Santo Magan Bhaya Man Mera #8

Chitranjan! The call of words is not a deep call. Only the call of the wordless is deep. As long as prayer is filled with words, it remains shallow, superficial. Only when prayer becomes wordless does it attain depth. A prayer that can be spoken is merely a wave of the mind. A prayer that cannot be spoken is the heart’s own arising. The journey begins with a resonance; it should be completed in the void.

“Grant me your vision, O God—
my eyes are thirsty.”
Good—let it begin from here, from this very longing. But if you cling too tightly to these words, they themselves will make the vision impossible. Their echo will go on, and because of their echo his resonance will not be heard. He is speaking—but his speaking is wordless, it is silence. If you are to understand him, you must understand in wordlessness, in silence. If you are to come to know him, you must learn his language. His language is not Sanskrit, nor Arabic, nor Hindi; he has no language. Stillness is his language. The void is his language. Silence is his language. As prayer deepens, it becomes silent. Then only a single feeling remains—a feeling permeating every pore and fiber, a feeling that throbs in every heartbeat, a feeling you cannot grasp, and yet it is. Only that feeling can reach. Only that feeling has wings to fly to the Divine.

So your experience is right. Words are to be dropped, to be freed from; the wordless is to be joined with. You have come to me for this—therefore I speak, only so that somehow I may lead you toward the unspeaking. I explain only to take you somehow beyond explanation. Words are being used to kill words. As one uses a thorn to remove a thorn, so I speak to you: so that my thorn may draw out your thorn. Then both are to be thrown away. In that emptiness alone his presence appears. When there is no wave of words, then something is heard. And what is heard then is no longer yours, no longer anyone’s—it belongs to the whole. It has arisen from the very breath of existence. That experience transforms.

You have passed through the right perception. When you come to me, at first words will indeed resound. But slowly, slowly, words will fall away. Then I will go on speaking here, you will go on listening there—and yet neither am I speaking here nor are you listening there. Then the happening happens. There is the void in my speaking; sooner or later there will be the void in your listening too. Then the meeting of these two voids will be.

Mudra! There can be no reason to come here. And those who come for a reason do arrive, but they never reach. Their very reason becomes a wall between them and me. Only those who come without a reason truly come.

To come without a reason means to come out of love. Love is the one causeless phenomenon in this world. For everything else, reasons can be given. Therefore, everything else belongs to the marketplace; love is outside business. Everything else is a play of the intellect; love is beyond the intellect. Call it magnetism, attraction, love, devotion, feeling—whatever name you give, one thing is certain: there is no reason in it. There is a pull, an unknown pull. In spite of yourself you have to come. It’s not that you can’t explain it to others—tell me, can you even explain it to yourself? Your own mind says, “What is the need to go? You’ve been so many times—what’s the point of going again and again?” Yet despite yourself some powerful attraction brings you here. This is the right way to come. Then nothing will stand between you and me, for there will be no motive. Then the connection is without cause. Love without cause is what we call bhakti, devotion.

As long as love has a motive, it is desire. The day love is freed of motive, it is devotion. These are two forms of love. So long as love is tied to motive, it is kama; the day love is free of motive, it is Rama. These are two journeys of love. Bound to motive, love falls to the ground; freed from motive, it begins to fly in the sky.

You ask, “I see no reason to come here.” You are seeing rightly. There is no reason to come here. Coming here is as causeless as life is causeless. Coming here is as causeless as flowers blooming, birds singing, the sun rising, or the night sky filling with stars. Come in just that way—simple, spontaneous, without any consideration of profit or loss, with no idea of gaining anything—not even spiritual gain. Where there is the idea of gaining, there is greed; and where there is greed, how can there be spirituality? Where there is greed, there is the world. If someone goes to a temple in order to get something, he has not gone to a temple. If someone bows at the feet of the Divine and behind his worship and prayer there is a motive—“O Lord, let this happen, let that happen; grant me this, grant me that”—then he has not bowed at all. The prayer becomes false, the worship becomes false. The words that rise to your lips become soiled. Words should arise without any reason—then prayer reaches instantly.

Mudra, this is the way to come. I have given you the name—Prem Mudra—the gesture, the mood of love. That is love’s feeling-state. When you fall in love with someone, can you supply the cause? Why did you fall in love? If you investigate, you may list a few reasons, but they are nominal; they did not produce the love. The truth is the reverse. Because love has happened, those qualities now appear valuable. You fall in love with a person and then say, “Look at his character, look at his grace, his beauty—therefore I fell in love.” This is not true. You have inverted the arithmetic, stood it on its head. Because love has happened, character is seen, beauty is seen, grace is seen. Before love, this very person had neither character nor beauty nor grace for you—nothing at all. He was one more person like so many others; she was one more woman like so many others—a statistic, not a person. You crossed paths many times, even met, but no longing arose. You were never overwhelmed by this one’s beauty.

Then one day an event occurred. Now you say, “Because of the beauty I fell in love.” I say, “Because of love, beauty is now visible.” For love is causeless. Sometimes it even happens with a person whom no one else finds beautiful. Yet the one who loves sees beauty; his eyes have changed, his way of thinking has changed, his standards have changed. When love comes, a whirlwind comes, a storm comes; everything is transformed. Coming here is out of love.

“But I don’t know why your pull draws me here.” You will not be able to know. If you could know it, grasp it, bring it into the net of intellect, it would not be very deep. There is something within you deeper than your knowing. Knowing is on the surface, on the periphery. Your center lies outside your knowing. If this coming were by knowing, you would be clear why you come: to meditate, to seek peace, to search for God, to find some method, some path; you have gone elsewhere, you’ll come here too; you’ve knocked on other doors, knock on this one as well—who knows, perhaps the lucky hour has struck and now life’s bliss will shower. If you come with such calculations, it all remains within understanding. But my connection is formed only with those for whom the reason to come is entirely outside understanding—who cannot explain it, who, even if they bang their head a thousand times, cannot explain it. The more they try to explain, the more entangled they become.

Therefore those who love me will be called mad by society, because you won’t be able to explain. Society asks, “Explain—why do you go? What is the reason?” And you have none. You stand speechless. You cannot weave an argument. You say, “There is just an attraction.” Sensible people won’t accept such talk. They will say you are hypnotized, unhinged, not in your senses. In a way they are right. These matters do not belong to so-called sense; they belong to a divine intoxication. Though their reasons and words may be off, in a way they are right. If you fall in love with me, this is indeed a kind of enchantment. Enchantment means a magical connection has arisen—one that should not have been, that does not fit the rules, is not in nature’s arrangement, not in the language of market and business; a connection that is utterly impractical, that may prove dangerous, costly; a connection that is not a bargain but pure gambling, risk upon risk—yet it has happened. And it has happened with such depth that your intellect cannot measure that depth, cannot descend into it. Intellect does not know how to dive; it only knows how to swim—on the surface of the river. These matters are of plunging into the depths.

So you are right, Mudra: “I don’t know why your pull draws me here.” It will go on pulling. This pull will grow. It is not a pull that diminishes. The more you come, the more it will increase.

Some pulls, some attractions, are soon exhausted. That is the common rule. Ask an economist—he has even framed a law for it: the law of diminishing returns. Today you eat a meal—delicious. Tomorrow you eat the same meal—it won’t taste as good. How could it? The day after, you eat the same meal, the taste is gone. The next day the same meal—boredom sets in. If you were given the same dish every day, how many days could you go on? Before a week is out you would fling the plate away. And this was the very food you had found so tasty! The law of diminishing returns. We experience it daily: whatever we consume day after day, its flavor keeps decreasing. In the marketplace, the flavor of all things fades this way. That’s why shopkeepers and businessmen must keep inventing new things. Even if the thing isn’t new, at least give it a new packet, a new name, a new color. Every year bring out new car models. A few small differences—often the old car was sturdier and the new one worse—but it’s new, so people buy. In six months to a year the charm is over; boredom; then something new is needed.

All worldly relationships are like this. Only love is an otherworldly dimension where the law of diminishing returns does not apply—where the more you partake, the more the nectar grows. Love lies outside economics, outside the grid of mathematics.

So people will call you mad! Someone has been listening to me steadily for five years. One day, fine; two days, fine; but five years! If people call Ajit Saraswati mad, they are justified. Listening every morning without a break—and the flavor keeps growing, taking new waves, descending into new depths, blooming new flowers, entering every pore, every vein—this is outside economics.

Perhaps you too sometimes wonder why I speak every day. I am sorting out those who can hear me every day. There is a process behind it. People don’t usually speak every day. And even if they do, at least not to the same group: today Bombay, tomorrow Calcutta, the day after Kanpur—that works, because the group changes. I sit in one place and go on speaking before the same group. You may or may not have thought about it—since the subject has come up, let me tell you: I am testing those whose juice increases the more they listen. They are my people, and I am theirs. Those who get bored had no relationship of love with me; it was an economic relationship. It ends—and should end. It has no value. This is a winnowing process. In this way only the true crazies remain—the ones to whom it no longer matters what I am saying. Perhaps the same thing has been said to you a thousand times; but the one who is in love with me finds it new each time, in a new color, a new way. He listens with a start; something happens.

Do not worry. This pull is a pull that increases. Let it grow—that is your good fortune. For as it grows and grows, as you go on listening, one day words will disappear: I will go on speaking here, you will go on listening there—and yet I will not be speaking, you will not be listening. That day our connection is made for the first time, the bridge is joined, two zeros meet. The master is a zero; the disciple must also become a zero; only then is there union. Only the like can meet the like.

“I see no reason to come here, yet I don’t know why your pull draws me here. I cannot answer when asked.” This is an auspicious sign. If you can answer, the whole thing is spoiled. If you can answer, the matter is worth two pennies. Become answerless—wish to speak yet find nothing to say; feelings arise but no words form; you sense that something is happening inside but no word can express it. All words are narrow; they cannot contain the vast. In the marketplace and daily dealings they suffice; but the moment you slip into any depth, you will find words have become impotent—they say nothing. If you try to speak, it will feel as if you meant one thing and said another. You will feel ashamed, as if you had betrayed something. You will falter, like little children who lisp because language is new—so new they must lisp. You will lisp again when you learn the language of love, for it is even newer. And you will lisp again when the language of the void begins to descend within you.

No, no answer will form. Laugh. Cry. Dance. If someone asks, “Why do you go?”—dance. Keep a little hand drum with you; tap it and dance. But the answer cannot be given in words.

“I cannot answer, yet now a joy in living has begun.” That is the real answer. Let that joy show itself. Let its fragrance spread, its light radiate. Those who can understand will understand of themselves. The uncomprehending never understand—nor is there any need to explain. The understanding will see that something has happened which cannot be said. Your very presence will speak—your peace will speak, your joy will speak, the current of a new experience flowing within you will speak. Take their hand; embrace those who ask why you go. Speak with your energy, with your flow. Let your wave enter them, let your dance descend into them. Look into their eyes and pour yourself into them—but do not speak in words. It cannot be said in words. If you try, it will be dishonest.

“But now a joy in living has begun—why?” Drop this “why” completely. When there is pain you may ask why. But when there is joy, don’t even by mistake ask why. For joy is your nature. Suffering is acquired. When a person is ill, he goes to the doctor and asks, “What illness do I have? Why has it come? Diagnose it, find the cause, treat it.” But when someone is healthy, he doesn’t go to the doctor to ask, “What kind of health has come upon me? Diagnose it, tell me the cause, treat it.” No—health is natural. There is no question of why. Health ought to be; it is nature’s rule. When you are healthy you do not ask, “Why am I healthy?” Or do you? But when you are ill you certainly ask, “Why am I ill?” “Why” must be asked when you want to be free of something. Therefore when joy arises, do not ask “why.” You don’t want to be free of joy. What is the point of analyzing it? When joy comes, be joyful. Do not waste even a grain of time; not a moment in analysis. Forget the “why” entirely. When joy comes, be immersed in it; drown in the ecstasy; drink the wine of joy, and let the song that wells up by itself flow—but do not ask why. There is no answer. Joy is the nature of this existence—sat-chit-ananda.

You don’t ask why trees are green. Do you? You don’t ask why roses are red. Do you? You don’t ask why light shines from a lamp. Do you? So it is with joy. Joy is your nature—your light, your fragrance, your color, your way. If joy is missing, then certainly ask what the reason is: “Why is my nature obstructed? What stones are blocking my spring? What barrier has arisen? What is stopping my flow? Why is there no dance within me?” Ask when there is sorrow—why.

But our habits are of sorrow. For lifetimes we have been sorrowful. The habit of sorrow has taught us another habit—the habit of “why.” We have always been asking “why, why.” Imagine a man who has been ill for lifetimes, always asking “why, why, why.” Then one day he becomes healthy; out of old habit he will ask “why.” It is only your old habit, Mudra.

Now you ask, “A joy in living has begun—why?” I don’t know. No one knows. Life is joy! Just as trees are green, life is joy. Joy is the nature of the divine. There is no answer.

Yes, if there is sorrow, then there will certainly be an answer. Sorrow means you have done something contrary to your nature—you are not in accord with it, you have gone against it. You have left the path and strayed among thorns and stones. You are making a mistake. When there is no mistake, there is joy. When there is a mistake, there is sorrow. When there is sorrow, know that some mistake is happening. When there is happiness, know that no mistake is happening. That is enough.

“And at the same time I have become completely like a stone. It is as if my tears have dried up.” Those old tears were not of much worth anyway. The old has gone; the new will come. One kind of tears are those of sorrow. People naturally think all tears are tears of sorrow, because they have shed only the tears of sorrow—someone died, they cried; some pain, they cried; someone insulted them, they cried; some gloom, they cried; they were defeated, they cried. Their experience is that tears equal sorrow. So when sorrow begins to depart, tears also go. Tears stop. Do not be alarmed. You have not become stone—only an old custom of tears, a pattern, has broken. Wait a little; soon you will find new tears beginning to come. These new tears will be tears of joy. They will not arise from weeping, not from pain, but from a deep ah-ha within—an exultation. They will be a profound expression of your joy. Their very hue is different. Pearls are pale before such tears. Pearls have no value beside them. Flowers blush before them. Their fragrance is different—otherworldly.

Before the tears of joy arrive there will come a phase when all tears stop. The chain of sorrow breaks; sorrow’s tears cease. Now the current of bliss will start. Gradually this new arrangement of life will lead you in new directions—one of which is also the direction of tears of joy. Mudra, then you will weep again—but there will be nothing of the old weeping in it, not even a shadow. These tears will be filled with a smile, and they will carry a light within them. When a person weeps in sorrow, the tears are dark, foul—like pus. When a person weeps from joy, the tears are song; they carry a fragrance.

A tear that, upon reaching the lashes, does not rise as a flame
Is only a drop of dew, not a spark.

A tear that, upon reaching the lashes, does not leap up as a flame,
Is only a drop of dew, not a spark.

A true tear is that which gives the eyes a light, a flame—which gives the eyes new life, through which the hidden soul peers out.

They will come—those tears will come. Wait. And do not think you have turned to stone. It only feels that way because the old way of weeping has stopped. Between the departure of the old and the arrival of the new there is an interval. In that interval such an impression arises. But there is no cause for fear.

Because of fear. Out of fear. Fear of what? There is only one fear that follows people like a shadow, twenty-four hours a day, awake or asleep—and that fear is that if I don’t stay busy, if I don’t stay entangled, I might catch sight of the emptiness within, I might glimpse that bottomless abyss. And that abyss is there. So the fear is not a total lie, not baseless. If you become completely unoccupied, with nothing to do, you will suddenly begin to experience your inner void—you will feel empty, hollow. You will quickly rush to busyness. Because in emptiness the ego dies, it melts. The egoist has to remain busy. Only by staying busy can the egoist assure himself that he is somebody.

That is why people want to do big things—not small ones, big things. They want to do such things that the whole world will know: I did this, I did that. Small, petty tasks hold no charm. Why? Because small tasks can only create a small, petty ego. Now, sweep the floor, or cook food—how big an ego can you raise from that? But become a prime minister, become a president, and you can generate a huge ego: I am someone special—among six hundred million people I am exceptional. So people are running, racing, wanting to reach a place where they can get entangled in something special—they want to stuff themselves full.

Psychologists say: the more a person is frightened of his inner emptiness, the more he becomes hungry for position and power. Those who are inwardly afflicted by an inferiority complex become obsessed with status. The race for status is the projection of inferiority. One who is truly not tormented by inner inferiority does not run in the race for position. What is there for him to do? As he is, he is supremely blissful. His joy is not in becoming a prime minister, nor in accumulating great wealth, nor in becoming very famous; his joy is in being as he is. This is what Rajjab said yesterday—befriend contentment. Who can befriend contentment? Only one who has the courage to be at ease with his inner emptiness. And this is the greatest courage. It is audacity. In this world there is no courage greater than to sit empty. There is no courage greater than sitting in meditation.

You may hear this and be startled. You will say, what great courage is there in that? A man sits cross-legged with eyes closed for an hour—where is the courage in this? Courage is in picking up the sword. No, there is no real courage in picking up the sword. That person who sits quietly for an hour, doing nothing, becoming empty—there is courage in that. Why? Because as he goes inward, as the world of action drops, the world of thought drops—because thought too is a subtle action, the mind’s action. Sometimes you work with the body; when the body’s work stops, immediately the mind’s work begins—but the working continues. When both kinds of work drop, then what remains? You yourself do not remain. That is why I say, this is courage. By descending into meditation it is found: I never was at all. My being was a delusion. My being was an outright lie. I am not. Do you have the guts to experience that I am not? And the one who knows in this way that I am not—only he can know that God is.

You two cannot be together. The lane of love is extremely narrow; two cannot fit in it. Either you, or the Divine. You will dissolve, and then the Divine can be. So that void within you is the very radiance of the Divine, his very face, a limb of his form and color; it is a feeling-tone of that formless.

Where are you going to find meaningful things every single day? And what is “meaningful” anyway? All talk is futile. You get up in the morning, read the newspaper, and think you are doing something meaningful? Some madman in Delhi catches a cold and something else happens to someone somewhere—and you imagine you are reading meaningful things? That you are reading about great matters?

Then you sit and chat with your wife—neighborhood gossip—then go to the office; do you think you are doing anything meaningful there? What is meaningful! The only “meaning” of all this commotion is that you get two pieces of bread. And this is the great joke: ask a man, “Why do you earn bread?” He says, “To live.” Ask him, “And why do you live?” He says, “To earn bread.” What kind of meaning is this? You live to earn bread, and you earn bread to live. This is a big circle—a vicious circle, a vicious cycle. Where is the essence in it?

That is why those who are truly intelligent begin to see that all this is without substance! You rise every morning, go to earn bread, return in the evening and sleep; in the morning you rise again, go again to earn bread… and in this coming and going, one day it all ends. What did you find? What was the achievement? What did you actually get in hand? Whatever can be saved at the time of death—that alone is meaningful. This is my definition of meaningful: that which you can carry with you even into death is meaningful. And that which does not go with you, that remains lying on this side, is not meaningful.

Your position will remain behind, your wealth will remain behind, your name will remain behind; friends and loved ones will all remain behind. When you begin to go—alone—what will you be able to take? Your bank balance—will you take it? At that time only meditation will go with you; nothing else. So the experience of meditation is the one and only meaningful experience.

This is a very disturbing, upside-down statement: whatever you do is futile. Those few moments that pass in not-doing—only those are meaningful, because only those you can save and carry with you.

But in those few moments when you become quiet and do nothing, you have to encounter death. Death and meditation are very alike. One who meditates descends into death every day, dies every day, because every day he is effaced. Inside there is silence. Search as he may, he cannot find his “I”—where am I? No soul is found, no inner one is found—only silence. The silence grows deeper day by day, the abyss grows deeper; he keeps falling, and finds no place to plant his feet and stand. This is precisely the experience of death.

Therefore the one who has died again and again in meditation does not panic when death comes, because he has been seeing this death every day. The meditator goes at the moment of death with a carefree heart. This is familiar! This is everyday business! Not only is it familiar, not only well known—he also knows by experience that the deeper you go into this void, the more bliss arises. Therefore he welcomes death, accepts it, embraces it—as a guest, as a beloved visitor; he opens the door: “Come, I have waited so long for you.” And the one who welcomes death in this way—how will he die? How can he die?

Now I want to tell you a paradox: the one who is ready to die, who is ready to die in meditation—his death never happens. He becomes the possessor of immortality.

But man is entangled in futile matters. If they are not there outside, he invents them himself, sets them up—quarrels and baits—and entangles himself. Just consider: if all your quarrels and confusions were resolved; if all the worries in your business were resolved; if I were to lift a magic wand, wave it over your head and say, “All your worries are finished”—would you forgive me? You would never forgive me. You would at once open your eyes: “Now what shall I do? All quarrels and hassles ended—now what shall I do? Now nothing remains to be done.” You would beg, with folded hands, “Give me my worries back, give me my problems back; at least I used to be entangled, at least I used to be engaged.”

On the road of remembrance—upon which, in just this way,
long ages have passed with you walking—
Go two or three steps more and it will end:
there comes the bend where the brigade of forgetfulness lies in wait,
beyond which there is no “I” and no “you.”
Breath held, the eyes wait, not knowing at what instant
you will turn back, pass by, or turn and look—
though the eyes know full well that this is all a mirage.
If by chance my gaze should once again fall into your embrace,
another roadway will burst forth from that place;
then, just so, there will be an ever-ongoing realm,
the journey of shadowed tresses and the stir of arms.
Another thing too is false—and the heart knows it:
that here there is no bend, no plain, no ambush
in whose veil my running moon could drown.
Let this road keep moving with you; that is good enough.
Even if you never turn back to look—no matter.

Man keeps imagining: someone will fall in love with me, I will fall in love with someone; today there is no money, tomorrow there will be; today there is no position, tomorrow it will come. And then he thinks—even if it does not come, never mind; at least I will remain entangled, moving, engaged, busy. Busyness is like a drowning man clutching at a straw in the sea. He keeps holding on. Tell him a thousand times, “It is a straw; it will not save you,” and he will say, “Be quiet, stop your nonsense. Whether it saves me or not is not the question; at least it gives the mind the illusion that I am being saved.”

People are sailing in paper boats! Do not, by mistake, tell them it is a paper boat—otherwise they get angry. They gave Socrates poison for just this reason: he went around catching hold of people and saying, “The boat you are sitting in—it’s paper. It will sink. The palace you have built is on sand; it will fall.” Who wants to hear this? A man is happily living in his palace—sand, so what; it will fall when it falls; right now it has not—he is blissfully asleep in his boat, blanket pulled over, playing the flute, and you say to him, “It is a paper boat! It could sink any moment!” He will say, “When it sinks, it sinks; for now do not disturb my peace—let my flute play.”

Therefore, whenever a true master has been born in this world, man has not been able to forgive him. You crucified Jesus, cut off Mansoor’s head; you hammered nails into Mahavira’s ears, you hurled stones at Buddha. I understand your compulsion. I am not angry. And I am not saying you could have done otherwise. I understand your compulsion: these people shattered your dreams. In your eyes they were guilty; they were criminals. You have forgiven criminals, but the wise you could not forgive.

Do you know? The day Jesus was crucified, two thieves were crucified with him—three men together. The law in Israel was that at the annual holy-day festival one person could be pardoned from the cross. So Pilate, the governor, called the Jews and asked, “These three are to be crucified; according to the rule, one can be pardoned…” Pilate wished that Jesus be pardoned. This man had no guilt. Pilate felt that if he could somehow persuade them, they would agree. He also trusted that, naturally, two of them are thieves, murderers; they have committed all sorts of crimes—and in Jesus’ name there is neither blood nor crime. At most his offense is only this: he declared, “I am the son of God.” Is that such a big thing? Suppose he is mad. He has harmed no one, taken nothing from anyone. He only said, “I am the son of God.” For so small a thing, so much anger! Pilate thought the Jewish priests would consent—Jesus could be saved. But no. Do you know what the priests said? “Pardon either of the two thieves, whichever you will, but Jesus cannot be pardoned. His crime is greater.”

What is Jesus’ crime? Only this: you were comfortably asleep, and this man wakes you. Only this: you were building your dreams, and this man breaks your sleep and scatters your dreams. Man wants to remain busy—false or true, but busy. He does not want to sit empty. Even when people sit empty, they find some route to busyness. They ask, “What should we chant?” They cannot sit empty. They say, “We will chant ‘Ram-Ram,’ but give us a mantra.”

This question stands before me every day. I tell people: sit silently; no mantra is needed. They say, “But we need some support—how will we sit silently? At least say, give us some mantra. Say ‘Ram,’ or the Gayatri Mantra, the Namokar Mantra—anything will do; you choose one; give us any name, we will repeat it—but how can we sit silent? Let there be some occupation. All right, give us a rosary; we will turn the beads.” What do you think these bead-turners are doing? They do not want to be free of busyness. If they do not think of the marketplace, they will turn the beads. But there must be something to turn. If there is something to turn, the mind keeps turning and stays alive.

Do you know—mantra and mind are born of the same root. Mantra and mind are two forms of the same word. This means that without a mantra the mind cannot live. It must have some mantra. The mantra is its nourishment, its food. And meditation means the state where the mind is no more. Learn non-busyness. Learn to sit empty. Be free of mantras. Learn ajapa—non-chanting. Drop words. Drop the meaningful, drop the meaningless—drop everything. In the twenty-four hours, carve out at least one hour when no act is happening within you, when you become utterly void. No worship, no prayer, no adoration. And in that very emptiness you will find—the greatest difficulties will come and the greatest joys too; the greatest challenges and the greatest awakening as well. The challenge is that you will have to learn to die. And in that very death, bliss arises. Unless you die here, the Divine will not awaken there. Your death is His birth.

Krishna Mohammed! What truly comes into your hands cannot be lost. The whole thing is that it should come into your hands. If it “gets lost,” understand that it had never really come in the first place. Truths are not lost. Once they are seen even once, then even if you try your utmost to lose them, you will not be able to. Even if you want to get rid of a truth, you will not find a way. There is simply no method of becoming free from truth. You can be deprived of it only so long as the remembrance has not happened. Once the remembrance happens—once the point is understood—then it is done.

The truth of contentment is a great truth. With the key of that one truth, all the doors of life can open. And it is exactly there that most things get stuck. So you are right that in the puzzle of your life one piece was missing and it has fallen into your hand. Very often it is so. In most people’s lives one thing is missing—contentment. They search for a thousand things; what they should be seeking is contentment. They search for God; what they should be seeking is contentment. If contentment happens, God will come searching for you. But you go on searching for God without contentment. God will keep avoiding you. Who wants to meet the discontented? God is on the run. He is afraid of you—you will chew His head off!

A man died—an accident, a car crash. His business partner was with him in the car; both died. They appeared together before God. God ordered that the first be taken to hell and the second be sent to heaven. The first protested, “Wait, some mistake is being made. All my life I prayed to You, and this scoundrel never even took Your name—that was always our quarrel; he is an atheist, a great atheist, and I am a theist. Morning, evening, noon I worshipped You. Have you forgotten? I always carried my begging bowl and I kept turning my rosary inside it. Even at my shop I kept the rosary going. Not a single day passed when I did not remember You. Every month or two I had the Satyanarayan katha performed. I gave donations for yajnas and havans. I even built temples and mosques. I did every kind of charity and merit. Have you forgotten? Something is wrong. It seems you want to send me to heaven and him to hell, but some mistake is happening.”

God said, “No, there is no mistake. You will have to go to hell, and he will go to heaven.”

“Why?” the man demanded, angry.

God said, “Because you ate my head. You did not let me sleep in the morning, you did not let me sleep at night—calling and calling, crying and crying. Even a god’s patience has its limits! And sometimes you even used loudspeakers. You didn’t just harass the whole neighborhood—you bothered me too. If you are to live in heaven, then I will have to live somewhere else. The two of us cannot live together.”

People search for everything else. They will not find anything. The way to finding is simple and straightforward—contentment. Contentment means: what is, is enough; as much as there is, it is enough—more than enough. For what is, I am grateful. For what is not, there is no complaint.

Whoever dissolves into this state of being alone has truly thanked God. How can those who complain give thanks? How can those who demand give thanks? Without your asking, God has given you so much—far more than your deserving, far more than your vessel can contain.

If the truth of contentment is understood, Krishna Mohammed, then everything is understood. It will not slip; it will not leave your hands. I understand your worry.

You say, “Give blessings.”

Fear arises: when truth comes into the hand, there is a trembling—so long it was not there, and today it has come; what if it slips away? But let me remind you: whatever truly comes into the hand, once it comes, does not leave. That is the nature of truth. Once even the faint fragrance of truth reaches your heart, you are a different person. From that very moment, truth begins to transform you.

Jesus has a famous saying: Truth liberates. And the truth of contentment is supremely liberating. One who is content has no need to believe whether God is or is not—no need to worry. The contented one need not even raise the question of heaven and hell. There is no point getting entangled in the babble of rebirth, karma, and so on. The contented one descends this very moment into bliss. And to descend into that bliss is to climb the steps to the temple of God.

What is, is abundant. What has been given, has been given in plenty. We do not even know how to enjoy what has been given! We hardly live. Psychologists say we live at two percent; ninety-eight percent we do not live at all. We are afraid of living. We live at the minimum—only as little as we can get by with. But the real joys of life are available only when we live at the maximum. Whatever you have received, live it totally. This morning—live it totally. These flowers—live them totally. These people—live them totally. And if you live a hundred percent, you will find that there is a ceaseless shower of blessings—what more could you ask for? Where else could heaven be? Heaven is here, now, right here.

Satya Vedant! It is possible—and even if it were not, it has to be made possible. Share what you have received. Because by sharing it grows. Do not share out of pity; if you share from pity, the ego fattens. And once the ego is nourished, even what you hold in your hands can be lost. You may forget what has come to you. Ego is a very dangerous poison.

Do not give to anyone out of pity, not even out of compassion in the sense of condescension; don’t give with the feeling, “I have it, you don’t; I’m the knower, you are ignorant; see, I am a sannyasin, you are worldly; save this poor fellow, he’s drowning in the world.” Do not give from that feeling. In that very feeling the mistake has already happened; it becomes adharma. Give from joy, not from compassion. Give from ecstasy. Give because you have so much that you don’t know what to do with it now. When the flower has bloomed, its fragrance will be squandered, won’t it? When the cloud is heavy with water, it will rain, won’t it? When the lamp is lit, light will spread, won’t it? This is not a question of compassion.

Do you think the cloud ponders, “This is a poor farmer’s field—let me rain here a little. That one belongs to a rich man—leave it; he’ll manage with a canal or a well”? Does the flower think, “A poor soul is passing by who rarely gets any fragrance; let me rush into his nostrils”? No—the flower simply shares. Whether someone passes or not. Even a flower blooming in solitude goes on diffusing its perfume. Whether anyone knows it or not. In fact, to say “the flower spreads fragrance” is not quite right; fragrance spreads.

The Jains have used language precisely in their scriptures. They did not say “Mahavira spoke,” they said, “Speech spread.” An exact and carefully chosen expression. Mahavira did not speak; speech spread—like fragrance spreads from a flower, like rays spread from the sun, like water pours from a cloud. Speech spread; it showered. There is no speaker there any more. Something has ripened and is dropping of itself. Whoever is in the mood may take it. Whoever wants to take it, it is theirs.

So share—from joy, from ecstasy, with naturalness. And remember: thank the one who takes. Don’t think he should thank you—“Look, I gave you knowledge, I gave you meditation; now bow to me, thank me; see, I am your savior; I saved you, you were drowning in the desert of the world, I rescued you.” Don’t bring in such a feeling. Otherwise everything turns to dust; gold becomes dirt in such a feeling.

If someone takes something from you, bow and say, “Thank you! I was just sharing; it is your great grace that you accepted. Had you not taken it, I would still have shared—shared into the wilderness, on the mountains, flung it to the winds. Your grace that you honored it so, received it so warmly. Thank you.” Give—and offer thanks. Do not expect thanks. Then you will find it grows and grows. The more you share, the more it multiplies a thousandfold. The supreme truths of life grow by sharing and shrink by hoarding. If hoarded, they rot and begin to stink. If shared, they grow, they spread; their fragrance keeps increasing.

You ask: “Since becoming sannyasins, what we have found—may all receive it.”

This longing is auspicious. It should be so.

“This question arises in the heart again and again.”

Now do something—don’t just let the question arise. Do something for the question. Begin to share. In whatever way you can. With different people, in different ways it will work. If someone can compose a beautiful song, let him compose. Who knows whose awareness might awaken by humming it? Which line of that song might strike a chord in whose heart? If someone can sculpt, let him create a statue. Who knows, while gazing at it, who might suddenly stop—whose heart might come to a standstill?

Have you ever looked closely at a statue of Buddha or Mahavira? Whoever has truly looked—if he does not fall into meditation even for a moment, he does not know how to look at a statue. He has no eyes; he is blind. The moment you behold the image of Buddha or Mahavira, something in you also comes to rest. Those images embody that art. Over thousands of years, artists who have known have stored the felt essence of meditation into every vein of those statues—have given meditation a shape, a form, embodiment. They are not simply statues of Buddha and Mahavira. That’s why, perhaps, you’ve also felt perplexed: when you go to a Jain temple where the images of the twenty-four Tirthankaras are placed, they all appear the same. Are twenty-four men ever alike? Not even two are alike; how would twenty-four be? And separated by thousands of years at that! Yet all twenty-four look alike. Even those who worship them daily often are not sure who is Parshvanath, who is Neminath. So they’ve placed emblems at the base. Each statue bears a sign—this is Mahavira’s emblem, this Parshva’s, this Nemi’s. You have to go by the emblem; if you look at the face, all faces are the same, with no difference.

Why is that?

Because these are not portraits of Mahavira, Parshva, or Nemi. They are images of meditation. They give form to what happened within them. They are not photographs taken by a camera. Meditative sculptors have cast into marble the inner experience of stillness. If you look attentively at these images, you will suddenly find that for a moment everything in you also stops. All becomes quiet.

If you can sculpt, sculpt images of meditation. If you can sing, sing the song of meditation. If you can play the flute, let meditation play upon your flute. Whatever you can do… Kabir could only weave cloth, so he wove in such a way that his meditation soaked into every thread. Here the song of Ram would flow, there the cloth would be woven—woven to the rhythm of Ram’s name, the hymn permeating it.

What you do is not the point. However it is natural for you—if you can speak, speak; if you can be silent, be silent. But let your silence speak. Silence also speaks. Many times silence speaks more than speech can. You know this too: you quarrel with your wife and you sit silent; she goes on talking, you say nothing—do you think you are not speaking? You are speaking; anger is speaking—unspeakingly.

If anger can speak through silence, love can also speak through silence. Joy can speak, meditation can speak. Let what is ripening within you spread through your sitting and standing, your meeting and greeting. Let it disperse. Share it—and don’t be stingy. For this is a wealth that dies if hoarded and lives if shared. It is a stream that stays fresh while flowing; if stopped and dammed, it turns foul.

“Since becoming sannyasins, what we have found—may all receive it. Is this possible?”

It is possible. Otherwise how could I give it to you? How did Buddha give? How did Krishna give? It is possible. It is difficult to give, but not impossible. There are many difficulties. The first is: how to bring into words what ripens within you? Words do not cooperate. Another difficulty: you say one thing, the listener understands another. Dialogue is difficult. People quarrel over trifles. You say something; your wife understands something else. She says something; you understand something else. And you both fight over, “I said one thing, you understood another.” People keep fighting all their lives that no one understands them. People come to me and say, “No one understands me.” Others keep committing mistakes.

Difficulties will be there. You will say one thing; people will understand another. You will go to give; people will think you’ve come to take. You will want to share; people will dodge, they will be afraid; they will think you’ve come to ensnare them. You will want to pour out your heart; they will say, “Brother, we don’t need this. We have our worldly life to attend to; don’t bring up sannyas now. It isn’t time yet. We are still young; I’ve just got married; a baby is on the way, and you talk of meditation! The baby is coming and you talk of meditation! Not now. When the time comes, I’ll come and ask you myself.”

And people are fed up too—missionaries, Arya Samajists, and all sorts of chatterers keep preaching: Believe this, believe that; this alone is right, everything else is wrong. People are scared. They say, “Spare us! You may be right, but spare us! We have other things to do. There are other tasks in life. We can’t keep entangled in this endless talk about what the Vedas mean. Whatever it is, it must be fine—if you say so, let it be. Who is ready to listen?”

There will be difficulties. First, you will not find the words; then, people are not ready to understand. And if someone becomes ready to understand, he will argue, he will raise doubts—and you will not be able to answer. Because some doubts are resolved only by experience. There is no other way. One who has never loved will raise a thousand doubts about love, and however much you try, you will not be able to make him understand. Only one thing can make him understand: that he loves. But if he has taken a vow, “Until I am fully convinced that love exists, I will not love,” even that sounds reasonable.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin wanted to learn swimming. He found a village instructor who taught children and went with him to the river. As he was stepping down the ghat, moss had grown on the stone and he slipped and fell. Picking up his clothes he ran home. The instructor called, “Where are you going, Nasruddin?” He said, “I’ll come when I’ve learned swimming. What if I fall into water without knowing how to swim? I’ll die for nothing! Let me first learn swimming, Master; then I’ll come to the river.” But since then he never went to the river. Where will you learn swimming? Lying on your bed, flailing your arms and legs? Comfortable—doors shut, lying on your bed and thrashing about—swimming won’t come that way! That’s not how one learns.

If someone decides, “I will enter the water only after I learn swimming,” he will never learn. And his logic has force: how to go into water without knowing how to swim? Don’t laugh—this is exactly our life’s logic. We say: first prove God, then we will seek. Prove that someone has ever attained meditation; then we will meditate. But how will you prove it? Meditation is an inner state; you can’t take it out and display it in the marketplace for all to see. No way. What has happened to me, I know. What happens to you, you will know.

So there are obstacles, difficulties in communicating. Even so, we must accept all these hurdles and share. And there are also people who thirst—who wait for a call, a voice, a summons. And this world must change. It has lived without meditation too long and suffered too much.

The order of our tavern must change now.
We shall change our cupbearer, the goblet will change.
For now only a few are drinkers, the rest are parched—
the time has come when the lot of the thirsty will change.
There is really no divide between the empyrean and the dust, Vamik—
the very standard by which we call one high and another low will change.

The time has come; small, private taverns will not do. We have to make this whole earth a tavern. It won’t do that a few drinkers exist and the rest remain thirsty.

The order of our tavern must change now.

We have to change the management and arrangement of our house of wine. That is what I am attempting. Hence here we are not talking of the Hindu, nor of the Muslim, nor of the Christian—and yet we are talking of all. I am trying to change the very order: the Hindu goes to a temple, the Muslim to a mosque—now this arrangement must change. Let there be no such narrowness. All temples and mosques must be his. Wherever is near, go there. If a mosque is nearby, pray there; don’t worry whether you are a Muslim or not. If a temple is close, go there; don’t worry whether you are Hindu or Muslim. If you come upon a statue of Mahavira, sit there—drink there, drink from Mahavira’s pitcher. If you find a statue of Buddha, drink there. If you find no one, then the trees are his and the sky is his too.

The order of our tavern must change now.
We shall change our cupbearer, the goblet will change.
For now only a few are drinkers…

For now there are but a few drinkers in the world. And only those who have drunk know.

…the rest are parched.

The rest are merely thirsty—seeking, but they find nothing in their hands. Empty they come, empty they go.

For now only a few are drinkers, the rest are parched—
the time has come when the lot of the thirsty will change.

Now we must bring change. This wine has to be poured into every heart—this intoxication of meditation poured drop by drop. This world has lived too long without meditation; there are only wars and violence; people are angry, deranged. The energy of all this anger, derangement, war, and violence must be transformed into the energy of love.

There is really no divide between the empyrean and the dust, Vamik—
with just a little art of drinking, earth becomes sky.

There is neither low nor high. All these discriminations are false. There is no Hindu, no Muslim, no Christian, no Buddhist, no Jain—these differences are childish. These walls must be torn down.

Share what you have received. Only take this care: don’t force a cup to anyone’s lips. For what is forced becomes poison; what is drunk of one’s own accord is nectar. Therefore a very subtle, indirect approach is needed to let your experience of joy reach people. Do not try to seize anyone by the neck and change him by force—that is exactly what has been going on; that is what has to change. A child is born and the parents grab him: make him quickly into a Jain—because they are Jain. They fear that if he grows up, who knows if we’ll be able to make him; he will become strong; it will not be so easy to hold his neck; his intelligence will awaken.

Hence religious leaders everywhere strive that before seven years the child be baptized; the sacred thread be placed; the head shaved leaving a tuft; do something so the matter is sealed—decide who he is before his intelligence awakens: Hindu, Muslim, Christian? Stuff some Gita into him, some verses of the Quran; teach him enmity toward others; teach him to erect walls between man and man; make him a Brahmin, make him a Shudra—make him something or other.

Once this distortion spreads in him, then it is very hard to remove—because the poison goes deep. Poison poured in childhood sinks very deep. It becomes the foundation; the whole building then stands upon it. All his life he thinks in the same way—and thinks he is thinking. He is not thinking; the trash that was dumped into him is what keeps whirling. It rises and settles with the breeze. He does not think at all.

Enough of this coercion—it has had its run. What is the result? There is no true Hindu, no true Muslim, no true Christian; no one, really, on this earth. Only in name. Can anyone be religious by force? Religion is a private search, an intimacy.

So I remind you: never, even by mistake, impose upon anyone. Share what you have out of love. Offer it simply. Give the other space to consider. And do not arouse fear or greed. Do not say, “If you do not accept our word, you will fall into hell.” People have kept saying on this earth: if you don’t accept what we say, you will go to hell. They paint such a ghastly picture of hell that anyone with a little sense thinks it prudent to agree—who wants to fall into hell! And who knows, there just might be a hell—so better agree.

Then they dangle the temptations of heaven: those who believe will obtain such and such rewards—golden palaces; wish-fulfilling trees where, before the thought has fully formed, it is granted; and lovely apsaras who never grow old. Have you heard of an old apsara? Apsaras never age. Urvashi is as young today as she was then. Apsaras stop at sixteen; they go no further. Women here also try to stop at sixteen, but how long? They try to stay there; yet in a few years age must change, for it begins to show—how long can you hold it back? But in heaven age does not change; there is only youth—no children, no old people. These are symbols of human desire. There, there is only revelry and color—no other work.

Have you heard of angels in heaven running shops, doing agriculture? Such a story never appears. It’s just a grand assembly; wine overflowing; dancing going on—Indra’s court in session, apsaras dancing, merriment everywhere. Any other work? No sign of it. Who is brewing the wine? Who runs the distillery? That’s why they invented the wish-fulfilling tree: there whatever you imagine happens at once.

I’ve heard: a man by mistake came under a wish-fulfilling tree. He was wandering and arrived there. He was exhausted. He thought, “If only I had a bed right now, I could sleep deeply.” He was so tired, so completely spent, that he wasn’t even surprised when he saw a bed appear at once. He was too tired to be startled; he lay down quickly and slept. After a while, waking, he thought, “Wonderful! The bed arrived! Now will I also get some tea?” Immediately a tray of tea descended from the sky. He felt a twinge of fear, but said, “At least drink the tea!” He drank it, then thought, “What’s going on here? Will I also get food?” Food arrived. He ate. Now, feeling at ease, a stronger anxiety grabbed him: “What is this? From where are these platters and this bed coming? Could there be ghosts?” Ghosts lined up. Seeing them, he said, “I’m finished.”

Such temptations and fears have been used to trap people. You—neither frighten anyone nor tempt anyone. Simply share what has happened to you. If someone is filled with joy of his own accord, fine. If not, do not go after him—don’t harry anyone as though you had a claim upon him.

Until it is known, there is only the world—where is the Divine then? Until that moment, the Divine is only talk, mere talk. For now, the world alone seems true.

In the state of ignorance there is no Divine, there is only the world. In the state of knowing there is only the Divine; the world is not. And because the knowers must speak to the ignorant, they say: “The Divine is hidden in the world.”

Understand this well. For the ignorant, only the world is—there is no Divine. For the knower, only the Divine is—the world is not. And the dialogue happens between the ignorant and the knower. How is that dialogue to proceed? Their bases are different. The ignorant says, “What Divine? There is the world.” And if the knower were equally stubborn, he would say, “What world? There is only the Divine.” Then no conversation could happen. So a compromise is needed. Because of that compromise, the truths are stated like this: “The Divine is hidden in the world.” Then the ignorant person is not immediately offended. He says, “All right, the world is. As for this ‘hidden’ part—we’ll look for it.”

When the ignorant one begins to search, the knower makes a second proclamation: “Not hidden— the world itself is the Divine.” The one who agreed to the first statement and set out in search is ready to accept the second as well. Because “hidden in the world” implies two: the world, and within it a hidden Divine—like water held in a pitcher; the Divine is held in the world. Then the pitcher is one thing, the water another. But that first declaration has to be made. The second declaration the knower gives when the ignorant one has shifted a little—into meditation, into prayer, into worship. Then he is told: they are not two, they are one; the world itself is the Divine. Yet even now, two words are being used; the word “world” has not yet been dropped. The knower must proceed by considering the ignorant; he must speak the language of the ignorant.

Then, as the ignorant one goes deeper into meditation and enters knowing, one day he himself will proclaim: “There is no world—only the Divine is, the One.” Nothing is hidden, nor hidden in anything—the Divine is not hidden. What could be more manifest than the Divine? That alone is manifest—where could it hide? There is nothing apart from it in which it could be concealed. But these proclamations must be given according to capacity. People have different capacities. Don’t you see so much change in life, and yet behind the changes you do not glimpse the Eternal? Flowers bloom, then fall; tomorrow flowers bloom again. Spring comes, goes; autumn arrives; and again spring returns. Change keeps happening, but at some deep level nothing changes—flowers keep appearing. Where does death ever triumph? Life goes on happening. Life continues despite death. The name of this eternally ongoing life is the Divine.

Autumn has flung dust across a thousand gardens—
yet in the garden the flowers keep on smiling.

However many deaths may come, however many autumns—life goes on smiling. It makes no difference!

Autumn has flung dust across a thousand gardens—
yet in the garden the flowers keep on smiling.

Look closely! First it will seem to you that the Divine is hidden in the world; then it will seem—the world itself is the Divine; then it will seem—only the Divine is; where is the world? These are three steps.

Look toward the flowers, their rows in bloom;
look toward these fragrant, brimming vistas.
At every step love invites you into its tussle—
look toward the drifting, drunken spring.
Moonlit nights burnished like pure gold;
look toward the scattered, intoxicated stars.
The flight of sparks over desert and garden—
look toward those restless, flying embers.
Here dwells a whole world of imaginings;
look toward the gleaming courses of the streams.
Said “Haya,” the fallen star of dawn:
“Turn your gaze, too, toward the hints of the Divine will.”

Just look at the hints that come from the world! From every side the signs are there, yet you stand with eyes closed. From everywhere the Divine is sending news in countless forms. This gust of wind—that is his gust. This fragrance of flowers—that is his fragrance. The rainbow that rose in the sky—that is his rainbow, his color. These people sitting beside you, and you who sit within yourself—these are all his sitting rooms. He dwells in every house. But that is the first proclamation: he dwells in every house. Then the second proclamation: he and the house are not two—they are one. Then the third proclamation: only he is—where is the house?

It is according to capacity. There is no contradiction among them. First-grade lesson, second-grade lesson, third-grade lesson. And do not go to solve such questions philosophically; you will not solve them and you will get tangled—you are already tangled enough. That is why I say to you: instead of going into scriptures, go into creation. All scriptures are man-made; creation is his making.

Look toward the flowers, their rows in bloom;
look toward these fragrant, brimming vistas.
At every step love invites you into its tussle—
look toward the drifting, drunken spring.
Moonlit nights burnished like pure gold;
look toward the scattered, intoxicated stars.
The flight of sparks over desert and garden—
look toward those restless, flying embers.
Here dwells a whole world of imaginings;
look toward the gleaming courses of the streams.
Said “Haya,” the fallen star of dawn:
“Turn your gaze, too, toward the hints of the Divine will.”

That is all for today.