Utsav Amar Jati Anand Amar Gotar #1

Neelam, once the longing for light has been kindled, life cannot pass empty. The longing for light is a seed; and where there is a seed, sprouting will happen. Give your longing intensity, give it urgency. Transform longing into ardent, single-pointed thirst.

Understand well the difference between longing and ardency. Longing is one among many longings. Ardency is when all longings gather into one—only one longing remains.

When the sun’s rays scatter, there is warmth but no fire. If the rays are focused to a single point, not only warmth but fire is born. Ardency is the gathering together of the scattered rays of desire.

Even without me you can arrive. Even without a Buddha-field, buddhahood can happen. Buddhahood does not depend on a Buddha-field. A Buddha-field is not the cause, only a condition, a support. Help will be there, companionship will be there—“the grace of the master, the company of seekers”—but what is to happen will happen within you, not outside.

My ashram is to be built within you, not outside. You are to become my temple. If external temples come into being, fine; if they don’t, also fine—but do not depend on them. Do not place much trust in outer temples. Obstacles can be created in their making—thousands of hindrances can be raised; they are being raised; they will be raised. All this is natural. It has always happened—according to the old pattern; nothing new in it. There is no cause for worry.

The new commune will be built. But as many obstacles as can be placed will be placed—and rightly so. For if truth were to arrive so easily that the false raised no obstacles, such truth would be worth two pennies. If morning came without the dark night, what kind of morning would that be? The rose blossoms among thorns. This rose called the Buddha-field will also bloom amidst many thorns.

I understand your love and your prayer. But do not wait for the Buddha-field; do not waste a single moment. If it happens—good; if it does not happen—good. But you must awaken in this very life before you go.

“Awaken, awaken!”—for ages upon ages they have been calling. So many ages have passed! Wake up, wake up! Do not leave it to outward conditions. Otherwise this too will become an excuse: “What to do? We are not getting admission to the ashram; if only we had, we would have attained the soul.”

No. If you get admission there will surely be convenience and ease—the steps will be easier to climb; there will be a hand to hold. But that is only one side. Never forget the other. Sometimes the helping hand becomes a hindrance. Because once a hand is there, people begin to think there is no need to stand on their own feet. They become dependent on crutches. And whoever leans on crutches becomes lame without ever having been lame.

I want to take away all your crutches. That is exactly what will happen in the new commune. You will come with crutches, or to get crutches; if you bring them, they will be snatched away and consigned to the holi fire. And what you have come to get will never be given. I want your own feet to carry you to the divine—because there is no other way.

Buddha has said: a Buddha can only show the path; you have to walk it.

There is a proverb: you can take a horse to the river, you can show it the water, but you cannot make it drink. The Buddha-field can bring you to the river and show you the water; but the drinking has to be yours—your throat is thirsty! And Neelam, whoever has to drink should drink today, drink now—do not wait for tomorrow.

The new commune will be built; until then, do not postpone. Every postponement is costly. What certainty is there about tomorrow? Today is—enough. Whatever is to happen should happen today, should happen now. If you defer it even for a moment—who knows whether that moment will come!

So I say: do not postpone. If love toward me has arisen, you have entered my field already. This field is not outside; it is of the innermost, of the inner soul. Even if you are far from me outwardly, it does not matter—be close to me within. If you are near me outside but cannot be near within, what use is such nearness?

You ask, “Why is there such a delay in the construction of the new commune?”

There should be. This is no small event. Nor is it going to be a small ashram. The ashram whose seed we are sowing will be the largest on this earth. Ten thousand sannyasins will reside there. A great whirlwind of energy is to be raised—such a cloud of saffron as to ochre the whole earth. A festival of colors that dyes the world.

Surely there are enemies of festivity, enemies of color—dull, solemn, scripture-learned scholars, pundits, priests, politicians—a long procession. And what I am saying is rebellion. What I am saying is direct rebellion. That I am alive at all is a miracle, Neelam! As if no one poisoned a Socrates; as if no one crucified a Jesus; as if no one killed a Mansoor! That I am is itself a miracle—take its benefit. Dive into this rebellion. Do not postpone it under any pretext. The mind is clever at finding excuses.

There is opposition to my new commune; there will be, it will continue. The commune will be built nevertheless. But I do not want you to pin all your hopes on it. Keep working—because who will become the bricks of the new commune? It will not be made of stone, mud, mortar. It will be made of you—of sannyasins. Neelam, you are to become its brick. So prepare yourself. When the bricks are ready, the ashram will also rise. Who has ever been able to stop it? Attempts to stop truth have always been made; but who has ever stopped it?

Politicians will oppose, because I envision a world with no politics. I want a world with minimal governance. The more governance, the more slavery; the less governance, the more freedom. Some will remain necessary; I am not a total anarchist, because total anarchy is impossible—unless all people become enlightened. When that will be, who can say? Whether it will be at all, who knows? Total anarchy would be possible only among a community of Buddhas. As long as there are “buddhus”—the foolish—in the world, some governance will remain. But its minimum is enough. The machinery of power will oppose anything that cuts its roots.

Politicians will oppose me. Mr. Morarji Desai’s opposition to me is not accidental or causeless—it is exactly as it should be. He can see clearly: if what I say is true, the very existence of the politician is false. To save his existence, the fewer people hear me, the better. Don’t let him on radio or television; don’t let newspapers print him; don’t let people come to me; if they do come, harass them so much that they dare not return. All this is happening. And let me repeat: it is happening very systematically. I am not surprised by it. If it were not so, I would be surprised.

There was a very lovely fakir, Mahatma Bhagwandin, who sometimes stayed with me. In meetings, if someone clapped, he would get annoyed. I asked, “When people clap you should be happy; why do you get angry?” He said, “Whenever someone claps, I conclude I must have said something wrong—otherwise how did they understand! If you speak truth, people throw stones; if you speak falsehood, they garland you.”

His point appealed to me. The old man was right. Speak the exact truth and people not throw stones—impossible. Because truth pulls the ground from under their feet. And I have decided to say only the exact truth—no compromises. Not to sugarcoat it. If it is bitter, it is bitter. To say it as it is—no compromise, no whitewash, no masks. Difficulties will come. Politicians will be troubled.

Then there is bureaucracy in this country—perhaps like nowhere else. Red-tapeism—like nowhere else. Some things we can be proud of: our bureaucracy, our red tape! What could be done in hours cannot be done in years—the files just keep moving; there is never an end.

Satyapriya sent me a story. Sher Singh was a policeman. The highest officer, the I.G., desired to go lion-hunting. Sher Singh arranged everything: built a machan, tied a goat to a tree. The I.G., the D.I.G., the S.P., the I.G.’s wife and their baby—all sat on the platform. Evening fell. Sher Singh stood below with a torch, to flash the light when the goat’s bell rang so the I.G. could shoot the lion. Long passed; the lion didn’t come. The baby asked her mother, “Mama, when will the lion come?” The mother asked the I.G., “When will the lion come?” The I.G. asked the D.I.G.; the D.I.G. asked the S.P.; the S.P. asked Sher Singh, “When will the lion come?” All sat on the same platform—but there is a governmental way of doing everything! Poor Sher Singh didn’t have the lion in his pocket. Still, he told the S.P., “Sir, the lion will be coming. Now that the Sahib has arrived, the lion has to come. Who can defy a government order!”

They were all sitting side by side. Hearing Sher Singh, the S.P. told the D.I.G., the D.I.G. told the I.G., “Sir, the lion will be coming. The Sahib has come; how can the lion not come? It’s a matter of government prestige.” The I.G. told his wife; the wife told the baby, “The lion is about to come; don’t worry. Where your father is present, what can be lacking?”

The baby fell asleep. Around midnight the lion arrived. At its roar, Sher Singh, the S.P., the D.I.G., the I.G., the I.G.’s wife and the baby—everyone lost control and soaked their clothes. Sher Singh flashed the torch; the I.G. somehow fired—but the bullet hit the goat. Government work! The arrow never hits the mark. And how could it, when life-juice had drained away? Somehow, with trembling hands—but prestige had to be saved before all these officers—so he pulled the trigger. The wonder is, how did the goat die! If the goat had known the bullet was “governmental,” it wouldn’t have. The I.G. asked the D.I.G., “How was the hunt?” The D.I.G. asked the S.P.; the S.P. asked Sher Singh. Sher Singh was in a fix—there had been no hunt! Still, thinking fast, he told the S.P., “Sir, the prey is breathing its last.” Servants grow clever—sycophants. He dropped mention of the lion and said, “The prey is in its last breaths.” The S.P. told the D.I.G.; the D.I.G. told the I.G.; the I.G. told his wife; the wife told the baby, “Darling, the prey is breathing its last.” The big Sahib was pleased; the D.I.G. was overjoyed; he promoted Sher Singh.

The prey was a goat—and Sher Singh got the promotion! You have seen the pleasure of files traveling up and down! All of them were present there, blind, while the lion had long since roared and gone; only the goat lay dying.

So there is the heavy pressure of Mr. Morarji Desai that none of my work should get done; and then the great government machinery, in which things only slide and slide with no end in sight. So there is delay. But whatever the delay, the field of Buddha-energy will be created—it is being created—because you are being created. I am not concerned about them. You are being created. My hope is in you. If you are, everything else will follow. But you do not postpone; do not wait for time. Each moment is precious.

You ask, Neelam, “We are sitting with hope that we may enter the super­natural field of Buddha-energy.”

The entry has already happened. Whoever has taken sannyas has entered. Entry is entry into love.

“And not just we—thousands are waiting.”

I know. Every day countless letters come: “When can we join?” Arrangements are made so their letters do not even reach. A letter leaves Delhi; it takes a month and a half to reach Poona! Some arrive in six months; and those that never come, how would we know! If some take six months, some will take six years. Every letter is opened; none arrives unopened. Every letter is delayed as long as it can be. Every letter is investigated.

After the great “revolution” led by Shri Jayaprakash Narayan, a most amazing democracy has been created! This is democracy, where people’s private letters are not private! Phones are tapped. In a country like America, for tapping phones and such mischief Nixon had to leave the presidency. Here it happens every day. Here it is according to the rules. Here no one’s ears so much as itch.

They will delay as much as they can; but despite their delay, the happening will happen. There may be delay, but there will be no denial. You can stall truth, but you cannot erase it. What did you kill by killing Jesus? By poisoning Socrates, you poisoned yourselves.

When Socrates was dying, one of those who had given him the poison asked, “Socrates, what are you feeling as you die? Your precious life is being destroyed!” Socrates said, “Leave this. Because of me, your names too will be remembered for centuries—because you gave me poison. Otherwise no one would have mentioned your names.”

That man must have fallen silent. When people like Socrates answer, mouths close. A disciple asked, “One last question: after you die, shall we bury you or cremate you? Which rite should we perform?” Socrates said, “Listen to this as well. Those who are killing me are the enemies—and those who think they are my friends who will bury me are also mistaken!”

“Neither will those who kill me kill me, nor will those who bury me bury me. I will remain. My voice will go on echoing. Whenever anyone seeks truth, it will show the way; whenever anyone gropes in darkness, it will become light; whenever anyone is truly thirsty, it will become a drop of nectar in his throat.”

No—the new commune will not be stopped. A little sooner or later. But do not postpone yourself because of it. Let your effort continue; your meditation continue; your prayer continue. The new commune will be created as the outcome of all your prayers. Keep the lamps of your hope lit, because from your lamps Diwali will be celebrated there. Keep coloring your heart, because it is your colors that I have to use. How will I throw the gulal? How will the festival happen?

You also say, “There is much darkness; we need light.”

However great the darkness, do not worry. Darkness has no existence. It is neither less nor more, neither old nor new. Even if it were a thousand years old, light a lamp now and it is gone. If it is a minute old, light a lamp now and it is gone. Whether it is the darkness of new moon night or ordinary night—light a lamp, it is gone. Darkness seems a lot, but it is very weak, impotent. Light is small, but powerful—because light is a particle of the divine; the divine is concealed in light. Darkness is only a negation, an absence. Darkness is not.

That is why you cannot do anything directly with darkness. You can neither bring it nor remove it. Light the lamp—darkness is gone. Extinguish the lamp—darkness appears. To say “darkness came, darkness went” is not really correct—only a quirk of language. Darkness neither is, nor can it come or go. Where there is no light, that absence is called darkness; where light is, the absence is not.

However great or old the darkness, Neelam, it makes no difference. The light we are kindling will break it; it will. The only issue is the lighting of the lamp. So do not concern yourself with the dark; become fuel for the light.

For this light I need your sneha—your affection. Sneha in Hindi has two meanings: love, and oil. I need your sneha in both senses—love and oil—so this torch can burn.

Do not worry at all about darkness. What fear of darkness? Invest all your concern, all your life-energy in making light. And the light is within you; it is not to be brought from outside. It is only hidden—uncover it. It is only buried—clear a little rubbish. A diamond is lost in the dust—only search.

And you say, “There are many enemies of light.”

There always have been—nothing new. But what can enemies of light do? They only bring suffering upon themselves—what else?

Those who gave poison to Socrates—do you think they made him suffer? Impossible. They themselves suffered—filled with remorse, tormented. After sentencing Socrates, the judges thought he would ask forgiveness; then they would forgive. For this man was lovable—however rebellious, he had a certain dignity. In truth they knew: the day Socrates is extinguished, the lamp of Athens goes out. And so it was. After Socrates’ death Athens never attained heights again. What is Athens today? No standing. In these two and a half millennia, Athens never regained its glory. But when Socrates lived, Athens was the capital of the world’s intelligence, the cradle of its finest genius—aglow with Socrates’ light.

They knew this—even those who sentenced him. For their own interests they sentenced him. They did not want to kill him; they only wanted that Socrates stop speaking truth. They expected that faced with death he would beg pardon. But Socrates did not. They were perplexed. They offered two conditions: “If you leave Athens, we will restrain ourselves from giving poison. Do not return.”

Socrates said, “I cannot. I planted this garden called Athens. Here I breathed life into hundreds. Here I opened so many blind eyes. I cannot leave Athens. In this old age I cannot start my work anew. Death comes anyway; let it come here—among my beloveds. Why go to a strange land to start with ABC again? And in the end the same would happen there that is happening here. If this happens in a cultured city like Athens, where else should I go? Wherever I go it will happen sooner. At least here I have the good fortune to be killed by cultured, civilized, intelligent people! Better than by savages. I will not leave; you may give the poison.”

They said, “Then stay in Athens, but stop speaking truth.”

Socrates laughed: “That is even more impossible. It is like asking birds not to sing, flowers not to exude fragrance, waterfalls not to sound their music, the sun not to give light. It cannot be. If I am, truth will be spoken. If I am silent, even my silence will proclaim truth. No, this cannot be. It is my very trade.” He used the word “trade” with a smile. Such people can laugh even at the last hour. “Truth-telling is my profession, my shop. As long as breath goes in and out, I will go on speaking.”

They had to give him the hemlock. But many repented—Athens’ dignity was gone and day by day it fell.

Jesus was crucified. The man, Judas, who sold Jesus into the enemies’ hands—do you know?—the next day he hanged himself. This story few know; Christians do not tell it. They should—for without it Jesus’ story is incomplete. Jesus was crucified; Judas the next day climbed a tree and hanged himself, so remorseful. For with Jesus gone, he saw Jerusalem went dark; its celebration vanished; a long night descended that has not broken yet. Until another Jesus is born, Jerusalem’s night will not break. Two thousand years have passed—no end to that night.

There are enemies of light, yes—but what can they do? They repent afterward. They may blow out a lit lamp, but the light that has dissolved into the sky has become eternal.

Perhaps people would have forgotten Jesus had he not been crucified. Perhaps they would have forgotten Socrates had he not been poisoned. But the stamp remained—poison on Socrates, crucifixion on Jesus. Jesus became the very inner being of humanity.

Enemies of light cannot harm the light—never. Truth is never harmed. Satyameva jayate—truth alone triumphs. It may lose small skirmishes, but in the last battle it wins. And small skirmishes do not matter. Sometimes to win you take two steps back; sometimes you must wait; sometimes you even feign defeat. But the final victory is always of light, of truth.

And you say that this makes you afraid that this life, too, may pass empty like other lives.

It will not. Drop the worry. This life will not pass empty. Whoever is linked with me will be filled, because what I experience within I am eager to pour into you. Whoever has placed their pitchers before me will not go empty. Only those will go empty who brought no pitcher—or brought it upside down—or hid it behind their backs; hearing and not hearing, seeing and not seeing.

What has blossomed within me, the music that has begun within me, is skilled in awakening that music within you. It will touch your inner strings. I will show you that which is not ordinarily seen. You will hear that which is not ordinarily heard. The veena of the sky will play.

Neelam, spread your shawl! Open your begging bowl! And the Buddha-field has already been created; it is still invisible—we have only to make it visible. Today there are a hundred thousand sannyasins on earth. Of them, ten thousand are ready, any moment, to come leaving everything.

All hardships the sannyasins are already bearing here. And when I said something about their hardship and the uncultured conduct of Poona, much restlessness spread. Many articles were written.

One writer wrote: Poona is a city of 1.4 million; perhaps four percent are ruffians harassing sannyasins, especially sannyasinis—but for this you cannot condemn the entire city.

His name is Ram Bansal. I was surprised. I don’t know much mathematics, but enough to expose the futility of his point. If the population is fourteen lakhs, what is four percent? Fifty-six thousand. And foreign sannyasinis here are, at most, one thousand. Fifty-six goons behind each woman—and I should not criticize? Just imagine your wife being confronted by fifty-six hoodlums wherever she goes! And suppose four percent are bad; but the good are impotent and inactive. If four thugs attack a woman, the gentlemen turn their faces and walk away. Of what use are the remaining ninety-six percent? They themselves are afraid of these goons.

They were shocked that a cultured city like Poona… Perhaps once it was; certainly once it must have been—hence the name Poona, from punya, merit. The Kashi of the South. But when the real Kashi itself has deteriorated, what will be the state of its imitators! If the original has sunk, what of the copies!

And writers listed names: Lokmanya Tilak and such great men once lived here.

I know that too. And what about “Mahatma” Nathuram Godse? Will you think nothing of him? One Nathuram Godse is enough to wipe away a hundred Lokmanya Tilaks.

There will be obstacles—from society, from the state, from politicians. Even bearing all these, thousands are eager to come. They will come and live. This saffron city of sannyasins will be established. There may be delay; but there will be no denial. But begin preparing yourselves now, because not everyone will get entry—only those who are ready.

So do not worry how long the new commune takes to build. Worry about being ready before it is built. I want only those there who enter with their ego absolutely zero, because some unique experiments are to be done that have not been done for centuries. We shall descend into your unconscious and into the collective unconscious; we shall ascend into your superconscious and into the universal, cosmic consciousness. You stand in the middle—knowing neither your depths nor your heights. I will take you into the depths of the Pacific and to the summit of Everest—and both journeys together. For the deeper one goes, the higher one can rise; and the higher one rises, the deeper one can go. Height and depth are one dimension.

Neelam, prepare—prepare to efface yourself—so that when you enter the new commune my heartbeat is your heartbeat, and my breath your breath.

The difficulty for you is this: the delay keeps increasing; the mind is in a hurry, impatient. Blessed is this impatience.

A fire you have lit—will it be quenched by tears?
I know I am kindling a fire. These saffron robes are symbols of the fire—the funeral pyre in which your ego burns, your body-identification burns; your identification with mind, body, intellect all falls away, burns, becomes ash—so that you may be seated only in pure consciousness.

A fire you have lit—will it be quenched by tears?
I know, Neelam, tears will not extinguish this fire. In truth, tears will only increase it. So do not drop your weeping. These tears will act like ghee. Tears that fall in love become clarified butter—they will feed the flame. And this fire is not to be put out; it is to be ever more enflamed.

A fire you have lit—will it be quenched by tears?

Lane to lane, at every door
I sat the shehnai to play,
Yet I cannot forget bygone days—
In every trembling note a shadow sways.
The knot you tied—how will it untie by itself?

It will not. That is exactly why I am tying a single great knot—after untying all the small ones. Then that one knot can be cut—not untied, cut. A single stroke of the sword can cut it. Small knots are troublesome—some with wealth, position, prestige. Let all the small knots be gathered into one: one ardency of all longings—the ardency to realize the divine. That single knot I will cut. For that, I am the sword.

Someone asked Jesus, “What have you brought for the world?” Jesus said, “Not peace, but a sword.”

Christians are afraid to quote this sentence; it seems a contradiction. Jesus says again and again that God is love; he says if someone slaps your one cheek, offer the other; if someone takes your coat, give him your shirt; if someone asks you to carry a burden one mile, go two. And yet he says, “I bring not peace but a sword!” So they avoid this verse. They do not understand which sword he means.

There are swords and swords. Some create problems; some cut problems. Some give birth to conflict; some shower peace. Jesus speaks of the sword that cuts your knot with a single stroke.

And why cut slowly, gradually? When there are many knots it is difficult. Gather them into one. By that I mean: fuse all desires into a single ardency—the ardency to find God; then only one knot remains. I will cut it. For that I am the sword.

A fire you have lit—will it be quenched by tears?

Lane to lane, at every door
I sat the shehnai to play;
Yet I cannot forget bygone days—
In every trembling note a shadow sways.
The knot you tied—how will it untie by itself?

The briny sea of the mind stretched out its arms,
Raised high its hands to be lifted;
But did the moonlit waves
Ever rise to raise them?
The thirst you have awakened—will it doze off to a lullaby?

It will not sleep. I do not believe in lullabies. I do not wish to console. I am not here to put you to sleep; I am here to wake you, to shake you.

There is much that is beautiful here, but
You are most beautiful, most rakish.
You are false, yet from the veil of your true heart
Shiva’s benediction peeks through.
It is the hour of darkness, a heavy, bad day—how will dawn enter the house?

Great darkness—how will morning come?

Only after deep darkness does morning come. The more dense the night, the nearer the dawn. The more obstacles arise in my work, the more hardships befall my sannyasins, the denser the night, the more the clouds gather—the easier the work becomes, the nearer the moment of dawn.

So leave all worry to me. You dance; you sing. Whatever is to be will happen at the right time—there will not be a delay of even a moment. Worry does not catch hold of me—so I say, leave all worry to me.

I keep moving at the pace of an elephant—the dogs are barking.
Many have come and gone,
Worldly tricksters—tricked and gone;
Yet upon this earth still resounds
The song of love’s realized nectar.
I keep moving at the pace of an elephant—the dogs are barking.

I have seen the pageant of thorns,
Blood still clings to my feet;
Smiling, we have always offered
The gift of life’s blood.
Poor fellows—how could they come close?
So much barking—yet they failed.
Still my voice did not change—
I sing the victory-song of the path.
What worry for the one who walks,
For the moth that burns into the flame?
The shadow upon the path
Becomes love’s lamp, cooling the breath of life.
I keep moving at the pace of an elephant—the dogs are barking.

Leave all anxieties to me! Give me all your burdens! For I do not feel burdened, and worry does not touch me. You dance and sing without care. Your dance and your song will bring the new commune nearer. Sing the song of dawn and dawn will draw near. Your song will become the cause that brings the morning closer. Do not be sad. Do not be anxious.

Naturally, when I am being abused across the land my sannyasins feel concerned. Be happy; dance when I am abused. It means people have begun to think; they have become restless; my presence has begun to prick their vested interests. No one abuses for free. I was waiting for the day when everyone would abuse me—an auspicious day, because after that the work picks up speed. And as many as abuse, that many will become curious.

Life’s arithmetic is strange! As many condemn, that many itch to hear what it is all about. Many of you came this way—heard so many abuses, so much condemnation that you said, “Let’s go once and see what the matter is.” And whoever comes once—something or other is bound to happen. He cannot go back the same as he came.

Neelam, do not worry. Everything is happening at the right time. Everything will happen at the right time. Every event has its own moment, its own ripeness. Before that, nothing is right. Only at the ripe moment does something happen—and that alone is right.

Rajendra Bharati, everything depends on you. If it is raining and you stand with an open umbrella, you will not get wet. Close the umbrella and you will be drenched. If it is raining and you take a pot with holes and place it under the open sky, it will fill and yet be empty again. Seal the holes and it will fill and stay full. If it is raining and you take even a pot without holes and place it upside down under the sky, it may rain and rain and the pot will remain empty. Everything depends on you.

The true Master is a shower—of nectar! If you receive it, your very life will be dyed. If you do not, if you sit with doors and windows shut, you will miss.

You ask: “Does the color of company inevitably take, or is it only a matter of chance?”

It is not a compulsion—and it is not a mere accident either. If the company colored you as a necessity, then whoever came to a true Master would be dyed. Then those who crucified Jesus would have been dyed in the very act of crucifying him. Those who stoned Buddha would have been dyed while throwing the stones.

There is no such compulsion that company must color you. There is no such compulsion for anything in existence. Fire will burn only when you put your hand into it. Keep your hand away and the fire will not burn it. The fire will go on burning—burning itself. But if you put your hand in, you will be burned.

Come close to the Master and you will be dyed. Put your hand in, and you will be burned. Put your very life in, and whatever is useless, trash and rubbish, will be reduced to dross; the gold will be refined.

And it is not a mere accident either. “Mere accident” would mean: sometimes it happens, sometimes it doesn’t—if it happens, fine; if it doesn’t, fine—no order to it. It is not like that.

A hand burning in fire is not a mere accident. Put your hand in fire and you will burn—by law you will burn. It is not that sometimes you burn and sometimes you don’t; not that sometimes the fire says, “Today I am not in the mood to burn,” and on another day says, “Keep your distance today—I will burn double.” Burning your hand in fire is not an accident—and neither is it a universal compulsion. If it were a compulsion, you would burn wherever you are; even standing far away you would burn.

Fire’s law is to burn. But the one who is to be burned—everything depends on him. He has to come near. He has to draw close, to sit in satsang.

The company does color you—but only if you allow it!

Once it happened: the days of Phalgun came, Holi arrived. The villagers played Holi. They even caught hold of the politician. For long they had been nursing the desire to rough him up a bit. They smeared him with colors, with black dye, with tar; plastered him with gutter-mud and filth. And they were amazed that the leader kept smiling and kept smiling—the smile didn’t change at all. Noon came; people went home; the leader too went home. People were thinking it would take months to get the color off, for they had brought the strongest dyes. It wasn’t color—it was coal-tar; it would be hard to remove. The skin might peel off and the color still not go. So by evening they peeked in to see how the leader was faring.

They were shocked: there was no color on the leader’s face at all! Yes, lying nearby was a mask smeared with coal-tar. And then they understood: it was not the leader who had been smiling—the mask was smiling. That is why the smile had not gone—how could the mask’s smile go? It was a built-in smile.

Now the leader laughed and said, “You people! Don’t you even know that all politicians have masks? You wasted your color for nothing! That’s why I let you smear away to your hearts’ content—go on smearing; no worry: no color is going to get on my real face.”

If you go to the Master wearing masks, the color of company will not take. If you go as a Hindu—you’ve missed. As a Muslim—you’ve missed. As a Jain—you’ve missed. These are masks. Go to the true Master like a small child—simple; with no labels, no religion, no caste, no doctrines, no scriptures—then the color will take; it will surely take; it will take inevitably! And it will take in such a way that it will never wash off. This color is not such as can be washed away; it is a fast color.

Kabir has said: “I dye the veil in such a way that the color never fades.” Kabir said: “I am a dyer.”

All true Masters are dyers. But they are not going to snatch your veil by force and dye it while you run away—while you are fleeing and they are dyeing your veil! And this veil is not something you can drop and run; it is the very veil of your soul.

Rajendra, if one is ready to be dyed, one is dyed even by those Masters who are no longer in the body; and if one is not ready to be dyed, one is not dyed even by those who are present. There are such mad lovers who were dyed by Krishna—and Krishna passed thousands of years ago! After all, was Meera not dyed? She was dyed by Krishna—drowned in Krishna’s color. And how many people must have been present in Krishna’s own time and remained without color! Duryodhana did not get dyed. Leave Duryodhana aside—Arjuna too raised all kinds of obstacles to being dyed. Only then was the Gita born; otherwise how would the Gita have arisen? Krishna says, “Be dyed,” and Arjuna says, “Here is my head—dye it!”—then the Gita would not have been born.

Arjuna created great trouble. He raised big questions, sowed great doubts from this side and that. Even then—whether he was dyed is doubtful. My own feeling is that he got tired of listening to Krishna’s talk. So he said, “Enough, sir, stop now; all my doubts are cleared.” Because if he brought up one more doubt, the discourse would continue. “All my doubts are cleared. I will do as you say.” He picked up the Gandiva and went to fight.

But he cannot have been fully dyed, for the ancient tale says that when the great journey began after death—the ascent to heaven—the rest melted away on the way; Arjuna too melted away. Only Yudhishthira and his dog reached the gates of heaven. That dog proved to be far more of a true companion of satsang. He must have been dyed through and through. Arjuna also melted away! He heard the Gita—what came of it? I ask: he heard the Gita; what came of it? The Gita could not save Arjuna! Krishna dyed and dyed—and the color did not set. There must be something there.

Arjuna got tired; he was defeated in argument. He tried from all sides to escape, but saw that with this man there is no escaping—he would have to fight. So he fought. But somewhere inside a lack remained. If even a particle of doubt remains, it is enough to drown you.

Yudhishthira reached the gates of heaven with his dog. The gatekeeper opened the door and said to Yudhishthira, “You may come in, but dogs are forbidden.”

Yudhishthira said, “Then I cannot come either. The dog first; I will follow.”

“Why?” asked the guard. “Why?”

He said, “My brothers melted away on the way, my wife melted away on the way, my kith and kin melted away; only this dog has come with me to the very gates of heaven. Shall I leave him? He who has companied me thus far, such that none could be my companion; who has come with me beyond death to the very gate of the immortal; with whom my knot has been so tied, such a bond formed—shall I leave him? Keep your heaven! I can give up your heaven, but I cannot give up this companion, this fellow-traveler. I cannot abandon this disciple.”

Arjuna melted on the way. Even Arjuna could not be dyed as deeply in Krishna’s color as Meera was dyed; and Meera was dyed thousands of years later. And Chaitanya too was dyed thousands of years later.

If there is love for the Master, that love drops all hindrances, all obstacles. If there is love, time disappears, space disappears—the distances in between, of time or of space, are dissolved. Love is beyond time, beyond space.

If there is love, Rajendra, you will be dyed—whenever. Even if the Master leaves the body, his soul remains available—always available. Those who are love-soaked, who call upon him with love—upon them he will still shower. But even if the Master is present and you are sitting in your stiffness, in your own cleverness and skill, you will miss.

Row gently, boatman,
the dear old ghat is familiar.
Boatman, countless waves have come,
come and crashed upon the ghats.
You do not know—upon this very ghat
Radha once rippled like the flute’s melody.
I used to come here always,
finding each day a new pretext.
Maya is no more, her body is no more;
even now, hidden, she smiles.
You will not be able to hear, blind and deaf—
I have seen sweet memory sing a Kajri.
She smiles like a blossoming kadamba;
I cannot give up this coming and going.
Unwittingly I let the secret slip,
I revealed the ambush about to spring.
I was the plaintiff from the first,
and now have become the defendant.
It won’t be wrong—let me go,
to hear the song in mid-current.

Those who can hear can still hear Krishna’s flute on the banks of the Yamuna today. Those who can hear can still hear Radha’s song at Bansivat today. Eyes are needed! Ears are needed! And behind the ears and eyes, a joined heart is needed! Eyes that see with love, ears that hear with love—then Buddha is present, Krishna is present, Jesus is present, Muhammad is present. They are forever present.

A true Master does not vanish. One who vanishes—what kind of Master is that!

Maharshi Raman’s final moment: someone asked, “Maharshi, now the body will drop; where will you go?” The Maharshi said, “Where would I go! Is there any other place to go? I will remain what I am; I will remain where I am. Where is there to go? There is only one existence; there is no second existence.”

He said something marvelous: “Where would I go? There is only one existence; I will remain right here—as I am, so I shall remain.”

With the falling of the body the soul does not fall. With the breaking of the pot, the water does not break. With the loss of the ghats, the river does not die—it becomes the ocean. Love is needed! Love is a wholly different way of seeing. Feeling is a new kind of eye—an eye that makes even the invisible visible, that makes the unmanifest manifest.

And you ask: “Does the color of company inevitably take, or is it only a matter of accident?”

It is not mere accident and it is not compulsion. It depends on you. There is freedom. If you wish, it will take; if you do not wish, it will not.

Truth cannot be imposed. Accept it and it is yours; reject it and it is not yours. It cannot be draped upon you by force. Truth is not a chain to be fastened on your hands, nor a prison to confine you. Truth is freedom.

Remember this: bondage can be loaded upon you by force; freedom cannot be loaded upon you by force. Chains can be put on someone’s hands and fetters on the feet—indeed they are put by force; otherwise who would agree to wear them! But if someone is to be freed, the chains are to be cut—this cannot be done by force. Even if you break them, he will put them on again.

It so happened: in the French Revolution the Bastille was broken open. There were imprisoned there France’s most heinous offenders. Only those who were sentenced to life imprisonment were confined in that fortress. There were some five thousand prisoners there—some had been inside thirty years, some forty, some even fifty. The chains and fetters put on those prisoners had no locks, because there was no need for locks; there was no key either, because there was no question of opening them—when they died, then their hands and feet were broken to remove the chains. For until death they were to remain in prison. The revolutionaries broke the Bastille and tried to free the prisoners by force, to drag them out of their dark cells. Many flatly refused, absolutely refused; they fought and quarreled—“We don’t want to go!”

I understand them. Do not laugh; you too should understand. A man who has lived fifty years in a dark cell—will he be able to open his eyes in the light outside? He will go blind. Brought out, they could see nothing. They said, “Let us go back inside.” A man who has breathed foul air for fifty years, where there are no windows, no ventilators—will he be able to bear fresh air? He will not be able to tolerate it. And a man who has been bound for fifty years, who gets a dry crust in the morning on time, a dry crust in the evening; at night the bell rings and he sleeps—with no worry, no care—now again at seventy is he to earn bread? One who has not earned bread for fifty years, who has forgotten everything—where will he go? After fifty years whom will he look for? The wife would have died. The sons will not even recognize him. The brothers and relatives will drive him away: “We do not know you; who are you; where have you come from; move along!” After fifty years, the society he left—where does it remain? There will be no acquaintances, no loved ones, no known faces. Who will give him bread?

But revolutionaries are stubborn; they did not agree. Under the lash they broke the chains and removed the fetters. Those who would not go, they pushed out.

And then an extraordinary thing happened—significant for history. By evening, the majority of prisoners had returned and begged, “At least let us sleep in our cells! Where shall we sleep? Where shall we go? We need a roof, at least!”

And the next day the revolutionaries were even more amazed: many, during the night, had put back on their chains and shackles that had been broken and removed. They were asked, “Fools, what are you doing?” They said, “Without chains, without handcuffs, we cannot sleep. Without this weight in the hands and feet—we have slept fifty years with such weight.”

You know this too: a woman who sleeps wearing many ornaments—let her sleep one night without them, she will not fall asleep. And what are ornaments? Call them iron chains or gold chains—what is the difference? If there is even a slight difference, sleep will not come. You sleep each night with your head to the left; today sleep with your head to the right—sleep will not come. Your quilt becomes a little thicker or thinner and sleep will not come, for the weight changes. The pillow a little smaller or bigger and sleep will not come.

Understand those people’s trouble: for fifty years they had slept only with chains! Then the revolutionaries understood that slavery can be given by force, but freedom cannot be given by force.

No Master can make you free by force.

I have heard: in a mountain wayside inn a revolutionary stayed the night. At dusk, as the sun was setting, he reached the inn. Right at the door of the inn a parrot was locked in a cage—beautiful cage—and the parrot was crying, “Freedom! Freedom! Freedom!”

The revolutionary’s heart-strings were plucked—this was his own cry! He made inquiries. It turned out that the owner of the inn, in his youth, too had been mad for freedom. So he had not taught the parrot to say “Ram, Ram”; he had taught it the lesson of “Freedom! Freedom!” The parrot kept on crying, “Freedom!” Even when the full moon rose at night, the parrot was crying, “Freedom!” The revolutionary could not bear it. He came, opened the parrot’s cage and said, “Fly! Dear one, fly!”

But did the parrot fly? The parrot grasped the bars of the cage hard. The revolutionary said, “What are you doing? The door is open now—fly!”

But the parrot clung tightly to the cage and cried even louder, “Freedom! Freedom! Freedom!” But revolutionaries are revolutionaries—who is going to be defeated by a parrot? He thrust his hand in and tried to drag the parrot out by force. The parrot pecked his hand, made it bleed, and kept crying, “Freedom! Freedom!” But the revolutionary is a revolutionary; who will be defeated by a parrot! He pulled the parrot out by force—even the parrot’s wings broke—no matter; he pulled him out; the parrot kept striking his hand—no matter; he flung him into the sky. And then, delighted that one soul had been freed, he went to sleep.

In the morning when he awoke, the door of the cage was still open, the parrot was sitting inside, crying, “Freedom! Freedom! Freedom!”

Freedom cannot be given by force. And the freedom I speak of is ultimate freedom. You can have it if you want it. You can receive it if you choose.

Truth cannot be handed over; it can be taken. It cannot be taught; it can be learned.

Narendra! For me, certainly both proverbs are true, and true at the same time. But they are to be applied differently.

Poison is fine too—sometimes it becomes medicine. And nectar can be wrong—drink too much and it will kill you. Thorns are bad because they prick; and good too, because if a thorn gets embedded, you need a thorn to take it out.

Life is not clean and simple like two plus two equals four; life is a mystery. Both sayings are true.

“What you plan for tomorrow, do today; what you plan for today, do now.
In a moment the world may dissolve—when will you do it then?”

Who knows! There’s no guarantee of even a moment. In a moment the world may dissolve! If something is to be done, do it now. But what is that “something”?

Mulla Nasruddin went to his psychologist and said, “No one in my office works. When I arrive, people hurriedly open their ledgers and pretend to write. The moment I leave, the ledgers close. Legs go up on tables, tea is being sipped, cigarettes smoked, gossip abounds. I show up and all ‘work’ begins—but it’s fake, because nothing is done. What do I do? You’re a psychologist—show me a way.”

The psychologist wrote down that proverb and gave it to him. “Hang this everywhere in the office!

‘What you plan for tomorrow, do today; what you plan for today, do now.
In a moment the world may dissolve—when will you do it then?’

It will have an effect. People will read it again and again; it will make an impression.”

Nasruddin hung it above every desk in big letters. The next day the psychologist met him on the road and was shocked—bandage on his head, a cast on his arm. “Nasruddin, what happened?” “Your proverb!” “My proverb? How did my proverb break your head and your arm?”

He said, “Sir, the result of your proverb! The manager took all the cash from the safe and ran off. He thought: ‘What you plan for tomorrow, do today; what you plan for today, do now. In a moment the world may dissolve—when will you do it then?’ He’d been thinking for days—do it, do it—tomorrow, tomorrow. When he saw that plaque he emptied the safe and vanished. My secretary eloped with my typist. They too disappeared. And my peon came inside and thrashed me! I asked, ‘Brother, what are you doing?’ He said, ‘What you plan for tomorrow, do today; what you plan for today, do now. In a moment the world may dissolve—when will you do it then? I’ve wanted to beat you since the day I took this job. I kept putting it off—one day when there’s a chance, in some dark corner, I’ll crack your skull. But that plaque you put up—it had an effect!’”

In the hands of the unwise, nectar becomes poison. In the hands of the wise, poison becomes nectar. That first proverb is for virtues. If it’s love you wish to offer—now. If it’s charity—now. Meditation—now. Worship, prayer, adoration—now. If a wholesome impulse arises, don’t postpone it, because who knows about tomorrow?

But your mind doesn’t only produce wholesome impulses; unwholesome ones arise too. Those you postpone till tomorrow. Say, “What’s the hurry? We’ll do it later.”

“And what you plan for today, put it off till tomorrow; what for tomorrow, till the day after.
Why the rush? There are years yet to live.”

Think of it this way: had Mulla Nasruddin hung the second plaque, the office would have run more smoothly. Work still wouldn’t get done, perhaps, but heads and limbs wouldn’t have broken. At least the secretary wouldn’t have run off with the typist. And at least what was in the safe would have stayed in the safe. If it didn’t increase, no great loss; but what was there would have remained.

Postpone the bad till tomorrow.

Gurdjieff said the most revolutionary thing in his life came from his grandfather. “I was nine when he was dying. He called me close. He loved me greatly. He said, ‘Perhaps you won’t understand now; you’re too young. But remember—remember! When you’re older, you’ll understand. Keep this one sentence like my legacy to you; I have nothing else to give. This sentence has changed my life.’ I listened; I didn’t fully understand. Later, when I did, I practiced it—because of his love. Slowly its taste appeared; the seed sprouted, became a tree.”

What was the sentence? Very small: “If someone insults you, tells you off—say to him: I will answer you after twenty-four hours.” Hardly a great scripture! But Gurdjieff says, “It changed my life. Whenever someone insulted me, I remembered: don’t reply instantly. I would say, ‘Forgive me. I promised my grandfather: I will answer you tomorrow—after twenty-four hours.’ And when I thought for a day, the anger subsided. Sometimes it even seemed what he said was true.

“Someone on the street shouts, ‘Thief!’ You feel hurt. But reflect, and a thousand things become clear—how many petty thefts we’ve done. If not done, at least thought of. Someone says, ‘You lout, you good-for-nothing!’ You’re offended. Go home and think—you’ll find it’s not entirely false. ‘Luchcha’ simply means ‘one who ogles’; well, I have stared plenty. What’s the big deal? He’s not entirely wrong.

“When I really thought, I found either it was true—then Grandfather had said, go and thank him. Or it was false—then why worry about the false? What power does the false have! Forget it. And always it was one of the two: if true, I thanked him—one budding enmity dissolved, a friendship was born. And an unusual kind of friendship—because the other one could see I wasn’t an ordinary man. My dignity was visible. And if it was false, I let it go; why quarrel or fret about the false? The false dies of itself. It has no legs. What breath can it have? Why fight for the false? And for the true—what’s the point of fighting?”

Gurdjieff wrote, “The result was: I made many friends, and I created no enemies. It brought a sweetness into life.” Gurdjieff had an extraordinary art of making friends, and the whole secret lay in this little formula.

Narendra, everything depends on you. Leave the wrong for tomorrow—tomorrow never comes; if you leave it for tomorrow, it will never happen. Do the right now—because tomorrow never comes; if you postpone the right to tomorrow, it will never happen.

People do exactly the opposite: they don’t do the right now; they put it off. They do the wrong now; they don’t put it off. If anger arises—you act immediately. If compassion arises—you say, “I’ll think about it.” And in that thinking, the feeling of compassion evaporates. If the urge to do good arises—you say, “Let me consider.” If the urge to do harm arises—you flare up and do it on the spot.

As many evils as happen in the world, they happen in haste, in urgency, in the rush. And as many good deeds as happen, they too happen in haste, in urgency, in the rush. He who merely thinks of doing the good—good won’t happen. And he who merely thinks of doing the bad—such thinking leads him straight into doing it.

There is an episode in Mahavira’s life. A devotee returned home—an old story, twenty-five hundred years old; it doesn’t happen now, but then it did. He sat to bathe. His wife was scrubbing him with ubtan. While she worked, they talked. She said, “I heard you’ve become a devotee of Mahavira too. My brother is also a devotee. Not only a devotee—he says that if not today, then tomorrow, he will take initiation from Mahavira—become a sannyasin.”

The husband said, “Tomorrow? Then he’ll never take it. Mahavira’s whole teaching is: if a wholesome act is to be done, do it now, this very moment. Whom is your brother fooling?”

A quarrel began between husband and wife. She said, “You don’t know my brother—he’s a Kshatriya! I too am a Kshatriyani. When he says he’ll do it, he’ll do it.”

He said, “Even if he’s a Kshatriya, he’ll still have to do it tomorrow—and tomorrow never comes. Tomorrow doesn’t come for Kshatriyas, or Brahmins, or Shudras—it makes no distinctions. Tomorrow comes for no one. Believe me—how long has he been thinking about it?”

She hesitated. “At least three years.”

“So tomorrow hasn’t come in three years? It won’t come in thirty either. And life’s entanglements grow daily; they don’t diminish. He must be thinking: let me settle things, then I’ll take initiation. But nothing ever settles. A man only gets more entangled; when does he finish anything? One thing leads to two, two to four, four to eight—the bazaar keeps expanding. He starts with a small stall and becomes a big shopkeeper. Then it’s hard to shut shop. He keeps thinking: now I’ll wrap it up—but then his hands seem too small and the shop too big.”

The wife felt the sting: an insult to her brother was an insult to her. His Kshatriya courage was being doubted; his religious feeling questioned. So she struck back: “And what about you? You too listen to Mahavira! Have you never felt the urge to take initiation?”

There was a moment of silence. The husband, naked for his bath, simply stood up. “Where are you going?” she asked. “To take initiation,” he said. “Are you mad? Where are you going like this?” He opened the door and stepped out. She cried, “What will people say? You’re going out naked!” He said, “Why should I care what people say? For Mahavira’s initiation one must be naked—so from now. Why delay? Half the work is already done.” “I was joking!” she cried. “Joke or not, the matter is settled,” he said. “You struck at my Kshatriya heart. The wholesome must be done now. I am grateful to you.” He bowed to her feet. “You are my first guru. Had you not raised this, I wouldn’t have remembered so vividly. I too am deeply affected by Mahavira. If I am affected, I should take initiation; otherwise what does being ‘affected’ mean? I hadn’t really thought about it, but somewhere in the unconscious the urge was there. I hadn’t postponed it to tomorrow because it had never become conscious. You lifted it from the unconscious into the conscious. I am indebted to you.”

He didn’t look back. That was a proper use of the principle.

Remember, no principle is right or wrong in itself; everything depends on how it is applied. And for right application, a meditative mind is needed. That’s why I don’t tell you which of the two formulas to follow. If you don’t have a meditative mind, whichever formula you follow, you’ll misuse it.

That’s what is happening. The West has used the first formula, so they say:

“What you plan for tomorrow, do today; what you plan for today, do now.
In a moment the world may dissolve—when will you do it then?”

In the West a man is caught in pell-mell haste—do it now! Quickly! No one asks, “Why such a hurry?” But hurry there is. Get there fast! Whether you ‘get there’ or not. Drive your car at a hundred, a hundred and twenty miles an hour—must get there quickly! Where? To a friend’s house to play cards, to a chessboard—lest you be late. Going to buy vegetables—and such speed! And after you arrive, what then? What’s the rush?

The West grabbed the first formula foolishly—do it now! So everything must be instant—like instant coffee. Who has time to prepare, to brew? The West, rushing and rushing, is arriving at such a point that even food—why cook, why digest? Just swallow vitamin pills or take a weekly shot. Who will waste so much time! Sleep wastes time—so take pills to keep you from sleeping. Time is short and there’s so much to do. Run! Run! And where will you arrive? You’ll fall into the grave.

And the East has used the second formula and squandered its glory:

“And what you plan for today, put it off till tomorrow; what for tomorrow, till the day after.
Why the rush? There are years yet to live.”

The East postpones. It says, “Why hurry? We’ll do it. I’m still young; old age will come.” And even if we die? “What’s the hurry? There will be another birth.” In the West there is no second birth. Here, births upon births—an endless series.

The West is dying of tension, haste, urgency; the East is dying of laziness, inertia. Both have misused the principles.

Therefore I don’t give you principles; I give you eyes. Understand the difference. With principles there’s always danger—who will apply them, who will interpret them? You will. And you’ll interpret to suit yourself.

Mulla Nasruddin was drinking hard. Someone said, “Nasruddin! I’ve seen you read the Quran—and you drink too. Aren’t you ashamed?” Nasruddin said, “I drink according to the Quran. The Quran clearly says: ‘Drink as much wine as you wish.’” The man said, “I know that—but what about the rest? You’ve quoted half. It continues: ‘But be prepared for the consequences—you will burn in the fires of hell.’” Mulla said, “For now my capacity allows me only half. I’m not yet able, not qualified, to do the other half. I am honoring the Quran as far as I can.”

But you will interpret, won’t you?

That’s why I don’t give you fixed doctrines. I give you vision—of seeing, thinking, discerning. I give you meditation, so that in the mirror of awareness you can see clearly which thing is right when. Sometimes a thing is right; sometimes it is not. Contexts change; truths change.

Last question:

Celebration is our caste; bliss is our lineage! That is our brief introduction. But it is enough. In it are contained all the Upanishads, all the Bhagavad Gitas, the Bible, the Quran, the Dhammapada. In it are contained all the songs of the buddhas. In it are contained all the celebrations of the awakened ones.
Celebration is our caste; bliss is our lineage!
That is all for today.