Utsav Amar Jati Anand Amar Gotar #4

Kabir, bliss is indefinable, inexpressible—like a dumb person tasting jaggery. You can taste it, you can know it, you can live it; but you cannot convey it, you cannot describe it. A song will arise in the innermost heart, but you will not be able to bring it to the lips.

The song of bliss remains unsung. The experience of bliss remains unspoken. And it is not that people have not tried to say it. For ages upon ages, from time immemorial, the knowers have kept trying to convey something to those whose eyes are still closed; to remind those who are drowning in pits of sorrow; to tell them that life is not only poison, there is nectar too. But they have not been able to tell it. It cannot be told.

The nature of bliss is beyond words. Indications can be given—like someone raising a finger toward the moon. The finger is not the moon. What has the finger to do with the moon! And if someone foolish grabs the finger and sits there thinking, “This is the moon,” then? There are many such fools who have taken milestones to be the destination and begun to worship them; who have forgotten the truths but cling to the words; who have forgotten the Buddhas yet have been carrying their sayings on their heads for centuries. The weight of those sayings is so Himalayan that even walking has become difficult; people are crushed beneath the load—dying, decaying under the burden of knowledge.

People are foolish: they catch hold of the pointer, and do not lift their eyes to where it points. And lifting the eyes in that direction is a costly bargain too. If you want to know bliss you will have to show a readiness to lose sorrow. And you will say, how is that costly? We are all ready to lose sorrow. No, not at all—no, a thousand times no. You say you are ready to lose it, but you do not want to lose sorrow. You clutch sorrow—tightly. This is your dilemma. You feel you have a powerful longing to be free from sorrow, and within you, you go on sowing seeds of sorrow, weaving its webs. Because you have deep vested interests in your misery. Without your misery, how will your ego survive?

In bliss the ego evaporates—like camphor just vanishing. In sorrow the ego remains. And whoever wants to save his ego will have to save his sorrow; not only save it—he will have to increase it every day, adorn it, embellish it. He will have to erect hell upon hell.

A gentleman asked me, “How many hells are there?”
I said, as many as you want to construct. For some, one is enough; for some, even two won’t do; for some, three won’t suffice. It depends on the person. As big an ego as you want, that many hells you will have to raise. Hells are the stairs of the ego.

Do you want heaven? Then understand one thing clearly—you must dissolve; you must bid farewell to the ego; you must be ready to be a nobody.

The fakirs have always said: As long as I was, God was not; and when I was no more, God was!
This “I” can live only in sorrow. Sorrow is its food. And in bliss it dies. As when light comes and darkness dies, so when bliss comes the ego dies.

So the first indication toward bliss is that no ego is found there; no kind of “somebodiness” is found there; the feeling “I am” is not found there. God is, but I am not. The ocean is, but the drop is not.

The second thing… but remember, these are indications, not definitions. Pointers. Understand them and they will serve you greatly. Understand, and thousands of knots will be untied. The second pointer: bliss is your nature. Sorrow has to be acquired from outside. For sorrow you have to spread your begging bowl. You have to ask for sorrow; only if someone gives do you get it. Bliss—you do not get by asking anyone. Even if someone wanted to give, he could not; and even if you begged, you could not receive it.

Sorrow belongs to the world of beggars; bliss to emperors. For bliss you do not spread a bowl. You do not ask it of anyone. Bliss is not given by another. Bliss is your innermostness. Bliss is your nature. You have come with it. Even now, when you are full of sorrow, when shadows of sorrow stand around you, when the stings and thorns of sorrow have pierced your very life, when the noose of sorrow is around your neck—even then, in your innermost core a spring of bliss is flowing. There is no way to be rid of it. How can one be rid of one’s nature! You can forget your nature, you can become oblivious to it—but you cannot destroy it.

Bliss is found by going within; sorrow by going without. Sorrow is an outward journey; bliss an inward journey. Sorrow is other-dependent; bliss is self-dependent.

Jean-Paul Sartre made an important statement: The other is hell. In it there is a very deep fragment of truth. The other is hell! But it is only a fragment—and not the essential one. The essential part is in Jesus’ saying: The Kingdom of God is within you. These are two faces of the same coin. If the other is sorrow, being oneself is joy. If the other is hell, being oneself is heaven.

For sorrow the mind needs elaborate arrangements. The mind manages, the mind organizes, and then sorrow can be had. By mind I mean all your passions, longings, expectations. By mind I mean all your desires, wishes, ambitions. Mind means your entire outward-running chase—of thought, of imagination, of memory. This mind is the original source of sorrow. At its center is the ego and on its periphery the web of all cravings.

Bliss is a state of no-mind; or, as the saints have said, unmani. As the Zen masters say, a state of no mind. Mindless, thought-free. Patanjali has said: chitta-vritti-nirodha—where the modifications of consciousness are brought to cessation. Where no wave of the mind remains, no ripple remains. Where the mind itself is no more, because mind is only the sum of its waves. Where you are so silent, the lake of your consciousness so still, that not a single ripple arises—that experiencing is called bliss. That supreme peace is called bliss. That settling into oneself is called bliss.

I can lead you toward bliss—I am leading you. Sannyas is nothing but another name for that inward journey. Meditation is nothing but a device for freedom from mind. It is slowly, slowly sliding toward no-mind. But I cannot tell you what bliss is. Not in words. Look into my eyes, Kabir—look into my eyes! Or sit near me and experience. Let the waves of my heart merge into the waves of your heart. Let my fingers play upon the veena of your heart. And you will know what bliss is.

But not in words, not in explanations, not in definitions can that vast sky be contained. Therefore the wise have spoken neti-neti—“not this, not this.”

Ego is not bliss—this is the language of neti. Mind is not bliss—this too is neti. Outside is not bliss—this too is neti. The other is not bliss—this too is neti. But this only tells what bliss is not. What bliss is remains untold. It will remain untold.

Hold my hand! Come with me! I will take you across. I have brought this boat from the other shore for you. Do not ask, on this shore, what that shore is like!

I understand your difficulty too. You want to be assured that the other shore exists at all. If it exists, what is it like? Is it better than this shore? Lest it happen that, caught in dilemma, you lose both—neither Maya nor Rama! Lest it happen that this shore slips away too. Granted there is sorrow here, but there are occasional glimpses of happiness as well. And granted there are many thorns, yet sometimes roses bloom among the thorns. And granted there is failure, gloom, pain, anguish—let all that be—but the lamp of hope is still lit; hope has not gone out! Who knows whether the other shore is or not? From here it is not visible. And even if it is, who knows whether it will be a shore just like this one? After such a long journey we might end up with a shore like this again. It is also possible that the other shore is worse than this one.

I understand your fear. You want to be reassured, here on this bank, about what that bank is like. What is the bliss of that shore? What ecstasy? What celebrations, what great festivals are being held there? What kind of light is there? What kind of moon and stars? What songs rise in the veena there, what music? You want to be assured.

But even if I beat my head a thousand times, how can I reassure you? I speak of that shore; I speak of it every day. And sometimes you, too, are filled with the longing for it. But the entanglements of this bank are many. Here you have spread your roots far and wide. You have made many relationships with this shore. You have built your house here—and with great difficulty. You have built it brick by brick, over many lives. It is on this shore that your entire autobiography has happened. To leave all this past and set out with an unknown, unfamiliar man, with a boatman whose boat you have never ridden, whose boat is not proven, whose oar is not proven, who himself is not proven—how can there be trust? To embark upon a journey to an unknown shore! The mind wants to be assured. The mind wants, by every kind of logic, to convince itself. The mind says: since I am leaving so much, only if it is sure should I go.

But how can anyone make it sure? Not Krishna, not Buddha, not Kabir, not Christ, not Mohammed, not Mansoor—no one can give you a definite assurance; there can be no guarantee. Why? Because what is on that bank cannot be expressed in the language of this bank.

Understand it like this: suppose there were a country where there were no diamonds and jewels, only pebbles and stones. And a man from the land of diamonds comes there and says, “What are these? These are all pebbles and stones. Have you seen diamonds and jewels? Have you seen pearls and rubies?” And the people ask, “What are diamonds like? What are pearls and rubies like?” And the man searches all around for an example and finds only pebbles and stones—should he use pebbles and stones as examples?

He will say, “No, in the language of your world I cannot express my world; that would be a violation of truth. With these colored pebbles, how can I give news of diamonds? With these uncut stones, how can I give you tidings of Kohinoors? Better I remain silent. Better I sing the songs of that shore, fill you with longing, create in you an intense urge to set out for that shore—but regarding the diamonds and jewels of that shore, I should say nothing. Because if I try to explain that shore with your pebbles and stones, the matter will become false—utterly false. And you can, at most, understand only pebbles and stones. Even if I say that your pebbles are millions of times less valuable, millions of times less lustrous, less colorful, less radiant—still the difference will be only of quantity, not of quality. And the real difference is not quantitative; it is qualitative. On that shore something qualitatively different is happening.”

Between sorrow and bliss the difference is not of degree but of kind. They are opposites. At most, it can be said that bliss is the absence of sorrow.

Therefore Buddha chose this definition: bliss is the absence of sorrow. Again, it is the language of neti-neti. But one who asks, “What is bliss?” is not satisfied with “the absence of sorrow.” Only the absence of sorrow? He wants something affirmative, something he can grasp; something concrete that can take form within his life, become visible; something he can touch.

But bliss cannot be touched. On this shore bliss does not happen at all. On the shore of the mind, Kabir, where you are living now, bliss has never happened, nor will it ever happen. You will have to leave this shore. I am ready to take you. I will deliver you to that bank. But before reaching that bank, this bank must be left.

Our desire is to secure the other bank first, then we will leave this one. Mathematics and logic say: do not drop the half loaf in hand in the hope of a whole one. Mathematics and logic say: distant drums sound sweet. Do not leave what is near for the hope of what is far. Who knows—after going there it may be found that what looked attractive was only from afar. After a long journey, failure may be all you meet.

Therefore such questions arise. I know, your question is not merely intellectual. The sannyasins who have gathered around me—their eagerness is not intellectual. It is beyond curiosity; it is mumuksha, an ardent thirst for liberation. Not just curiosity; not merely inquiry; it is an existential longing. They truly want to know. They truly want to experience rightly. But the mind says: if only some proofs were available, some supports, if something began to make sense, then we too would step into this boat, we too would set out for that shore!

Come closer to me. Do not only hear my words; experience my wordlessness. Swim in my silence. Surrender in every way—in every way, unconditionally—to this Buddha-energy field that is forming here. Slowly, slowly, drops of nectar will fall. Slowly, slowly, the nectar will pass down the throat. You will know—know for certain—what bliss is.

When bliss becomes available and there is no way to say it, in that helpless state celebration is born. Celebration arises because bliss cannot be expressed in language. Someone speaks by dancing! What cannot be said by the tongue is said by the dance—Meera tied the anklets to her feet and danced. That is celebration. If it cannot be said, cannot be told, then by one’s very ecstasy, by one’s very being, one gives its proof—that is celebration.

Celebration is going on here. And because of this very celebration many people have run into difficulty—great difficulty.

Only yesterday I told you. Someone had asked: Kanji Swami and his devotees say that where right vision (samyak-drishti) has been attained, how can there be song and color? And I tell you: where right vision has been attained, there alone are melody and color—the real melody, the real color! You have not yet known what melody is, what color is. When has spring’s Holi come to your life? When has the gulal yet flown? You are picking up broken potsherds and calling that melody and color. You are gathering trash in the marketplace and calling that melody and color. And the one who leaves that market’s rubbish—you take him to be the man of right vision! A renunciate! A votary! A vitaragi!

You know nothing. Vitaragata is not liberation from raga; vitaragata is the descent of the Maha-raga, the great rapture. Vitaragata is not running away from passion, but the birth of the real raga—the supreme rapture.

I tell you, there are none greater enjoyers in this world than Mahavira. Do not think yourself an enjoyer. What enjoyer are you! At best you are a patient, not an enjoyer. And what you take to be enjoyment—eating, drinking, having a bit of fun—you are wasting life in the delusion of that “enjoyment.” Mahavira enjoys; Buddha enjoys; Ramakrishna enjoys; Raman enjoys. I call them great enjoyers, supreme enjoyers! Because they enjoy the Divine. They drink the Divine. They assimilate the Divine.

Here celebration is being lived, because here bliss has happened and is happening. Here, slowly, people are becoming absorbed in the taste of bliss. Here the veena has sounded; even the deafest ears have begun to hear. As a snake rises to dance when the snake-charmer’s reed plays, so when bliss begins to sound within, you too will rise to dance; that dance is called celebration.

Celebration means grace. Celebration means gratitude. Celebration means: So much has been given to me, the unworthy one! So much that I could neither imagine nor desire! My begging-bag has been filled with the whole sky! The whole existence has been poured into my heart! Into this small pot of mine the eternal nectar has been poured! Now what shall I do?

In that unparalleled state of bliss, will you not dance? Will you not sing? Will not joy, exuberance, enthusiasm arise? It will arise in a thousand and one forms. Its name is celebration. The experience of bliss—and then, finding no way to say it in words—gives birth to celebration. Celebration is the expression of bliss—not in words, but in life, in conduct.

Those who look from the outside, who never even come here, it seems to them that some revelry is going on. What has arisen here is celebration. And naturally, even if the Divine descends within you, your celebration will look very much like the world’s celebration. Someone gets money and dances, and Meera meets Krishna and Meera dances—if you see only the dance, both dances will appear alike, because the dance manifests through the body. But the causes are different. Meera is dancing because meditation has happened; you are dancing because you have won the lottery. The reasons are different.

But from the outside the cause cannot be known. And who is prepared to go within? Who has the time? Who has the eagerness? There is even fear of going within—that entering such a world of song and color, we too might get drowned, get dyed.

A very false form of vitaragata has become prevalent in this country—negational, negative, life-denying, celebration-denying. It teaches shrinking, not spreading.

I teach you to expand. I hold that becoming vast is the way to come near Brahman. Our word “expansion” is itself a form of the word “Brahman.” Brahman means that which keeps on becoming vast, whose vastness knows no end—spreading and spreading.

Bliss is expansion; misery is contraction. You have experienced it: when you are miserable you shrink completely. When you are miserable, you shut the doors and windows and lie in a corner. You want no one to meet you, no one to speak, no one to see you, and that nothing be seen. In great misery a person even commits suicide. That too is only the final device of contraction. One shrinks so much that one will no longer see the sun’s light, nor people’s faces, nor blooming roses. “When my own rose has not blossomed, when my own sun has not risen, when my own life has not awakened—then what if the world stays awake? I will sleep!”

Suicide is the final device of shrinking; beyond it one cannot shrink further. Misery is self-destroying. And bliss is the vastness of the soul. The soul becomes so large that others begin to be contained within it. The soul becomes so vast that the moon and stars come within it.

Swami Ram has said: When I was asleep I thought the moon and stars were outside me; when I awoke I found the moon and stars are within me. Within me the sun, within me the moon, within me the stars are revolving.

Someone asked Ram, “Who made the moon and stars?” Ram said, “You ask me? You ask me? I made them! It was I who for the first time set the moon and stars in motion with a gesture of my finger.”

You will call this man mad. But he is saying something very deep and to the point. He is saying: I am no longer the Ram you knew. Now I am truly Ram—the Ram you do not know. Now I am one with the Vast.

To become one with the Vast is bliss. But you will not be able to contain bliss. Bliss will overflow. Bliss will express itself. Bliss will resound—in a thousand and one melodies. Bliss will rain—in a thousand and one colors. That is celebration.

Kabir, bliss is self-experience. Celebration is gratitude toward the Divine.

In the bowers where Shyam laughs,
there too is Radha’s meditation.
I have seen many a lovely vision;
taking the bee’s vow, I hung a swing.
The kadamba branch bloomed out of season,
a garland of entwined arms;
wherever Shyama, proud with nectar, moves,
there beauty’s new ordinance is.

On life’s path, beauty composes the rasa-dance;
it seems a fair of cuckoos,
but there is one note apart from all the rest,
the one that played in playful sport;
this is a game of laughter for a whole life,
in which there is no delusion of doctrines.

Mounting the atheist’s head, she spoke,
eyes closed, laughing in teasing play:
“You be God, I will worship,”
bringing a swarm of honey from the hundred-petaled lotus.
Now in the temple, the goddess Sharada
has learned worship—meditation there.
In the bowers where Shyam laughs,
there too is Radha’s meditation.

The seeker is Radha; the one sought is Krishna. The seeker is feminine; the one sought, the Divine, is the only male.

In the bowers where Shyam laughs,
there too is Radha’s meditation.

Carry your meditation far, carry it beyond—to those bowers where Shyam laughs! Fix your eyes toward the place where the Divine dwells. As you move toward the Divine, the taste of bliss will begin to be available.

I have seen many a lovely vision,
taking the bee’s vow, I hung a swing—
hang the swings now!

The kadamba branch bloomed out of season—
and if your readiness is there, even out of season the kadamba branch will bloom. If your readiness is there, spring is ready to come at any time. Spring stands at the door. The honeyed month is eager to fill your lap—with flowers, with stars.

The kadamba branch bloomed out of season,
a garland of entwined arms;
wherever Shyama, proud with nectar, moves,
there beauty’s new ordinance is.

And if you begin to get even a few glimpses of Shyam, of truth, or of yourself—then a swing has been hung in your life! The rains have come! The season of singing has arrived! It is the moment to tie ankle-bells to your feet! The moment to beat the drums! Now let the flute begin to play!

Do you hear the distant cuckoo’s cooing? Just so, within your very life-breath a cuckoo is hidden. In your innermost being too is the papiha, calling, “Beloved, where?” But there is so much racket in your head that because of that noise you cannot hear. And in your commotion, whatever gives it a prop, your noise quickly grabs hold of it.

In fifteen years Anand Swabhav never wrote a letter! For fifteen years, after listening, thinking and brooding went on for hours. What is that thinking and brooding? It is a commotion inside you. And because the day before yesterday that thinking did not continue, the discourse felt hollow. It was precisely the talk of the day before yesterday that was of use to you, Swabhav; the other fifteen years just went by. If, hearing that, you had fallen silent—become quiet, become empty—some closed door would have opened.

But even when people come to listen, they do not come for emptiness; they come for knowledge. Something to grasp, something for the intellect to work upon, some chain of ideas to be woven. So for fifteen years everything went fine, because my words stirred up more turmoil of thoughts within you.

People think thinking and contemplation are highly valuable. They are worth two pennies. Other than emptiness, nothing has any real value.

If, on hearing me, it felt hollow to you, you missed the chance. In that very moment you too should have become utterly hollow. Then perhaps for the first time there would have been a glimpse of the void. But you must have started thinking, “Ah, today’s discourse didn’t appeal. Today’s talk did not suit my taste. There was nothing in it; no substance came into my hands.” You must have gotten caught in that thought. It is from that very thought that this question has come. The human mind is strange: it can find a way to perpetuate itself out of anything.

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife suddenly shook him awake at midnight and said, “Listen, I’m hearing rattling sounds from downstairs. It seems thieves have come. Please go and see.” Pulling the blanket over his head, Mulla said, “Stop this nonsense. Go to sleep quietly. Do thieves make a racket? They do their work without a sound. There are no thieves. Perhaps some mice are jumping about. Keep quiet.” And he became completely dead to the world under the blanket. After some time, his wife shook him again and said, “Listen, now there are absolutely no sounds coming from downstairs. Go see—maybe there are thieves!”

The mind looks for agitation of thoughts from here, from there, from everywhere; it is afraid of no-thought.

Swabhav, who told you to think and ponder over my words? Listen and forget. As the saying goes: do good and throw it into the well. Listen and forget. Don’t let it slip inside even a little. With me you are to learn emptiness. With me you are to see that inside you there is nothing. Because in that no-thingness alone lies the possibility of everything happening.

But the mind is very strange. For fifteen years you did not offer thanks; one day it didn’t sit well with you and a complaint arrived! How eager the mind is to complain, and how miserly in gratitude!

I have heard that a Muslim emperor had a servant he loved dearly. It was no longer the relation of master and servant; it had become friendship. He was always ready to give his life for the emperor. Once they went hunting and lost their way. They stopped under a bush for shade. Evening began to fall; they were hungry. There was a single fruit on that tree—unknown, unfamiliar. The emperor reached out and plucked it. The servant said, “Master, I know you are hungry; I am hungry too. But this is an unfamiliar fruit. Let me eat the first slice. Who knows—it may be poisonous, it may be deadly. When I say yes, then you taste it.”

The emperor cut it into four slices and gave one slice to his servant. He took it and ate it with such delight that tears of joy came to his eyes. He said, “Master, many delicious meals have come to me in your company—who else would have received such? But no, nothing compares to this fruit. One more slice!” He took the second too and ate it. Then he said, “Master, I have never asked anything of you; today for the first time I ask—give me the third slice as well.” The emperor gave him the third; his love for the servant was that great. But when he said, “Master, only fulfill this last wish, and I will never ask you for anything again. Give me the fourth slice too,” the emperor said, “Now you are going too far.” Quickly the emperor took a bite from that slice—and at once he spat it out! He had never tasted anything so poisonous in his life. He said to the servant, “You fool! You kept asking and ate those slices—this is pure poison! And why didn’t you say so?” The servant replied, “Master, from the same hands that have given me so many delicious meals, it does not befit me to complain about one or two bitter slices—so I kept quiet. What was there to say about this one slice!”

But when one day a talk didn’t sit well with Swabhav, the complaint immediately arrived. For fifteen years it did sit well; no thanks came. Such is our mind. And I tell you, the talk that didn’t sit well with you—that was the one that mattered.

What are the things that do “sit well” with you? Only those that harmonize with you. And those that harmonize with you only strengthen you. The words that do not harmonize with you, that do not fortify you—those you feel have no substance.

And for those who love me, it is impossible to think that something I have said is hollow. Even if it seems hollow, there will be some secret in it. It would have been said for someone. Perhaps it was said precisely for Swabhav.

Bliss is an experience. But the habits of our mind are all of sorrow: complaint, condemnation, opposition—these are the habits of the mind. Awaken out of these habits and bliss will happen right now—this very instant, here! Because the whole existence is overflowing with bliss, brimming. Only you are not willing to receive it within. Your doors are shut.

Open the doors! Let all your senses become doors to bliss. Let this body become a vessel capable of withstanding bliss. Let this mind become quiet enough to embrace bliss. Let your life-breath widen enough to be gladdened. Then what will happen is celebration. Then you too will be able to dance with the moon and stars, with flowers and trees, with the winds. Celebration is the expression of bliss.

When fragrance pours out nectar,
then the familiar guest of life
comes into the blossoming groves
in the shade of tuberose.

Flavor, form, color, the thrilled glance,
playing hide-and-seek with body and mind,
clouds of honey rain in secret,
in the honey-magic of Indra’s throne.

Pearls like sacred offerings deck the world,
that night grows very short,
dear talk proves counterfeit,
in the alchemy of touchstone and gold.

When fragrance pours out nectar,
then the familiar guest of life
comes into the blossoming groves
in the shade of tuberose.

Be ready! The beloved will come, the guest will arrive. Be ready! Don’t ask in advance what the light will be like—open your eyes! Don’t ask in advance what the tones of the veena will be—open your ears!

Kabir, wake up! Bliss is pouring. Bliss is your nature, the nature of existence. You are asleep, hence unfamiliar with it. There is nothing to search for anywhere—only awaken, only awaken; only awareness, only a remembrance of your own nature—and at once bliss showers down, like monsoon clouds pouring rain!

And have you seen peacocks dance beneath the raining clouds? That is celebration. In just that way I would like to see you dancing too. I am teaching you the lessons of dance, the lessons of song.

Gajgamini, roam!
In the image-bowers of the heart’s grove,
beloved doe of the hermitage, sweetly fragrant,
cluster of love, radiance of rasa, smiling one,
nature’s bride, revealer of divine play—
from dawn to night, with tinkling steps,
fill all with melody, essence, and scent.

When, from thirst and burning, the waters grow restless,
when eyes, from gazing, tire of monsoon clouds,
then, forest to forest, let the cloud of compassion
rain down the drops of Swati;
hold to your lips each day
the intoxicating honey-flute that heals all pain.

Be love’s pollen, the power of Sita,
the world-mantra of the Gita of life;
be Radha to the playful Lord,
the new, sanctified pace of nature;
be the very love of Kamadeva—each day
ripple like my own image.

Gajgamini, roam!
From dawn to night, with tinkling steps,
fill all with melody, essence, and scent.
Hold to your lips each day
the intoxicating honey-flute that heals all pain.

The door I am opening for you is the door of an invisible temple. If you are ready to leave behind the chains on your shore, your attachments, your securities, your conveniences, it will not take long—not long at all.

Why ask what bliss is? Why not know bliss itself! Why ask what celebration is? Why not celebrate!

However much you know about bliss, it will not be bliss. However much you know about celebration, it will not be celebration. The word “celebration” is not celebration; the word “bliss” is not bliss. Bliss is experience; celebration is experience.

Krishna Tirtha, life becomes exactly what you make of it. You are the master; life is yours. You are the controller, the decider.

Life is a rough, uncut stone; what you shape from it depends entirely on you. If you wish, you can place that stone on someone’s chest and crush them; if you wish, you can smash it on someone’s head and take a life; if you wish, you can chisel it into a statue to grace a temple, to become an object of worship. It all depends on you. Life is given like a blank book; whether you write curses or songs—it is up to you. Life is given like a veena; whether you create mere noise or bring forth music—it is up to you.

You ask me: “Is life only struggle?”

Most people know life only as struggle—because they have made the ego the very foundation of life. If the ego is there, life is struggle. If nothing but ego is there, then life is nothing but struggle—an endless struggle in which victory never comes; a struggle in which you may run a lot yet arrive nowhere; a struggle in which you burn and rot away bit by bit and, in the end, attain nothing but death. If ego is the basis of your life, your life will be nothing but war—envy, jealousy, hostility, violence. If the foundation of your life is the ego, your life will be nothing but politics.

And remember, when I say politics, I mean all the directions in life where you compete with others, where you compare and contend. The one who fights in the marketplace for money is also in politics—he seeks to rule through wealth. The one who dives into the ocean of knowledge, gathering degree upon degree in a university, he too is in politics—he seeks to rule through titles.

I was a guest in Banaras. My host brought a gentleman to meet me and praised him greatly: “He is a man worth meeting. He has an M.A. in twelve subjects!” I said, “Show him out—his mind must be deranged. He has wasted his life becoming M.A. in twelve subjects! One or two subjects might be forgivable—but twelve? Is this man in his senses? What will you do with twelve M.A.s?”

But even that becomes a swagger, a feed for the ego: “No one has as many M.A.s as I have!” And looking at his face I did not see even a glimmer of intelligence. Nor could there be; by the time one has collected twelve M.A.s, one is bound to turn into a dullard. To pass through a university and still preserve one’s intelligence is a very difficult task.

When Henry Thoreau returned from the university for the first time, an old villager came, patted his back and said, “Son, I am very happy.” Thoreau asked, “Are you happy because I returned with a great degree?” The old man said, “No, no—don’t misunderstand me. I am happy because I came to see whether the university had ruined you—but you have come back intact. I can still see intelligence in your eyes. There is still a sparkle, a certain awareness on your face. You have returned with your originality preserved—that is what I came to see.”

Ninety-nine percent do not return with their originality intact. And the man who kept doing M.A. after M.A., spending his life on it—this too is politics.

Politics means competition, contest. You have to defeat others, efface others. You climb on the heads of others. Even if corpses must be laid in a row, no matter—you must reach positions, prestige, honor. Politics is the shadow of the ego.

Therefore the egoless cannot be in politics—neither of wealth, nor of position, nor of knowledge, nor even of renunciation. The egoless does not enter into competition at all. The egoless simply is—reveling, blissful! For the egoless, happiness is not in some tomorrow; happiness is here and now. For the egoist, it is always tomorrow: he will fight, earn money, save, reach high positions—then. Then there will be happiness. The egoist’s joy depends upon conditions.

Krishna Tirtha, if you live from the ego, life is struggle. And if life is struggle, remember: you will never recognize the divine. The divine is not known through struggle. You are not to wage war on God. There is no question of conquering God, of planting a victory flag on His head. God is not a treasure to lock in your vault. God is not an object you can clutch in your fist. Nor is God such a thing that if one has attained, others cannot.

Understand the difference: if one person has acquired wealth, it becomes harder for you; the total is reduced. If one person becomes prime minister, how will you? Two cannot sit on the same chair—though many do try. Even right now in this country three men are trying to sit on the same chair! But how will you sit? There will be jostling and shoving.

In this world, things are limited. Whatever you try to acquire here, you will find that if someone else has got it, your share is reduced. Therefore the ego considers everyone an enemy, whether it admits it or not. You may loudly proclaim that we are all friends—but as long as you are engaged in struggle, how can you be friends? You seek wealth; your neighbor seeks wealth. How can you be friends? If the neighbor gets it first, you miss out; if you get it first, he misses out. Enmity will be the reality; friendship will be superficial, formal.

We have spread competition so widely, we have injected the poison of politics so deeply into people’s blood that friendship has become impossible in this world. It is enemies everywhere and struggle upon struggle. Surrounded by such conflict and hostility, you cannot know the divine, you cannot know bliss, you cannot know celebration. That which is meant to happen in your life will never happen. You will drag along somehow and die. There will be no meaning in your life. Without godliness there can be no meaning.

But this is not the only way to live. There are other ways. Why live through struggle? Why not through surrender? Why live by fighting when it is possible to live without fighting?

In the night of hope,
seeing the procession of stars,
a dewdrop-like life
descended,
adorned herself,
upon earth’s leaf.

With vermilion in her parting
the sun’s face flushed red;
on the cheek a whirl of love appeared;
who knows when slipped away
the illusion of water,
the clay-bodied form—
“Ramnam is truth,”
the earth’s truth,
the truth of the ages;
then why fear the truth?
Only because man
would not accept defeat—
he fights with Time,
has fought and will keep fighting,
descendant of Bhagirath,
until he flows
like a blade of grass in the current of the Ganga.

One way is to swim; another is to drift like a blade of grass in the Ganga’s current. One way is to fight—which means you have taken existence as your enemy. The other is to feel: I am part of existence; with whom should I fight? Drift like a blade of grass on the current of the Ganga. Then another taste arises in life—that I call the taste of sannyas: to drift in the current of the Ganga! Do not fight. Do not swim. The Ganga is not alien; she is ours. We are not separate from the Ganga. What is there to swim against? What is there to battle?

Krishna Tirtha, life is not only struggle, though most people know it only so. Life is also bliss, also celebration. And the wonder is: struggle creates anguish and brings failure, not victory; surrender creates a unique peace and brings success, brings victory.

The laws of the divine realm are very strange. That is why people like Kabir spoke “upside-down” couplets—paradoxical sayings—because the divine’s mathematics is different. In this world, if you want to keep something, you snatch and grab. In the divine realm, if you want to keep something, you share it, you give it away.

Jesus has said: Whoever seeks to save will lose; whoever gives away will be saved.
Jesus has said: Those who are first in this world will be last in my Father’s kingdom; those who are last here will be first there. The arithmetic there is different.

Give away money and you will become a beggar; give away meditation and you will become a sovereign. Give away money and today or tomorrow you will be knocking door to door; give away love and the sealed springs within will open. Fresh streams of love will surge in you every day; ever-new fountains of fresh loving energy will arise.

A well that is sealed up becomes stagnant. Its springs die. Its water turns poisonous. A well lives by being filled and poured out—keep drawing and keep refilling. Hence the wise say: throw it out with both hands! One hand is not enough—use both! Share!

But you can share only when the direction of your life is not struggle but surrender; not war but rest. When you do not grapple with a sword in your hand, but carry a flower in your palm; when a flute is on your lips, not a sword in your hand.

That’s why the image of Rama with the bow has never appealed to me. I love Krishna playing the flute. Rama with the bow is a symbol of struggle, of war—somewhere the urge to conquer. And this country did rightly to call only Krishna a purnavatar, a complete incarnation; all others were called partial. Auspicious, beautiful, but partial. Krishna was called complete. Why? Because with the flute the journey becomes complete—with joy the journey becomes complete; with celebration, nothing remains beyond.

Krishna Tirtha, listen to the call of the flute—what is it saying? Not struggle: surrender. And victory is assured. Do not swim—flow. The Ganga is already moving toward the ocean; you too will arrive.

But some people not only swim; they swim upstream, toward Gangotri, the source. The reason is that the ego gets its taste only when you do the opposite.

Understand the psychology of this taste of ego, because for centuries thousands have squandered their lives by not understanding it. A man stands on his head and a crowd gathers at once. You can stand on your feet for hours and nobody comes. Strange world! There is great relish in the upside-down. Twists the body this way and that, and people declare, “A great yogi!” Someone fasts and people say, “A renunciate, an ascetic!” Someone stands in blazing sun, someone shivers in cold, someone sits naked in the Himalayas as snow falls—and people are filled with reverence.

This reverence is not different from what you feel toward circus performers—when a tightrope walker steps onto the rope and your heart stops lest he fall; or someone jumps through circles of fire; or makes lions dance.

I have heard of a circus where the lion-tamer suddenly died of heart failure. It was mid-afternoon; not much time—showtime was near. What to do? The manager had drums beaten across the town: “Is there anyone brave who can play with a few lions?” To his surprise, a beautiful woman came forward.

“What can you do?” he asked. “What will you manage?”

She said, “I can do a miracle no one has ever done. I will go in, kneel, and you will see: a lion will come and kiss me!”

The manager was amazed. He had seen many wonders in a lifetime of managing circuses, but not this. “Are you sure?” he asked. “If you succeed, we will grant whatever salary you ask from tomorrow. And today—ask what you want.”

She said, “We can settle that later. First, let the act happen.”

The news spread. That evening there was a huge crowd. People had seen men cracking whips and making lions dance; but a beautiful woman kneeling while a lion kissed her! And it happened. She entered, knelt. The lion came. A hush fell. People held their breath. They thought: poor woman—she’s finished. Not even a whip in her hand. No defense. And the manager had closed the cage door—dangerous business, something new, who knows the outcome; what if the lion jumps out? The lion roared. Imagine the state of hearts hearing that roar! But the woman remained steady. The lion roared, came close, then began to wag his tail, then came and kissed the woman, and returned to his perch.

A miracle! The manager announced a prize of ten thousand rupees for the woman. “If there is any man who can do the same trick, we will give him twenty thousand.”

Mulla Nasruddin stood up. There was stunned silence. “What has gotten into the old fellow?” people thought. “He can’t even handle a strong dog.” Nasruddin came forward. The manager said, “Are you in your senses? Haven’t had too much to drink? Do you know what you’re doing? This is a lion, and he kissed that woman; can you do the same act?”

“Certainly,” said Nasruddin. “But first take that lion out. I’ll do the same trick. As long as the lion is inside, I’m not going in.”

People are ready to do the opposite. No one volunteered for that! There was uproar and laughter.

People take delight in the upside-down; it gratifies the ego. Whom do you worship? Have you looked into your heart to see if your worship is not simply because someone is standing on his head—doing something inverted, something unnatural? Someone lies on a bed of thorns and your heart blooms with reverence. Are you crazy? What will lying on thorns do? What will starving do? What will sitting naked in falling snow on the mountains do? These are tricks—and simple ones, not difficult.

If you want to prepare, I can show you easy methods. Tell your little child to poke your back with a needle at various spots. You will be amazed: if he pricks you fifty times, you will only feel twenty-five—because there are points on the back that are blind spots; there is no sensation there. The one who lies on thorns has only done this much: found the points on his back where pricks are not felt, and arranged the bed of thorns so that they touch only those points. If you like, try it today—ask your child to prick your back; you will be surprised: he pricks and you do not feel it. Those points have no sensitive nerves. Your whole back does not feel—only a few points do. Avoid those and you too can lie on thorns.

In Tibet the lamas practice a special breathing technique: inhale in a particular way, very deep; hold it for a particular time; then throw it out with a jerk; then inhale swiftly, fill the lungs completely, and hold it inside. Ordinarily, the way you breathe gives you just as much heat as your body needs. In the Tibetan method the lungs are filled to the brim. Normally, you fill only about a third: if there are six thousand pores in your lungs, breath reaches only two thousand; in the remaining four thousand, carbon dioxide accumulates. In that Tibetan way, all six thousand pores fill with oxygen. Triple the oxygen enters you. Oxygen is fire. If you can hold that much oxygen inside, your blood becomes heated; even if snow falls, sweat will drip from your body.

It’s just a simple practice—you can do it. Nothing stops you. But people revere the Tibetan lama: “A miracle! Yogic power!” It is neither yogic power nor miracle; most “miracles” you think of are like this—there is a method behind them. But because someone does the opposite, reverence arises in you. That is how religion in the world has been reduced to a circus act.

I want to see a religion in the world that is natural. Give respect to that which is utterly natural. Honor that which is utterly spontaneous. Then the maximum number of people in the world can be religious. And what is the most natural thing? To be free of struggle. Because the one free of struggle is free of strain and worry; he relaxes, finds rest.

Do not swim against the current of the Ganga; flow with it. This current is our own. We too are part of this flow. Drift along the Ganga of life; she will reach the ocean—she is anyway on her way. You are unnecessarily making yourself anxious.

Your situation is like this: An emperor was returning to his palace after a hunt. On the way he saw an old man staggering along with a bundle on his head. Very old, heavily burdened. Emperors are not easily moved to pity—but he was returning from a hunt, it was a forest road, he was alone, and he had been watching this old man dragging himself along. He said, “Stop. Come sit in my chariot.” The old man didn’t dare, but an emperor’s order cannot be refused. Somehow he crouched by the emperor’s feet in the chariot—but kept the bundle on his head. The emperor said, “You fool, why keep that load on your head now? Put it down.” The old man said, “No, my lord. Is it not enough grace that you have let me sit in your chariot? How can I also place my burden upon your chariot? I cannot do that.”

This is your condition. He imagines the load is not already on the chariot. But it is—whether you place it on the floor or keep it on your head, because you too are in the chariot. If you want to carry it pointlessly on your head, that is your choice.

The stream of life is flowing toward the divine all by itself. It is flowing. If you want to swim toward Gangotri, that is your choice. If you agree to drift with the current, you will arrive.

But remember this: if you flow with the current, no one will call you an ascetic, a renunciate, or a great soul. If you flow with the current, people will say, “Ah, he is lost in pleasures!” They will say, “What kind of sannyas is this?” My sannyasins have to endure this very criticism—because I consider sannyas a natural state of life. If I taught you to go upside-down, you would gain great respect. I am teaching you to synchronize with life’s spontaneous rhythm; you will not be respected for it. Do not expect it. And if it does not come, do not be disheartened. It is perfectly natural.

Zen masters say: When hungry, eat; when thirsty, drink; when sleepy, sleep. There is no other practice.

But will you respect such a person—who eats when hungry, drinks when thirsty, sleeps when sleepy? You will ask, “Where is yoga in this? What about yama and niyama? What about asana, pranayama, pratyahara?” Eat when hungry, sleep when sleepy, drink when thirsty—“is that a practice?” I tell you: that is the real practice—sahaj yoga, the yoga of spontaneity. Understand sahaj yoga, Krishna Tirtha—flow like a blade of grass in the Ganga’s current. Then life is not struggle; life is celebration, a great festival.

Sujata, if you have found nothing but suffering, you must have worked very hard to get it—great effort, great discipline, great austerity! If you have found only suffering, you must have acquired great skill. Suffering does not come just like that; it isn’t free. You have to pay for it. Bliss, on the other hand, comes of its own accord; it is free—because bliss is your nature. Suffering has to be earned.

And what is the first rule for earning suffering? Ask for pleasure, and suffering will arrive. Ask for success, and failure will come. Ask for respect, and insult will follow. Whatever you demand, the opposite will be given. Whatever you desire, the opposite will happen—because this existence does not move according to your desire; it moves according to the will of the divine.

Jesus made a final prayer: O Lord, Thy will be done! That is the final prayer—and it should be the first as well: O Lord, Thy will be done! Let not my will interfere.

Sujata, you have brought your will too much in the way; hence, only suffering has come. Remove your will! Remove yourself! Let His will be fulfilled. Then, even if there is pain, it will not feel like pain. One who has left everything to Him—even if sorrow comes—will understand: surely His intention is benevolent; it cannot be bad. There must be a hidden purpose. If He pricks with a thorn, it must be to awaken. If He has strewn stones on the path, it must be to build steps. If He gives restlessness and trouble, He must be kindling some sleeping longing within me; trying to ignite a fire inside.

For the one who leaves all to God, even sorrow becomes joy. And for the one who keeps everything in his own hands, even joy turns into sorrow.

We harvested sorrow in the name of nurturing happiness,
We received pain in the name of apportioning love.
Everything else was optional; only tears were compulsory.
We found voiceless weeping in the name of creating song.
We kept falling into depths for the sake of every height,
We won descent in the name of ascent.
Our names were struck off the roster of relationships,
We were handed distances in the name of guarding nearness.
Hidden in buds, thorns stung us without cease,
We found serpents’ coils in the name of embrace.
Whenever we broke a fast, a birth-thirst set out again,
Embers were laid upon our lips in the name of a kiss.
We thought we lived the whole of life—what a delusion, unknown to us—
We got a piecemeal death in the name of this life.

What you think is life is not life; it is a piecemeal death. After birth, what have you done except die? Day by day you are dying. And who is responsible? God has given life; death is our invention. God has given bliss; suffering is our discovery.

Every child is born with bliss; and very few old people depart with bliss. Those who depart with bliss—we call them buddhas. All are born carrying bliss, eyes astonished with wonder, hearts brimming with delight. Look into any child’s eyes—don’t you see a pristine depth? Look at any child’s face—don’t you see the radiance of joy? Then what happens? What happens? Those who are born like flowers—why do they become thorns?

Surely somewhere our entire system of education is mistaken. Our conditioning is wrong. Our society is sick. We are being taught wrongly. We are trained to run after happiness: Run! With more money there will be more happiness. With a higher position there will be more happiness.

These sayings are false. Neither wealth brings happiness nor position. And I am not saying: renounce wealth or leave your post. I am only saying: they have nothing to do with happiness. Happiness happens by diving within. Yes, if money is in the hands of one who has dived within, even money gives joy. If sorrow comes into the hands of one who has dived within, even sorrow becomes joy. The one who has dived within has found magic in his hands—a magic wand. In the crowd, he remains alone. In the noise, he is in music. He walks in water, yet his feet do not get wet.

You ask, Sujata: “In this life, why have I found nothing but suffering?” If you ask some pandit-priest, he will say: you must have sinned in past lives. You will feel relieved: now what can be done? What happened in a past life is done. The priest will say: what’s done is done; in this life don’t repeat it. Consider your husband God; massage his feet. Do bhajan-kirtan; perform sacrifices and rituals. In the next life you will get happiness.

What will happen in the next life—there is no certainty. Whether there even is a next life—no certainty. No one returns to report whether, after doing sacrifices and rituals, happiness was obtained. Therefore the priest’s trade thrives, because he sells things that cannot be seen.

I have heard of a shop in New York that advertised: Invisible hairpins have arrived; whoever wants them may come and buy. Sales began. How could ladies miss such a chance—queues formed! Invisible pins! If a pin is visible, it looks a bit crude. One woman bought a box. She opened it—nothing was to be seen. Of course—how could invisible pins be seen? She said, Nothing is visible. The shopkeeper said, They are invisible pins—how can they be visible? She asked, Are they even in there or not? The shopkeeper said, Don’t ask that. We’ve been out of stock for three weeks, yet sales are still going strong.

Invisible trades! And among them, the priest’s trade is the most invisible. Had you gone to a pandit-priest, you would have been consoled: sins of past lives are being expiated; let them be burned off. It’s good they are getting exhausted. In the next life there will be only happiness.

I cannot say that to you. If these sufferings are coming to you, they are not from past lives. The sufferings of past lives were received in those lives. Existence does not believe in credit. Put your hand into fire now, and it will burn now, not in the next life. Hurt someone now, and you will be hurt now, not in the next life. This “next life” device is a very cunning invention—a conspiracy, a deception.

If you love now, bliss will shower now; if you are angry now, misery will shower now. The truth is, even before a person expresses anger, he is already reduced to ashes by it. Before you burn another, you must first burn yourself. Before you give pain to another, you must first give pain to yourself.

These are not sufferings from past lives. They are the results of what you are doing now. At first, hearing me will sting you, because you won’t get consolation. But if you understand, there is a way out. Then you will be happy: if it is about this very life, something can be done. That is exactly what I am saying: something can be done right now.

Drop happiness! Drop the craving for happiness! The very meaning of the craving for happiness is: something from the outside will make me happy. From the outside, happiness never comes. Transform your entire longing for happiness into a longing for meditation. Not happiness—bliss. And bliss is within.

So whenever you find time, Sujata, dive within. Whenever possible—day or night—slip away from work and chores. When the opportunity comes—husband off to the office, children off to school—close the doors for an hour or two; not only the doors of the house, but the doors of the senses—and sink within. Slowly, flowers of happiness will begin to bloom—flowers of great bliss. And these are flowers which, once they bloom, never wither.

You can be free of this suffering today. There is no need to wait for the next birth. I do not postpone to tomorrow. Because, as I know the divine, one thing is very clear: the divine never postpones to tomorrow. The divine is always today.

And you too learn the art of living today. Live from your innermost core. Not other-dependent, but self-dependent. Live by the inner lamp. Drop reliance on lamps outside. From them only darkness comes, not light. From them only the new moon night arrives, not the full moon.

No, Sujata—neither from the husband will happiness come, nor from the children, nor from the house, nor from the gate. If you remain stuck in that hope, you will gather sorrow. And let me remind you again: I am not saying, Run away to Haridwar and sit in the ashram of some black-blanketed baba. I am not saying that. Stay where you are—husband fine, children fine, house fine, everything fine. But begin to dig within yourself. Begin to dig the inner well. Soon—just as underground streams lie beneath every land—so in every heart there is a source of bliss.

Neeraj, life is already in crisis; death will come anyway. So what more can happen now that would put life in crisis? What accident could be greater than death? What can people really spoil? Everything is going to be taken away as it is. Then why panic? Why worry? Where everything is destined to be looted, sell your horses and sleep—drop the worry! What will people do? What can they take away?

And the obstacles people create—if there is understanding in you, every obstacle will become your practice. People will put up barriers; if you have a little understanding, each barrier will turn into a step. Let people create hurdles; from them your inner being will grow dense, strong, concentrated.

Do not be afraid. If the resolve itself is arising, what can you do now? The message will have to be shared! This is beyond your personal will. If the Divine wants to sing a song through you, it will be sung.

And when it is determined to sing, then join from your heart—your whole heart—so the song is expressed in its wholeness, not in fits and starts.

If you have set out on the path of fidelity, walk smiling!
On the barbat of mishaps, keep singing your song!
Carrying the perfection of awareness and the ecstasy of seeking,
Lift the veils of learning, wakefulness, and reason!
Give to the changing times the decree of steadfastness,
And make light of the world’s tumults as you go!
The band of seekers—how dim their hearts have grown;
Light the lamp of the destined goal as you walk!
Friend, draw from afflictions the very relish of life!
Turn every pain into a balm for grief!
By revealing love’s ardor in its radiance,
Set a fire in the world of longing!
Quickly change life’s numb disposition—
Proclaim the message of the fire-voiced star as you go!

A song has begun to be born within you, Neeraj—then let it be born.

If you have set out on the path of fidelity, walk smiling!
If the road is true, then walk with a smile—what is there to fear!

On the barbat of mishaps, keep singing your song!
Obstacles will come; play them as your instrument. Sing your song on them.

Carrying the perfection of awareness and the ecstasy of seeking...
With enthusiasm and zest, with the passion for knowledge and the thirst for search...

Lift the veils of learning, wakefulness, and reason!
Remove all the veils that cover the mind. Remove your own, remove others’ too. The veils must be lifted, the curtains drawn—because behind those veils the Divine is hidden.

Give to the changing times the decree of steadfastness
The age must be given a call for transformation.

And make light of the world’s tumults as you go!
And the world will create disturbances—its superstitions, its dogmas will raise storms. Walk laughing, make fun. Do not be nervous. Make fun of the world’s superstitions. Walk laughing—do not even be solemn about it.

The band of seekers—how dim their hearts have grown...
Just look: the lamps in people’s lives are so faint. The caravan moves on—without lamps, without torches!

The band of seekers—how dim their hearts have grown;
Even the hearts of the travelers are dimmed.

Light the lamp of the destined goal as you walk!
Take courage; light a few lamps. Bring a little light.

Friend, draw from afflictions the very relish of life!
And those lamps you light will become the very cause of your joy, the reason for your celebration. There is no greater blessed hour in this world than when you succeed in lighting a lamp in the life of someone in darkness. If, through your hands, even a single flower blossoms in someone’s life, there is no more auspicious moment than that.

Friend, draw from afflictions the very relish of life!
Turn every pain into a balm for grief!
And hardships will come—add them to your songs. Make every hardship into a step. Receive every hardship too as the grace of God. Whatever the Divine gives is well given. May His will be done!

That’s all for today.