Utsav Amar Jati Anand Amar Gotar #7

Sohan, when love is, it is always complete; there is no such thing as an experience of incomplete love. Just as a circle, if it is a circle, is whole; there cannot be such a thing as an incomplete circle—if it is incomplete, we can no longer call it a circle. So too, love is always complete. That is why love is the experience closest to the divine. One who has known love will not find it difficult to know God—it is as if only one more step remains. Love is the last step to the temple of the divine; after that, there is entry into the shrine.

Jesus has said: God is love.
I go a step further—and I should, for two thousand years have passed since Jesus uttered that statement; in two millennia human consciousness has touched new dimensions. Jesus says, God is love. I say, love is God. In Jesus’ statement, God remains the primary term and love one of his virtues. In my statement, love becomes primary; God is only another name for it.

But the love we know in the ordinary world is not complete; in fact, it is not love at all. Under the mask of love, who knows what all goes on—hatred too moves about wearing the mask of love.

What you ordinarily call love—examine it, dig a little. Dig just a little and you will find: love has vanished; something else is hidden—there is the urge to possess the other; the desire for ownership is hidden; there is the politics of imposing one’s ego on the other; there is the foul intention to dominate, exploit, to use the other as a means.

That is why jealousy arises in your so-called love. Otherwise why should jealousy arise in love? Jealousy should belong with hatred. How can poison like jealousy arise out of love? Impossible! Yet from the so-called love jealousy arises, envy arises, anger arises. Surely what we are calling love is only a veneer of love—inside it is something else, the very opposite of love.

Love is liberating. But what we call love becomes a bondage; it forges chains. What we call love becomes a prison—two people engaged in a constant struggle: who will win, who will lose. What we call love is a continual quarrel; there is not even dialogue, only dispute.

In the name of love, something counterfeit is operating in the world—something false, something artificial. And the reason is that from childhood we stage-manage a false love. We tell small children: Love, I am your mother! Love, I am your father! Love, this is your brother! Love, this is your sister! As if love can be done! As if love were in anyone’s hands!

What is the child to do? We insist—and we are powerful; the child’s life is in our hands; to survive, he must go along with us. What is he to do? From where will he bring love? For the elder child, toward the newborn in the house, hatred arises, not love. The newborn appears like an enemy, not a friend—he will attract more of the mother’s attention. The child who so far was the center of the mother’s attention will be pushed to the periphery; the new child will be at the center. She will care for him more, serve him more, worry for him more.

Naturally, the new child needs more protection, more arrangements for his safety. The older child begins to feel neglected. Does love arise in the elder’s heart toward the newborn? Impossible! Ask the psychologists—they say a terrible jealousy arises. If the elder had his way he would press the younger’s neck. Sometimes, seeing an opportunity, he even does so. At the very least, he prays: What kind of trouble has God sent us! Take him away! What inauspicious hour brought this nuisance into the house!

Yet we say: He is your little brother—love him! And we are powerful, so he has to show love. He cannot feel it, but he must display it. He must act.

Again, are you a mother or a father—that by itself makes love inevitable? Yet we say: Love, because this is your mother, your father, your sister, your brother.

Thus a web of acting begins, a hypocrisy starts. The child slowly learns to perform. He keeps suppressing within all his hatred, all his hostility.

Remember, in every child anger arises toward the mother. It will arise, because the mother wants to regulate his life—and the mother must regulate. These are life’s inevitabilities. If the child heads toward the fire, the mother must stop him. If the child is about to fall, the mother must restrain him; if he goes near the well, she must call out, Stop! Don’t go there! If he makes mistakes, sometimes he must be scolded, sometimes even beaten. And from all this a great anger arises in the child’s mind—a great fire burns within.

But he cannot express it; he keeps it suppressed—pushing it down into the unconscious. On the surface he shows love—touches the mother’s feet, the father’s feet—while deep within a thought runs: Someday I’ll teach them a lesson. When I get the chance, I will see to it.

And the day will come—the parents will become old and helpless, as helpless as the child once was. A day will come when the parents will be weak and the child powerful—then the moment of revenge has arrived.

People ask why parents are not being respected in the world.
Precisely for this reason—the buried anger waits for its opportunity. The very first lesson of love goes wrong; the ABC is wrong. And that becomes his only idea of love. The same love he will bring to his wife.

That is why all societies everywhere have arranged until now that even the wife be chosen by the parents; the young man should not choose, nor the young woman. Even life’s most precious decision should be made by others. Let the astrologer choose, let the parents choose. Let horoscopes be matched, calculations made. Now in the West there are computers that choose who would make a suitable spouse.

A child cannot choose his sister or brother—those are given by birth. There was only one moment of choice, one freedom—he could choose his wife or his husband. Even that we took away. We converted even that into arranged marriage. We did not allow even that much freedom to remain on the earth.

Then we say: She is your wife—love her! He is your husband—love him! The husband is God! So one has to love; it does not happen. And what is done is false; what happens is true. What is done is on paper; it is no real flower—it has no fragrance. What happens—love—is an incomparable event.

In this way we have entangled the whole of humanity in a web of false love. A few people benefit from this: priests and pundits, politicians benefit; parents are comfortable. By making love false we have reduced the quotient of freedom in human life. Because free individuals seem dangerous. Freedom means you cannot enslave them. They will give up their life, but not their freedom. They will be willing to die, but they will not lose their independence. For freedom is more valuable than life. They will not surrender their love—even if they have to surrender themselves. For to be offered on the altar of love is blessedness.

Therefore we have not truly desired love in the world, nor have we desired freedom. We do not want people to think and inquire; we do not want them to be conscious. We want absolute fools who are obedient—so that if we say, Drop the atom bomb on Hiroshima, the obedient soldier drops it—reduces a hundred thousand innocent people to ash in a moment, and within him not a flicker... he remains untroubled... not the slightest concern arises, not an instant of hesitation, no doubt, no question.

If only this man had loved someone! Just think—if the man who dropped the atom bomb on Hiroshima had loved someone, would it have been possible for him to drop that bomb? His love would have come to mind. He would have remembered that all those hundreds of thousands also love, and are loved. Shall I devastate this garden of love? Shall I sacrifice a hundred thousand lives on the hollow altar of obedience? If he had tasted love and freedom he would have refused. He would have said, No—this I will not do; even if my head is cut off, so be it.

If in this world there were even a little experience of love, wars would cease. For who would fight, who would kill? For what?

But if wars end, what will become of politicians? If wars end, what becomes of power structures? If wars end, what of the sick minds that lead? And if wars end and the false pride of obedience collapses; if people think, inquire, then act; if people live by their love and their own experience—what then of Hindus? What of Muslims? What of Christians? There will be only people—free people.

And the free person is neither Hindu nor Muslim nor Christian. The free person is simply human. The free person is neither Indian nor Pakistani nor Chinese nor American. The free person is simply human. He will say: The whole earth is ours, the whole existence is ours. Why divide it into fragments? For all fragmenting today or tomorrow becomes the cause of war. Draw lines—and bayonets are raised on both sides. If someone crosses the line here or there, guns fire. So long as there are lines on the map, the earth can never live in peace. Without love there is no possibility of peace.

So the first principle to understand is that what we call love is false love. The love I am speaking of is something else—an emergence of your heart. What you call love is only the mind’s arithmetic, a calculation.

Sohan, whenever love happens, it is whole. And you are blessed that you have had a glimpse of such complete love. Very few are so fortunate in this world. And the complete never diminishes; the complete grows from fullness to fuller still. The complete becomes more luminous. New petals keep unfolding. The complete knows no decline, only development.

And certainly, when the experience of love arises, tears pour. Behind those tears there are two facets. One is of pain: that life so far was futile, that what we had known until now was not right, not true. There is a shade of remorse, of hurt: Why not yesterday? Why not the day before? Why did it not happen sooner? Why such delay?

And one facet is of incomparable joy: that whenever it happened, it was still in time. It happened today—who could guarantee it would happen today? It might not have happened today either. One facet looks back with a gentle sorrow; one looks forward with exultation.

Tears fall from the eyes, but they arise from the heart—just as clouds rise from the ocean and rain upon the earth. The tears of love rise from the ocean of the heart and pour through the eyes. The eyes are only the medium.

And the denser love becomes, the more all else in life appears futile. The deeper the experience of love, the more a single passion persists day and night—only love’s.

The monsoon swells, clouds surge and gather— what has come over these poor eyes? Perhaps you have whispered our secret; even stone melts before such sweet ache. A star breaks loose from the sky like this; look—the moon’s very life has come to the lips. The sky sobs, directions weep— what has come over this night of nights? The monsoon swells, clouds surge and gather— what has come over these poor eyes?

Whatever path our feet have touched, even its dust has turned to agar and sandalwood; Yet where we would seek to rest, even the shade there burns and bites. Courtyard aflame, threshold and roads ablaze— what has happened to the longing for peace? The monsoon swells, clouds surge and gather— what has come over these poor eyes?

There is a voice that will not draw near, an echo that refuses to leave our side. Life’s tie to the world, to wakefulness— God alone knows whether it is breaking or bonding. Life’s tie to the world, to wakefulness— God alone knows whether it sunders or unites. Notes wander, calls go astray— what has come over these stubborn words? The monsoon swells, clouds surge and gather— what has come over these poor eyes?

We smile and the garden sways; the spring stands waiting for our steps. Perhaps today your remembrance turned this way— soft showers knock upon the door. The grove grows shy, the winds agree— what has come over this obstinate evening? The monsoon swells, clouds surge and gather— what has come over these poor eyes?

When for the first time the cloud of love gathers thick in the heart, tears surely fall—and such tears will cleanse not only the eyes, but the very life-breath. Tears that free life, consciousness—wipe the dust from the mirror of awareness. And these tears are not such as to be exhausted. So, Sohan, they are flowing even today; they will go on flowing. Bathed in the bliss of these tears you will depart from this world. Immersed in those joy-tears—filled with prayer, replete with love—if one departs thus, then there is no need to return.

Any experience of wholeness is liberating; then there is no coming and going.

Whatever path our feet have touched, even its dust has turned to agar and sandalwood.
Where a person filled with love walks, even the dust becomes agar and sandalwood.

Whatever path our feet have touched, even its dust has turned to agar and sandalwood;
Yet where we would seek to rest, even the shade there burns and bites.
Then nothing in this world truly pleases. If even a single drop from beyond this world slips down the throat, nothing here satisfies any longer. There is no shade here; here there is only sting upon sting. This is the lover’s pain, the devotee’s dilemma. They have seen that which is ordinarily invisible. A faint, delicate fragrance of the beyond has reached them—and with its coming, this whole world becomes foul-smelling.

Sri Aurobindo has said: Until I knew the real light, what I called light was not light—it was darkness. When I knew the real light, I recognized that what I had so far taken for light was darkness. And when I knew real life, I realized that what I had so far called life was not life at all—only a long chain of death.

The moment a ray of the unknown descends into life, this whole life suddenly appears insubstantial. Living amidst it, one becomes unattached, unconcerned.

This unattachedness I call sannyas, Sohan. Sannyas does not mean running away; no escape. Sannyas means the feeling of nonattachment. To live knowing that this world is not enough; it is only the steps—the stairs. The spire of the temple begins to be visible. And that spire is visible only to love-filled eyes. Apart from love, that spire is not seen by anyone. Call that love faith if you wish; call it trust, devotion—give it any name; but love is a very sweet name.

My choice is for love. If you say bhakti, devotion, it becomes narrow—then it is only toward God, a constricted lane. In bhakti there creeps in a kind of denial toward this world, this life. In love there is acceptance. In love, from the mud to the lotus, everything is accepted. Love is a staircase with steps from the lowest to the highest. Its feet are planted on the earth, its top is joined to the sky. Love is vast—far vaster than bhakti. Bhakti speaks only of the uppermost steps, the final edge; love contains the whole staircase.

Why is my choice for love?

A Sufi fakir had grown old. His son had a son. Bringing the little boy, he came to the fakir. The fakir too was delighted at becoming a grandfather. He took the baby into his lap, played with him with great affection. And just then a thought arose within him: I am giving so much love to this child, I am so blissful—does this giving of love stand in favor of my devotion to God, or against it? The moment this thought arose, he pushed the grandson off his lap.

The child’s father was astonished: Just now you were caressing him with such love—what happened?

The fakir said: I remembered that in loving this child, I forgot God. Take him away, remove him from here. Do not ever bring him here again. For me this child is like Satan.

When I read this story I thought: If devotion becomes so narrow, how can anyone be liberated through it? If devotion becomes so petty, so jealous—if God becomes so small that even this child cannot be contained in him—then that is not the sky of God, it is the courtyard of some mosque, the courtyard of some temple.

Divine love must be so vast that all other loves are contained in it, as all rivers are contained in the ocean. And the ocean does not say: O rivers, do not fall into me! Who knows what filth you carry, from what cities, from what roads you bring dust and refuse—do not enter me! Do not pollute me!
No, the ocean absorbs all. Its capacity is such that whatever enters it is made pure. The ocean is not defiled.

In the same way, if true prayer, true love for God has arisen, then because of that love your other loves are not crippled; for the first time they become whole. For the first time your other loves become true. For the first time your other loves become authentic. Then you do not love the wife because she is your wife, yours; you love because the divine has manifested in her too. You do not love the son because he is yours; you love because the divine is revealed in him as well. Then the divine is manifest in all—who is mine, who is other? Only One dwells everywhere.

Therefore I value the word love more than bhakti, for love does not deny. In bhakti there is danger. Devotees have often denied; devotees have often been afraid. And those who are afraid—can they be devotees? The one who, out of fear, removes his grandson from his lap—will such a man ever attain God? Though he thinks he is doing a virtuous act. And Sufis write this story as if the fakir did very well—they praise him highly. When I see such stories in Sufi books, I become certain that whoever wrote that book was not a Sufi; he knew nothing of love. He may be a scholar, but he had no understanding of life’s mysteries.

Sohan, love is complete—so complete that it can contain the whole of existence and still have room to spare. Existence proves small; love is that complete. And what is complete does not wane; it only grows. In the world of love, after the full moon the moon does not diminish; it grows bigger every day—there is only moon upon moon; pebbles and stones too turn to moons; moonlight spreads everywhere.

You say that the fullness of love that was there that day is the same today.
So it should be. So it has been. You have not wavered for even a moment. Many have come to me in the meantime and gone, but you have not moved an inch away.

To walk with me is not an easy thing. To love me is a costly affair. Because in loving me you do not know how many ties, how many relationships, how many worldly formalities you will have to break. But you accepted all this joyfully. That is possible only when a diamond has fallen into your hand—then who has any difficulty dropping pebbles and stones!

Many will come here and go; the kingdom will fall only to those who remain—not to comers and goers, not to travelers. Comers and goers will keep coming and going. They too are needed—the flow must continue, movement must be. Water neither stops nor stands still. They too have their use.

Gurdjieff used to say to his disciples—his way of speaking was somewhat harsh; he was a man of a different kind. His words were like a stick hitting the head. Someone asked him: So many people come and go; few remain. What do you say about this? He replied: When you eat, ninety percent of the food is roughage; only ten percent is digested and becomes flesh and marrow; ninety percent is expelled as excreta. Those who come and go—they too are needed—roughage! If you eat only nutritious food with no roughage, you will be in trouble. How will elimination happen?

It is somewhat harsh language—Gurdjieff’s language was like that. He spoke straight, as it should be, without embellishment.

What do we advise those who suffer from constipation? We tell them: Eat spinach, more vegetables, green vegetables, raw vegetables. Why? Because much of that will not be digested. There is more “waste”—grass and fiber. But that bulk is necessary so your intestines are cleansed. Gurdjieff chose a good example: the ninety percent who come and go are only to keep the intestines clean; they have no greater value. The value belongs to those who remain—who have become bone, flesh, marrow.

Sohan, you have remained—and so stayed that now the question of leaving does not arise. There is a limit beyond which the question of departure no longer exists. There is an inner understanding—when the recognition has become so deep, there is no longer any question of going. An understanding of the innermost. Those who understand me only through the intellect may leave today or tomorrow—because the intellect cannot be trusted. In the intellect no true trust ever wells up. The intellect only does arithmetic; today if some statement pleases, you are with me; tomorrow if something does not please, you drop me. The heart knows depths. The heart does not connect through words; it connects through life-breath. The heart listens differently, understands differently. The heart has its own logic, which the intellect neither understands nor can. The intellect is useful in the outer world; in the inner it is useless—a burden, a barrier, a wall.

Sohan, you understood through love; you listened with the heart. You had the courage to remain close. When others were leaving, you did not worry. Your love ripened. Therefore love has gone on growing—more and more complete.

You say you consider it the greatest and most astonishing event of your life.
Indeed, love is life’s greatest and most wondrous event. For one who has found the boat of love has found the further shore. One who has found love’s boat—the other shore is not far.

A straw skiff, moored at the bank— O traveler, now cross over! In vain those creeds and paths, philosophies, doctrines, great ships of knowledge and science— This straw skiff dissolves at the boundary— there you find the boundless. Green-winged straw boat, swift and light— the ocean of becoming is no longer so hard to cross. In new trust, sink your heart’s impurity— let the burden drown. This skiff is the doorway to the cave of creation— full with the tide of life and consciousness. There is no illusion of near and far there— merge wherever you enter. The sea is skiff, and every sea a skiff, if the heart’s vision grows deep— upon the waves of time build a nest of moonbeams. O traveler, now cross over!

The boat has come into your hands; now the other shore is not far—half the journey is done. You desire that this state of love remain until the last moment of life; you seek my blessing.

Whether you ask or not, the blessing is already showering upon you. Blessing does not come by asking—it comes by worthiness. If the unworthy asks, what can be done? He has no vessel in which to hold the blessing. And if there is a vessel, it is so dirty that even blessing falling into it becomes a curse. For those who have the vessel, blessing showers of itself—there is no need to ask.

“Unasked, pearls are given; asked, not even flour”—Rahim speaks rightly. If there is worthiness, pearls rain down unasked. And you have given ample proof of worthiness. The blessing is indeed showering. And what is with you today will be with you, far more deeply, in the last moment of life. For what is the last moment of life? The quintessence of the entire life, the attar—the distilled fragrance—of all life’s flowers. If your today is beautiful, tomorrow will be more beautiful, the day after more beautiful still. And one whose life is beautiful, love-filled, brimming with joy and celebration—his death too will be a festival, a great festival. For what is death? The culmination of life—not the end of life but its consummation.

Ajit Saraswati, the longing is not wrong; the longing is perfectly right. If you have tasted the nectar, how could you not invite your wife? If a current of sweetness begins to flow in your life, how could you leave your wife neglected on the bank?

When something new dawns in your life it is natural to invite those you love, those who are close to you. Your inviting your wife is entirely natural. But simply being natural does not make everything happen. Life is a very odd arrangement. It does not run by rules—life is utterly illogical!

That is why Kabir says: “A wonder I have seen—the river caught fire.” A river on fire! It shouldn’t be so; it isn’t “natural.” But life is full of such wonders. And the greatest wonder here is this: you love someone, so when bliss comes you want to make her a sharer in it. But that very wish becomes the stumbling block. The river catches fire; it becomes difficult.

If a husband wants to bring his wife in a certain direction, trouble starts, because the way we have constructed this bond is itself askew. This bond is wrong. The longing is right, but the husband–wife tie is unnatural. You may be shocked to hear me. The longing is natural, but the institution of husband and wife is unnatural. Except for human beings, nowhere else is there husband and wife. Humans invented this institution.

To live inside institutions is tricky. Institutions run by rules; institutions run by repression; and every institution contains some violence. Institutions rest on violence. The biggest institution, the state, stands upon pure violence—though you may not notice it. If someone steals, you see violence there; but a policeman standing at the crossroads with a gun—you don’t see violence there. If the state executes someone, you don’t see violence; but if a man kills, that is violence. We have accepted the state’s violence as right, legitimate.

We have always accepted institutionalized violence. If a teacher beats your child at school, it is “quite all right.” But if some stranger on the street hits your child, even for “good reasons,” you will rush to fight. When the teacher hits, you say, “If the teacher doesn’t beat him, how will he learn? Without beating, has knowledge ever arrived? Beat and wisdom comes tinkling in.”

Institutional violence gets accepted.

Once I was staying in a house in Raipur. Next door a gentleman was beating his wife. I got up and said to him, “Stop now—enough.” I thought at least the wife would thank me. But do you know what she said? “Who are you to interfere?” The wife said it—she was the one being beaten! “Who are you to speak in between? He is my husband. This is between husband and wife. Please go.”

Institutional violence becomes so accepted that even the one suffering it honors it. The husband–wife bond is fundamentally unnatural. It has no future. As humanity becomes a little more cultured, the husband–wife arrangement will bid farewell to the world, sooner or later. This does not mean men and women will not love. They will love; and when they love, they will live together. But their living together will be a free choice, not a legal bondage. Wherever there is bondage, retaliation is born.

Ajit Saraswati, your wife must be feeling bondage. All wives do. Husbands do as well—though they are the stronger party, they have kept women virtually enslaved. But women also take revenge wherever they can, as much as they can. In most areas we have crippled them, but in some things they can say no. For instance, if you want to bring your wife to me...

I have been in Poona five years now. Ajit, you are among those very close to me—one I could call a ganadhar; one who has understood me deeply; one who will be able to convey my word to people. Naturally you want to bring your wife. But in such matters she can break the structure of your ownership that she cannot break elsewhere. She will say, “I don’t want to go there. I will go to the temple—that’s enough. I will read the Gita or the Ramayana. Traditional religion is sufficient for me. I have no taste for new ideas. If you want to go, you go.”

This resistance is retaliation. Otherwise, if a husband is so delighted—and you have been delighted, you have become more peaceful—if your wife won’t see that, who will? She sees it all; still her ego will hold her back. The husband–wife relationship is so unnatural that it is full of quarrels. Twenty-four hours a day there are petty quarrels. The matters are insignificant—like which toy to buy for the child—and yet there is a fight, as if the search is for a reason to fight.

I have heard, Mulla Nasruddin took a fancy to keeping an owl. People have strange hobbies—and Mulla is a topsy-turvy fellow. If he kept a peacock, that you could understand; but an owl! In most of the world—except India—the owl symbolizes wisdom, because it can see in the dark. Whoever sees in darkness—what better symbol of knowledge could there be? The owl is like a sage—it even sees in the dark! So everywhere except India, the owl stands for knowledge.

One day he brought home an owl from the market in a cage. Do you know what his wife said, seeing it? “Listen carefully! Two owls will not live in this house; only one will. Decide—either this owl stays or you. Only one can be tolerated; one is enough!”

And don’t think this happened because he brought an owl. If he had brought a peacock, it would have been the same—the object is just a pretext.

Husband and wife had been quarreling so long that a neighbor finally asked the husband, “Brother, what are you fighting about?” The husband pointed at his wife, “Why ask me? Ask her.” She snapped, “It’s been more than three hours—how am I supposed to remember what we started fighting about?”

Quarrel for the sake of quarrel—like “art for art’s sake.” There are wounds inside that they have inflicted on each other. Those wounds cannot be spoken of directly, because speaking of them goes against the “rules.”

Husbands have been teaching wives that the husband is God—because all scriptures were written by men. Women weren’t even allowed to read; when they couldn’t read, how could they write? So men wrote the scriptures, and thus “woman is the gateway to hell,” and the husband? The husband is God! The fools who wrote this never realized they were patting themselves on the back—making themselves sweet in their own mouths! The desire to be worshiped by one’s wife. Then the wife does worship—in both senses. Formally, to show others: she touches his feet, decorates the tray, waves the lamp. That is for display. And as soon as the others leave, she puts the tray aside and begins the real “worship”!

There has been no justice yet between woman and man. They think, understand, live in different ways; their grips on life are different.

Psychologists have now concluded that a human being has two brains, not one. The right hand is connected to the left hemisphere. The left hemisphere is “masculine.” That is why we have given superiority to the right hand—right hand the brahmin, left hand the shudra! In English there is even the saying, “Right is right and left is wrong,” because the right hand symbolizes the masculine. The left hemisphere, connected to the right hand, argues, calculates, runs business, discovers science; it is aggressive, violent, political. And the right hemisphere is connected to the left hand; it is feminine. There poetry is born, beauty is felt, love arises. There is no arithmetic, no logic; there is feeling, intuition. Between these two brains we have not yet built a proper bridge.

A woman thinks differently, a man thinks differently; dialogue between them is hardly possible. Yes, if the relationship is of love, dialogue can be possible; and if the relationship depends only on love, and continues only as long as love is there, then dialogue is possible. But if we put law in the place of love, and love stands aside—or love never happens at all and marriage is a social institution done because it “should” be done, parents choose, horoscopes are matched—then harmony will never be found, the notes will never tune together.

A lover said to his beloved, “Darling, when I see you, my heart begins to pound, my mind goes numb, my throat dries up.”
“Are you expressing love or listing your illnesses?” the beloved interrupted.

Be very careful when you are speaking to a woman—and if that woman is your wife, be extremely careful. Weigh every word. If you are speaking to a man—and if that man is your husband—be equally careful with every word. Two worlds stand close together, opposite worlds; misunderstanding is easy, understanding is very difficult. That’s why husbands and wives keep quarreling and quarreling—the quarrel becomes the relationship itself! And if the quarrel ever stops, it stops only because both are tired, bored—in other words, they have given up hope of love.

Psychologists say that if husband and wife are still fighting, it means they still hope a way will be found. If they have stopped fighting, it means they have dropped hope; no way is going to be found; better accept what is, as it is.

A film was playing. Suddenly a roaring lion appeared on the screen. A gentleman panicked and stood up. His friend asked, “Are you afraid of the lion?”
“No,” he said, “I was reminded of my wife. I had better go home—it’s quite late.”

Such is the situation. And these jokes are not lies.

One night Mulla Nasruddin ran away from home. His wife had tormented him so much! There was no place to stay; the inn was closed, no hotel had room. A circus had come to town, so he thought he would sleep there. There too there was no place; only the lion’s cage had been left open. So he went in, shut the door, used the lion’s back for a pillow, and slept.

In the morning his wife set out to find him. A light drizzle was falling, so she took an umbrella. She searched the whole town—his old haunts, everywhere. At last only the circus remained. She went there and saw him snoring away. She poked the umbrella through the bars and prodded him: “Hey, coward! Aren’t you ashamed, sleeping here?”

He was ready to sleep with a lion, and still his wife called him a coward, a fugitive! “Come home—I’ll show you!” He was afraid to go home.

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife was quite stout and dark, while he himself was skinny. They often quarreled. Once, after a big row, a friend came to help. To counsel him he said, “Nasruddin, husband and wife are like two wheels of a cart. For the cart to run properly, the two wheels must not fight.” Nasruddin said, “Right you are, brother! But if one wheel is from a truck and the other from a bicycle, how will the cart run?”

No cart seems to be running—every cart is at a standstill. Do you know what “gaadi” (cart) means? It sounds like “gadi”—stuck, embedded. What a funny word! Why do we call a moving thing a “gaadi”? Perhaps someone had this deep insight watching the husband–wife cart—maybe that’s how it arose. It doesn’t move at all, it’s fixed in place; it doesn’t budge an inch. Yet we call it a “cart,” and even say, “The moving thing is called a cart”!

Ajit, your longing is neither inauspicious nor unnatural, but the bond with a wife is unnatural. So I say to you: drop this worry. Because your worrying, your efforts to bring her, your attempts to connect her with me, will become the obstacle. She will make that very thing the issue, a declaration of her ego. It will become the cause of conflict. Drop the topic altogether. Completely forget it. Don’t let this come in between. Don’t even mention my name in front of your wife.

Ajit, people try other tricks—they play a tape in the house so the wife will hear and “get some sense.” But no husband has ever managed to bring “sense” to his wife that way, nor has any wife ever managed to bring “sense” to her husband. There are wives here too, with the same difficulty—the husband refuses to come. The husband, and come trailing behind his wife! His ego gets hurt. To admit that the wife has found a true master—impossible. And the same is true on the other side. All wives think no one on earth is a greater fool than their husband. Whether they say it or not, inwardly that’s their conviction.

So the best is this: if a husband has come here, he should make not the slightest effort to bring his wife. The longing will arise; swallow it. Don’t try. Then perhaps your wife will become curious. Don’t raise the subject at all. If there is no effort from your side, there is a possibility she will come. Your effort will make her opposition certain. Life is very odd—here, prohibitions become invitations.

A friend of mine, a lawyer, thinks like a lawyer. He built a new house. People passing by would urinate against his wall. He had big letters painted: “Urinating here is prohibited.” From that day the trouble multiplied—whoever passed by would relieve himself there. He said to me, “This is too much! Earlier a few people did it; now everyone does.”

I said, “Those big letters remind everyone—‘Well, might as well do it!’ And since the wall already bears the marks of earlier offenders, anyone will think this is a designated spot. Erase the sign.”

He asked, “Then what should I do?” I said, “Write: ‘Whoever passes here without urinating is not his real father’s son.’” He said, “Now we’re finished—people will come inside my house to do it!” I said, “Then write: ‘Caution—here you must urinate!’”

He wrote it. And whoever read “Caution—here you must urinate!” simply walked by without doing anything. “Who is he to command us? What does this lawyer’s brat think? We’re not obeying his orders!”

Prohibition turns into invitation. You see a woman in a burqa pass by, and everyone tries to peek. Whether there is a woman inside or a Pakistani spy, it doesn’t matter—people still try to look. Whatever is hidden, the mind wants to uncover.

Ajit, hide me. Don’t speak about me at all. Even if your wife raises the topic—from here or there—and she will, avoid it. Talk about other things; don’t talk about me. Then perhaps her curiosity will be aroused. She will feel you’ve found a diamond, and now you are hiding it, not wanting to make her a sharer!

Life is very contrary. Whoever understands these contrary rules of life can transform his life—otherwise, not.

Life is a blank sheet; you will read what you write on it. You can write abuse on it, you can write songs. And remember, abuse is composed from the same alphabet as songs; the alphabet is neutral, impartial. The paper you write on is neutral, impartial. The pen you write with is neutral, impartial. All the cards are in your hands. You must have lived in a certain way—hence it appears futile. The mistake is in your way of living. Do not abuse life.

It’s a great joke: people say, “Life is futile.” They don’t say, “Our way of living is futile!” And your so‑called sadhus, saints, mahatmas also keep telling you—life is futile.

I want to tell you something else. I want to tell you: life is neither meaningful nor meaningless; life is impartial, neutral; life is an open sky. Pick up the brush, fill it with color. If you wish, paint a rainbow; if you wish, splatter mud. It needs skill. If life seems futile, it means you have not learned the art of living; it means you assumed there would be some ready‑made meaning waiting in life.

Life is not a ready‑made suit, not some “Samson’s store” where you go and pick up clothes off the rack. With life, you have to cut and stitch the clothes yourself. And whatever you make, you will have to wear, you will have to wrap yourself in it. No one else can do anything in your life. No one else can sew your clothes. In the matter of life, you must tailor your own.

Don’t say, “Life is futile.” Say instead, “Is there some mistake in my way of living? Is there some error because of which my life is turning futile?”

Buddha’s life is not futile. Jesus’ life is not futile. Mohammed’s life is not futile. What meaning blossomed there! What flowers! What fragrance flew! What songs arose! What drums resounded! But there are some people in whose lives there is only stench. And the real fun is: the very thing that is stench in your life can become fragrance—with just a little art, the art of living!

I call religion the art of living. Religion is not ritual and worship. Religion has nothing to do with temple or mosque. Religion is the art of life. You can live life in such a way—so artistically, so gracefully—that a thousand‑petalled lotus blooms within you, that samadhi descends, that songs arise in you like the cuckoo’s, that such inner moods awaken in your heart that, if expressed, they become the Upanishads; if expressed, they become Meera’s dance, Chaitanya’s hymns!

On this very earth, in this very body of bone, flesh, and marrow, people have lived such meaningful lives—and Satish, you ask why life seems futile?

The season came
and bound us in false ties.
Now like the petals of a rose
we are scattered here and there;
like a rainbow the light
is shattered place to place;
and left us standing
in a dark corridor.
All the hibiscus‑like evenings
blackened with soot;
when I looked with open eyes
I found I was clutching a thorny acacia;
this experience, in installments,
broke me yet again!

Open your eyes and look: perhaps in the dark, with your eyes shut, you have grabbed a thorny acacia and you expect roses to bloom on it! Then if the thorns prick, whose fault is it? Perhaps you are sitting in the acacia’s “shade”—but does an acacia have any shade? Then the sun will beat down, your blood will turn to sweat—don’t say the world is at fault. There were banyan trees right here with abundant shade—but you did not seek them. There were springs here where thirst is quenched—where the soul’s thirst is quenched—but you wandered in deserts. Even in deserts oases are hidden—search a little! The whole search has to happen within you.

One who lives without meditation will find life futile, insubstantial. One who lives with meditation will find life meaningful. Life is neither futile nor meaningful in itself; everything depends on meditation. Meditation is the secret. Meditation is the key.

But for centuries you’ve been taught as if life held some pre‑fabricated meaning that would simply be handed to you. It will not come by itself. You will just carry the burden and one day die. You’ll get a grave, not meaning. Meaning comes through great awareness. Meaning must be forged, created. To find meaning you must be a creator.

Satish, those who are teaching you—the pundits, priests, mahatmas who have explained things to you—did not find meaning themselves; therefore they say, life is futile. And this sounds right to you, because you haven’t found it either. It even seems authentic because those around you haven’t found it. So everyone sits waiting for meaning to drop from the skies. It won’t happen that way.

As a sculptor carves a statue—chips away inch by inch, carefully, patiently—it is a great struggle for a sculpture to be born. And the greater the work you wish to create, the greater the difficulty.

Learn the art of refining life. One is reading the Gita, another is chanting the Ramayana, another has memorized the Quran—and then complains, “I’m not finding meaning in life!”

O fools, nothing will happen by memorizing the Quran; the Quran must be born. When you are impregnated by the Divine, when God is conceived in your womb, when you carry Him within you for years, then the Quran will be born inside you; then verses will descend into your words; then each of your words will carry the fragrance of the sky; then you will become a bridge between earth and heaven.

But we are living by cheap teachings. We are taking lessons from those who have nothing. Think a little: from whom are you learning? Someone has set up a sacred fire, smeared himself with ash, and you go running for instruction: “Baba has come to the village!” On what basis do you accept him? Because he sits by a fire, smeared with ash, with matted locks; because he eats only once a day; because he drinks only cow’s milk; because he wears no clothes, sits naked; the sun blazes, the rain falls—no concern—“What a great renunciate!” But none of this has any connection with the art of life. It is like saying a man sits smeared with ash, therefore he is a great painter! Or, “See, he’s tending a fire, so he must be a great musician!” What does a fire have to do with music? Will the veena play sweeter because he keeps a fire? “This man fasts, therefore he is a great poet”—you never say that. And if a man who fasts writes poetry, what will be in it? Hunger, bread, greens, chutney—things of that sort.

Heinrich Heine, the famous German poet, once lost his way in a forest and went hungry for three days. On a full‑moon night when the moon rose, he looked up and was astonished. All his life he had written poems to the moon; that night he was shocked, because all those poems fell false. Until then he had seen beautiful feminine faces in the moon—lovely, beloved faces. What did he see that night? A loaf of bread floating in the sky! He rubbed his eyes and looked again—“Am I mistaken? A loaf of bread?” But after three days of hunger, what else should a hungry man see in the moon if not bread?

You don’t praise a poet because he is hungry, because he fasts, because he wears a loincloth, lives in the jungle, has left hearth and home—“therefore a great poet!” No. You judge a poet by his poetry. Religion, too, should be measured by a person’s joy—and by no other criterion; by the meaningfulness of his life—and by no other.

But you are taking lessons from people whose lives have neither meaning nor joy. I know your “mahatmas.” I have met almost all kinds—Jain monks and Hindu saints and Muslim fakirs—dead like corpses; no joy in life. How could there be joy? These dry sticks of people, self‑harming, sickly minds, those who relish giving themselves pain—from them you take instruction? From them you go to seek meaning in life?

Satish, meaning will not be found that way. First ask whether they have found meaning. Look at them closely; peer into their eyes—are lamps burning there?

A customer asked a shopkeeper, “What’s the price of wheat? How much are you selling it for?”
The shopkeeper said, “One hundred and forty rupees a quintal.”
The customer said, “But the shop across the street is selling it at one hundred and twenty‑five.”
The shopkeeper snapped, “Then go buy it there! Why come to eat my head?”
The customer said, “But he doesn’t have any today.”
Then the shopkeeper explained, “On the days when I don’t have any, I sell it for a hundred.”

At least ask whether they have what you are trying to buy! Those diamonds you seek—do they even have them?

No, but you have built all sorts of false foundations! You have defined religion wrongly; because of that the whole world is harassed. Someone gouges out his eyes for fear that if eyes remain, forms will be seen, and if forms are seen, desire will arise. Before gouging them out, you could at least have tried for a few days to bandage them and sit with closed eyes—to see that even then desire arises. In fact it arises even more. With closed eyes women appear more beautiful than with open eyes. Distant drums sound sweet! And what is true of women is equally true of men.

Yet if someone has gouged out his eyes, we say, “Ah, here is a saint!” If you take instruction from him, at most he will have your eyes gouged out—what else will he do! Someone has dried out his body. Take lessons from him, and he will dry you out—or, if he cannot, he will at least fill your mind with guilt and sinfulness. Sit down to eat, and you will feel as if you are committing a sin.

If you listen to a Jain monk, eating feels sinful, because the Jain monk teaches only this: fast, fast, fast. If you listen to him, even brushing your teeth will feel like sin, because the Jain monk doesn’t brush. What is there to decorate in teeth! What is there in this body! It is filth, excreta—what is in it anyway! The Jain monk does not bathe. Stay near him long enough and even bathing will feel like sin, the road to hell. You will bathe your way to hell. And keep far away from things like Lux toilet soap—otherwise hell is guaranteed. Apply Lux soap and you’ll slip straight toward hell! The better the soap, the faster the slide!

What kind of people are you taking instruction from, Satish?

From those who have found no meaning in life. Better than that, ask the trees. Better, ask the flowers. Better, ask the mountains, the moon, the stars. There is some shimmer there, some splendor, some fragrance, some song! Perhaps from there you will receive a truer message of the Divine. The Divine is still more alive there; in your mahatmas He has utterly died.

A gentleman once asked me, “Do you believe God is everywhere?”
I said, “Everywhere—except in the mahatmas. They don’t let Him enter. The mahatma has shrunk so much there is no room.”

I heard a story. A Black man dreamt that Jesus had called him. But in that town the church was for white people. They would not let him inside. What a strange world! Here status is determined by skin, by color. And don’t think this happens only in America or Europe; in our country too we have divided people by varn, and varn means color. It seems we put the dark‑skinned into the shudra class. Those who were shudra were the Blacks of this land. The tales in our scriptures about “demons” are nothing but tales about dark‑skinned people—the people of the South. That is why if there is resistance to the Ramayana in the South, it is no surprise; there should be resistance, because there are surely ugly things said there about the South.

The Black man was afraid: will the white people let me in? Still, he went. He had heard the pastor was very compassionate. At least pastors show compassion; they are not actually so. To be compassionate and to be a pastor is impossible—those two things cannot go together. There are some things that simply cannot coexist. Still, in hope, the man went at night when no one else would be in the church. He knocked. The pastor came out. The pastor felt awkward. The Black man said, “In a dream Jesus called me. There is no other church in this town. Please let me enter. Let me worship, let me pray.”

What could the pastor say! Outwardly he had to display compassion. He smiled and said, “Very good that Jesus appeared. But there are some rules to enter this church. Live a pure life for three months: no anger, no lust, no greed. Then come.”

This condition was put for the first time. For white people there was no such condition—otherwise not one could ever have entered. To say nothing of entering, the pastor himself would have had to stay outside! But the pastor hoped, “He won’t be able to fulfill this. Who has ever done it! No lust, no greed, no anger—for three months! If he slips once, it’s over. The condition won’t be met, he won’t return, and I’ll avoid the hassle. My compassion and good will are preserved, and my religion too. And I’ll be rid of this black‑skinned fool. What got into Jesus’ head to appear in his dream! So many white people—ignoring them, He went to him?”

About a month later, one evening the pastor was standing at the church door and saw the Black man coming. The pastor thought, “I’m finished.” Just seeing him, he felt the man had fulfilled the conditions. There was a glow on his face, a grace in his walk; his very approach was so peaceful that the pastor felt, “Now I’m in trouble. Looks like he has kept the conditions.”

But the Black man came within a hundred paces, stopped on the path, burst out laughing, and turned back. The pastor was astonished. His curiosity flared; he ran and caught up with the man. “Listen! You came, stood at the crossroads looking at me, laughed out loud—why? What joke is this? And then you left—what’s going on?”

The man said, “Last night Jesus appeared to me again. He said, ‘Don’t bother trying to go into that church. They won’t let you in. No matter how many conditions you fulfill, they will invent new conditions. They won’t let you enter.’ So I asked, ‘But if I fulfill all the conditions, why won’t they let me?’ He said, ‘Since you won’t believe me otherwise, I’ll tell you the plain truth: they don’t let Me in—how will they let you in? I’ve been trying for days to get in—my own church!—but they won’t let Me enter.’”

In a church consecrated to Jesus, Jesus is not; in a mosque dedicated to Mohammed, Mohammed is not; in Krishna’s temple you may find someone else—but not Krishna.

Everywhere—except in your mahatmas—God is, because your mahatmas don’t let Him in. They sit so rigidly that even if Someone wants to enter, how can He? Mahatma and God cannot exist together. To attain the Divine you have to vanish completely: what mahatma, what sadhu, what saint—everything ends.

Learn to give life meaning. Pick up the brush and paint. That is why, in my Buddha‑field, there is song, music, dance, celebration. Because here we are practicing the art of life, striving to add a few moons to life. Here the so‑called religion is not being taught; here a new conception of religion is happening, a new descent—a religion that is a celebration!

I want my sannyasin to be a singing, dancing being—not gloomy, not indifferent; radiant with joy, bubbling with zest, enthusiastic, alive! Walk laughing toward His door—why weeping? And if ever you weep, let your tears be laughing; only then will they be accepted.

Life seems futile because, Satish, you have not yet made any effort to make it meaningful. Life is not futile; you must become alert, meditative, prayerful—and meanings will reveal themselves, meaning upon meaning, summit upon summit, endless summits. Life is incomparable! But everything will depend on the depth of your understanding.

A doctor examining a small boy asked, “Son, do you have any complaints about your nose or ears?”
The boy said, “Yes! They get in the way when I take off my shirt.”

A child’s understanding will be a child’s understanding. Your understanding is childish, Satish.

An American filed for divorce just one week after his marriage, and he wrote the reason: “At the time I married, my eyeglass prescription was wrong.”

Satish, your prescription is wrong. Change the lenses. Better still, put the glasses aside altogether. Look with open, lens‑free eyes—with vision free of doctrines—and you will see immense meaning. The earth is profoundly mysterious. The Divine has descended here in such density!

Pradeep, that itself is the qualification. Love is the qualification. What other qualification could there be? If love is fathomless, then what is needed is already present.
And you are right: life is going to pass. Therefore there should be no clinging to life. And if life can be of some use, what could be more auspicious! And if life can serve to resound the voice of the divine, then you are blessed, most fortunate. Even if you are extinguished while awakening others, even if you become ash—no worry; your ash will hum a song. Your not-being will also serve to awaken people. Your death will lead people toward the nectar of the deathless.
A blessed aspiration. Such should be the aspiration of every sannyasin.

And after a while, when again my lonely heart
Grows anxious about what remedy there is for loneliness,
Pain will come on tiptoe, bearing a crimson lamp—
That pain which throbs somewhere beyond the heart;
The flame of pain that will leap up in the ribs,
And on the wall of the heart every imprint will shine:
The ringlet of a curl somewhere, the corner of a cheek somewhere,
The desert of separation somewhere, the rose-garden of vision somewhere,
Talk of delight somewhere, an avowal of love somewhere—
Then again my heart will say, O heart, O heart,
This beloved you have fashioned out of your loneliness—
He is a guest for but an hour; he will go.
How will he ever be a remedy for your affliction?
One day, inflamed, the wild shadows will rise;
He will depart, the remaining shadows will remain—
With which, all night, your blood will be spilled.
The battle is set; it is no game, O heart.
All are enemies of life, every one a killer—
This hard night too, these shadows too, this loneliness too.
There is no accord between pain and war, O heart.
Come, kindle some ember of fervor and fury;
Bring from somewhere the conquering fire of vehemence;
Bring from somewhere that blazing garden
In which there is warmth, movement, vitality.
Perhaps an army of our own tribe
Waits beyond the ramparts of darkness—
Let us at least give them our address by the beacons of our flames;
Well, even if they do not reach us, we will at least send a call,
We will tell them how far the dawn still is.

Even if we fall somewhere on the way, even if we are erased somewhere on the way—no worry.
By the beacons of our flames we will at least give them our address.
Those who are coming behind us, we will at least let them know that there is another path, another journey!
Well, even if they do not reach us, we will give them a call;
We will tell them how far the dawn still is.
If you fall, you will become milestones. And what moment could be more blissful than to become milestones on the path of God!

Life will pass; it can also pass in vain—most people’s does. But if you dedicate your life to the divine—hand yourself over to him in every way and say, “Let Thy will be done!”—then surely a message will arise through you. God will work through your very breath. His flute will be played through you.
But only if you dissolve completely can the flute be played; otherwise you will become a hindrance in between. His notes can flow through you if you are not. And where you are not, there God is.
Pradeep, let it be as you wish! So it should be—not only in your life, but in the life of every sannyasin. If sannyas cannot become the message of the divine, then it is not sannyas at all.
That’s all for today.