Sapna Yeh Sansar #12

Amrita! The first descent of religion in the heart happens like poetry—like a humming, a sound. That is why the Upanishads, the Vedas, the Quran are overwhelmed by an immeasurable poetry. The original meaning of rishi was poet: a rishi is one who has not only written poetry but seen it—the seer of poetry; one who has not merely surmised beauty but experienced it.

Religion can be realized in no other way. Religion is not intellect; it is heart. The intellect understands the language of logic; the heart does not. There, logic has no reach. The arrow of logic has never arrived there, nor will it. The heart understands love, affection; waves of love reach there. Logic is heavy like stones; it cannot lift. Love has wings; it takes flight. And poetry is nothing but the shiver, the thrill of love arising in the heart.

Reason is prose; love is verse. Reason speaks the clear language of mathematics; love speaks a humming filled with mystery, dipped in the void, steeped in love. In poetry, language is visible on the surface; within, there is emptiness. In prose there is nothing but language; within, nothing at all. Prose is all clothing—strip it off, and you find nothing within. Prose is like a scarecrow standing in the field: from afar it looks like a man; go near, take off the achkan, pull down the churidar, and you will find nothing. Under the Gandhi cap there is only a black pot—already useless to the farmer. Such is prose: serviceable, for worldly dealings, useful in the marketplace, necessary for communication between men. But where does communication happen? It is only dispute that happens.

Verse is the naked soul hidden within the clothes. Take off the garments of language and you will recognize poetry—and that recognition is the doorway to God.

Good, Amrita, that with my coming poetry also came into your life. If I come and poetry does not, then I have not come. If poetry comes and I do not—still I have come. The real thing is poetry, the real thing is dance, the real thing is celebration. Raso vai sah—God is rasa, essence, nectar. I define the sannyasin thus: he will be full of rasa. If God is rasa, then his lover too will be rasa. Think of God as the ocean; then the sannyasin is a drop—yes, but a drop of that very ocean. And remember: the whole secret of the ocean is hidden in a single drop. If we understand the drop, we understand all oceans. If the drop’s whole story is understood, the ocean’s whole story is understood. The drop is the ocean in brief.

The drop is contained in the ocean, and the ocean is contained in the drop—they are not two.

Kabir has said:
Searching, searching, O friend, Kabir was lost in wonder:
the drop merged in the ocean—how can it be found?
Searching, searching, O friend, Kabir was lost in wonder:
the ocean merged in the drop—how can it be found?

First he says: the drop merged in the ocean; how will you take it out now? And then he says: an even greater miracle has happened—the ocean merged in the drop; now where will you search for the drop? The day the seeker, the lover, merges in God, in that very instant God also merges in the lover. And when God showers upon you, will you not sing, not dance, not celebrate? Will not the note of Raso vai sah rise within you? Will you not become drunk with ecstasy? The expression of that ecstasy is poetry.

Not all poets are poets. Until one becomes a rishi, poetry is only art. When one becomes a seer, poetry is life—your breath, your heartbeat.

My sannyasin is on the way to being a rishi. Along the way there will be the station of poetry. Do not stop there. Many stop with poetry—it is pleasing, beautiful, enticing, dreamlike, sweet—but one must go beyond. Poetry is a wayside halt. Until being a seer happens, until beauty drenches you—when flowers appear beautiful, that is poetry; when even thorns begin to appear beautiful, a seer is born. When life looks beautiful, that is poetry; when even death begins to manifest incomparable beauty, a seer is born. Poetry is a halt.

The poet’s halt will come in between. It is a delightful halt—rest there a while, spend the night—but remember: when morning comes, set out again; do not stop there. Until you become the seer; until you not only see beauty—“see” is not quite right—until you drink beauty—“drink” is still not quite right—until you become beauty itself—do not stop; keep moving. Charaiveti, charaiveti—keep going, keep going. Buddha said to his monks: walk on, walk on; keep walking until the walker is gone. So long as even a little “I-ness” remains, keep walking. Little by little the “I” will melt away: the day the “I” is not, that day God is; that day the supreme poetry is experienced.

Good, Amrita, that my coming became the coming of poetry in your life. Much more will happen. Eyes that were dry will turn moist. Only yesterday, while bidding you farewell, I looked closely at your eyes—Amrita is Indian, but lives in America; she has to go back. I saw tears gathering and falling, your moist eyes; those tears were of joy—of separation and of union. There was pain in them, thirst, and also gratitude, a sense of grace. Now only your body will go far; there is no way now for the soul to go far. And bodily distance is no distance. Distance is only of the soul. People’s bodies sit close, and their souls are miles apart.

However far the bodies may be, if souls are close, satsang continues; it will not stop; wherever you are, it will go on. Sometimes in the cuckoo’s call you will hear my voice; sometimes in the sound of the wind through trees you will hear me; in the tinkling of streams; in clouds gathering in the sky; the moon sinking at dawn; the sun rising—who knows in how many forms it will happen! When poetry is born, the eye begins to open. Matter starts to recede. Meanings hidden in matter begin to reveal themselves. The gross bows out; the subtle emerges. This will happen. It is certain. I tell you this, looking into your eyes. It is an assurance.

You asked: “Yesterday you said, ‘Be aware, don’t miss.’ So you tell me—what will happen now? When you have made me drink so much, why do you tell me to come to my senses?”

There is one kind of awareness that must be guarded, bound, held together. It is not of great value; it is intellectual. There is another awareness that dances, that sways like a drunkard. And there is an awareness that is not the opposite of unconsciousness—so vast it also drinks unconsciousness and assimilates it. That is the awareness I want to teach. If awareness is there and the streams of intoxication do not flow in it, if humming ecstasy does not sing within it, then awareness will turn you into a desert.

Such an accident has taken place. In the lives of Jain and Buddhist seekers it happened. History knows it well. We must not repeat that error. In their attempt to cultivate awareness they set down so many rules, such order, such codes that awareness was cultivated—but they became deserts. The greenery departed. Spring ceased to come. The leaves dried and fell. That is why Jains and Buddhists have no poetry like the Upanishads, no verses like the Quran. The reason is: all is dry. Accounting—two and two are four, plain and clear. No entanglement. Straight, sharp speech. But like dry wood: no leaves sprout, no flowers bloom; bees do not hum there, butterflies never flutter. Whether the moon rises or the sun, the dry wood remains dry. Neither moonrise nor moonlight, neither sunrise, nor day nor night—everything is frozen. A cremation-ground silence.

This accident happened in the Jain and Buddhist traditions. Perhaps it was inevitable: they were pioneers. And they wondered: how can intoxication and awareness go together? The devotee’s ecstasy and the meditator’s awareness stood opposed. The meditator’s awareness condemned the devotee’s intoxication—called it attachment, delusion, possessiveness, love. And love, they said, must be broken completely; only then will there be liberation from the world. Freedom from love became synonymous with freedom from the world. They broke it. They worked hard. Cut all relationships; uprooted all roots from existence. But then they withered; spring never returned.

Devotees too have tried. Ecstasy remained, stupor remained; their eyes held a haze; songs arose—but the lamp of awareness did not light. So devotees—like some Sufi fakirs speaking of wine—slowly started drinking wine. To speak of wine was fine; as symbol it was apt—wine points to becoming drunk with God; the tavern is the temple for the devotee. But the symbol soon ceased to be a symbol—we cling to symbols—and people began to drink wine itself.

I had an acquaintance. Had he not fallen into such a mistake, he would still be alive, and perhaps among India’s finest poets. His name was Keshav Pathak. Many in Hindi have translated Omar Khayyam’s rubaiyat—great poets like Pant and Bachchan; lesser poets too. I think there are at least two hundred translations. But none as Keshav Pathak’s. He left even Pant and Bachchan behind. Pathak’s translation touches the very soul of Omar Khayyam. Even Fitzgerald’s English version remains a little behind Pathak. But what befell Pathak is what befalls a man without meditation: translating Khayyam’s rubaiyat, he became a drunkard; he drank so much that he died of it.

Omar Khayyam could have been a blessing; he became a curse.

And you will be surprised to know—Omar Khayyam never drank wine. Although now taverns bear his name; he is thought to be the king of drinkers—he never touched wine. He spoke of another wine—the drinking of God. When he speaks of the saqi, the cupbearer, he speaks of God; when he speaks of wine, he speaks of the bliss flowing from God—Raso vai sah! He is speaking of that rasa; wine is the name of that nectar.

So there the mistake occurred: some dried up. Here the mistake was to think that by drinking alcohol one had arrived. If you stagger after drinking, what is the worth of that? Anyone will stagger if he drinks! Stagger without drinking—that is to have drunk. You have tasted something unique.

Amrita, I point toward that drinking—not the wine of grapes, but that which is distilled within the soul, drawn from within.

Therefore my sannyasin needs the awareness of meditation and the ecstasy of devotion. We are doing a new experiment here—never done before. There have been meditators and there have been devotees. The meditators dried up; wherever their shadow fell, all dried up. This country dried because of them. And there were devotees—who wept, tied ankle-bells, drank and danced. Wherever they danced there was greenness—but only greenness: no soul in it, no self-knowing. My experiment here is to bring Mahavira and Meera together somehow—to let Mahavira dance, and to have Meera meditate.

So there will be hindrances. Meera’s followers will be upset with me; Mahavira’s followers too. Trying to unite Omar Khayyam and Buddha is a risky attempt. The followers of Buddha will say it is illegitimate—why bring Omar Khayyam into Buddha? When I was speaking on Buddha, I quoted many poems written in honor of wine; Yog Chinmaya asked, “Why are you quoting these wine-poems with Buddha? What have they to do with him?” His question is apt. In the past they had nothing to do; in the future they must—bridges are to be built. So I speak to devotees and explain meditation; I speak to meditators and explain love. To those who live by accounting it seems I am mixing everything up. No—this is an experiment in synthesis. Both experiments were incomplete; both failed; neither could make the earth a heaven.

Amrita, the awareness I speak of is not the opposite of intoxication; the intoxication I speak of is not the opposite of awareness. In language they seem opposite—what can I do? I do not make language; it is ready-made, bearing the stamp of the past. There are only two options: either I use the language you understand—though even then how much do you understand?—or I forge a new language, which you will not understand at all. At least now there is the illusion of understanding. Hearing familiar words gives the illusion that you understood. If I coin a new language—who will understand?

Such experiments have been made. There was a Sufi fakir, Jabbar. The English word “gibberish” comes from Jabbar. He was an accomplished saint. He thought: if we use the old language, people misunderstand; we say one thing, they understand another. Speak of intoxication and they take it as the opposite of awareness; speak of awareness and they take it as the opposite of intoxication. So Jabbar said, “I will create a new language.” He created one. Who could understand it? People took it for madness. Only he understood it—he had forged it within himself. You too can make such a language; little children sometimes do. As no one could understand his speech, meaningless talk came to be called “gibberish”—what no one can understand, like the babble of children or the ravings of the delirious. Such was the outcome for that extraordinary accomplished man, Jabbar!

So I must speak your language. But then the only way is to use your words and graft new meanings onto them.

Two men were fighting, abusing each other. The first said, “You bastard, with one punch I’ll knock out your thirty-two teeth.” The second, enraged, said, “I’ll knock out your sixty-four teeth. What do you think of me?” A third man watching said, “But there are only thirty-two teeth—how will you knock out sixty-four?” The second said, “I knew you would butt in—so thirty-two of his, and thirty-two of yours.”

People have their own ways of understanding—their arrangements.

Another story I saw yesterday: A boxing match was on, a fierce contest; both boxers were trading blows; spectators were watching in stunned silence. But Mulla Nasruddin kept calling out, “Hit him in the mouth! Knock out all thirty-two teeth! One punch in the mouth—sweep out the whole battisi!” He just wouldn’t be quiet. Finally someone asked, “Brother, are you some great boxer that you are shouting such goading words—hit him in the mouth, knock out all thirty-two teeth?” Mulla said, “No sir, I am no boxer. I am a dentist—and it’s my business at stake.”

People will understand in their own way—their vested interests, biases, old notions, their trades.

But I am giving new words to meanings; new meanings to words. You will have to move with me thoughtfully. Do not conclude in haste; there is danger of error in haste.

Amrita! When I say awareness, in that awareness the streams of intoxication flow. What kind of awareness has no capacity to become intoxicated? What kind of awareness cannot dance, cannot be drunk with delight, cannot fling colors at Holi, cannot light lamps at Diwali, cannot tie ankle-bells, cannot play the flute? What awareness is it that has no swoon in it, that cannot put wine to shame? And what kind of intoxication is it in which the lamp of awareness does not burn, in which the flower of awareness does not bloom, in which the fragrance of awareness does not arise? What intoxication has not the sweetness and grace of awareness? Where these two meet, a unique confluence is born. I call that confluence sannyas.

Amrita, be such a sannyasin! Every sannyasin must be thus. You say, “When you have made me drink so much, you tell me to come to my senses!” Precisely because I have made you drink so much, I say it—lest only unconsciousness remain. Otherwise half the work is done—what of the other half? That is why, to the one doing Vipassana I say sooner or later, “Go and join the Sufi dance.” To the one doing Sufi dance I say, “Now do Vipassana.”

You will be surprised to know: in this family of sannyasins, the woman who guides Sufi dance is, in her essence, suited to Vipassana—Anita. And the one who guides Vipassana, Pradeepa, her being is Sufi. And both wonder why I gave them this work—Vipassana to one whose nature is Sufi, Sufi dance to one whose flavor is towards Vipassana. Deliberately—because these two must be joined. The Sufis must be given Vipassana; the Buddhists the Sufis’ rasa. You should have the capacity for contradictions to meet within you, to become one, to lose their opposition. When you sit silently, let there be Buddha’s peace; when you dance, let there be Meera’s dance. Neither stint Meera’s dance because of Buddha, nor stint Buddha’s silence because of Meera. When you can swing smoothly between these two extremes—like a clock’s pendulum, like monsoon swings—then know that the complete human has appeared in your life.

So far, the complete human has not been born on earth. Until now, partial humans have been born, because we gave the part too much value and took the part to be the whole. The parts are so great people are satisfied with them. I want to give you such an unsatisfiability that you are satisfied not with the part but only with the whole. Do not stop without attaining the whole—keep going, keep going. If you begin to become unconscious, I will shake you and say, “Come to awareness!” If you become too aware, I will push you and say, “Sway a little, dance! Do not dry up by becoming sheer awareness!” Imagine the silence dancing between these two—the song singing within the silence. Then within you God will pour all his rasa and all his light. Then his rasa will be luminous.

You asked:
“Sitting on your pathway, holding our breath,
we fell, intoxicated, from your goblet.”

This falling is not a fall; it is a rising.

“I stagger so I cannot rise; and if ever I rise,
who knows how we’ll reach, beloved, your abode?”

Those who have fallen in ecstasy, in awareness; who have stopped in ecstasy, in awareness; who have come to rest in ecstasy, in awareness—have reached the beloved’s door. Where is there to go now? What is there to rise to? God is not far. In a mood of alertness and silence, dance here—God is here, now. God is nowhere else; wherever you are, he is. Do not go to Kashi; do not go to Kaba. The unwise go to Kashi and Kaba; to the wise, Kaba and Kashi come.

The Sufi Bayazid Bistami made the pilgrimage to Kaba three times. People thought he would go a fourth. Years passed; Bayazid did not mention it. Among his disciples the question arose again and again: when will the fourth pilgrimage be? As many pilgrimages, so much merit. Finally they could not hold back—newer disciples who had not gone before said, “Have some consideration for us too. Have you forgotten the hajj? Do you not recall the Kaba? You went three times—what happened now?” Bayazid did not live very far; the journey was easy. Bayazid said, “Since you have asked, I must tell the truth. The first time I went, I saw the Kaba. The second time, the Lord of the Kaba. The third time, nothing at all—neither the Kaba nor the Lord of the Kaba—emptiness, formlessness. Since then, wherever I am, the formless is. Since then, wherever I am, there is the Kaba and the Lord of the Kaba.”

Another story about Bayazid: He was sitting under a tree. A man was on his way to the Kaba—he had saved money all his life for the pilgrimage; a poor man, he had barely gathered a little money and set out. Tired, he too rested under the tree—the sun was fierce, the road desert. Bayazid was there. The traveler asked, “Are you also resting—perhaps on your way to the Kaba?” Bayazid laughed, “Are you going to the Kaba? Useless. I have gone three times; there is no need for you to go. I tell you: the first time I saw the Kaba; the second time, the Lord of the Kaba; the third time, nothing—silence, emptiness. You needn’t go. Just circumambulate me thrice and go home; your hajj is done. And take out the money! Why waste it? It will be of use to a fakir.”

Bayazid’s way—and the way he said “Take out the money”—that man could not resist; he had to take out the money. Some people—if one says, “Take out the money!” what will you do? Amrita, if I say to you, “Take out the money!” what can you do? And you are on your way to Kaba or Kashi, and I say, “Circle me three times—finished; now no need to go anywhere!” The man liked what he heard; the love and joy in Bayazid’s eyes touched him. He placed the money at Bayazid’s feet, circumambulated him three times, and returned home. And it is said that in those three turns he attained supreme knowledge.

God is not far away; there is no rising to be done.

“I stagger so I cannot rise; and if ever I rise,
who knows how we’ll reach, beloved, your abode?”

His abode is here—where you are. In that, your heart beats; in that, your breath moves; he is the life of your life.

And you asked:
“Beloved, tell me now, what is your will?”

Take out the money! Make three rounds! What else?

“Now tell me, why should we come to our senses,
when even God we found sipping from your cup?”

Now there is no need. I am not speaking of that kind of awareness anymore. I am speaking of another awareness that is beyond unconsciousness—more intoxicated than intoxication. I speak now of that ecstasy from which there is no falling down—only rising higher. There are further peaks—but now all are inner.

Once sannyas happens, the journey is inward—an inner pilgrimage. And do not worry about money—I need nothing! Nor is there any need to walk around me three times. Bayazid made unnecessary labor. I would only say this: just look into my eyes—enough! Or just sit by me—enough.

Dive into this satsang, sway, sing, be drunk with ecstasy, and an awareness will arrive—not the awareness of the desert, but that in which flowers bloom and birds sing; where lotuses smile; an awareness in which the poetry of intoxication lives—an intoxication in which the lamp of awareness burns. These two can be together.

And Amrita, something is happening! If you continue on the path that has come to your hand, arrival is certain. One thing is sure: when you return to America you will not have to say—

From afar we heard of the cupbearer and came to the tavern;
alas, we kept on yearning only for the goblet.

No—you will not have to say that. You are not going away yearning; you are going away having drunk. Though drinking increases thirst and creates a new pang—that is another matter. There is one thirst in the one who has not drunk, and another in the one who has.

From afar we heard of the cupbearer and came to the tavern;
alas, we kept on yearning only for the goblet!
There is wine, and the cup, and the jar—but no cupbearer;
it makes one feel like setting fire to the tavern!
We were meant to be caught in the snare—why blame the fowler?
We have kept on craving only the water and the grain.
The garden does not please, the desert makes the heart afraid—
where now shall we seat such a madman as we?
Tell us, O “Nazir,” what fault was ours,
so we may count such dying as a wedding-death.

No, you will not have to say that. You are taking sips with you. You are blessed. Many come; very few taste. Many hear; very few truly listen. For to listen, the neck must be cut—the head set aside; only the heart can listen. That is how you have listened. You have tasted; it will keep growing—this fire will not be extinguished. Go steeped in bliss, go in gratitude. And wherever you are, I shall keep showering on you. Once you have met the cupbearer, there can be no parting from the cupbearer. On this path there is only union, not separation. Even separation is only a preparation, a step toward union.

Ramakrishna! Samadhi has nothing to do with time. Samadhi is timeless. Whether the body is of a child, a young person, or an old person is irrelevant; the soul is ever the same. The child has the same soul, the young person the same, the old person the same. The soul has no age. The soul is eternal—how can it have age? It has neither birth nor death, so what old age and what youth! That’s why a startling fact is experienced—just close your eyes for a moment and ask: “What is the age of the one within me?” And you will be in great difficulty—nothing will be decided. Within, there is no age. Age exists only on the outside. Age belongs to the garment, not to you. The body is just a piece of clothing.

So don’t worry that “now I am old—will I be able to attain samadhi or not?” If anything, the likelihood is that you can. In youth there are great tempests; in old age those tempests slowly, of their own accord, have quieted down. The storms have calmed—this is precisely why the feeling for sannyas has arisen in you. You are tired of the storms; you have seen so much—whatever there was to see in life you have seen. What is left now to see? Only the Divine remains to be seen. Now the eye can become one-pointed and move toward the Divine. Every state has its blessings and its drawbacks—remember that.

The wise take benefit from every situation; the unwise draw loss from every situation.

Youth has one great blessing: energy—immense energy. The capacity for deep effort. The urge to touch the sky. The courage to dream, even the audacity to dare. That is youth’s boon. If you ride that wave, you can reach samadhi. But how many young people can benefit from it? They do climb the wave, but it carries them toward the marketplace—toward money, position, prestige. It carries them into politics. It carries them into the petty and the passing. There is energy, but the pot is cracked; all the energy leaks away through the holes.

For a few days it may be so—yet today youth surges in me:
Today my breath is a gale,
today my sighs are whirlwinds,
today waves rise within,
today oceans fill my eyes.
Stay away—do not come near—this is a sign of deluge:
today, youth surges in me.
Like the churning of the sea within the heart,
thunders are falling.
In this watch, in this moment,
what pride, what shame?
Today two will become one—what mine and thine remains?
Today, youth surges in me.
No memory of body or mind,
I advance with arms outstretched.
I move on, as move along
the sun, the moon, the stars.
And where will I arrive? That is tomorrow’s tale:
today, youth surges in me.
Today two eyes, someone’s,
are sending me an invitation.
Today over youth, over the heart,
it is hard to place a rein.
Today all logic forgotten, all knowledge turned to water:
today, youth surges in me.
Today I drink so much
my steps are staggering.
On every path, every pace,
my feelings are strewn.
I am one, you are the second, and the third is mad hope:
today, youth surges in me.
This frail little boat of yours—
will it give me any support?
Alas, in the flood of youth,
who can see the shore?
Break this oar, O boatman, smash this old boat:
today, youth surges in me.

Youth is a blessing—but perhaps one in a hundred turns it into a blessing; ninety-nine turn it into a curse.

This frail little boat of yours—
will it give me any support?
Alas, in the flood of youth,
who can see the shore?
Break this oar, O boatman, smash this old boat:
today, youth surges in me.

In youth, life becomes deranged. People live like madmen—living without awareness. They think: youth lasts but a few days; today it is, tomorrow it will not be. Let us do whatever there is to do; let us consume whatever there is to consume; let us drink and make others drink; let us live and make others live—for then comes death. So they live in a hurry—but what do they live? They only squander life! Yes, some Buddha sets out toward samadhi right in youth—but only some Buddha, only once in a while. They can be counted on the fingers—so few in history who used the tide of youth, who offered youth’s energy at the feet of the Divine.

Then it is truly wondrous, because you have power. With power, anything can happen—destruction or creation.

Likewise, old age has its benefits and its harms. The harm is that the body has weakened. You may sit dejected, in despair—“now only death remains, what else?”—and you may die before you die. That is the harm. You identify so much with the body that as the body’s strength wanes, you think your life-energy is waning, that you yourself are dying. And yet there are benefits to old age: you have seen life, seen storms, seen tempests—seen it all, and found it all to be in vain. A peace begins to thicken of its own accord. The storm has passed; the density of the calm after the storm begins to gather. Evening has come, the noonday glare is cut; the coolness of dusk begins to descend. If you use it, that very coolness, that very peace becomes the door to samadhi.

Days like nazms,
nights like ghazals—
where are they now?
Where is the colorful welcome?
After eleven,
the taps run dry—
where?
Laughter like
carefree rains—
where are they now?
This hungry time has devoured
flower and leaf,
the intimate nearness,
the home’s sweet-sour tang—
simple words,
liquid talk—
where are they now?
Days like nazms,
nights like ghazals—
where are they now?

All has passed. The flood came and went; it swept away everything. What is left now? In this moment it becomes very easy to turn toward the Divine, because no attachment to the world holds meaning anymore. You have seen it all. Whatever you touched turned to dust. Wherever you went, you found darkness. Whatever you gained was futile. Until you got it, it seemed meaningful.

This world is a strange magic toy:
if you get it, it’s dust;
if you lose it, it’s gold.

Everything you got turned to dust; and whatever you didn’t get, your hope and your eyes remained stuck on it. But after so much gaining and losing, does it still not dawn that the distant drums only sound sweet? They are mirages. After so much running, can you not see—musk lies in the navel of the musk-deer itself! The secret is hidden within; we have exhausted ourselves running outside.

Certainly, if you still want to run outward, old age will trouble you. But there is no need to run outward—indeed, no need to run at all! Samadhi is the name of stopping, of halting, of becoming still. Lying down, samadhi can happen; sitting, samadhi can happen. The body is tired from running; now tell the mind: you too, be tired! You too, stop! Let the running of body and mind both fall away. Let silence gather. Become empty. Ramakrishna, samadhi will descend. Samadhi is your very nature. The moment the noise of intellect and thought ceases, the taste of your nature begins to be felt.

Then youth and old age are only notions. There are young who are old in their youth, and old who are young in their old age. Youth and old age are less states of the body and more states of the mind.

For old age
or for youth,
do not count
on your fingertips
the years
of your age,
the white hair
on your head,
the wrinkles
on your face,
or the fallen teeth
in your mouth.
The mathematics of youth
is not counted like that.
Youth
and old age
belong not to the body
but to the mind.
And the mind’s arithmetic
is not counted like that.

And if the eagerness to attain samadhi is still alive, then within you are young. Within, you are eternally young. That’s why you may not have noticed: we have not made any statue of Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna, or Rama in old age. Do you think these people never grew old? Do you think they all died young? Buddha died at eighty—surely somewhat worn. Mahavira too crossed eighty—surely somewhat worn—otherwise how could one die? Before dying, old age is an unavoidable step. Krishna also died after eighty. Yet all their images are youthful. There is a reason—a deep reason, a poetic symbol, a great indication. We are saying that people like Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Rama grow old only in the body; within they do not grow old. They have experienced the inner, eternal youth. They have befriended the energy that is ever new. They have allied themselves with the present—and the present is forever young. They have gone beyond time—and beyond time everything is forever fresh, never stale. To convey that freshness we depict Buddha, Krishna, Rama as young; we sculpt their images in youth.

There are so many temples of Mahavira—but all the images are youthful. Not that he remained like that; at death he was old. Even if his hair were never bleached by the sun, they would have turned white—if not by sun, then by experience. The body would have become worn, wrinkled—that all must have happened. It is inevitable. The body forgives no one; the body makes no exceptions.

Nature is a great communist—she makes no distinctions. She does not break her laws for anyone. Her laws are integral, eternal, always the same—for the small and the great, for the wise and the unwise, for the poor and the rich—leave even those aside; even for the ignorant who has become a Buddha, the enlightened—there too nature’s laws do not change. The same laws apply.

And rightly so.

But within, the sound of the Buddha is an eternal sound; it never grows worn. Eso dhammo sanantano! They have found the eternal law. Eso maggo visuddhiya! They have found the nectar-path of purification, where impurity no longer enters. They have experienced their nature—and nature is forever young.

Children live in the future. Children have no past to look back upon. That’s why, if you try hard to remember, you can go back only to three or four years of age; beyond that you cannot go, because up to that age you never looked back, so you kept no account. Up to three or four, no one looks back—there is so much to see ahead! Door after door opens before the child. Children are future-oriented.

And not only children—new societies are also future-oriented, like America. It is still a child—its age is about three hundred years. What is three hundred years compared to a country like India, whose culture, according to scientists, is at least ten thousand years old? And if you leave scientists aside and listen to Indian pundits, they say ninety thousand! But take ten thousand as sure—an ancient, old India. Three hundred years—is that any age? America looks ahead—to the moon and stars, to the sky. India? India looks back. India’s golden age has already happened—the age of truth has passed, the reign of Rama is gone—everything best is behind; India has grown old. There is nothing to see ahead—only bad times, degeneration. The condition worsens day by day. It wants to escape the future. The only way to escape the future is to keep thinking of the past—scratching up old memories for pleasure. Even now you sit and watch the Ramleela! Every year the same Ramleela. How many times you have seen it! Nothing changes in it.

In one town, some people tried a change—and there was a riot. News came from Rewa: in Rewa College the boys thought, “Ramleela after Ramleela—how long will this go on? Let’s add something new! Modernize it a bit! Give it a new style!” A fight broke out. What new style? Ramchandraji wearing a necktie! Suit and boots! And when Mother Sita appeared in high heels, the audience rose up: Enough is enough! They somehow tolerated Ramchandraji in a tie—“All right, a joke, let it pass”—but when Mother Sita came out in high heels, then shoes began to fly, chairs broke, the Ramleela could not go on—people said, “Who knows what will happen next? If this is the beginning, the end will be bad!”

We keep watching the same Ram story: the same Rama, the same abduction of Sita, the same war, the same bringing Sita back. The world has changed, everything has changed, but our eyes are stuck on the past.

In a village, a Ramleela was being staged. The war ended, Sita was brought back, and Rama, Sita, and Lakshmana were to return to Ayodhya on the Pushpaka Vimana. What Pushpaka Vimana? A swing hung from a rope! But before Ramchandraji could climb in, by mistake the rope-puller tugged, and the swing went up—the flying chariot had departed, while Lakshmana, Sita, and Rama stood below, looking up—now what? Village children were playing the roles. Lakshmana said, “Elder brother, if you have the time-table, do check when the next flight leaves!” Time-table! The child is of today after all. He thought, as there is a railway time-table—one train missed, no problem; this Pushpaka Vimana is gone, when does the next one leave? Sometimes such little newness slips in; otherwise the Ram story goes on as ever, people watch, sing praises, and still wait for Ramrajya to come.

We have no future; America has no past.

What happens with children happens with societies, civilizations, nations. Children look to the future; the old look to the past. An old man sits in his easy chair and thinks: those days when he was a deputy collector! Ah, what days of officialdom! Wherever he went—salutations everywhere! All those days come back, fragrant with perfume; honor, receptions; mango baskets arrived in mango season—days of fun! What is there to look ahead to now? Nothing. Ahead is only silence. One can hear the footfall of death. Who wants to look at death? He thinks of the past: those were the days! A rupee bought thirty-two seers of milk, sixteen seers of ghee—aha! Again he smacks his lips and savors the flavors. The heart blossoms. The old fragrances return. In this way he keeps himself deluded. The old live in the past.

Psychologists say: from the day you start thinking more about the past, know that you have grown old. This is the psychological definition of old age: when memories of the past dominate and you start saying, “Those were the days—now what is left? The world isn’t what it used to be.”

A very renowned American jurist went to Paris. Fifty years earlier he and his wife had gone there on their honeymoon. Fifty years later, a curiosity arose: before dying, let’s see Paris once more—because what we saw in Paris then, we saw nowhere again! Fifty years later—now old; the husband eighty, the wife seventy-five—life has flowed by; a long time. They came to Paris; the old man was surprised and said to his wife, “Paris doesn’t seem the same! That charm is gone!” The wife laughed and said, “Paris is still Paris—try looking through the eyes of a fresh young couple—we have grown old. We are no longer the same. Paris is still Paris. Ask those who have come on honeymoon. We have already lived fifty years—there is nothing left for us to live; what is there now?”

Still, they tried to revive it all. They checked into the same hotel—asked for the same room, whatever the cost. It had to be vacated—another guest was in it, but they bribed him to leave: “We have come only for this.” The same view from the same window, the same food, the same hours. At night, as they were about to sleep, the wife said, “You have forgotten something. That night you embraced me and kissed me—won’t you kiss me now? The room is the same.” He said, “If you insist—fine! I’ll just be back.” She asked, “Where are you going?” He said, “To the bathroom.” “Why?” “To bring my teeth! I left my teeth in the bathroom.” Fifty years have passed; even the teeth are no longer one’s own—borrowed teeth! Now this toothless gentleman will fit in his dentures and then kiss! Will that kiss be the same? How can it be the same? It will be mere acting—hollow, stale, dead. Yet people try to live in the past.

The old live in the past.

The psychological meaning of youth is: to live in the present—pure present. Properly understood, that is why we made youthful images of Buddha and Mahavira—because they lived in the pure present. Those whom we call young—do they live in the pure present? The truly young, in the spiritual sense, are only Buddhas and Mahaviras. Our young also look back: they say, “Childhood days were so beautiful.” They also look ahead: “Next year I’ll get a raise, a bigger job.” Our young are not truly young—spiritually speaking. They are split—half past, half future; a little behind, a little ahead—divided, fragmented. Therefore, restless. Full of tension.

People like Buddha, Kabir, Nanak, Palatu live in the pure present. No past—no memories gathering dust. No future—no worries. They take no relish in rubbish. This moment—this pure moment is enough. Beyond this moment there is nothing. They dive into this moment—that is samadhi. To drown in the pure present is samadhi. To live in the past is to live in mind; to live in the future is to live in mind. Past and future are styles of the mind. To dive into the present, the pure present—just for a moment, taste it: as if only this moment is. I am, you are, these trees, the birds’ chatter, this silence—just this moment, in its utterly pure completeness—no memory behind, no calculation ahead; memory dropped, imagination dropped—then in that interval the eternal begins to be intuited. That interval is samadhi.

No, Ramakrishna—do not worry! Even now within you flows the same current of life that flowed yesterday and will flow tomorrow. You may not be able to run as before, dance as before—no worry! Sitting, you can be utterly drunk with joy. Come into the present—you will be ecstatic. Come into the present—you will be both drunk and utterly awake. That is samadhi.

Satya Niranjan! You do not know the Divine; I do. However tightly you may hold on to my feet, I will make you hold on to His. For my feet are here today and will not be tomorrow. They are clay; clay returns to clay. I bring you to those feet which are made of consciousness. They never vanish. You can be immersed at those feet forever.

You love me; you are attached to me; your deep reverence is toward me—but I am here today and tomorrow I will not be. Then what will you do? You will carve a stone idol. You will worship a stone image—that is what has always happened. Before that mistake happens, I want to point you again and again in that direction, so that even in my absence your connection with the Divine does not break. I do not want to stand between you; I want to step aside. I wish to stand only as long as it takes for your connection with God to be made—no more than that. Not a grain more. Not a moment more. Even a moment’s delay can be dangerous.

Scientists have made a discovery worth understanding. A researcher working with hens stumbled upon it—often the greatest discoveries are accidental. They must be, because what we search for, we search from the past, and bound by the past how can we find the new? The new arrives unexpectedly, abruptly—not according to our plans.

He had been studying the behavior of hens. One day a hen was sitting on an egg. To observe her reaction, he lifted the hen off the egg. Just then, by pure coincidence, the egg cracked and a chick came out. As every chick naturally does, it began to look for its mother—just as an infant looks for the mother’s breast, as if it has learned the art of suckling in the womb itself. If it had not, how could we ever teach it? If a child were born without that natural instinct, what would we do? The child understands no language; we cannot punish or reward it into learning. But something innate opens the lips, and the infant starts to suck.

So the chick emerged and began to search for its mother. The mother was not there; the scientist was standing nearby—his shoe was there. The chick pecked at the shoe. And a remarkable thing happened: it began to follow the shoe. Wherever the scientist went, the chick trotted after the shoe, pecking it, utterly attached to it. The scientist was amazed. He ran many experiments and discovered that what happens in those first moments creates an imprint that lasts a lifetime. We think the chick follows the mother, but it is not the mother as such; it is the first imprint. This chick never followed any hen; it had no concern for the mother at all. The scientist had to hand-feed it, because for the chick the shoe had become the mother.

Another difficulty appeared. When the chick matured, it showed no interest in hens. It would not befriend them, court them, crow, strut, or show off its comb. Hens held no appeal. But if a shoe appeared—ah, then its comb would stiffen, it would crow loudly, strut about! A child’s first recognition of woman is through the mother; those deprived of the mother’s love cannot love a wife fully later. The error began at the beginning.

If we analyze this a little more scientifically, we must understand that in a more intelligent world, just as the mother raises the son, the father should especially raise the daughter; otherwise women remain at a disadvantage. The son, loving the mother, receives his first experience of woman; later he can fall in love with a woman. Hence men are often more eager and restless in love. Women are generally less eager for love; their interest leans more toward ornaments, saris, jewelry. The man becomes a kind of servant—if they give him love, it is in exchange; that is the bargain. So the day a man wants his wife’s affection, he brings a new sari, buys ice cream, or brings a bouquet. That day the woman is pleased. But if a month passes with no salary in sight, no new sari, no new ornament, then the woman has no interest in the man.

Mulla Nasruddin said to a friend, “I cannot understand why the government makes such a fuss about family planning—‘two or three, that’s all,’ ‘small family, happy family,’ handing out free devices. Useless chatter! My wife and I know a simple method.” The friend asked, “What method?” Mulla said, “Simple: she just turns on her side and says, ‘I have a headache.’ As soon as I see that, the headache starts. How will children be born then? The government should simply teach every woman: whenever the husband comes, say, ‘I have a headache,’ pull up the blanket, and sleep. No need for contraceptives or other nuisances. A tried-and-tested, centuries-old method!”

A woman does not feel the same relish. Many women come to me and say, “We are tired. When will this nonsense of love end? How to be free of sex? The husband won’t let go.” Why is this so? The husband was raised by the mother, so his taste is for the feminine. And the girl too was raised by the mother; thus every woman has resistance, rivalry, jealousy toward other women. There was never an initial moment for a bond with the masculine. The first imprint, the first impression, never formed.

If we ever arrange human life scientifically, fathers should give as much time as possible to their daughters. But the situation is reversed. If a son clings to his mother’s neck, no one objects; but if a daughter clings to her father’s neck, the mother objects. She cannot tolerate the father taking too much delight in the daughter; jealousy arises toward the daughter as well. Such foolishness prevails. As a result, women cannot love men rightly, and since women cannot respond rightly, men’s love also remains half-baked—there is no true answer from the other side. Where love remains half-baked, how will prayer ripen? Where the life of love itself is not lived, how will the remembrance of God arise?

Here people remember God because of failure. I would like you to remember God because of fulfillment. People remember God saying, “Life has gone all wrong.” I would like you to remember God saying, “Life was a blessing, a great good fortune, a gift, a grace.” Then your tone of gratitude will be entirely different. Then you will truly bow at His feet in thankfulness.

So I want to remain among you only long enough to connect you with the Divine—not a moment longer. Because if I remain even a moment more, imprinting happens. That is exactly what has happened: on the chests of Jains, Mahavira’s imprint; on Muslims, Mohammed’s imprint; on Christians, the picture of Jesus hangs. That becomes a screen. I do not want to become a screen for you.

Satya Niranjan, your observation is exactly right—you have seen it well: you ask one thing, I answer another. Veena will agree with you. When Veena asked, her gesture was toward me—I know that much language. But gently, from here and there, I push you indirectly toward God. Do not cling to me. Let me be a pointing finger—that is enough. The journey is into the Supreme Ocean. I am blessed if I can bring you to that shore. My joy is only this: that you be joined to the Divine—and then forget me. If you cannot forget, then at least remember me only because I joined you to God—for no other reason. Beware that I do not take the place of God for you; otherwise you will get stuck and you will go astray.

Therefore, Satya Niranjan, even knowing that you offer your devotion toward me, I turn your offering toward the Divine. I want to redirect all your offerings that way—your eyes, your hands, your very life-breaths reaching out to Him. If in my presence you remember Him, my work is done. If in my company His taste becomes contagious to you, wonderful.

When, in Night-Nature’s gentle lap,
you begin to smile, soft and mild,
for a moment my languid life
awakens, vibrant, undefiled.
You play at peekaboo with me,
eye-doors opened, then closed tight;
the song of longing starts to sound
on my still veena, newly sweet—
my Holy One, my Sacred Light.

When, decked with pearl-bright garlands,
you shimmer, shimmer—silver-fine,
your rays like subtle, starry threads,
so sparsely twinkling, line by line;
you signal only hint by hint,
through countless eyes that dance and shine,
the world—and the past asleep in
forgetfulness—stirs, incomplete—
my Holy One, my Sacred Light.

When, swaying, you kiss the tips
of the ocean’s wine-dark eyes,
the waves arise, beside themselves,
splish-splashing as they fall and rise;
you offer up your lips and steep
them in his newborn honey prize—
astonished, I behold my own
defeat and victory meet—
my Holy One, my Sacred Light.

When, from Dawn’s window lattice,
you peep and glance, and glance once more,
the world, on grass and tender blooms,
takes lovely forms to adore;
upon the earth there flashes out
the golden realm of dreamland lore;
unknowing, some few moments pass
for me in happiness, complete—
my Holy One, my Sacred Light.

I want to remind you of that Supreme Holy, that Supreme Sacred—so much so that when the morning sun rises, it is He who seems to rise; when at night the sky fills with stars, it seems filled with Him. If the Divine appears to you only in me and not anywhere else, then I am not your friend—I have become your enemy. Seeing Him in the Master is only the first lesson, not the last; it is just A-B-C. Then you must go further—slowly, slowly, to moon and stars, to the sun, mountains and rivers, trees and birds and animals, and finally—last of all—to human beings. Last of all, because that is the hardest. The day you see God in your neighbor, know that you have attained—become a siddha.

Jesus gave two sayings: love your enemy as yourself; and also, love your neighbor as yourself. A Christian missionary once asked me, “I can understand ‘Love your enemy,’ but why did Jesus add specifically, ‘Love your neighbor as yourself’?” I said, “For a reason: enemy and neighbor are two names for the same person. Neighbors are exactly the ones who become your enemies. Who else?” Perhaps Jesus thought, “Loving the enemy may be misunderstood,” so he added, “Love your neighbor too.” And notice that he mentioned the enemy first; loving an enemy is easier than loving a neighbor. With the neighbor there is competition, jealousy, burning—love for the neighbor is the real challenge.

So I leave human beings for last.

Expand your love! Let the love you feel for me, Satya Niranjan, become love for the whole. Then it becomes prayer, worship, adoration. Then you will truly know.

My Holy One, my Sacred Light,
when, swaying, you kiss the tips
of the ocean’s wine-dark eyes,
the waves arise, beside themselves,
splish-splashing as they fall and rise;
you offer up your lips and steep
them in his newborn honey prize—
astonished, I behold my own
loss and victory meet—
my Holy One, my Sacred Light.

When, from Dawn’s window lattice,
you peep and glance, and glance once more,
the world, on grass and tender blooms,
takes lovely forms to adore;
upon the earth there flashes out
the golden realm of dreamland’s gold;
unknowing, some few moments pass
for me in happiness, complete—
my Holy One, my Sacred Light.

That’s all for today.