Sapna Yeh Sansar #18

Narayan Dev! Prayer is its own answer. The mistake lies in expecting some other answer. Prayer is not a means; it is itself the end. It is complete in itself. You offered your heart, you placed the flowers of your tears, you sang the song of your very life—there is flavor in that song, and joy in those tears. In that surrender there is celebration. Beyond that, to expect that the sky will speak, that from the beyond some reply will come—that is exactly where the mistake is. Such an expectation is not allowing your prayer to be complete.

Expectation is just another form of desire. Where there is desire, prayer is dead. Where there is no desire, prayer is alive. If there is expectation, you will fill with melancholy, because no expectation is ever fulfilled. Prayer, fundamentally, is unconditional. Prayer is a state of feeling that is free of expectation.

Flowers bloom. For what expectation? Will some answer come? The sky fills with stars. For what expectation? Will some answer come? No—this festival is its own answer. Let this truth settle as deeply in the heart as possible. Otherwise you have been missing for years, and will go on missing for lifetimes.

You think you must be making some mistake in praying. No—the mistake lies in the background of your prayer. You are praying while, from the corner of your eye, keeping watch: now the answer will come, now the answer will come; now the Lord will appear; now a voice will shower from the sky. Still no answer! Still God has not revealed himself! How can your prayer be complete? You are split. One half of the mind is praying; the other half stands aside watching the road. One half prays; the other half is filled with complaint—“up to now nothing has happened!” That complaint is tied to your prayer like a stone. It will not let the prayer fly; it will not let the prayer grow wings.

In life there must be at least something whose end is itself. That something I call religion. Then whether you sing, or dance, or sit in silence, keep one thread always in remembrance: whatever in your life has nothing beyond it that you are expecting—that alone is religion.

If beyond it there is some expectation, then the world continues. Where there is desire, there is worldliness. Where there is desire, there is future. Today you will pray and tomorrow the answer will come. You will pray now, and a little later the answer will arrive. Between your prayer and its answer there will be some interval; between means and end there will be some gap.

Where there is desire, you have missed this very moment. This incomparable present moment has gone empty. Your eyes have stuck in the future. The future is blank, void. Has the future ever come, that it will come now? What comes is called the present. And the present has already come; even to say it comes is not quite right.

When I say: prayer is its own goal, I am pointing toward this: there must be moments in your life when you simply live here and now. Behind this moment there is nothing, ahead of it there is nothing. This moment is complete in itself. In its completeness not even a grain remains to be added. And then you will be amazed—prayer is its own answer, love is its own answer. That you could bow down is enough to be graced. Why worry that God should speak and only then you will be fulfilled!

Someday your eyes will speak;
you remain silent, I will call out.
I have heard that even stones can speak,
that now and then the lips of thunder tremble,
that even the deaf gods in jeweled temples
themselves unbar the latches of their doors.
Upon this single faith my longings—
I will cherish them, I will tend them.
Someday your eyes will speak;
you remain silent, I will call out.

You must be mindful of the customs here,
and I of this unfinished tale of love;
in this very conflict the days keep setting—
who knows where the pain will end?
Yet trust me—I will
lift your very life-breath out of my heart.
Someday your eyes will speak;
you remain silent, I will call out.

Every flower and thorn recognizes me,
but what can I do—this heart will not agree;
it does not let me take even a moment’s rest—
and yet I know the laws, the conduct of fate.
And if the dreams should die, then their biers
I will lay down upon the earth of song.
Someday your eyes will speak;
you remain silent, I will call out.

At the hour of farewell, do not delay;
do not leave my life’s eyes open and unclosed.
The hunter who comes with aim drawn
belongs to none—he is time itself.
All my tireless life for a single moment’s union
I will keep gazing down your path.
Someday your eyes will speak;
you remain silent, I will call out.

Such words are pleasing, such poems look beautiful—but they are meaningless, futile. It is in such poems that you have gone astray. Your prayer has not yet taken flight, not yet leapt. It is still crawling on the ground. Such poems may be true, perhaps, for ordinary human love—still I say “perhaps”: a little true, partly true—but for the supreme love they are utterly false. So long as you keep gazing, so long as you keep waiting, union is not possible. The day gazing is gone, the day waiting drops, the day you are freed from anxiety itself, the day you bow down in prayer—and that very moment is complete! Your bowing becomes sheer bliss in itself. You sang a song—and in the singing itself your relish happened. The day the means become the end, that day prayer is complete. And in that very completeness is the vision of the divine.

God is the present, and expectation is the future. The two never meet. They never have. They will not in your life either, Narayan Dev. So many years you have wasted. Awaken even now.

You have not understood prayer. You have only given new clothes to desire. Before, you asked for money, position, prestige; then you began to ask for God. But the asking continued. And asking is the same—what you ask for makes no difference. In your hands is still the begging bowl. Ask for wealth, ask for rank, ask for respectability, ask for God, ask for heaven, ask for liberation—the begging bowl is the same, the begging is the same, you are the same. Nothing has changed. Only what is asked has changed, the object has changed. Changing the object does not bring revolution; your inner being must change. Let the asking fall away. Break this begging bowl. Throw it down. Do not wait for any answer. The sky has never given any answer, nor will it. And when you will not expect an answer at all, you will be amazed, startled, dumbfounded: the day the expectation of an answer goes, that very day the question also goes. For how will the question live without the hope of an answer? The life of the question is kept in the answer. The answer died, the question too died. Prayer does not bring answers; prayer is the state of a questionless mind. Prayer does not ask; prayer is thanksgiving. What has been given is so much—for that we give thanks! And you go on asking for more! This asking is the net of the mind. Prayer is gratitude, an offering of thankfulness. So much you have given!

But we go on asking. When the asking for this world drops, then the asking for the other world begins.

May the one-stringed lute of life break only upon reaching your village;
may this lamp of breath be extinguished in the shade of your veil.
Come, O pitiless one! The flowers are restless
for a garland of tears for triumph;
where have you hidden, trickster,
casting eddies into my breath?
The Meera of the heart, stricken with pain, wanders mad from forest to forest;
this body, like a flute, goes on singing your songs in all directions.
Tears offer you oblation,
sighs perform your arati;
the heartbeat beckons you,
the breath keeps calling you.
The gales of sighs cannot put out the flame of remembrance;
this alone is the lamp that keeps burning in fierce winds.
Let my final glance behold
your ultimate form;
let the last drop of my tears
wash your feet;
let the sound of my last hiccup set your anklets ringing,
let my last drop of blood become henna to stain your feet.
May the one-stringed lute of life break only upon reaching your village;
may this lamp of breath be extinguished in the shade of your veil.

But this entire village is his alone. All these veils are his alone. Those clouds raised in the sky are his veils. And this bridal procession decked with moon and stars is his eyes. Who is it that has smiled in the flowers? Who is it that has greened in the trees? In the animals, the birds, in human beings, in me, in you, who is awake, who is conscious—who is that? We are already in his village. We are enthroned in his very temple. Wherever you are, there is the Kaaba and there is Kashi; there is Kailash, there is Girnar. There is nowhere else to go, nothing else to attain.

To know that God is already attained—this knowing is called prayer.

To desire to attain God—if such an ambition is there, that is not prayer. God is already attained; then what to do? Dance, rejoice, celebrate—let there be festivity. God is present in every breath—sing, let praise awaken. His greatness, his grace is already showering. What more do you want!

Your mistake, Narayan Dev, is only this much: you began prayer in a very traditional way. And you go on doing that same traditional prayer even here!

Try to understand my vision.

You ask: “I call out to the Lord,...”
Do you know the Lord whom you will call? Do you know his name, his address, his whereabouts? Will you call to Ram—the bow-bearing Ram? Or will you call to Krishna—Krishna with the peacock plume and flute? Or to Buddha, or to Mahavira? But these are only waves of his ocean. They have known him, therefore we have called them God. Whoever has known him—that one is divine. You too are divine; you are only unfamiliar with yourself—that is the only mistake. You stand with your back turned to yourself—that is the only mistake.

Whom do you call? Has he any name? He has no name at all. In which direction do you call? Has he any direction? In all directions he alone is. What ritual is there for your prayer? Do you place flowers upon Shankarji’s linga? Do you ring a bell? Do you recite the Gayatri? Do you repeat the hymns of the Vedas? Or do you hum verses of the Quran? What do you do?

All this is nothing but words. Prayer has nothing to do with them. Prayer is silent surrender. There even the Vedas are left behind; the Quran and the Bible too are left behind. There a Hindu is no longer a Hindu, a Muslim no longer a Muslim, a Christian no longer a Christian. In prayer there is only the one who prays. No one else remains. There the mind itself does not remain. When the asker is gone, the mind is gone. The mind is a beggar. The mind’s form is: more, more, more...

Which God do you call to? Looking up at the sky? Is he not on the earth? Do you call with eyes open? If you close your eyes, is he not there? Do you call with eyes closed? If you open them, is he not there? There is no method or ritual for calling him. Only by becoming totally silent does a sense of awe begin to arise within you—wordless. Within you a lamp begins to be lit—of emptiness, of silence; of the thought-free, of the choiceless. Its flame is unmoving. A fragrance begins to well up within you. The lotus within you blooms. That very fragrance is prayer.

Prayer is not a ritual that you do in this way or that; prayer is the feeling of spontaneous joy. Wherever you sit, it happens; wherever you stand, it happens. Walking, it happens; working, it happens. There is no need to find a separate corner. If you have bathed, good; if you have not bathed, also good. Prayer is not a formality.

You say: “I pray regularly.”
Then it must have become a mechanical thing. You do it every day; you’ve been doing it so long, a habit must have formed. If you don’t do it, you must feel a hindrance. If you don’t do it, you will feel the same kind of hindrance as a smoker when he doesn’t get to smoke, as a tea-drinker when he doesn’t get tea. In the same way, the one who prays mechanically—if one day he does not get to pray—feels great restlessness. Something feels empty, something seems to have been missed. Some lack remains. The mind keeps going back there. The mind’s habit is to live mechanically—the mind itself is a machine. And a machine wants its full routine. As it has been every day, so it must be.

I have heard: A showman had a monkey. He would give him four chapatis every morning and three in the evening. One day he forgot and made only three in the morning and gave them to the monkey. The monkey threw them away. Every morning he gets four. The monkey was very angry! After much persuasion the monkey grudgingly took the three. In the evening, when he gave four, he threw them away again—because in the evening he always ate three. The showman was bewildered. He said a lot: “O fool, don’t you know a bit of arithmetic? Four and three are seven. You get seven every day—three in the morning and four in the evening, or four in the morning and three in the evening.” But the monkey sat stubborn. He would not be satisfied until he again got four in the morning and three in the evening.

Man’s mind is also like a monkey. Whatever you give it, it asks for the same. Every day it wants it exactly so. The mind repeats.

So prayer also becomes a mechanical thing. Every morning you get up, bathe, and pray; if you don’t bathe and pray, an empty place will remain. As when a tooth falls out, the tongue keeps going there. For so many years the tooth was there, all your life; yet the tongue never went there. Today the tooth fell, and all day the tongue goes to the empty spot. You may explain to the tongue a hundred times: “We know it fell out; why go again and again?” Still, in forgetfulness, the tongue goes!

The empty place irks. If you do not pray, the lack of prayer will be felt. And if you do pray, nothing will be gained. After all, what will you get by taking your tongue again and again to the place of the fallen tooth? You will keep praying; nothing will be received. If you do not pray, you will feel something missing—this curious phenomenon happens. So people go on doing what they have been doing.

But now enough! For years you have been calling; nothing has happened. Now learn a new way of calling—one in which there is no name, no outer formality. You have been doing regular prayer just as you do other regular things—bathing, eating, sleeping. Now learn another kind of prayer that has nothing to do with routine. That abides in no limitation. That is like the breath. That goes on day and night—while getting up and sitting down, sleeping and waking, working or not working. But do not take such prayer to mean that I am asking you to go on, for twenty-four hours, muttering “Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram.” If you do that, you will go insane. If you do that, whatever little intelligence you have will be lost; it will rust.

That is why you do not see any sign of intelligence among those so-called chanters of the divine name. There is no edge to their sword; it is rusted. That is a way to gather rust. If you go on repeating a single word again and again, your intelligence will never get a chance to keep its edge. Intelligence gets an edge through new experiences; through new perceptions; by breaking new ground; by climbing new peaks; by new ventures; by new journeys. If you go on repeating “Ram-Ram” for twenty-four hours, you will revolve like a cartwheel in the same place. You will become an oil-press bullock.

So when I say day and night, I mean a state of feeling. Not so much words as a state of heart. If a flower comes into view, remember the divine; when people come into view, remember the divine; when the sun rises, remember the divine. All is his. All are his signs. In all forms he alone is expressing. There is no form that is not his. In your enemy he is, and in your friend he is. If you can be thus, prayer happens.

And remember—you say: “My calls receive no answer.” There is no answer at all. This world is answerless. That is precisely why we call it a mystery. Mystery means: there is no answer to it. Mystery means: you may die searching for answers; you will not find them. Centuries have passed—philosophers have been seeking answers; what answers have they found? Not even to a single basic question of life. Nor can there be. Here lies the difference between philosophy and religion. Religion says: there are no answers. Philosophy says: search a bit more, perhaps an answer will be found. Answers are not found—only new questions are found. Dig along, and newer and newer questions keep appearing. Religion says: there are no answers at all—let the question also fall. And the day the question falls, that day you become weightless. Worry disappears. If there is a question, there is thought. If there is no question, there is no thought. If there is a question, life seems a problem; if there is no question, life is a resolution. To be without questions is samadhi.

Narayan Dev, do not wait for an answer! There is no answer! What is poor sky to do! You keep calling, you keep asking—you put even the sky in an awkward spot. What can the sky do? There is no answer.

This existence is a mystery, not a question. This mystery can be lived, but it cannot be solved. And there is joy in living it; and if you were to solve it—what then? Fools try to solve; the wise live.

In the garden flowers are blooming everywhere. The wise will live them—drink their fragrance; watch their delight, their dance in the winds; dance with them; sway with them; be intoxicated with them. And the unintelligent will raise bizarre questions: What is beauty? What is fragrance? And in these questions he will be lost. Soon the garden will be dispersed; you will find him sitting in some library, searching in books. Will beauty be found in books? In the garden it was overflowing, and he left there carrying a question.

Sing, dance—and existence is yours. Ask—and you miss.

You ask, Narayan Dev: “Am I making some mistake somewhere?”

No, no such mistake is being made. But one mistake is certainly being made—the fundamental mistake: your prayer is still desire. Hidden desire, unconfessed. Your prayer is still a question, an asking. Your prayer is still in the mind; it has not yet descended into the heart. Your prayer is still words; it has not become silence. Your prayer still has the future in it; it has not taken a plunge into the present. That is where the mistake is. What kind of prayer you do—I have no concern. Hindu, Muslim, Christian—I have no concern. Of this sect or that—I have nothing to do with it. This fundamental mistake that is happening, that I will tell you: the Muslim is doing the same, the Hindu the same, the Christian the same. Prayer should be emptiness, the surrender of love. In this very moment, here and now, pour out your heart. Do not ask for anything!
Unasked, pearls are given; if you ask, you don’t get even chaff.
And then there will be a shower of pearls, a cascade of pearls! Flowers will fall in such abundance that you will not be able to gather them; your lap will prove too small!
And then you will know: I groped here and there while the Divine was present within. I kept looking far away while the Divine was near. I kept calling by names while the Divine is nameless. I kept searching for the Divine through scriptures while the Divine has no scripture at all.

Hari Bharti! And what else do you think I am doing? It looks as if, even after entering the tavern, you have sworn not to drink—sitting there in abstinence! This is no temple; this is a tavern. Here, all that happens is drinking and serving.

You say:
“The longing of the wine-lovers is only this:
O cupbearer, today pour such wine
that all the drunkards in the tavern
turn into worshippers at prayer.”
But moment to moment, day after day, the wine is being poured. It’s you who seem to have sealed your lips. Perhaps you are sitting stiffly—hemmed in by your logic, your doctrines, your scriptures. Maybe you have not cupped your hands. Maybe you haven’t cleaned your goblet. Perhaps you haven’t yet understood what the art of drinking is, what its sutras are.

First: to drink this wine you must know how to bow. This is not the kind of wine decanted from flagons. This wine is oceanic—crashing against the shores. Bow down, cup your hands, and drink with a full heart! But you must bend. And we no longer know how to bend. Our spines have grown rigid; we have forgotten how to bow. The very mention of bending makes us vigilant. To bow is faith. We are skilled at doubting; we have become utterly unskilled at faith. We have forgotten the language of reverence. We’re not even taught it. Schools, colleges, universities—all teach doubt. Doubt is the foundation of science. To be scientific, doubt is essential—just as to be religious, faith is essential.

Science journeys outward. For the outer journey you mount the horse of doubt. Religion is an inner pilgrimage. The inner journey goes in the opposite direction. If doubt is useful in science, it is an obstacle in religion. To go within, doubt must be dropped in the same measure that faith fills you. In science, faith is a hindrance; you cannot make a devotee into a scientist. And in the same way, a mind brimming with doubt cannot be made religious.

This wine can only be held in the vessel of faith. Become faith itself and you will be filled at once, filled to the brim! But if your faith has even tiny holes of doubt, I will keep pouring and you will remain empty. This wine does not belong to the world of mind, thought, erudition, knowledge. It belongs to the realm of feeling, devotion, prayer, worship, adoration. These are two worlds, two ways of living. And all of us are living in the skull. The head only calculates. It keeps doing arithmetic, and by the time you finish your sums, life is over. You have no time left to dance, to hum, to play the veena, to blow on the flute. For that there is another world within you—the heart.

If you drink this wine from the heart, only then will you be able to drink. That is where the mistake is happening. Many people have forgotten that they even have a heart. In science textbooks, what is the heart? Merely a pump. Those books have no place for the heart—nor can they. Science analyzes man. It finds the skull, it finds the brain, but it finds no source of love. It finds the source of thought—that is part of the body. The source of love is part of the soul. The soul is invisible; it can be neither weighed nor measured. And science lives by weight and measure; what cannot be weighed or measured, science discards.

Modern education prepares you all for atheism. A great dilemma has arisen in the world. Your family tries to turn you toward theism—Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain, whatever the home may be. From childhood your parents take you to temple, mosque, gurudwara; you hear Japji, Gayatri, you see havan, yajna, worship—the religious spark lies within you in a muffled way. But your whole world of education, from primary school to university, teaches you logic, thought, mathematics, doubt. Thus a conflict arises within. A duality is born. You are torn into fragments—and those fragments are at war. In that struggle your energy is spent in vain, and you become neither this nor that, like the washerman’s donkey—neither of the home nor of the ghat. You hang suspended in the middle, a Trishanku.

In certain moments the heart does surge, a few waves arise—but they are weak waves, because education has piled stones upon them. Twenty-four hours you live in the world of arithmetic and ledgers, and once in a while you open the Gita or the Koran. These two do not harmonize; they are opposed. If you follow one, it is difficult to follow the other. So you live by the ledger and place false flowers of devotion upon the Quran or the Bible. You live by the marketplace, yes, and sometimes you drop into the temple. Gradually you have brought the temple into the market itself and fashioned it after the market. Your temple has become just another shop. The priests you have installed there are merely tradesmen. They themselves have no experience of religion. You and they get along—you are traders, they are traders; you understand each other’s language, the dialogue is easy.

Hari Bharti, that is why, even when by some fortunate chance you enter a real tavern, you still cannot drink. You are afraid to drink. Your intellect whispers that if you drink you will go mad. In a sense your intellect is right: drink, and you will go mad. But this madness stands far above the health of your intellect. This madness is more precious than all the cleverness of your mind. It is the divine’s madness. Still, the mind says, “Be careful! Mind your step! Slip once and you’ll be absorbed into a world you neither know nor have been taught, a world for which you have no map. You may not find your way back.” So: talk of religion, but walk on the royal road. Don’t step onto the footpaths of religion; the forest is wild and you could be lost. And if you would be a drunkard, you must have the courage to be mad.

You say:
“The longing of the wine-lovers is only this:
O cupbearer, today pour such wine
that all the drunkards in the tavern
turn into worshippers at prayer.”
This wine is of prayer itself. Prayer is what is being poured; I am calling prayer “wine.”

Your so-called saints make you sad. Their renunciation is a kind of illness. Their religion negates life. Their spirituality is allied to death, not life—death-oriented, self-destructive. They teach you to die. They teach you to shrink: “Drop this, drop that…” And what does dropping mean? Keep shrinking, keep diminishing. Starve yourself, fast, waste the body—keep shrinking, shrinking—commit a slow suicide.

I oppose all that. They have not allowed this earth to become religious. Because of their preaching only the mentally unwell felt attracted to religion. Only the unhealthy have been interested in their religious world. A healthy person longs to dance and to sing. If health does not dance and sing, will illness dance, will illness sing?

Your temples could not become taverns; they became hospitals. Look closely at them—you will find the sick sitting there, the ones who had no capacity to live, who were frightened of life, to whom life seemed alarming; they covered themselves with the shawl of renunciation. The reality was different: they were impotent, incapable of living, weak. “The grapes are sour,” they said, and ran away. They never tasted the grapes; the grapes were high and required a leap to reach them. But no one’s ego admits that his leap is short.

One cold morning an elephant was sunning himself. A mouse came and stood beside him to warm up. The mouse squeaked and fussed, pecked the elephant’s leg here and there—he wanted to attract the elephant’s attention. After much effort the elephant felt some faint squeaking, bent down and, with difficulty, saw the mouse. He had never seen such a tiny creature. He asked, “My! You’re so small! Are creatures really that small?” The mouse said, “Forgive me, I’m not small; I’ve been ill for six months. That’s why I’m like this.”

The mouse, too, has an ego. It cannot admit it is smaller than an elephant.

I’ve heard another story: an elephant crossed a wooden bridge. The bridge creaked and groaned. On the elephant’s head a fly was perched. The fly said, “Boy, the weight of the two of us is really too much!”

Even a fly cannot accept that it is the elephant’s weight that makes the bridge groan: “The two of us are too heavy!”

The ego cannot accept, “I am weak; the grapes are far, beyond my reach.” So what is the ego’s strategy of self-defense? Renunciation! “Drop it all.” What you cannot attain, you declare worthless: “I could have had it—indeed I did—but there was nothing worth having. It’s all trash.” And such a man will sit in temples and mosques, explaining day and night that everything is garbage, that there is nothing in the world.

I say to you: the divine is in the world. A deep search is needed. Your arms must reach far. Your boat must sail into the unknown! I say to you: the grapes are distant, but they are worth attaining. And when you reach them, let them become wine. Do not flee life; the wine is in life’s flavor!

But keep this in mind: the “wine” I speak of is another name for prayer. And it is given only to those willing to drink life. It is the wine of life itself. Drink life and you will taste the divine.

But let me remind you again: the life I speak of is not your mind’s life—the chase for wealth and position, reputation, honor, respect—that net of the mind. Palatu was right about that: “This world is a dream.” That world is indeed dream, for what can your mind do but dream! But when your dreams fall to zero, when there is no thought in the mind and no desire to attain anything, then a new world appears before your eyes in its ultimate radiance, in its ultimate beauty—that is the very manifest form of the divine. It is to pour that into you that I have called you here. Drink it! Live it! I do not teach renunciation; I teach supreme enjoyment.

Listen to me, Munavvar—raise intoxicating verse as well,
Let the whole earth start dancing, singing your songs as they swell.
Listen to me, Munavvar:
Why play the preacher? You too drown in the savor,
Wherever beauty overflows, sing such songs in its favor.
Listen to me, Munavvar:
At dry sermons the whole world only laughs out loud;
It savors poetry steeped in youth and rasa, unbowed.
Listen to me, Munavvar:
Why count your years? Age is woven from feeling’s art;
Through every sieve, old or new, love’s wine filters, drop by part.
Listen to me, Munavvar—
Lift verses drunk with rapture’s say,
Let this earth break into dance, singing your songs along the way.
Listen to me, Munavvar.

I want to give you a song—a song born within me. I want to serve you a rasa—a sap I myself have drunk. I want you, too, to drown in this divine drunkenness! I do not want to teach you renunciation. And if I teach renunciation at all, mine is the opposite of the so‑called renouncers’. My renunciation is the utmost peak of raga—of love. It is the transcendence of attachment, its final step.

The moon began to smile, the night began to sing;
Footfalls of the Beloved, we heard them nearing.
A flame leapt up along the traveler’s way,
And everything grew lovelier today.
Somewhere flowers breathed, somewhere colors rained;
We thought, “Let us lose ourselves here, unrestrained.”
The heart’s beat began to bring new dyes;
The moon began to smile, the night to harmonize.

The lamp of longing started glittering bright,
In thought again a vision of beauty took flight.
The breeze hummed something softly to the heart,
Tunes were struck and the air danced in art.
An ecstasy spread across the eyes serene;
The moon began to smile, the night to sing.

Clouds of sorrow scattered, helplessness unmade;
Darkness trembled, and light was laid.
Moonbeams began to smile on every side,
Now my life has become life inside.
Again some gaze began its magic to bring;
The moon began to smile, the night to sing—
Footfalls of the Beloved, we heard them nearing.

You can hear the footsteps of the divine—but only in ecstasy. Hollow prayers will do nothing. You need a drunkard’s prayer! Let your prayer be such that it makes you swoon—and let your swoon be such that it carries a lamp of awareness within it. Inside, let supreme alertness awaken; alongside it, let a sweet intoxication sway you and make you dance.

Emperor Akbar had gone hunting. Evening came; it was time for prayer. He unrolled his prayer mat and sat to pray. Just then a young woman came running, trampling over his mat. He was bent in prayer; she jostled him and he even fell. How could he speak in the middle of prayer? But he was furious. First, such misbehavior with one at prayer; second, with an emperor at prayer! He hurried through his prayer, mounted his horse to chase her down. But the young woman was already returning. Akbar said, “Are you mad? Are you in your senses? I was praying and you pushed me. You should have some regard! Even if a poor man is praying, he deserves respect—how much more an emperor! Did you not see my robes, my turban studded with jewels, my horse—did you not see?”

The young woman bowed and said, “Forgive me. I made a mistake. My lover was to arrive today; I had gone outside the village to welcome him. I don’t even remember when I pushed you. I don’t remember you were there at all. Please forgive me. But, Emperor, I want to ask you something. I was going to meet an ordinary lover, and I was so lost I didn’t see you. You were sitting to meet God—and you noticed my push? You saw me?”

Akbar writes in his memoirs: Shame lowered my eyes. She had spoken the truth. My prayer was false. There was no drunkenness in it. Perhaps her prayer was better. Granted she was going to meet an ordinary lover, yet in that ordinary love there was an extraordinary intoxication. If she did not know I was there, if she didn’t feel the push—surely if it struck me, it must have struck her too—then why did I notice? When will that auspicious moment come when such trifles will not register with me?

Prayer, worship, adoration are complete when you become utterly oblivious to the outside and all your awareness gathers within. Thus a double event occurs—prayer is a great paradox. All the consciousness that was scattered around the circumference is drawn inward and gathered. Outwardly, the worshipper becomes unconscious; inwardly, he is filled with supreme awareness. Inside, a radiant lamp appears; outside, all is forgotten. Perhaps you could even cut him with a sword and he would not notice!

It happened. In 1905 the king of Kashi had an appendectomy. He had taken a vow never to take any intoxicant that induces unconsciousness. He drank only the divine! A great difficulty arose—he refused even chloroform. How to remove the appendix without it?

The English doctors were troubled. It had to be removed or his life was at risk. The king said, “Don’t worry. I will become absorbed in prayer; you do the operation.” They couldn’t believe prayer could be such that your appendix could be removed and you wouldn’t know. The praying people they’d seen were disturbed if a child made a little noise—their temper flared: “Who’s making noise? My worship is spoiled!” If a pot clattered from the wife’s hands, the skull grew hot. If the neighborhood dog barked—enough! Such “prayer” they had seen. But an operation? In 1905 it was even more major than now.

There was no other way, so they agreed to try. The king would rather die than take chloroform. They said, “Let us experiment. Death seems likely anyway. At least here there is a chance the man may be right.” He became absorbed in prayer; the appendix was removed; he did not even know. Afterwards they asked, “How did you do it?” He said, “There is nothing to it. It’s simple: the entire consciousness turns inward.”

You, too, have such experiences now and then—unwittingly. If you are a sportsperson playing hockey and your leg gets hurt, bleeding—you won’t notice as long as the game continues. The moment the game ends, you’ll say, “Oh! It hurts. There’s blood—how much has flowed?” Why didn’t you feel it while playing? Your whole awareness was absorbed in the game. It had no chance to travel to the leg.

If your house catches fire, your mind won’t think the trivial thoughts it usually does. Will you wonder which movie is running in which cinema? No—awareness contracts.

Such experiences occur when you are absorbed. Prayer is the ultimate state of such absorption. There, all consciousness withdraws within. Inside, condensed, it becomes light; the outer world disappears. And in such moments, the first sound of the divine’s footsteps, the first announcement of the Guest’s arrival, reaches you.

Hari Bharti, that is exactly what I am doing—pouring. There is no stinginess on my side. If you cannot become a worshipper, if you cannot become a drunkard, remember: somewhere you were stingy in drinking. Somewhere you slid your hand away; somewhere you became frightened.

Do not blame me! From my side, more is available than you can ever drink. More than you can drink in many lifetimes is available. I am giving you the whole ocean. But you are not drinking even a palmful—because you are afraid: drinking will bring a swoon, a madness; it will bring faith, surrender. Drinking will overturn your old arrangement, your carefully stacked interests. You will have to live a new life. And few have the courage to live anew.

People drag along the old because it is comfortable—familiar, known. We are practiced and skilled in it; it requires no effort. That is why the older one gets, the more incapable one becomes of learning anything new. Small children learn quickly—any language you teach them. With increasing age, learning grows difficult. Why?

Because the old language suffices; it is smooth; who wants the new hassle, the new trouble, the labor? A deep laziness lurks in the human mind. Because of it we do only as much as necessity demands. Prayer is not necessary for bread. It will not build you a mansion. It will not earn you social prestige—what little you have may be lost! Have you heard what Meera said? “I lost the regard of the world.” Status vanished, respectability gone. People will think you mad. “There is nothing to be gained—and all to be lost.”

It is not so that nothing is gained; but what is gained is within. You cannot show it to others, cannot display it. It is difficult to express. If you say, “I feel light within,” people will glance around anxiously to see if anyone else heard, lest they be seen with you. If you say, “Waves of joy rise within me,” the other will doubt your sanity—for his experience, and everyone’s, is waves of sorrow. If you say, “Within me it is full moon,” his experience is new moon. Why would he believe you? You will say, “There is great elation, great ecstasy—fountains of laughter are springing up.” People will say, “Either you are deluded or you want to delude us.” Your own people won’t believe you—leave aside strangers. At first, even you won’t believe it’s possible; you will think you have been hypnotized, trapped in some spell.

Just yesterday I read an article about this ashram. It said coming here is not without danger—for two reasons. One: every person who comes here gets hypnotized. The very word “hypnosis” is enough to startle people. And those who cannot be hypnotized, those very strong-willed ones, are dosed with some intoxicant in the water or tea—LSD or the like. Because whoever returns from here starts talking differently.

In a sense, the friend who wrote it is right. Those who return do begin to speak differently. And the general public, hearing them, feels that something has gone wrong; they sound like people high on bhang or ganja. So: either hypnotized, or drugged!

They know nothing of hypnosis, and such people never come—how could they? For them it would be dangerous indeed! The article itself is written so no one else will come. You too might read it and think, “There’s something to it—we are not the same as before we came.” People start wearing ochre. Their faces show a smile—as if the sorrows of life no longer apply to them, as if they have slipped out of life’s melancholy.

They have found a new way of living. It is so new, and the world lives in such a hell, that if, in the midst of hell, you suddenly see a man dancing and playing a flute, you suspect he has smoked ganja or taken opium. If he were in his senses, how could he do that in hell? People have even forgotten how to laugh. And when they do laugh, it is shallow and cheap. Their laughter is hollow, at most arising from the throat; the heart gives nothing to it.

My sannyasin begins to laugh—wholeheartedly. There is a rasa in his life, one that was always within him. Certainly, wine is being poured—but not a wine brewed outside. It is a wine distilled within.

Ramsingh! If there is laziness, that too will be by His will. If you have dropped everything, will you save laziness alone? When you have placed all at His feet, why this stinginess? Lay laziness at His feet as well.

Offer wholly—offer the whole—do not divide, or you will land in great difficulty. If you split it, the bad will remain in your hands and the good will go to His. People offer the nice things. They think, “If we must offer, it should be only good things!” Then what about laziness? What about dishonesty? What about trickery? What about lying? What about your hypocrisy? All that will fall to your share.

This has been the story so far: Man has been taught to offer the good-good to Him. Offer flowers to Him. Then what of the thorns? The thorns remain your responsibility. So He gets the peacock-feather crown, the flowers—He, who in any case was never short of flowers, for all flowers were already His—and you poor fellows, the few flowers that happened to fall into your hands you carried off to God; now what remains are the thorns! Now weep! Press these thorns to your chest and writhe!

Surrender means: total. Only when it is total is it surrender.

A thought must have arisen in Ramsingh’s mind: “It is true that everything happens by God’s will, but if laziness happens, then what? God can’t be lazy!” Who told you that? In my reckoning, God’s work goes at a very slow pace. Centuries upon centuries have passed… do you see any hurry? Any haste? Haste belongs to man, not to God.

Over millions upon millions of years the earth is formed. Over millions upon millions of years greenery sprouts upon it. Over millions upon millions of years creatures arrive. Over millions upon millions of years man comes. And God’s patience is such that among millions upon millions of human beings, once in a while a single Buddha happens, and still He is content. Either call Him lazy, or call Him supremely patient.

Why so much condemnation of laziness? Because in the past man survived only with great difficulty—with great labor alone could he live and be saved. Life was a deep struggle. Hence the lazy were vilified and the industrious were honored. Although, the fact is, it is the industrious who have thrown the world into pits far more than the lazy ever did. The lazy did no harm at all. They cannot even do the kind of work needed to cause harm. How would they harm? Could Adolf Hitler be lazy? Mussolini? Stalin, Mao Tse-tung—could they be lazy? Impossible. These are great workaholics—men of iron. “Stalin” means man of steel. It is not his real name; it is a given name derived from steel. These people are forever absorbed in action. Nadir Shah, Tamerlane, Genghis Khan, Alexander, Napoleon—were any of these lazy?

It is said of Napoleon that he would sleep two hours right on horseback. On horseback! He would not even dismount; who would waste even that much time? To get down and get back up… He would sleep on the horse. Two hours out of twenty-four were enough. We have greatly honored such people. But what did they do?

Are the lazy to be blamed? Have they committed some great sin? Had Ravana been lazy, Sita would never have been abducted—be certain! Who would get into such a hassle!

You have heard the stories of the lazy: Two lazy men are lying under a jamun tree; ripe jamuns are dropping—what fragrance! One says to the other, “This is too much. I thought you were my friend! And a friend is one who helps when needed. Jamuns are falling tap-tap, and you can’t even pick one and put it into my mouth!” The other replies, “Go, go! And I should put a jamun into your mouth? A friend is one who helps in sorrow! Just now a dog was peeing into my ear and you couldn’t even shoo it away!”

A man passing by overheard them. He said, “This is too much!” He felt pity for them—poor fellows, consummate lazies! He picked up a jamun and put one into each of their mouths. He was about to leave when both of them said, “Wait! Who will take out the pits? Just hold on a bit! If you’ve done so much, do at least this much more!”

From such people you think any harm could come to the world? But laziness was opposed because life was a struggle, and in struggle the industrious were useful. Otherwise there is nothing inherently objectionable in laziness. In itself, nothing is wrong.

And it is possible that in the coming future the lazy may be honored more.

In the coming century, those will be honored who will not ask for work. Because all work will gradually be done by machines—it is already happening. In developed countries the week was once seven days, then it became six, then five, now it is becoming four. In America they are thinking of making it three, because machines are completing the work. Within twenty years millions will be without work. Food will have to be given to them. That is their birthright. Housing will have to be given, clothes will have to be given.

Western economists say—you will be startled to hear it—that within fifty years the situation will be such that the person who does not ask for work will be paid more than the one who asks for work. Why? Because he wants two things at once—salary and work! Naturally he will get less salary. Both hands full of sweets! The one who does not ask for work will get more salary—naturally he will have to be compensated, since he is not even asking to work.

The days of the lazy are coming, Ramsingh—don’t panic!… Ramsingh is from Amritsar… The days of the Punjabis are going, Ramsingh—don’t panic! The days of the lazy are coming. The machine will do everything. Then in universities and schools great plaques will read: “Blessed are the lazy, for the Kingdom of God is theirs.” We will have to add these sayings. We will have to write such things into the scriptures. Laziness will have to be made into a virtue.

And God moves at such a slow pace that where can one even perceive His pace! Sow a seed—how long it takes! Years upon years before a tree is formed, then flowers, then fruits. There is no hurry there! Time is infinite; there is no haste.

And, Ramsingh, when you have placed everything upon Him, then why even this miserliness? Laziness too is His!

Have you not heard the story?

A Sufi story: An old woman would offer to God whatever she had. Even the household garbage she would take in the morning to the rubbish heap and say, “I dedicate this to You.” When people heard this, they said, “This is too much! Offer flowers, offer sweets… garbage?”

A fakir was passing by. One day he heard the old woman go to the dump, throw the garbage there, and say, “O Lord, I dedicate this to You.” The fakir said, “Mother, wait! I have seen great saints… what is this you are saying?” She replied, “Don’t ask me; ask Him. When I have given everything, should I save the garbage? I am not so foolish.”

That night the fakir saw a dream: he was taken to heaven. He stood before God. God was seated upon a golden throne. Morning was breaking; the sun was rising; birds had begun to sing—he was dreaming—when suddenly a basketful of garbage came and landed upon God’s head. He said, “That old woman doesn’t miss even a single day!” The fakir said, “I know that woman. Only yesterday I saw her, and yesterday I told her, ‘What are you doing?’”

The fakir remained there for an hour. He knew many people who offer flowers and sweets, but none of those offerings arrived. He asked God, “There are people who offer flowers… they pluck them in the morning—from their neighbors’ trees, of course. Who offers one’s own flowers! They pluck from around and offer… Why do their flowers not fall here?”

God said to him, “Those who offer half-and-half, theirs never arrive. This woman has given all—she saves nothing. Whatever she has, she offers. Only the offering that is total arrives.”

The fakir awoke in a fright. He was bathed in sweat; his heart was pounding. Because he remembered that all his past efforts had gone to waste. He too had been offering selectively.

Surrender can only be total.

Therefore, Ramsingh, you ask: “How can one know whether what is happening is by God’s will?”

What need is there to find out? By whose will else would it be happening! Is there anyone else? Whatever is happening must be by His will—there is no one else.

And then you feel afraid: “What if, under the influence of laziness, we are not doing?” Then laziness too is by His will. Just try offering up your laziness, and you will be astonished. The moment you offer laziness, it will be as if a film of dust falls off you. Let it fall upon Him—let it go. It is His world; let Him take care of it! If He has made you lazy, what will you do? In truth, a religious person is one who says, “All is Thine—the bad too, the good too.”

People came to Kabir’s house for food. They would come for bhajans, in fact, but before they left Kabir would say, “Ah, where are you going? At least have a meal!” A poor man, somehow he would manage a little bread. His wife was troubled. His son was greatly troubled. Kamal once said, “This is too much. We are in heavy debt. Bhajan is fine, but feeding everyone—one or two hundred people eat here every day. From where are we to bring it? We have borrowed from the whole village; now no one is even willing to lend to us. And these people have made a business out of it. They show up every day! I suspect they don’t come for bhajan—they come for food. I have explained to you so many times, and you say, ‘Alright, tomorrow I won’t say it,’ but as soon as the bhajan ends you don’t keep to it—you tell people to eat. Should we start stealing?”

He said it in anger—“Should we start stealing?” Kabir said, “Crazy boy, why didn’t that occur to you earlier? For how many days have you been chewing my head, ‘Don’t invite them to eat’? I cannot help myself. Where was your wits earlier? What an excellent idea!” The son thought, “This is the limit! He is even willing to have me steal!” He asked, “Did you understand what I said? Are you in your senses? You are absorbed in your bhajans and kirtans—stealing, I said stealing!” Kabir said, “Whatever He wills, He will have us do. If He wants us to steal, what will we do?”

This is called theism. Anything less is not theism.

But Kabir’s son, after all, was Kabir’s son. He would not give up so easily. He said, “You are settling the matter with mere words. You know I won’t steal. But I will show you!” In the evening he said, “Alright, I am going to steal—will you come too? Why should I go alone? You feed people, I should steal? The sin will be on my head—who will answer for it afterward?” He was just saying this when Kabir stood up. He said, “Come, I have nothing else to do; what am I doing sitting here either? I am doing bhajan here; we will do bhajan there. I am coming with you.”

The son was stubborn. Even now he could not believe that Kabir would agree to steal. They went. Kabir stood there and did bhajan, and the boy broke through the wall. Again and again he looked back, expecting that now his father would stop him… The wall broke, and still he didn’t stop him. Now the son began to feel a little fear—things were getting out of hand. He asked, “Shall I go inside now?” Kabir said, “Why else did you break the wall? Go in! And not only go in, bring something out!”

He was Kabir’s son; he took courage, went inside, and dragged out a sack of wheat. With difficulty they managed to pull it through the hole. Together they hauled it out. When the sack was outside Kabir said, “Now do one more thing: go and wake the householders. Shout, ‘Thief! Thief!’” He said, “What kind of stealing is this? I will be caught!” Kabir said, “Whoever is making it happen will be caught, not us. Why do you keep bringing yourself into it?”

Understand Kabir’s point; it is subtle! Kabirpanthis leave this story out of their books. They are afraid; it seems dangerous to include it. Because we have dragged religion down to the level of morality; and religion is beyond morality and immorality. There nothing is good, nothing is bad. We have made religion synonymous with moral codes. So even Kabirpanthis fear including this story. But no matter how much you hide them, those who know have known these stories. They have traveled ear to ear—what if they are not written in books! There are always sources. Such priceless stories cannot be lost. Someone like me will tell them again, and they will travel once more!

If you don’t find them in a book, don’t panic; I say on my own witness that this thing is true. It must have happened. It ought to have happened. If not in Kabir’s life, then in whose! The story is lovely.

Kabir said, “Go, give the alarm!” And when Kabir says it, will the son not go! He went inside, shook the people awake, “Thief! Thief!” They seized him. He tried to run, to get out, but they grabbed him by the legs. His head was outside, his legs inside. Kabir said, “Brother, dawn is breaking; the bhajan singers will be coming. What shall I do now? Let them keep your legs; I’ll take your head.” So he cut off his head and took it home.

The people pulled the body inside. There was no head. But from his build and manner it seemed to be Kabir’s son. He was known—known throughout the village. Someone asked, “How can we be sure it is Kabir’s son and not someone else?” They said, “Do this: In the morning, Kabir’s troupe will go to the Ganges for a bath, singing. Hang this body outside from a tree.” “What will that do?” “If this is Kabir’s son, then when Kabir passes by singing, the boy will clap his hands.” “Are you crazy? He has no head; since when do corpses clap?!” They replied, “Believe it or not, we have seen corpses sit at Kabir’s and clap their hands.”

Listen to the story! We have seen many corpses go there and clap their hands; clapping, they have come to life. When people come to Kabir they are corpses as they are—who else will come? The whole world is filled with corpses… The story says they hung the son’s body from a tree outside and hid themselves. When Kabir’s troupe came, the rhythm struck, the wine flowed, the prayer rose—Kabir’s son began to clap!

They seized Kabir and said, “This is your son.” Kabir said, “What need was there for so much arrangement? You could have come and asked me! He is my son. And he did not steal alone—I was there too. And I was not only there; God too was there. All responsibility is His. We are His playthings. As He makes us dance, we dance.”

Whoever can understand this story will be able to understand the feeling of surrender.

Ramsingh! Laziness too is His. The good is His, the bad is His.

You have no idea how much I have tried to explain to the mind,
Yet it blunders again and again—what am I to do?
I told it a score of times, “Don’t blurt out the truth, you fool—
People’s ears are tender, the whole world’s;
And if by chance you stray and speak the truth,
They’ll hunt you through every lane as a target.”
But who can teach a stubborn mind?
It forever stands against even me—what am I to do?
I warned it every time, “Don’t walk such a lane
Where your cherished longings may be disgraced.
Seek a companion who eats and drinks by his own,
Who has his own years, his own house.”
But who knows what nature you’ve been given,
Every useful counsel seems futile—what am I to do?
I explained so much, “Don’t be so foolish—
What kinship can there be between the dew and tears?
Dew is the moon’s daughter; you, a vagabond water-drop.
What friendship has a wandering water with the shore?”
The storm has deceived you a hundred times by now—
If not a good one, at least find a shore for life—what am I to do?
You have no idea how much I have tried to explain to the mind,
Yet it blunders again and again—what am I to do?

There is one path—the path of morality—on which you don’t let the mind commit mistakes. You correct each mistake. You patch them one by one. But be certain: block on one side and the leak springs from another. Stop the stream here, and it gushes from there. Therefore the moral person is never transformed. Only his diseases change. He suppresses one disease, another arises. He suppresses the second, a third takes birth. The root remains the same.

A religious person does not fix mistakes one by one. Who is to keep patching? All is His. The religious person says, “I too am Thine—look after me! If mistakes are to be made, have me make them; if rectification is to be done, have me do it. If honor comes, it is Yours; if dishonor comes, it is Yours. If tomorrow shoes rain down, they’ll fall upon You; if garlands are offered, they’re Yours. I am not in between.”

The name of this wondrous revolution is religion.

And one who can do this needs to do nothing else.

That’s all for today.