going anywhere—he lived alone—what if he went out and a thief entered? Even at night, sleep lost its ease; anxieties came. Once or twice in the night he’d get up to check if everything was all right. He began to wither. In fifteen days he was in a bad way. The emperor asked, “Brother, what’s happened to you? Where has your glow gone? Your flavor, your mirth? What did the vizier do to you?” The man laughed aloud, “Now I understand—so it’s the vizier’s mischief! He might as well have killed me—good you told me. He’s thrown me into the circle of ninety-nine.”

The circle of ninety-nine—that is the dream.

You ask: “You tell us to open our eyes; why then does it feel so frightening to open them?”

Precisely because with eyes closed your dream seems true. Open your eyes and you’ll see: for the love in which you were ready to die—there is nothing there but bones, flesh, marrow. Open your eyes and for the post you were crazed about—you’ll find there is nothing there. The thrill of sitting on a high chair is like that of little children who climb a heap of rubbish and shout, “I’m the highest!” In Delhi, on those heaps of rubbish, people keep shouting, “I’m the highest!” Haven’t you seen a little child climb the arm of your chair, stand there and say, “Father, I’m bigger than you”? You laugh—you know it’s childish. This is no way of being big. But someone becomes a president or a prime minister and you think something different has happened? He’s climbed onto a chair. Now he says, “I am big.” And he even becomes certain he is big—because people bow to the chair. He thinks they are bowing to him.

A donkey was walking in front of a royal chariot. People bowed and bowed to the emperor seated inside; the donkey became haughty and brayed loudly. The emperor asked, “What’s wrong with this donkey?” The vizier said, “People’s salutations are going to his head. He’s walking ahead; he knows nothing of you. Even if he knows there’s a chariot behind him, he must be thinking, ‘Chariots follow me, and people bow before me. The emperor follows me and people bow to me.’ His mind is going haywire: a donkey—with a deranged mind—he’ll go crazy.”

In the capitals you’ll find just such people. People are bowing to the chair. The moment one steps off the chair, no one comes to bow. You’ve seen it: when a man sits in the chair, people shout, “Long live!” The moment he steps down, it’s “Down with!” The truth is: “Long live the chair.” Whoever sits in it becomes “long live.” While he sits there, people constantly bend in praise, flatter him, inflate his ego. The moment he steps down—no one asks after him. That is why, once someone gets on the chair, he doesn’t want to get off. He tries in every way to remain seated. He suspects—“If I get down, God knows what will become of me!” People want to die sitting in the chair.

You are dreaming of position; open your eyes and you’ll find there is nothing there. You dream of wealth; open your eyes and you’ll find ash in your hands. So fear is natural. One, because opening your eyes shatters your dreams. And then, the truth appears—and that is even more dangerous—who knows what it will be? Whether it will suit you or not! And truth has not sworn to suit you. Truth never suits you; you have to suit truth. And that is the rub. A notable convenience of falsehood is that it suits you.

Understand this as a maxim; grasp it deeply. The special appeal of untruth—the reason it is so successful in the world—is that it always suits you. It says, “As you are, so am I. I’m always with you. If you are red, I’m red; if you are yellow, I’m yellow. If you call day night, I will call day night. If you call night day, I will call night day. I am your follower, your servant.” With lies there is this convenience: they always fit you. With truth there is inconvenience: you must fit it. If it is night, it is night. You may shout a thousand times that it is day—truth will not say, “Yes, it is day.”

To fit yourself to truth, you will have to cut off many of your limbs. Living long in falsehood you’ve grown extra appendages, created a picture of yourself, an idol of yourself. That whole idol will be shattered. Then you will have to begin anew—from the alphabet again, the primer again. The old will not help. All that you thought was your identity till now will not help. You will have to discover a new identity.

And there will be difficulties in conforming to truth. Difficulties because the rest of the world conforms to falsehood. You will suddenly become a stranger. In a crowded world you will be alone. Friends will begin to edge away—who wants trouble? Your own will become others. Everywhere you’ll find obstacles; you’ll feel the distance growing between you and others. The closer you come to truth, the farther you’ll move from people. You have heard that sannyasins used to leave society and run away. I say: don’t run away from society—but one thing will happen: even living in society, you will no longer belong to it. A gap will open between you and society, a chasm. You will strive to align with truth, and society is still living in lies—their circle of ninety-nine is still going on. How can there be harmony? There will be dissonance. And yet you have to live among them.

So you will have to learn a great art: when everything inside you has changed, how to live with those in whom nothing has changed. It is as if a sane man had to live in a madhouse. Imagine his difficulty. He will have to keep a certain order in himself. He will have to maintain at least enough appearance to show, “I too am mad, like you.” Inside he will be one thing; outside he will have to act another. A true sannyasin becomes skilled in the art of acting. Acting—so as not to cause unnecessary pain to others. Those who are asleep, who have decided to sleep a while longer, need not have their sleep disturbed without cause. No one has that right. Let them sleep. When their time ripens, they will awaken. Do not force their lies upon them against their will—otherwise they will be angry; they will take revenge.

These are great difficulties. First your dreams go—the lovely ones go. Then truth arrives, and with truth you must change yourself.

The conscience of a self-respecting man—
when does it ever yield to time?
This little lamp, in the storm of calamities,
only burns more intensely.

It takes great courage. It takes great freedom. It takes great daring.

The conscience of a self-respecting man—
a firm, strong inner being is needed. A centered consciousness. A trust in your own being.

The conscience of a self-respecting man—
when does it ever yield to time?
Only then will you win; otherwise time will defeat you.

This little lamp, in the storm of calamities—
if there is the strength of trust within, the strength of the self, then this lamp does not go out in the winds. This lamp, in the storm of disasters, shines all the more intensely. You are afraid the lamp might be blown out—no. Gather courage; awaken; open your eyes. Let the dreams go—dreams, even if they exist, are good for nothing. However long you remain in dreams, that much time is wasted; from a false web of imagination nothing of benefit ever comes. Awake! With truth, obstacles will come, difficulties will come, challenges will come—but do not be frightened—

This little lamp, in the storm of calamities,
only burns more intensely.

And a new radiance will come. The flame of your lamp will be sharpened. All the tempestuous winds will only refine you and you will shine the more.

In the candle’s flame, the veins of darkness show themselves;
a line of moths stands ready to avenge the night.
How guileless these soldiers are—they do not fear;
they keep dying, yet on they come.
Their feet do not lift from the field once they take their stand;
they reveal new styles of living.
They do not treat fire as fire; they do not retreat;
from their own corpses they build a shrine of flame—
that the generations to come may live safe.

Learn from the moths! The seeker of truth is a moth. He has set out in search of light. On the path to light, death diminishes.

In the candle’s flame, the veins of darkness show themselves;
a line of moths stands ready to avenge the night.
Have you seen moths dying on the flame? Nothing happens near the lamp that would make one moth’s death stop the next one from coming. They come in a line—

a line of moths stands ready to avenge the night.
How guileless these soldiers are—they do not fear;
they keep dying, yet on they come;
their feet do not lift from the field once they take their stand;
they do not treat fire as fire; they do not retreat.

Such capacity for courage is needed. You must stand like that; you must fight like that. Sannyas means: the courage to lose yourself like a moth in the search for light. It is a costly bargain. It is a gambler’s wager. You are afraid to open your eyes? Everyone is. Do not condemn yourself for that. But there is no need to stop because of fear. Make it a challenge. Open your eyes. See what is as it is—only then can showers of bliss fall in your life. Apart from truth, bliss has never flowered, nor can it ever.

It is both man’s misfortune and his good fortune that he is not spontaneous. Misfortune—because the peace and ease available to plants and birds is not available to man. Good fortune—because if he wishes, man can become a Buddha, a Krishna, a Christ. Plants and animals cannot become a Krishna, a Buddha, or a Christ.

Man’s defining trait is his freedom. Man is entitled to choose the order of his life. A dog is born a dog and dies a dog. A rosebush is born a rose and dies a rose. No revolution occurs in its life. Life remains confined within a fixed mold. There is dependence. There is peace, yes, but it is the peace of slavery. There is naturalness too—no cunning, no hypocrisy; a rose is simply a rose. It never cheats by posing as champa, nor does it contrive to be a lotus. It is content with what it is. But this is not freedom. The rose is bound to be a rose.

What is man’s distinction? What is his mark? In all of nature man alone has the capacity to become whatever he wishes. If he wants, he can be as beautiful as a rose—or turn into a thorny acacia. He may grow nothing but thorns, or he may become all flowers. He may remain mere grass, or become a lotus. This is man’s glory. Man is free, fluid, unbound. Man has a soul; he can choose. That most people choose wrongly does not discredit the capacity to choose. Only a few choose rightly, because choosing the right appears difficult.

Going down is always easy—like descending a mountain. So man finds it easy to go downward. Instinct is a descent; discrimination is an ascent. Unconsciousness is a descent; awareness is an ascent. Climbing a mountain brings obstacles—you sweat, your limbs tire, your body aches; yet only those who reach the summit know the joy of standing on the peak. To go down is easy, but you will arrive in valleys of storms. To climb up is difficult, but you will meet the sun, embrace the clouds, and the free, spotless sky will be yours. Costly, yes—but the result is wondrous.

Man is not born as he should be. He has the freedom to become what he should be—or, if he chooses, not to become it. Therefore sometimes a revolution happens in a single moment. A man who is going downhill suddenly hears, in a single instant, a call from someone going up—or a voice descending from a mountaintop, from a peak, the voice of an awakened one enters his ears—and in a moment a revolution happens. For that is all the issue is. It is not that we are bound to go downward; we go down because we chose it. The very moment you decide, “No more going down,” no force in the world can take you down.

You asked: “There are many creatures in this creation who live naturally according to nature, but the human race is living a base life.”
Because the human race is free, and those creatures are not. Socrates’ famous saying is that he would rather be an unsatisfied Socrates than a satisfied pig. Rightly so: a satisfied pig is, after all, a pig. An unsatisfied Socrates is, after all, Socrates. Everything does not lie in satisfaction alone. Satisfaction has meaning only when it is conscious.

Peace that is compulsory has no value. When peace is not compulsory but voluntary, chosen, then it has value. If you are forced to sing—this is how the cuckoo sings, out of compulsion; therefore do not think a cuckoo will ever become a Baiju Bawra. Never. It is compelled, mechanical; it has to sing. And the cuckoo has been singing the same song for millions upon millions of years: the same tune, the same note, the same hue, the same raga. It sings the same now; it will sing the same in the future. It is repetition. Man changes his song, changes his melody. Man seeks heights. Though it is also true that because of the freedom to seek heights, man also has the facility to fall below. One man becomes a Buddha; another becomes an Adolf Hitler. But I tell you, Adolf Hitler can become a Buddha the very moment he wishes. There is no obstruction. It is his own decision—his private decision. Awaken this private decision.

One does have to be spontaneous—but be spontaneous consciously, not compulsorily. Spontaneity should be the fruit of freedom. A Buddha too is spontaneous, but that spontaneity is of another kind. It is not the same as the rose’s spontaneity. It is not compulsion, not bondage. The rose is bound—chained. Look carefully: however beautiful, there are chains on its hands; it can be nothing else. It is limited from every side. The Buddha has blossomed by his own decision. Whatever flowers have bloomed in the Buddha are the result of his own decision, his own effort, his own sadhana. There is incomparable bliss there!

You asked: “Will man turn toward a spontaneous life or not?”
Drop worrying about “man.” Take care of yourself. Who will decide for mankind? Freedom will always remain undecided; no collective decision can be taken. Yes, you can decide for yourself. I have taken my decision; you can take yours. Each person must make a private decision and a private declaration. Drop worrying about “man”—who is this “man”? Will you find “man” anywhere? You will not. Somewhere you will find A, somewhere B, somewhere C; you will not find “man.” Somewhere you will meet a Ram, somewhere a Rahim; you will not meet “man.” “Man” does not exist as such; it is only a verbal abstraction. So when you ask whether man will ever be free or not, you are asking a wrong question. You are asking whether there will ever come such a compulsion upon man that he cannot be unspontaneous. That would be the murder of man; that would strip him of all dignity. No. Man will always have the right: if he wishes, he may be a Tamerlane, or he may become a Dadu; he may rise into the sky of love, or he may get lost in the netherworld of hate.

Man is a staircase. And a staircase is always in two directions—downward and upward. The very staircase by which you go down is the one by which you go up. If you say, “Will there ever be a staircase that goes only upward?” you are asking a wrong question. A staircase that goes only upward is no staircase at all! A staircase must go both ways—up as well as down. Yes, the choice is yours: go up if you wish, or go down if you wish. Therefore religion values the individual; it accords no value to society. Religion is personal, not social.

And it is no accident that those who value society very highly are all opposed to religion. Communists, fascists, socialists, and others of that kind are opposed to religion. They must be, because the difference is fundamental. They accept man as society; they grant no dignity to the individual. Therefore they are all opposed to freedom. If freedom has died in Russia and China, it is no accident; it is the natural outcome of communism. Communism does not accept the individual at all. Communism says society has a destiny; the individual has none. The individual, as such, does not exist; he is merely a limb of society—nothing but a part.

The teaching of religion is different. Religion holds that the individual is the foundation. Society is only the name for the sum of individuals. Society has no soul. Society is a lifeless word, an empty word. Just as when you say “forest.” Have you ever seen a forest? Go and look—you will never find a forest; you will find trees. Trees exist; forest does not. Many trees together are called a forest. Here you sit—so many people—five hundred friends sitting here—a “group” is sitting. Do you really think some group is sitting here? Five hundred individuals are sitting here; words like “group” have no real substance. You are you; your neighbor is your neighbor. Here five hundred living consciousnesses are sitting; five hundred lamps are lit—each separate, with its own light, its own way. And this is man’s essential mark: he can become whatever he chooses—the lowest of the low, or the highest of the high.

It is true that if man falls, he falls far below the animals; and if he rises, he rises far above the gods. Gods too are bound, just as animals are bound. Therefore the sages of India have said something unparalleled: if the gods desire liberation, they must first become human. Man is the crossroads. If animals are to be liberated, they must become human; if gods are to be liberated, they must become human. Why? Are not gods already high? They are, but gods are compelled to do the auspicious. There is no freedom there. Bliss there is compulsory; light is enforced—it is not their choice. They must return to the crossroads from which all paths open.

Man is that crossroads from which all paths open. Therefore, if man falls, no animal can match him. The wildest of wild animals cannot match man. No wild animal kills when its belly is full; it kills only when hungry. Man is strange: when his belly is full, then he goes hunting. No animal kills its own species—no lion kills a lion, no dog kills a dog. Man alone kills man—and kills in plenty; and kills with great organization; and kills carrying big flags and erecting grand philosophies; and he kills in such a way that it seems as if he is doing something great. What is happening is only killing—but under lofty names: sometimes under the cover of religion, sometimes politics, sometimes nation, sometimes freedom; sometimes democracy, sometimes socialism—who knows how many lofty words! And look closely behind them and you will see man busy killing man. He talks of peace and prepares for war. He says, “How will there be peace if the weapons of war are not at hand?”

Man’s entire history is a history of wars. Animals and birds kill only when hunger compels them. Man’s killing is heinous, criminal, sinful. Man falls below animals—but he also rises above gods. Those stories are not meaningless that when the Buddha attained enlightenment the gods descended from heaven and showered flowers. Whether that literally happened or not is not the point; these are not historical events, they are symbolic tales. They say that when a man attains Buddhahood, the gods become small before him. Their only role is to shower flowers. When the Buddha attained knowledge, the gods came and bowed at his feet; they placed the dust of his feet upon their heads. Buddhahood is beyond godhood. Man’s spontaneity cannot be enforced. Man will remain free forever. Therefore, do not ask whether mankind will ever turn toward spontaneity. Each person can make his own decision—one by one.
And then you have asked: 'What is our duty?'
Duty itself makes one unnatural. The very meaning of duty is... has any animal ever asked, “What is our duty?” For animals, whatever is to happen, happens; there is no question of duty. Man asks, “What is our duty?” Hidden within that very duty is freedom. “What should we do?” Because a human being can do both—bad as well as good. My emphasis is not that you should do good, because it happens—and has often happened—that even while doing good you remain unconscious. Then your good also becomes mechanical. My emphasis is not on duty; my emphasis is on awareness. Whatever you do, do it consciously. That alone is the only duty. Even if you do something bad, do it consciously—and you will be astonished that the bad simply cannot happen. Go to steal, but go with awareness; go as if you were doing Vipassana; and you will not be able to steal. So I do not say to you, “Do not steal”—because if you block stealing on one side, man will do it on another. Stop him here, and he’ll do it there; man invents new tricks. Man is skilled at devising ways—he will find some method by which stealing can still be done, it won’t be caught, and it won’t even look like stealing.
Stop stealing on one side, it starts on the other. Tell a man, “This act is bad,” and he will drop that act, but his inner consciousness hasn’t changed; he is the same person—he will do it somewhere else. Consider this: Mahavira said there is violence in farming. So the Jains gave up agriculture. But do you think the Jains ceased to be violent because of that? The violence of farming ended, but their violence began in the shop. They sat in the marketplace; the same violence—perhaps even greater. Because now they also had the shelter of religion.

Do you know why the followers of Jainism are all in business? Precisely because agriculture was no longer an option. If you cultivate fields and cut plants, there will be violence. But the urge to cut was still there—so they sat in their shops and began “cutting” people. Escape is not so easy. Block it here, it begins there. Suppress a disease in one place, it appears in another. Repression will not work. Don’t ask me about duty. I will not tell you, “Do this, do that,” because it becomes a compulsion; you will force it upon yourself. I say to you: whatever you do, do it consciously.

It happened that a Buddhist monk was passing along a road when a prostitute came and bowed at his feet and said, “My request is that you spend this year’s four months of the rains at my house.” Other monks were with him. This monk was extraordinarily handsome; the prostitute was enchanted. She had seen emperors, but had never seen such a lovely monk—such a person. There was a different majesty about him! This happens often: sannyas gives a certain dignity, a certain beauty, a radiance not usually found—a grace. The prostitute recognized beauty—she had an eye for it; beauty was her very profession. Seeing this most beautiful man, she could not restrain herself. She placed her head on his feet and said, “I will not move until you assure me that you will spend these four months of the rains at my home.” The rains were imminent; before the month of Ashadha the clouds had begun to gather—and monks have a rule to remain in one place for the four months of the monsoon. He said, “I will ask the Blessed One tomorrow and give you my answer.”

The other monks, who were watching, burned with jealousy. She was an extraordinarily beautiful woman, famed far and wide; great emperors had stood at her door. Lust flared, jealousy flared—and she hadn’t touched their feet or invited them. Jealousy toward this man surged up—everything got mixed together, and religion offered a convenient cover. They went to the Buddha and said, “The prostitute invited him, and this monk did not refuse. He has strayed from duty. He should have said clearly, ‘I cannot stay in the house of a prostitute.’ You have even forbidden us to touch a woman, and he allowed a prostitute to touch his feet. He should be expelled—cast out of the sangha.”

Buddha laughed and asked, “What did he say?” They replied, “He said only this: ‘I will ask the Blessed One and give you my answer tomorrow.’” Buddha had the monk stand before him, looked at him for a moment, and said, “You have my permission—you may stay four months in the prostitute’s house.” The monk bowed his head and asked, “Any duty or instruction for me?” Buddha said, “Only this: remain aware.”

And those four months were of incomparable awareness!

After four months, when the monk returned, the prostitute returned with him. The monk had been transformed in a wondrous way, for he had had to remain utterly alert—aware twenty‑four hours a day. There could be no greater testing ground for awareness. Every moment there was temptation; every moment, attraction. For four months he had to remain awake. Had he nodded even a little, drifted into a tiny dream, he would have missed forever. His growing awareness, his increasing radiance, transformed the prostitute too. She laid all her wealth at Buddha’s feet and said, “Initiate me. I had thought I would change your monk, but your monk has changed me. I had thought, if not today then tomorrow, your monk would fall at my feet—but I had to fall at his feet. I have never seen a man so full of awareness—who even breathed with awareness, whose every act was conscious.”

This is exactly what I say to you—if you want to move toward a natural life, live in awareness. And if you want others also to move toward a natural life, then live in awareness, so that the fragrance of your awareness reaches them, so that a glimpse of your awareness falls upon them. Live wakefully. Do not ask me to spell out duty in detail. I will not tell you to drink only strained water—because those who strain their water have drunk blood unstrained. I will not give you little rules and say, “Take care of these details,” because there are a thousand little things—how many will you manage? And in every list some things are always left out. The scriptures enumerate duties—but how many can they list? Situations arise for which no scripture has any duty written.

Jesus said to a disciple, “If someone strikes you, forgive him.” The disciple asked, “How many times?” Now what answer would you give? He was right to ask—there must be some limit; everything has its boundary. “If he strikes me once, I will forgive; how many times must I forgive?” Jesus said, “Seven times.” The disciple said, “All right!” But the very way he said “all right” meant: the eighth time, we’ll see! In his “all right” there was the tone: Fine—then we’ll see the eighth time! And one good hammer-blow from a blacksmith outweighs a hundred taps from a goldsmith—I’ll settle in one blow what seven times didn’t fix! Jesus said, “No, brother—seventy times seven.” But however far you go in details, man will push one step further—seventy‑eight times! If you start instructing man in specifics, you will get stuck.

I have heard: A Christian fakir was slapped by a man. The slapper was an atheist, and he came carrying a Bible. He opened the book and pointed out, “Look, it’s written here: if someone slaps your one cheek, turn the other.” The fakir said, “I know—no need to bring the book. Here is my other cheek!” The man dealt an even harder slap on the second cheek. Then the fakir pounced on him and gave him such a thrashing! The man cried out, “What are you doing? Remember Jesus!” The fakir said, “Beyond this Jesus said nothing. ‘If someone slaps one cheek, turn the other.’ There is no third cheek. Beyond this, we are free.”

Specifics do not work. Because a limit is always reached with specifics, and beyond that you are “free.” You see it every day: the more laws a government makes, the more dishonesty increases. A law means it prohibits you in specifics: don’t do this, don’t do that. But how far can you go? Life is vast; after listing everything, something still remains. Man then does precisely that—“There, see, I’ve done it.” When man does that, the government must make yet another law: don’t do this either. You’ve seen how government documents read—impenetrable! Densely packed with clauses and sub‑clauses—this is forbidden, that is forbidden—yet still, what a man wants to do, he does. No sin has been stopped in this world; as laws have multiplied, crimes have multiplied. The only ones who benefit from more laws are the lawyers; crimes do not stop. When laws become many, even the criminal must keep his own experts to research loopholes—those are the lawyers. They research on behalf of the criminal: “Do it this way—here is a method; there is not yet a rule against it; finish it before they make one.” As regulations increase, dishonesty keeps growing.

So don’t ask me in detail, “What should we do?” Don’t ask about duty at all. My single, simple formula is this—live with awareness. In living with awareness, everything is included. If Jesus had said, “When someone slaps you, be aware,” that fakir would have had no way to escape. If Jesus had said, “If someone insults you, forgive with awareness”—there is then no question of seven or seventy times; man is complex and cunning—just this much: forgive consciously.

Live with awareness—live as if a lamp is lit within. It is because of these detailed prescriptions that religions have become distorted—so distorted that nothing is left but rules. If you keep following rules, there is no time for your intelligence to develop. If you keep only to rules, you become almost a prisoner in a jail. Look at your ascetics—they become prisoners! They set out to attain freedom, to seek liberation, and they become inmates of a prison. Every tiny thing is being counted and measured; twenty‑four hours go in that alone.

A Jain muni said to me, “You say, ‘Meditate.’ Where is the time? Where is the leisure, with all the rules and discipline and propriety?” The shopkeeper says, “Where is the time?” The muni says, “Where is the time?” What a strange joke it has become.

A religion needs to be freed from rules. There should be only one straight formula.

O “Shad”! Seeing the conduct of the guides,
we have had to seek the refuge of the highwaymen.

What can I say of what the heart goes through
when I pass through your lane?

I have no fear of the robbers on the road—
it is the guides that I fear.

“Shad,” with the redness of my own blood
I color my longings.

I have no fear of the robbers on the road—
no fear of the looters at all. It is not the looters who have looted you.

It is the guides I fear—
those so‑called path‑showers, the leaders, ready to hand you rules—do this, don’t do that. Beware of them! They are the ones who have built your prisons. I do not give you “character”; I give you awareness. I do not give you conduct; I give you the awakening of the inner being. Whatever you do—even if you must stay in a prostitute’s house—there is no need to be afraid. Stay, and keep awareness. That is the highest religion.

A monk once asked Buddha for instructions before setting out on a journey. He must have been of a low calibre, because what Buddha initially said is not “Buddha‑like.” You have just heard the story—Buddha told the monk going to the prostitute’s house: “Be aware.” That is a Buddha‑like instruction. This young man asked, “I am going on a journey. Any directions for the road—what should I do, what should I not do?” Buddha said, “Do not touch women. Do not look at them. If a woman appears on the path, lower your eyes.” The monk asked, “But it may happen that I have to look—out of necessity. In that case, what should I do?” Buddha said, “Don’t touch.” The monk asked, “And it may also happen that I have to touch—suppose a woman slips and falls, and I am behind her; should I not offer my hand?” Buddha said, “If you have to touch, then touch—but remain aware.” First he said, “Do not look.” If necessity arises, “All right, look.” Then, “Do not touch.” If necessity arises, “All right, touch.” And finally the ultimate formula: “Remain aware.” The man said, “And if such a compulsion arises that I cannot remain aware?” Buddha said, “Then there is no need to go at all. Such a compulsion should not arise. Then you are merely looking for ways out—finding excuses in the name of compulsion.” He must have been a man of low disposition.

This often happens: the rules of your religions have to be made with the lowest disposition in mind. That is why they become petty, narrow, small. And that is why no religion is able to contain truly superior individuals. Buddha was born, and the Hindus could not contain him. Because he lived from above, and religion’s rules are made for the last man, the lowest—there is a vast gap. The Jews could not contain Jesus. The Muslims could not contain Mansur. The so‑called religious arrangements are made with the lowest in mind, the most base. But religious experience is for the highest. So whenever a highest kind of man is born, the traditional religion becomes his opposite.

I do not give you any duty. I only say: wake up, and live awake. Do not let wakefulness slip; do not lose awareness. Keep the thread of awareness in your hand. Then everything will be set right. With this one thing set right, all is set right; with this one thing lost, all is lost.

No—you are on the path of virtue. If you don’t yet know God, how will you love him? Love people. Go deep into that love. In that very depth, glimpses of the divine will begin to appear. Where else will you search? He is not hidden in temples. He is hidden in human beings, hidden in consciousness. Will you dig in stones to find him? He is in the human heart.

Tell those ritual worshipers without action:
God is weary of their worship.
How can one love God
who despises God’s own human being?

And your so‑called religions have taught you to hate man. Because of this, there is much talk of religion on earth—many religions, and yet no religion at all. This worship has become futile; it has not worked. And God too is tired of such worship. Love the human being. I tell you, you are on the right path—though your religious leaders will say you are wrong. Love man? “Love God!” they’ll say. And you don’t even know God—how will you love him? But if you learn to love what God has made, how long can you remain far from God? If your very breath falls in love with music, following that music you will reach its source—the one who gives birth to music. If you love a flower, how long can you be delayed? Sooner or later you will meet the fingers that have painted the flowers with color. If you love the sun, within these very rays you will one day discover the rays still hidden.

Man is the supreme flower of this existence, for he is the flower of freedom. Love people deeply. And don’t even bring up God. One day you will suddenly find that in loving man you have both lost and found God. Man is gone, and yet found. This losing and finding happen together—this paradox happens as one.

We were struck down by Your favor,
the rest by Your displeasure.
I feared sin, and yet
it is “virtue” that has murdered man.

It is the so‑called virtues that have killed man, not sin. Don’t remain stuck in the old definitions of sin and virtue. I give you a new definition, a new vision: love is virtue; lack of love is sin. Love. Love whomever you can. Only remember this: let love not stop anywhere, let it not get stuck—let the current flow. If the Ganga does not stand still anywhere, it will reach the ocean. Just don’t build a dam around love.

Love your wife—love her deeply; your husband, your children, your mother, father, friends. But don’t think love ends there. Don’t build a dam. Love your wife, love your husband, your son, your mother, your friend—and let love flow through every beloved and beyond, further and further. Then you will discover that the same Beloved is hidden in all beloveds; the same light glows in all eyes; the same hue is on every face; in all beauty, it is He who is manifest—His expression.

It lacks the flower’s color and fragrance,
yet is softer than the flower.
Do not trample it with hatred—
even grass is the garden’s adornment.

Not only flowers belong to God—grass is His too.
True, grass may not have a flower’s color or fragrance,
yet its nature is even more tender than the flower’s.
God appears as tenderness in the grass—one only needs eyes to see.
Do not destroy it thinking, “It’s only grass; what can it be?”
It too is the garden’s beauty, its charm. Here, the vast hides in the tiniest. In truth there is nothing “small” here; smallness is only our ignorance. As understanding deepens, the vast reveals itself.

The pure wine overflows for the parched.
Your assembly is decked for ruthlessness.
No, no—we no longer even seek You;
we forgot even You, to keep You pleased.
Dreams of a new world, thoughts of a new life—
what grand deceits you wove to keep us worshiping!
What talk of love, of union and separation—
people still hunger just to live.
That flame which, in the darkness, flares from the human heart—
life‑giving, it is meant for the world’s night.
No longing for a destination, no search for the road—
on what do we rely for guidance, who knows?
All the charms of Your world remain intact—
but my gaze wanders, searching for man.

Seek the human being and love him. In the very search for man you will slowly begin to glimpse Him. The world has become irreligious because we were taught: do not love the world, do not love people. The door of love was shut. The bridge to God was broken. I tell you—love much. Only let no dam come to love. Let love keep flowing—rising above every vessel, spilling beyond each. This is prayer: love flowing forever is prayer. And flowing love surely finds God. So don’t be afraid and don’t think you have sinned, or that you are making some mistake, that you are irreligious. Often the so‑called religious are not religious at all—they only appear to be. And, conversely, those who seem irreligious are often not irreligious.

I have heard a small story.

A great Christian priest in Europe went to preach at a church. He said, “Those who do good deeds will enter heaven, and those who do evil will go to hell. And those who remember God will go to heaven; those who forget God will go to hell.” A man stood up and said, “You have put me in a fix; a question arises for me.” The priest had not imagined this question; when it was raised he saw the difficulty—indeed, it was subtle.

The man asked, “You say those who do good will go to heaven, and those who remember God will go to heaven; those who do evil and forget God will go to hell. My question is: those who do good but do not remember God—where will they go? And those who remember God yet do evil—where will they go?”

The priest was dumbfounded; his head reeled. A real knot had appeared. If he said, “Those who do good without remembering God also go to heaven,” the obvious question arises: then what need is there to remember God? And if he said, “Those who remember God but do evil must go to hell,” the question would be: then what use is remembering God? Hell they go to anyway! Then good and evil are enough—why bring God into it? This is why the Jains and Buddhists did not bring God into the middle; they managed with the principle of sin and virtue: do bad and you suffer; do good and you rejoice. Finished. Bring God in, and complexity arises—exactly such questions.

The priest said, “Forgive me—I have never thought like this. Give me seven days; next Sunday I will answer.” For seven days he could not sleep; he struggled. He must have been an honest man—otherwise priests are clever enough to produce some answer. The question pierced him like an arrow; it was important. On the seventh day, before dawn, he went early to the church. He still had no answer. He thought, “Let me sit in the church itself and pray to God: You tell me—what shall I answer? That man will come, and the news has spread; the whole village will gather. Whatever answer I think seems wrong. How do I reconcile these two?” Hands folded, he bowed to the altar. He had risen early and had not slept; as he was bent in prayer, he dozed off and had a dream. In the dream he saw exactly what had been churning his being for seven days.

He saw himself riding a train. He asked, “Where is this train going?” People said, “To heaven.” “Good,” he thought, “let me go and see how things are.” He reached heaven and was astonished. The descriptions he had read were colorful and fragrant; but heaven looked desolate—like a ruin, dust everywhere. “What is this?” he asked. “This is how hell should look. Is there some mistake?” He got off—it was heaven, no mistake. He asked, “Are certain people here—like Buddha? For Buddha did virtuous deeds but did not remember God. Socrates—he did virtue but did not remember God. Are Buddha and Socrates here?” “Never heard the names,” they replied. “We know nothing of Buddha or Socrates.”

He ran around to find a train going to hell. One was ready to depart; he boarded it.

He reached hell—and was amazed. There was freshness, celebration, color, fragrance. He could hardly believe it—everything was upside down. “This is hell?” He got off and asked, “Are people like Socrates and Buddha here?” “Yes,” they said. “It is because they have come that hell has this glow. This fragrance, this joy you see all around—it is due to such people!”

Just then he awoke. People had begun to arrive. He stood on the pulpit and said, “I do not know the answer—but I will tell you this dream. From it I have distilled one thing: where good people are, there is heaven; where they are not, there is hell. It is false to say ‘the virtuous go to heaven’; wherever the virtuous go becomes heaven. It is false to say ‘sinners go to hell’; even if the sinners go to heaven, wherever they go becomes hell.”

Do not get entangled in formal religion—“I went to the temple, to the mosque, I prayed, I recited.” No. There is only one religion: love. And there is only one way to awaken the experience of religion—love—and that is awareness.

In these two words, in these two steps, the whole journey of religion is complete. This is the only distance between the world and liberation: two steps. One step is love; one step is meditation. Take these two steps. Let there be deepening meditation within, and love flowing outward; let meditation become your root, and love your flower—let it blossom.

Love people, love nature, love the moon and the stars—love! And all love is offered at God’s feet. Wherever you offer the handful of love, wherever you place the flowers of love, they reach His feet. Songs sung in love alone are prayers—and such prayers alone are heard.

Forget God—there is nothing to take or give with that word; don’t get caught in nets of words. Love is God. And meditation is the eye that can see that God. So I tell you two things: love, and meditate. Let love happen, let meditation happen. And, ultimately, a moment comes when there remains no difference between meditation and love. Meditation becomes full of love; love becomes full of meditation. You have arrived at the goal—the true home you were seeking.

That’s all for today.