Utsav Amar Jati Anand Amar Gotar #6

Ranjan Bharti, this is the very good fortune of man—and also his misfortune. Good fortune, that he can attain eternal bliss; the seeds of nectar lie within him. And misfortune, that what could be attained does not get attained.

Man is born to become God, yet he cannot even become truly human—Godhood is very far. Within him, a thousand-petalled lotuses of joy could bloom, but there is not even news of them; they remain hidden in the seeds, lost in the mud. And the very energy that could have become lotus turns into thorns. His good fortune is that he can be vast like the sky; his misfortune is that he has shrunk into tiny courtyards.

These two together are possible because man is free. Man alone, in all existence, is free; he chooses himself. All other creatures are born as they are. Sow a mango seed, and a mango tree will grow; sow a neem seed, and you will get a neem tree—there is no freedom there. The inexorable law of cause and effect operates; it is impossible that a neem seed should produce mangoes. The neem has no freedom; it must be neem. Without exception, neem seeds are compelled to become neem. Dog will be dog, lion will be lion, mouse a mouse, cat a cat, tree a tree.

Only man is born merely as an opportunity—a pure possibility. Nothing is assured. He must decide for himself. Step by step, he must create himself. Each decision chisels his own statue. This is a great glory—that we are free. But it is also a great burden. The neem stands outside all trouble; to be neem is certain—its fate is written; all the codes are hidden in its seed.

Man is born like a blank slate: write abuses on it if you wish, write songs if you wish. The Upanishads can arise within you—or you may go on counting cowries. Great freedom is also great responsibility. Freedom always brings responsibility, and because human freedom is immeasurable, his responsibility too is immeasurable.

All around is a crowd of miserable people. Into this very crowd a new child arrives. Ranjan, one day you too arrived into such a crowd. All around were unhappy people. Seeing only the unhappy, every child concludes: this is life—only this is life. Faces anxious and burdened, with no glimmer of dance in their days, lips never touched by a flute, no thrill in their breath, no festival, no joy—only a load to be dragged along; life is a sorrow to be endured; somehow, anyhow, it’s just a matter of a few days to be managed, and then death will come and grant relief. People are waiting for death.

In the early years of his work, Sigmund Freud discovered libido, the life-urge: that man is passionately eager to live, that he wants life and wants to go on living, that there is an indomitable longing for life within. But in his final years Freud understood that this was incomplete. Libido is only half the theory. Then he discovered a second principle which he called Thanatos. Just as there is a longing for life, there is also a longing for death.

Freud was startled—how could opposite longings coexist in man? But he was compelled: the deeper he looked, the more he found that beyond a point man becomes eager to die, not to live. Children are eager to live; perhaps the young still hope in life. But as youth slips away, legs begin to shake, old age descends, from somewhere deep within a wish arises: now let death come, now at least death should come and give rest!

Ranjan, look around—your people are unhappy; they have never truly known life. They were born, but never really born; they were born, but did not become dvija—twice-born; their soul was never born. Their bodies exist, but like empty temples with no deity residing within; like abandoned houses, uninhabited for years—dust and debris piled up, cobwebs woven, snakes and scorpions at home.

Such is man’s condition. And the child learns from these very people—parents, family, neighbors, teachers, pundits and priests. From the surrounding crowd the child learns, and one teaching is inevitably absorbed—unconsciously, silently it sinks deep within: that life is suffering, that life is nothing but suffering. And then holy men are there to explain that life is pain, that the wheel of birth and death is suffering. Pundits and priests, temples and mosques, teach that life is the punishment for your sins, that because you sinned in past lives you have been given this life; life is a prison where you serve your sentence. And this seems to make sense, because all around there is evidence for it.

If you see someone laughing, dancing, carefree and intoxicated with being, you think, “He must be mad!” Sensible people don’t behave like that. Sensible people don’t take up a tanpura and dance, don’t beat the mridang and sing. Yes, perhaps on Holi or Diwali, on a holiday—that’s another matter; on that day we forgive it. But that is not part of life; it’s a vent. The whole year only sorrow, and for a single day we throw some color and powder.

Whereas it should be that color flies every day, that gulal rises every day, that Holi is daily and Diwali is daily. Man’s capacity is just this: Holi every day, Diwali every day. But man has turned his life into a hell, and there is a reason. The most important reason: those who hold power do not want you to be joyful. Whoever they are—politicians, pundits, priests, moneyed people—those in power do not want man to be joyous. Why? Because it is easy to enslave a miserable man; very hard to enslave a joyous one. The miserable is eager to become a slave, because by becoming a slave he is freed of all responsibility, relieved of all burdens.

A joyous person has individuality; a miserable person has none. The miserable remains a part of the crowd; the joyous is a person—he has a privacy, a uniqueness. And the joyous person will not agree to lose his freedom at any price, because he knows his joy will be lost the very moment freedom is lost. For the miserable, what obstacle is there in losing freedom? He has no freedom, never had it—if it’s lost, let it be lost; nothing of his is being robbed, nothing is going; he has no objection.

I have heard: one night thieves entered Mulla Nasruddin’s house. The door was open; the thieves were astonished! People bolt their doors before sleeping—on a dark, moonless, rainy night they don’t leave them open. But perhaps it was an oversight. They went in. Mulla was lying on the bed. They thought he was asleep and began searching the house. While they were groping in the dark, they saw someone behind them and were frightened. Mulla was standing there. He said, “Don’t be afraid; I’ll bring a lamp. I’ve been searching in this house for thirty years—I’ve found nothing. You are searching in the dark; I have searched in the light. Don’t worry at all, I’ll light the lamp and we’ll both search. Nothing has turned up in my fate—perhaps in yours something might, then we’ll split it half-half!”

If there is nothing in your life, why would you even bother to bolt the door? Let thieves come if they want.

I have heard another story. Thieves entered Mulla Nasruddin’s house. They were gathering whatever broken utensils they could find. Mulla was lying under a blanket; it was a cold night. When they had collected the cracked pots and odds and ends—nothing of value, but having come, they thought at least take whatever is at hand—they were astonished to see Mulla lying uncovered while his blanket had been spread on the ground. There was nothing else to lose; nothing had been found. The thieves said, “Nasruddin, this blanket was on your body—you could at least have saved that.”

Mulla said, “Brothers, how will you carry all that stuff you’ve piled up? So I spread the blanket—tie it up in this and take it. My trouble is over. The blanket is full of holes anyway; it keeps out no cold, just gives a false comfort.”

The thieves were unnerved. Such a thing had never happened—that you go to steal, gather the loot, and the owner spreads a blanket for you to bundle it up! They tied it quickly and ran off. As they were running down the road they saw Mulla following. They stopped and asked, “Why are you coming after us?” Mulla said, “I’ve been thinking of moving house for a long time. Now that you’re carrying all my things, where will you drop them? Take me along too. You’ve taken everything—nothing is left behind. Since you’ve taken so much, take care of me as well. Wherever you live, we’ll live too. If you eat dry crusts, we’ll eat them with you. If you sleep beneath a thatch, we’ll sleep there too.”

One who has nothing can be enslaved and robbed. But those in whose life even a ray of joy has entered—you will not be able to rob them, you will not be able to enslave them. For the sake of that ray of joy they will stake everything.

This has happened in Ranjan’s life. After years, Ranjan has returned to India. Her husband is in America; he writes to me, “Send Ranjan back.” Ranjan does not want to go back. For the first time a ray of joy has descended. For the first time a festival has arisen. For the first time there is a taste of what life is—the first touch of morning’s fresh breeze, the first ray of dawn! Flowers have opened! For the first time birds’ songs have begun to be heard.

This is what the priests and pundits, the politicians, do not want—that people should be joyful. The moment they are joyful, they become rebellious. See for yourself, Ranjan—you yourself have become rebellious. Had you remained miserable, you could never have broken free of the prison you were in. Once joy showered, no prison can contain you. You will flow, breaking all prisons.

And remember, what is there for Ranjan here in the ashram? She has left behind everything—home, property, order, convenience. Her husband earns well, is respected. There, all the external amenities were available. What is here? On this little six-acre patch live four hundred people! Those who live here somehow manage; even that is not easy on six acres. And at least three thousand people keep coming and going. What convenience is there?

Yet you could leave all comforts, because when even a little experience of joy begins, for the first time the capacity to renounce arises.

The Upanishads say: tena tyaktena bhunjithah. This wondrous utterance has two possible meanings. One meaning—repeated for centuries and wrong—is: renounce enjoyment; only then is there attainment. I read it differently: only by renouncing is there true enjoyment; only those who renounced truly enjoyed. But why could they renounce? Because they had enjoyed. First the ray of joy descended; then renunciation became easy. The old commentary was: first renounce, then joy will be available. My commentary is: when joy becomes available, renunciation comes of itself like a shadow. You don’t have to leave; the leaving happens.

Ranjan, you say, “I had never even imagined that life could be lived so naturally, so joyfully.”

Such is the situation of countless people. They never even dreamed that life could have other colors, other ways, another music. They never knew that there is a veena hidden within whose strings await your touch. Not even in dreams do they know what treasure they brought with them, while they sit as beggars; that their bag is filled with diamonds and they are picking up pebbles; that within their being lies the kingdom of God and they are collecting shards.

I am happy, Ranjan. My blessings to you! This dance will go on increasing. Each day it will deepen. Drowning and drowning in this dance, one day you will be absorbed into the Divine.

Sudhir, there is nothing unjust in it; it is simply people’s old habit—the mind insistently conditioned for centuries, brains bound by traditions, people surrounded by prejudices. They feel I am destroying their culture, their religion. Naturally they are angry. They do not even see that I am saying exactly what the Upanishads said, what Krishna said, what Buddha said.

But there is a gap of twenty-five centuries between them and Buddha. And in twenty-five hundred years the pundits have played so many games with words that today it is hard to determine what Buddha actually said. Even if Buddha himself returned, he would find it difficult to decide what he had said and what the pundits have added in these twenty-five centuries.

If Krishna returned, he would bang his head! He wouldn’t be able to make sense of so many commentaries on the Gita. I spoke simple, straightforward words to Arjuna, he would say. And Arjuna was no philosopher that one should tangle him up in abstractions—he was a warrior, a kshatriya. Only plain talk was possible with him.

And the Gita is absolutely clear and direct. But even if the Gita is straight, people are crooked. And a pundit is crookedness cubed—his very gait is at an angle. He is expert at extracting meanings from words that you could not even imagine. He is adept at splitting hairs. His whole life is spent toying with words, arranging the chessboard of concepts. He has drawn out of the Gita meanings Krishna could never have imagined. Forget Arjuna—such an idea would never even have crossed his mind. People pull out of the Gita whatever their hearts desire. Whatever you want, you can extract. The text is helpless—you are the master: twist and wrench the words, give them new meanings, impose interpretations that are your own.

So people feel I am destroying their religion; they feel I am pulling away the very foundations of their culture. And in one sense they are right. The “culture” they have, I certainly want to destroy. Yes, I want to save the culture of the buddhas, the culture of Krishna and Mahavira. But that is another matter. To know that, you have to go within yourself. You don’t need to go into scriptures to know it; you need to go into your soul. For Buddha knew by going within. Stop worrying about what Buddha said; go within yourself—the same original source that was within Buddha is present within you too.

But contrary to people’s notions, my work pains them. If they are determined to poison me, it is perfectly natural. There is nothing surprising in it. Sudhir, do not be troubled by this. They have always done it. When have they not poisoned—or tried to poison—the buddhas? If they were not intent on poisoning me, that would be the miracle! It would mean humanity has been transformed, a revolution has occurred. If they were not intent on poisoning me, it would mean that what they did to Jesus and to Socrates and to Mansoor and to Buddha and Mahavira, they would not do to me.

Such a fortunate moment has not come yet—and perhaps may never come. The crowd may never become available to that much awareness. It is the capacity of only a very few, counted-on-fingers, to climb mountain peaks and witness the sun—to rise beyond the clouds. To soar that high is not in everyone’s power; and even if it is, not everyone wishes to rise.

Ramakrishna used to say: the kite flies very high, yet its gaze remains fixed on the dead mouse lying on the garbage heap below. A kite is a kite; what does it matter if it flies high? The moon and stars will not appear to it; it will only see the dead mouse rotting in the dump. There its life is stuck.

If pundits talk lofty talk, pay it no heed. If priests descend into the ornate expositions of grand philosophical systems, grant them no value. Their gaze will be fixed on some dead mouse on some garbage heap. And since I want your eyes freed from dead mice, freed from garbage heaps—your eyes filled with moon and stars, for that is your true birthright—of course they will be angry with me; of course they will be upset with me.

At least one good thing is happening. Because of me, Hindu priests, Muslim mullahs, Jain monks—at least because of me they agree on one thing. At least in one matter they have unity. Is that not something! They agree on nothing—yet in opposing me they are one. From Kanji Swami to Acharya Tulsi, from Karpatri to the Shankaracharya of Puri—they agree on one point: opposing me. Well, good! At least something is bringing them together.

But this is worth pondering: if all these people are opposed to one person, there must be something to it. Otherwise there would be no reason for so many to be in opposition. They are not able to ignore me. Whether some are for me or some are against me—no one is able to remain indifferent. And that is a good sign. I want to compel every person in this country to take a stand regarding me—either for or against. I will not leave anyone in-between; no one will be able to say, “We are neutral.”

We have seen the scars of the heart—you still took me for a stranger.
Even so, my complaint is not with you but with myself.

We have tasted the thrill of wound upon wound,
yet the old bargain of living goes on within, all the same.

We lived in mirages; you lived in mirages too.
Why did we? Let us at least think—thinking is good, even so.

They laughed at me, taking me for naive—laughed heartily;
yet it was not their wound, but their own, they scratched.

Those who lost their courage and sat down, sat down.
The caravan moved on, and it will move on still.

Another sun has risen in the East—look!
Yet the fog does not lift from minds.

Noise-making has become a pastime; let your minds be amused with pastimes.
In our land, the hush will remain, even so.

Friends, let it be admitted—custom is no longer custom;
yet do not forget the vow of fearless self-offering.

It was not only Shiva who drank poison, O guide;
we too have drunk—this continuum will continue, even so.

It is not that only Shiva drank poison; whenever someone attains to shivata, he will have to drink poison; he will have to become Neelkantha!

It was not only Shiva who drank poison, O guide;
we too have drunk—this continuum will continue, even so.

This sequence is ancient—and it will continue.

Noise-making has become a pastime; let your minds be amused with pastimes.
In our land, the hush will remain, even so.

This country has been dead for centuries. We are living like a dead nation. Well and good—if because of me even a little of the hush is broken. If people make noise even in opposition, I will still be happy that some signs of life have appeared. If flowers do not come, let thorns come! If thorns come, flowers may also come. At least there is some stir in the corpse.

People are all but dead. They no longer have the courage to stake anything in life; the spirit to take risks is lost. And to take risks—that is life.

Another sun has risen in the East—look!
Yet the fog does not lift from minds.

People have settled into such darkness that even if one sun—nay, two—were to rise, the mist would not clear from their minds.

But a few people, in whom a small current of life still flows, have begun to be drawn. Those who would give poison are curious for this very reason—because some are beginning to glimpse the nectar. Otherwise they would not even be eager to administer poison. Their eagerness is not without cause. As love for me grows in some, as a band of madmen, of drunken ones, gathers around me, so too will the poison-givers ready themselves.

We lived in mirages; you lived in mirages too.
Why did we? Let us at least think—thinking is good, even so.

People have lived in mirages and are living in mirages; they have even forgotten how to think. I am saying only this to them: think once again, reconsider. I am reawakening the problems. People are angry because they believed the problem had been solved. They thought, We have the solution—what is there to do now? Now spread your sheet and sleep. We found the solution in the Upanishads, in the Vedas, in the Gita, in the Dhammapada. We already have the solution—what remains to be done?

But the solution in religion is not a solution like the solutions in science. Understand this distinction well. In science, if something is discovered once, everyone need not discover it again, because science is outer and its knowledge can be imparted from the outside. For example, once Albert Einstein discovered the theory of relativity, the matter was settled; now every student who studies physics at a university does not have to rediscover relativity. Electricity, once discovered, is discovered; it is not that each person must discover it anew. The one who discovered it spent his whole life searching; for you to learn about electricity is a matter of days, not years, because the discovery is done. The one who made the radio took a long time; but now? Now what difficulty is there for you to make a radio? It is a matter of learning a little. The fundamental basis is known—now it is just a question of technique. Science becomes fixed.

Therefore science can be taught; religion cannot be taught. Because religion is an experience of the inner world. Buddha knew his innermost, and he told us much. But still, when we are to know, we ourselves will have to know; we cannot sit content by accepting Buddha’s words. We ourselves will have to become buddhas. We will have to pass again through the same path through which Buddha passed. We will have to seek the same meditation, the same samadhi.

Religion has to be rediscovered by each person, again and again. This is the difference between religion and science. Science has a tradition; religion has no tradition. And the state of affairs is exactly reversed: we have made a tradition of religion. Truth has no tradition. Tradition means that which your father hands you down, what the old generation passes on.

Certainly, when your father departs he will leave you money, a house, land—perhaps even the know-how of all the cheating he did all his life. But if he had come to know the divine, then it is like the dumb man’s jaggery: he cannot pass that taste to you. It is enough if he tells you, This life is not all—there is more; I have known; you too search. You can be given the urge to seek, but not the conclusion of the seeking.

And I am trying to reawaken precisely that urge. This will naturally upset many who believed the solution had been found. I am taking away their solutions; I am handing them the problem again. Whoever comes to me, I take away his solution, his scripture, his doctrines; I give him new questions again. He will have to undertake a long journey again. What he had accepted cheaply and for free, he will have to know. And knowing is a risky business.

So if people are angry, Sudhir, there is nothing unjust in it—it is natural. I am filling their lives with questions. I am shattering all their consolations. Somehow they had managed to persuade themselves into contentment; I am breaking that contentment. I am making them discontent again. For in my vision, until a deep urge to know God arises—such a thirst as a man lost in a desert feels—no one can know the divine. Urge is the price for knowing God. You will have to burn bit by bit. Every hair will be parched with thirst. Every heartbeat will call to him. Every breath will be filled only with his remembrance—then the meeting happens.

So naturally many will be angry. Let them be angry; you do not be angry with them. Do not even think they are being unjust. Have pity on them, hold compassion for them. If I am abused, if poison is thrown at me, do not be anxious. It is perfectly natural. You remain intoxicated in your ecstasy. Your ecstasy is my protection. Your compassion, your love, is my protection. If you remain filled with compassion, no poison will reach me—passing through your compassion, it will turn into nectar.

But your mind too flares up too quickly. If someone abuses me, it seems natural that my sannyasin would feel anger. I can forgive his abuse; I will not be able to forgive your anger. You are unforgivable if you become angry. He has only done what is to be expected—I have touched his wounds.

And if you keep on singing; if his abuses do not interfere with your song; if your vina keeps sounding—then today or tomorrow he will have to understand. Today or tomorrow he will have to search: What is the matter? My abuses are going in vain! My poison is not working! That very fact may bring him to me. That very thing may become the reason for his drowning in me, as you have drowned. Nothing else can bring him. Your debates will not do it. You will not be able to make him understand with logic. Logic will not work. Only your love can.

And there is no argument greater than love. Love is the final argument. What cannot happen through love cannot happen at all. And with logic, even if you silence someone today, tomorrow he will find a bigger logic. At most, logic can close mouths; it never transforms souls. Logic has no transforming power.

Love! The more abuses rain on me, the more love you rain. The more poison is flung at me, the more nectar you offer. Dance! Let your ecstasy spread! Let your wild blessedness flow on every side. One thing you must establish beyond doubt: that my sannyasin is blissful. Your bliss alone will be the proof that what I am saying is true.

Shanti Swarup, why choose at all? Let both go together. The cuckoo’s cooing is not a disturbance to my discourse; it is the background. The cuckoo’s cooing supports exactly what I am saying; it is a base for the very ecstasy I am teaching.

But ordinarily we have been taught one thing—concentration. And we fail to distinguish between concentration and meditation. The books say: meditation means concentration. Nothing could be more wrong. Meditation and concentration are entirely different. Concentration means: pull your attention back from everywhere and fix it in one place. It means: narrow the mind. Meditation means: make the mind vast. It means: open all the doors and windows. The cuckoo has sung—let that in; the sound of the train—include that too; and what I am saying—let that be there as well. There is no need to oppose any of it. Absorb everything together.

And you will be astonished—very astonished. Concentration creates tension; under tension you tire quickly. Concentration is forced effort; meditation is effortlessness. Meditation is relaxation; concentration is labor.

Listen to me with meditation, not with concentration. And to listen meditatively does not mean you sit stiff, shut all the doors and windows on every side, and fix your gaze on me. Then you will miss a great deal. Because what I am saying, the cuckoo is also saying—in her own language. And certainly her language is very delightful. Do not deprive her. Sit quietly, open on all sides, close to me. And you will be amazed—there will be no obstruction.

Your notion is that if you listen to the cuckoo there will be distraction, an interruption. If you listen to the cuckoo, how will you listen to me? If you listen to me, you must stop listening to the cuckoo. You have never experimented. This notion is fundamentally wrong. Listen to both. And see—no obstacle will arise. Why would the cuckoo create a disturbance? She will become the background. And against the cuckoo’s background my words will be more meaningful, not less. More music will enter my words. What I cannot do, the cuckoo can.

And once you try this, experience will make it clear: disturbance does not come from anything outside; it comes from the attempt to concentrate. Because you want to concentrate, the cuckoo becomes a hindrance—her sound does not allow concentration. And if you do not want to concentrate at all, then who can disturb you? Where there is no disturbance, there is meditation.

Then what difference does it make if the cuckoo’s voice and my voice flow together?

You are afraid you might miss a word or two of mine—that in the cuckoo’s sound one of my words may not be heard. It’s all right! The essential is not in words anyway. Even if you hear the words, nothing much is gained; if you miss a few, nothing is lost. Something far more important is happening here than words: my presence with you, your nearness to me. This closeness, this satsang—this is what matters. Words are only a pretext, just an excuse. In truth, what is happening is wordless. And until you understand my wordless, you will not understand me. My message is not in my words; my message is in my emptiness.

Listen to the cuckoo too. And these other birds that sing—listen to them as well. The sound of the wind passing through the trees, the train, the airplane, the noise on the road—this all, all is the divine! So leave nothing out. Cut nothing off. Do not close your doors and windows in any direction. Let all of it come. Embrace it all. And then see what joy there is in that embrace!

No, no—here! And in this “here” everything is included—Kashi too, the Kaaba too, Kailash too. For Kashi is not outside this here, nor is Kailash outside this here.
All existence is one whole. Here there are no fragments, no pieces. There is one ocean. One time. One sky.

So don’t ask where truth is—the very question is wrong. You are really asking: Where should I go? Where should I search? There is nowhere to go. Stop going, drop searching, and truth will be found. The moment you search, you miss. To search means to look outside; and whoever has looked outside has missed.

I say, don’t search. In this silence, in this moment—where I am lost, where you are lost, where existence in its purity surrounds us—in this perfection, in this delight, in this stillness of time, in the eternity of this instant, right here is truth. If only you would drop all ambitions, desires, passions—the scramble and race to find truth—and become utterly quiet, it is found!

But for centuries upon centuries we have been taught: Ask, “Where is truth?” And someone will say, “On the seventh heaven.” It sounds convincing; it brings a kind of relief. “Fine—so that’s why I haven’t found truth, because it’s on the seventh heaven and I’m on the earth. How could I find it? When I reach the seventh heaven, I’ll get it.” With that, you get relief, hope for the future—while you remain just as you are, spared any revolution within.

I tell you: here! I will make you restless. Not on the seventh heaven. If someone on the seventh heaven were to ask me, I would tell him too: here! If I were in the Kaaba, I would say the same: here! And in Kashi I would say: here! My word would be the same, my answer the same.

Yet for centuries it’s been said that truth is not on earth—it is in the sky, in heaven! You have been greatly schooled against the earth. And the irony is: you have to live on the earth, breathe on the earth. Love is here, friendship here, compassion here, virtue here, sin here! You breathe here, and truth is in the sky—on the seventh sky! What then could your life be but hollow?

The crescent moon—
all worship it,
yet clouds sometimes gather,
and sometimes squalls of the eyes,
at times the shadow of dust,
and sometimes the spell of clay,
or the body’s water
which the world calls tears,
steals the ray from the eyes.
Longing is lost
in the broad, long greenness of the wild wood,
like life’s small footpath
or like language in love.

Each fortnight,
to lay flowers on the moon,
becoming bards
to sing their songs,
innumerable thirsty ones arrive
to pour out affection,
to light their lamps.

The philosopher’s stone’s kiss
is the kadamba’s daily flower,
whose beauty is also a thorn.
The source lies hidden here in the dust,
truth lies hidden somewhere in a “mistake,”
as a current
finds its place and shelter
only with the shore.

Feet not anchored on earth,
yet flying in the sky;
flowers of emptiness,
bubbles of the mind,
ripening without any breeze.
Accursed hope
keeps hoeing
the green fields of belief.
But how simple is man!
He has endured for countless ages,
has kept hearing a great hullabaloo
age after age,
yet he has always
been a worshipper of life.
The ocean’s waters crashed over him,
and still he did not collapse.
The religion of the earth
is a fair of beliefs.

In our hopes, we go on watering the fields of belief.

Feet not anchored on earth,
yet flying in the sky—
such is our condition. Our feet have not found ground and we talk of the sky. We haven’t learned to walk on the earth, and we talk of flying in the heavens. We are trees that have not spread roots into the soil, and already we are eager to rise above the clouds.

Feet not anchored on earth,
yet flying in the sky;
flowers of emptiness,
bubbles of the mind,
ripening without any breeze.
Accursed hope
keeps hoeing
the green fields of belief.
But how simple is man!
He has endured for countless ages,
has kept hearing a great hullabaloo
age after age,
yet he has always
been a worshipper of life.
The ocean’s waters crashed over him,
and still he did not collapse.
The religion of the earth
is a fair of beliefs.

How many beliefs we have piled up here! There are three hundred religions on the earth, and from those at least three thousand sects. On this tiny earth—so many religions, so many sects, so many beliefs, so many doctrines! Surely somewhere we have erred; somewhere a mistake has been made—some very fundamental mistake.

The source lies hidden here in the dust,
truth lies hidden somewhere in a “mistake.”
Not knowing this has been the great mistake. In this very life of ours, just as we are, somewhere within it truth is hidden. In this very earth, in this clay-made realm, somewhere the conscious has its abode. In this earthen body itself the divine is enthroned. In this love—yes, in this earthly love itself—the flower of prayer will blossom, the temple of the divine will be built.

Do not ask where truth is! Truth is here, now! By asking “where,” you want to console yourself: the farther off, the better; if it is beyond death, even better—then we can live life as we please and later we’ll see; when the time comes, we’ll see.

A Buddhist monk in Sri Lanka came near his death. Early in the morning he announced: “Today, when the sun sets, I will be finished.” He had thousands of disciples; they all gathered. By evening a great crowd had formed. He was some eighty years old, and for fifty years he had been telling people—nirvana, nirvana, nirvana! The disciples thought, “Let us see what he says at the moment of death!” Most expected he would again speak of nirvana. Their ears were worn out from hearing it for fifty years.

And that is what happened. Just before dying he opened his eyes and said, “Let me ask one thing. For fifty years I explained to you the way to be free, the path, the method to attain nirvana; but you neither listened nor understood—you kept putting it off till tomorrow. Now there will be no tomorrow; I am going. So I ask: if anyone wants to attain nirvana, stand up. I will take him along with me.”

There were thousands there; they looked at one another. They must have been thinking, “Brother, you stand— we have a score of other tasks; why are you just sitting?” But no one stood. One man only raised his hand.

The fakir said, “You only raise your hand? I said: stand up!”

He said, “I’ve raised my hand just to ask whether you can tell the method for attaining nirvana.”

He said, “Fool, there is no question of a method—I am ready to take you. What will you do with a method now?”

He said, “The method—because I am not ready to go just now. Tell me the method; when it’s time, I’ll use it. Give some hints as to where nirvana is, some indications, a map. I don’t want to go now—let me say it plainly. Don’t mistake my raised hand; that’s why I didn’t stand up.”

Many more hands went up. They said, “We also want to know. Since you are going, at least tell us the method as you go.”

You think: what a pitiful state! The monk laughed and departed without telling anything. He played the last joke. For fifty years they had been hearing methods and hadn’t understood, and even now they were asking for a method!

Asking for a method is the cunning trick of the mind. The mind says, “We’ll do it someday!” And whenever you reach a true master he will say—Now! Don’t bring up “someday.” Don’t bring time in between.

You ask, Dhirendra: “Where is truth?”
I say: here! Now! Within you! In your innermost core! You are truth! Tat tvam asi! Be quiet, be silent; take the plunge—dive within.

Himmatbhai Bhuta, do you want to experience? To melt like a salt doll in the ocean? Or only to raise imaginary questions? This is a hypothetical question: “If that is so, why should one make any effort?” You have only noticed that the salt doll dissolved in the ocean; you did not see that the salt doll became the ocean. You have only seen that the soul merged into Existence; you have not seen that Existence merged into the soul.

Kabir says: “Searching and searching, O friend, Kabir was lost; the drop slipped into the ocean—how could it ever be found?” And then, instantly, he wrote the second verse: “Searching and searching, O friend, Kabir was lost; the ocean slipped into the drop—how could it ever be found?” Both statements are true. When the drop dissolves into the ocean, the ocean also dissolves into the drop. It cannot be one-sided. When the soul merges into Existence—you are thinking one-sidedly—Existence also merges into the soul. The soul does not perish; it becomes vast. The drop becomes the ocean. And in vastness there is joy; in smallness there is sorrow.

As long as you are, you will remain miserable. Your experience cannot cross beyond suffering. But Himmatbhai wishes to be saved himself and still experience bliss. That is impossible. If “I” remains, bliss cannot be experienced at all. Bliss is experienced only when the “I” is lost. But don’t be frightened: “If I am lost, who will experience?” God will experience. God is eternally experiencing bliss. Therefore we define God as Sat-Chit-Ananda—truth, consciousness, bliss. Bliss is the summit. Your very being as “I” is the misery.

Many people ask: “If I have to disappear, what a strange thing—why work hard to disappear? Making effort to survive is understandable. Give some trick to be saved. But you give a trick to lose oneself—then why make effort to lose?”

Look again at yourself. What are you except a knot of misery? What are you other than a dark night? Your “being” is not true; it is false. So what will be lost is only the false. Truth never perishes.

Your situation is like what once happened in America. Lincoln’s centenary was being celebrated. All over America they searched for a man who resembled Lincoln. They found one. He was given Lincoln’s role. The troupe toured the whole country for a year—village to village, town to town. For a full year that man played Abraham Lincoln. He walked the same way—Lincoln limped a little, so he limped; Lincoln lisped a bit when speaking, so he lisped; he spoke as Lincoln spoke, dressed as Lincoln dressed. After a year, when the tour ended and he came home, he still wore Lincoln’s clothes, carried Lincoln’s cane, limped like him. When he lisped to his wife, she assumed he was joking. The family laughed: “Enough now. The play is over.”

But he wasn’t joking. In a year he had come to believe he was Lincoln. It became a problem—he wouldn’t accept otherwise. He walked, sat, spoke in the same manner. The whole village mocked him. Everyone tried to persuade him: “The play is finished.” He replied, “What play? I am Abraham Lincoln!”

Lincoln had been assassinated. The rumor spread in the village: “Until he gets ‘killed,’ he won’t come to his senses.” But what use would that be then? The wise grew tired. Finally they took him to a psychologist. Many methods were tried, none worked. He insisted, “Enough! When I am Abraham Lincoln, how can I say I am not?”

Just then a new machine had been invented in America—now used in courts—the lie detector. A man stands on a spot under which the device is hidden. It graphs the heartbeat like a cardiogram. You’ve noticed: when you lie, the heart gets a jolt. You know the truth, suppress it, and speak a lie; the heart jerks, and the graph shows it.

The trick is to ask questions first on which the subject cannot lie. “Look at the clock—what time is it?” “Nine twenty.” The graph is recorded. “What is in my hand?” “A book.” “Which book?” “The Bible.” The graph runs. “Is the door open or closed?” “Open.” Many such questions where he cannot lie.

Then the psychologist asked, “Who are you?” The man was exhausted by endless arguments and thought, “Let me end this bother. I’ll plainly say I’m not Abraham Lincoln. In my heart I know I am, but how long can I quarrel with people?” “Are you Abraham Lincoln?” He said, “No, I am not Abraham Lincoln.” And the machine showed: he was lying. The belief had sunk so deep into the heart! The play had become real.

Do you think if we told this man, “It would be best if you ceased to be Abraham Lincoln; then you’ll be healthy,” he would agree? He would ask, “Who will be healthy then? If Abraham Lincoln isn’t, who is healthy?” If we said, “Drop the idea of being Abraham Lincoln and your mental illness will go,” he would reply, “What’s the use then? If I am not and the illness is also not—no flute without the bamboo! Fine, but if I’m not, what’s the point?”

This, Himmatbhai, is your question. You ask, “If I am not there, who will experience?” The experience will be of the one you truly are. What you now take yourself to be is only a role.

Consider: When you were born your name was not Himmatbhai Bhuta. You came without a name. Yet now your name is Himmatbhai. If someone on the street shouts, “Hey, you fool, where are you going?” a fight breaks out. You will immediately ask, “Did you say that to Himmatbhai Bhuta? If to someone else, fine. But remember—if you speak like that to Himmatbhai Bhuta, you’ll have me to answer to!” If someone abuses Himmatbhai Bhuta, there’s a quarrel; yet when you were born you had no name. Back then, if someone abused Himmatbhai however much, you would have kept happily sucking your thumb, utterly unconcerned—“To hell with Himmatbhai and to hell with those who abuse him—what is that to me? What’s my connection?”

When you were born you were neither Hindu, nor Muslim, nor Christian. If someone burned a Bible, would you have jumped up: “Let life go but I won’t let the Bible burn! May the flag ever fly high! Life may go but honor must not!” Or if someone toppled an idol of Ganesha, would you have gotten angry that you are a devotee of Ganesha? No; you would have kept watching, perhaps even laughed and clapped: “Well done! It looked fit to be toppled anyway!”

But slowly notions were implanted: you are Hindu, or Muslim; this is your name, this your caste, this your lineage. The notion hardened over time. It is a play. That man forgot in a year; you have forgotten in fifty—but years don’t change the essence.

When the wise say “you will be gone,” they speak of the you that is false, artificial, constructed—not of the you that you truly are. How can That be lost? What is, is; there is no way for it to perish. Truth does not, cannot, die. Falsehood is made, and it dissolves. Falsehood is a bubble on water.

You ask, “Who will have bliss?” Certainly not Himmatbhai Bhuta—that much I can state for sure. But you are more, much more, than Himmatbhai Bhuta. Himmatbhai is nothing but a label. Within, the Vast is hidden—name-less, place-less, without caste, lineage, religion, or class.

Surely this salt doll will be finished—but what you are, what you were before birth, you will remain even after death. You are eternal!

“Why,” you ask, “should we make effort to dissolve ourselves?” Your question has logic. But if you live only by logic, you will be deprived of what is essential in life. Life is not just logical; it is trans-logical. Melt a little and see. I am not saying dive in all at once like a salt doll, lest you suddenly panic: “Oh, what a mess—I’ve vanished; now who will be blissful?” So do it little by little. Now and then, dissolve—one hour in twenty-four. That one hour I call meditation. For one hour, disappear. For one hour forget “I am.” For one hour, be not. Then see what happens!

Suddenly a rain of bliss begins. And you will be amazed: Himmatbhai Bhuta is not there, yet bliss is showering! Then you’ll also notice that as soon as Himmatbhai returns, the shower stops. As soon as the I-sense appears, bliss goes. The I-sense is hell. As soon as the I-sense goes, bliss arrives.

Sometimes it happens accidentally. Early morning—you wake, fresh air, birds singing, flowers on trees, lotuses dancing on the lake, the sun rising, a flock of cranes crossing the sky—and for a moment you forget “I am.” Flowers remain, sky remains, cranes remain, the sun remains, the fresh morning air remains—you are not. For a moment you simply forget; you are utterly absorbed. In that absorption there is bliss. Later you say again and again, “This morning I felt so blissful!” But here is the funny thing: you forget that when bliss happened you were not there. Now, when you say, “I had great bliss,” you are there; now you are only recounting a memory. When you had utterly vanished, your brain—like a tape recorder—was still recording everything. It is a mechanism; it recorded even that moment. Later the recording plays back, the ego returns, claims ownership, and says, “This morning I experienced great bliss!” But that is untrue. I was not there when bliss happened. Bliss and I have never coexisted, nor can they. Because the “I” is false. Brahman is true; the ego is false. People say, “The world is false, Brahman is true.” I say, “Brahman is true; the ego is false.” What have we to do with the world? The ego is the world.

But this is a matter of experience. If you decide beforehand, it will be difficult. Begin to be immersed a little. Sometimes drown in music, sometimes in dance, sometimes in the beauty of nature. And when that immersion happens, look: where is the “I”? You will not find it, and there will be the experience of bliss. Then one thing will become clear in your life: bliss can be, without the “I.” In fact, it happens only without the “I.”

Your question is hypothetical, conjectural—“If it happens, then what?” It is like a blind man asking, “If my eyes open, what will happen to the stick I walk with?” We would tell him, “Don’t worry about the stick. Let your eyes open first. Then you decide whether to keep the stick or not.” He says, “I want to decide beforehand. If I lose my stick, how will I walk?”

Any question a blind man raises about light or about himself in relation to light will be wrong, because he has no experience of light.

Once a blind man was brought to Buddha. The whole village was exhausted trying to explain, but he would not accept. He was no ordinary blind man; he was a philosopher. An ordinary blind man might concede; a philosophical blind man makes it hard. He spoke learnedly: “If there is light, put it in my palm so I can feel it.” How can you put light in the palm? And yet it’s not that light can’t be on your palm—open your hand under the sun and there is only light—but touch cannot detect it; you cannot clench a fist around it. He said, “All right, if not in the palm, put it on my tongue so I can taste it—like a lump of sugar.” “If not that, at least strike it so I can hear its sound. Bring it to my nostrils so I can smell it—surely it has some fragrance!”

What is the fragrance of light? The taste? The form? The sound? None.

The village tired out. When Buddha came, they brought the man: “We know ordinary light; he knows the Great Light—perhaps he can make him understand.” Buddha looked at the blind man and said to the villagers, “Friends, this man is not at fault. He is right. The mistake is yours. You try to explain and waste time? Take him to a physician who can treat his eyes. There is a film over them; if it is removed, you will not need to explain.”

They took him to physicians. One treated him; in six months the film was cut. By then Buddha had traveled far. The man went searching, found him in another village, and fell at his feet: “If you had not appeared, the villagers would have argued me into being blind forever—every argument of theirs I could refute, and then I felt, ‘I am right; they are wrong. What kind of eyed people are these who cannot prove light? Better my blindness than their ‘sight’!’ I even began to suspect they were all blind like me, only dreaming about light—or using talk of light to prove me blind. You were compassionate to send me to the physician.” Buddha said, “I sent you to a physician because I, too, am a physician. My trust is in treatment.”

Himmatbhai, my trust too is in treatment, not in preaching—cure, not counsel. Come here. Here, slowly, dissolve the salt doll. This sannyas is nothing else; it is a device for dissolving the salt doll. The many meditation processes here are simply different ghats—because salt dolls are stubborn. Some say, “We will descend from this ghat; our forefathers always used this one—why any other?” We say, “Fine—then use this one! But dive somewhere! The ghats are many, but the waters are one.”

Someone says, “I will do Vipassana, I come from a Buddhist family.” We say, “Good—the Vipassana ghat will do. Drown through it, die through it.” Another says, “I am a Muslim, a Sufi.” “Fine—we have a ghat for Sufis.” A Jain comes—we have ghats for him as well. The intention here is to create a pilgrimage where all ghats are available. Leap from the one that delights you—you will fall into the same ocean. And once you dissolve, you will know what bliss is. Then you will never again ask, “If I disappear, who will have bliss?”

Bliss does not happen to someone; bliss is your nature. Because it is veiled by the “I,” your bliss-nature does not manifest. When the veil of “I” falls, bliss is revealed. Bliss is not an experience; it is your very nature.

Asang, that you are from Amritsar is enough. You may insist you are not asleep, not dreaming; you won’t be able to persuade me. All this is your sleep, your dreams, your imaginings. Beautiful imaginings! And from these imaginings you must be getting relief, consolation; the mind surely becomes unburdened.

But let me tell you from my side: I don’t go to Amritsar at all—haven’t for years. But about Amritsar—well, there is little that cannot happen there.

I have heard: an Amritsar employer was warning his servant, “Look, Charan Singh, the shop you go to for supplies—that shopkeeper is very sly, very crafty. Outwardly he keeps reciting the Japji, but inside he’s a seasoned scoundrel. Be careful. When he weighs anything, he throws dust in the customers’ eyes before they even notice. I warn you: don’t be deceived by his beard, his Japji, his outward Sardar guise.”

Charan Singh said, “Master, I’m a Sardar too. And if he’s from Amritsar, am I from outside? If he’s crafty, I’m no less. I recite the Japji too. I already knew he throws dust in the customers’ eyes. So whenever he weighs something, I just keep my eyes closed. I’m no less than he! I’m a Sardar—throwing dust in my eyes isn’t that easy!”

You say: neither dream nor swoon. But all these are mind’s imaginings. Even with eyes open you can see the mind’s fantasies. And you say: when I’m in crisis, in doubt, in conflict, when no path appears, then you are seen.

At that moment you want me to appear—right then you want it. When you are comfortable? Then I do not appear, because you have no need. When all is going well, you probably don’t even remember. Only when things are going wrong, everything is in a mess, when your own hand can find no way out, then in helplessness you remember me.

And certainly, if in a helpless state you remember anyone, you do get one kind of relief—that you are not alone. And if the remembrance is very intense, such experiences can occur. But all such experiences are dreamlike. And I myself am saying this—so think it over well. Your mind will be saying, “No, no—my experiences, dreamlike?”

Right now you are asleep; therefore whatever you experience will be dreamlike.

Buddha has said: If ever I come in your way, raise your sword and cut off my head.

In what sense did he say it? In just this sense. Because whatever Buddha you see on your path will be your own imagination. I do not want you to depend on me. And if you become dependent, another suffering will arise.

You ask: even so, why do I sometimes oppose you?

It is precisely for this reason you oppose. We can never forgive the person upon whom we have to depend. You cannot forgive me. Little by little you have begun to feel that your distress diminishes in my presence; that your problems are resolved by my presence. How will you forgive me? You will remain angry with me. No one wants to be so dependent on anyone. Nor do I want you to depend on me, because I know those who depend will also be resentful. I want you to be absolutely free of me. Then the opposition will also disappear.

Life has strange mathematics. We never forgive the one upon whom we have had to depend. That is why children cannot forgive their parents. And that is why, when the parents grow old, children take revenge on them. How to forgive? Such dependence! In childhood there is such dependence upon the parents—one lived by their signals; if they protected you, you were saved; if they supported you, you stood. Today the ego is hurt. Grown up, the ego is obstructed.

Children begin to take revenge on their parents in many ways. That revenge is largely unconscious, but behind it lies a deep psychological background. And an even greater event happens between master and disciple. If the disciple becomes dependent on the master, he will take revenge—because dependence is slavery. And who likes slavery!

Asang, drop this dependence. When trouble comes, when you feel helpless, when nothing is being resolved, don’t remember me—meditate. At that time sit quietly, sit in silence. If your intellect’s to-and-fro cannot find a path, put the intellect aside; dive into the heart. The path will come from there.

And even now the path is coming from there. You are thanking me needlessly. The path comes from there; it always comes from there. Do not thank me, because your thanks is costly. If you thank me today, tomorrow you will be angry. Then there will be opposition. Then you will fish out some small pretext and oppose me. By opposing, you will create an inner equilibrium.

And take my word: I have completely stopped going to Amritsar. The world is so vast to visit; think of Amritsar as the last stop—when there is nowhere left to go, then Amritsar.

At the Amritsar station, when the ticket-checker came, a Sardarji saw that the gentleman sitting beside him said, “I am a leader of the nation,” and the ticket-checker moved on. At the station gate he too went out the same way; he didn’t pay the porter either. Seeing this, Sardarji was delighted. He decided to try the same trick. Next time he traveled he too did not buy a ticket. The ticket-checker asked, “Show your ticket!”

“Brother, aren’t you ashamed to ask for a ticket? I am a leader of this country!”

“Excuse me,” said the ticket-checker, “what is your good name?”

Sardarji had not thought of any answer to that. He panicked and blurted, “Don’t you know me? I am Indira Gandhi!”

The ticket-checker too was a Sardar; he touched his feet and said, “Brother, for a long time I had the desire for your darshan; today it is fulfilled.”

As much as you can avoid Amritsar, the better. Troubles must surely be falling upon you, because that troubles should not come in Amritsar—well, that cannot be. Big entanglements must come that you cannot even put into words. All around are people of entanglement.

I used to go to Amritsar. Then the hassles grew too much; it became impossible to work there. The hassles would begin right at the station. At the station two hundred men would be showing black flags in protest, shouting slogans; and two hundred men would be standing in support. It would come to the brink of fighting. Once the opponents came with sticks. So then the supporters could hardly be left behind. Sardars are Sardars—they went to the Golden Temple and brought some sevadars who bear bare swords. I watched the spectacle. I said, “If this is how it is to be—people with sticks on one side and on the other side swords, bare swords!” When they took me out of the station, three men with bare swords were walking ahead, three behind. I said, “That’s it—this is the last time; there is no point getting into this turmoil again.”

Wherever there was to be a talk, right in front of it the opponents would set up a mike. All right, even if they were only chanting the Lord’s name! Hardly any gathering where there would not be disturbance and quarrel, where it would not come to the point of blows.

So Amritsar is a miracle! Consider it enough that I come into your dreams; I don’t even want to come into dreams—spare me.

These are all mind’s imaginations. Renounce these imaginings of the mind. I am here to set you free, not to put you into any kind of bondage. I want you to go within, not behind me. Awaken your own soul. Your solution is not in me; your solution is in your samadhi.

Asang, don’t waste time. Put all your energy, all your power, into that samadhi. Then neither will you be angry with me nor will you thank me. Then this bond of attachment and aversion will break. And when the bond of attachment and aversion between disciple and master breaks, for the first time love happens—an unprecedented happening. In that love there is no opposition, because in that love there is no dependence; there is freedom. In that love there is never any enmity, because in that love you are not becoming a limb of someone, not imitating someone’s life. That love brings moksha; it is liberating.

Asang, let every one of my sannyasins keep this maxim clearly in mind. As I am saying to you, so I am saying to all: do not depend on me, otherwise you will not be able to forgive me. Remain free of me. Understand me, drink me in, but there is no need to imitate me.

And all these are small matters—that I should come to solve your problems; that if you get entangled with income tax you should call me; that if you get caught in a theft I should save you. Drop all this nonsense. I have nothing to do with such things.

I am giving you the key—the key to going beyond all entanglements. I call that key meditation; its culmination is samadhi.

That is all for today.