Ari Main To Naam Ke Rang Chhaki #6
Available in:
Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Questions in this Discourse
First question:
Osho, how does the call of the Divine become audible?
Osho, how does the call of the Divine become audible?
This question is auspicious. Many ask how to call upon God; only now and then someone asks how to hear God’s call. So the question is important, rare, a little incomparable—and closer to truth.
The real question is not how to call God. What tongue do we have with which to call the Divine? And what is the power of our speech? It will go a little way and be lost in the void. How far can our words travel? And whatever we say will carry, somewhere, the imprint of our desires. Our prayers are our desires; and how will desires reach Him?
If desire is hidden in prayer, it is as if someone tied a stone to a bird’s throat—flight is no longer possible. All our prayers are filled with desire. The very word “prayer” has come to mean asking; “supplicant” has come to mean a beggar, because in the name of prayer we have always been asking.
Hence, “How should we pray?”—from this, false religion arises. This question is deeper: How does the call of the Divine become audible? The Divine is calling continuously; only our heads are so full of noise that His soft call, His subtle call—most subtle—does not reach us. In a house of kettledrums, the notes of His veena are lost. He is a veena-player. His notes are fine, delicate. To hear His notes, a mind like space is needed. The more quiet the mind, the more thought-free the mind, the greater the possibility that His notes will begin to be heard.
Into a thought-free mind the Divine descends at once—as if He were standing at the door itself, waiting for us to become without thought and to come within. The moment thought ceases He lifts our veil; there is face-to-face, touch-to-touch. Make the mind thoughtless and His voice will be heard. And then it is not that His voice will be heard only in Krishna’s voice, or only in Rama’s, or only in Buddha’s; even in the cawing of crows it is His voice. Once you have heard His voice, you will recognize it everywhere. Once His image has entered your eye, you will no longer miss Him anywhere. Not only in the cuckoo but in the crow’s cawing; not only in the beautiful flower but in the thorn—His image. Not only in life but in death—His dance. Not only in happiness but in sorrow—His shadow, His companionship. The mind must be calm, empty. If you would hear His voice, you must cultivate the state of meditation.
Meditation means only this: to empty oneself. Meditation is the preparation for prayer. Meditation is the arranging of worship. Meditation means a stainless mind. Meditation means quiet, freshly bathed—just-bathed—fresh as the morning dew; not a single note of your own, not a ripple of your own, not even a single word of your own—wordless—and at once His voice begins to be heard.
We became flowers, became leaves, became fragrance—
before the seasons,
we already were in relation.
A tree—like a sign—became a memory;
having found it,
we came from very far,
singing a body;
by the touch of lips we became bonds—
before the seasons,
we already were in relation.
Trill upon trill, a flute
played on that far shore;
village, house, and rooftop awoke,
faces washed at daybreak;
we became a ban upon sleep—
before the seasons,
we already were in relation.
A bird polishing its beak,
in the heart, lightning—monsoon;
our belonging like a straw,
this river of ours in flood;
we became new essays written by the rain—
before the seasons,
we already were in relation.
Our relationship with the Divine is from the very first. It is here even now; it will be to the end. We have never been severed from the Divine. Only the Divine has been forgotten by us. And we have not been forgotten by the Divine. This alone is the hope, the assurance. We may forget Him; He does not forget us.
We became flowers, became leaves, became fragrance—
we have taken on many forms.
We became flowers, became leaves, became fragrance—
before the seasons,
we already were in relation.
But first of all, in the beginning, we were joined only to Him—before all seasons. And even now we are joined to Him. We may have become flowers, may have become leaves—but our roots are still sunk in His soil. Our life we receive from Him. However big a tree may become, it is part of the earth, an extension of the earth. Wherever we may roam, we are His very hands. The day we awaken, we will be amazed to find that the relationship had never broken, could not break; only in between there was forgetfulness. As if sleep had come and we had seen a dream. Because of the dream, what truly was got forgotten, and what was not seemed to be ours. This is why the wise have called the world maya—a dream—in which what is not ours appears ours, and what is truly ours is forgotten, its remembrance lost.
We have joined ourselves to this body. We have joined ourselves to the kinships that come with this body.
A body like a temple, a mind like deerskin;
I was wed without a garland.
Eyes opened—I saw all astray
in the darkness of the petty body.
Love could not awaken;
the throat got caught in a jeweled necklace.
In this great night of bondage
I search for a free light.
Like a note with broken beat, exiled
from the shops of art,
how could I mount the peak of fame
when I stayed far from recognitions?
I shrank when I saw
how, by whom, whom they were flinging.
In the snatch-and-grab of pleasure and pain,
half asleep, half awake,
whenever the road of pilgrimage grew sullied
I set fire within the drops of tears.
The spell of delusion broke that very day
the day I dyed my feet crimson.
A body like a temple, a mind like deerskin;
I was wed without a garland.
Eyes opened—I saw all astray
in the darkness of the petty body.
Love could not awaken;
the throat got caught in a jeweled necklace.
In this great night of bondage
I search for a free light.
There is a sleep, and a darkness of sleep. The darkness is nowhere else: the whole existence is filled with light; only our eyes are closed. It is sleep—because of sleep. Your ears are filled with the marketplace’s noise, the unnecessary. Other people’s words have blocked your hearing. Hence, the veena that is playing within—day and night it plays—does not get heard. Be silent; sit in stillness. There is nothing else to do. For a few minutes become as if you are not: dead to the world, immersed in yourself.
At first there will be difficulty. The habit of thinking is old; thoughts will queue up—close your eyes and even more vistas of the bazaar will stand up; try to sit in silence and a mob of thoughts will attack. Do not fight, do not quarrel; keep watching—be a witness. Let thoughts come; let them come. They will come, they will also go. Stand at a distance—uninvolved. As someone stands by the roadside and watches people passing: nothing to take, nothing to give; no one yours, no one another’s. Beautiful passes—fine; ugly passes—fine; saint—fine; sinner—fine. Whatever thought—good or bad—arises, do not judge. Do not call it good, do not call it bad. Do not become a judge. The moment you judge, you are entangled—attachment arises. You catch one thought and push another away. Busy trying to remove the bad—you are caught. Busy trying to hold the good—you are caught. Nothing can be stopped; nothing can be pushed away. Simply sit awake, as a mirror. Whatever appears to a mirror, it sees; the shadow falls, and falls; then the shadow vanishes, the mirror remains empty—empty. So sit within—just sit... If there is even a little patience, meditation will bear fruit. Meditation ripens through patience; in truth, there is no other method.
One month, two months, three, six—if you only keep sitting, with just this much resolve: for one hour I will sit; if thoughts come, let them come; I will not fight; I will sit—and you do not hurry (“I’ve sat for three days, nothing has happened; what’s the point—let me stop”)—if you can keep courage even for a year, then one day His call will be heard. It may be today, it may be tomorrow, the day after—who can say when? Because each person’s body has been formed out of endlessly different lives, endlessly different journeys, different conditionings. You are different, each from the other. For someone it may be today, for someone tomorrow, for someone the day after. But in my experience, within nine to twelve months at the most, if one sits with patience, without haste, without craving for fruit and impatience, then one day the happening happens. And the day it happens you will be amazed. The greatest amazement is this: that what we were seeking had never been lost; what we set out to gain was enthroned within us; the veena we wanted to hear—was already playing. The lamp we wanted to light—was already lit.
The real question is not how to call God. What tongue do we have with which to call the Divine? And what is the power of our speech? It will go a little way and be lost in the void. How far can our words travel? And whatever we say will carry, somewhere, the imprint of our desires. Our prayers are our desires; and how will desires reach Him?
If desire is hidden in prayer, it is as if someone tied a stone to a bird’s throat—flight is no longer possible. All our prayers are filled with desire. The very word “prayer” has come to mean asking; “supplicant” has come to mean a beggar, because in the name of prayer we have always been asking.
Hence, “How should we pray?”—from this, false religion arises. This question is deeper: How does the call of the Divine become audible? The Divine is calling continuously; only our heads are so full of noise that His soft call, His subtle call—most subtle—does not reach us. In a house of kettledrums, the notes of His veena are lost. He is a veena-player. His notes are fine, delicate. To hear His notes, a mind like space is needed. The more quiet the mind, the more thought-free the mind, the greater the possibility that His notes will begin to be heard.
Into a thought-free mind the Divine descends at once—as if He were standing at the door itself, waiting for us to become without thought and to come within. The moment thought ceases He lifts our veil; there is face-to-face, touch-to-touch. Make the mind thoughtless and His voice will be heard. And then it is not that His voice will be heard only in Krishna’s voice, or only in Rama’s, or only in Buddha’s; even in the cawing of crows it is His voice. Once you have heard His voice, you will recognize it everywhere. Once His image has entered your eye, you will no longer miss Him anywhere. Not only in the cuckoo but in the crow’s cawing; not only in the beautiful flower but in the thorn—His image. Not only in life but in death—His dance. Not only in happiness but in sorrow—His shadow, His companionship. The mind must be calm, empty. If you would hear His voice, you must cultivate the state of meditation.
Meditation means only this: to empty oneself. Meditation is the preparation for prayer. Meditation is the arranging of worship. Meditation means a stainless mind. Meditation means quiet, freshly bathed—just-bathed—fresh as the morning dew; not a single note of your own, not a ripple of your own, not even a single word of your own—wordless—and at once His voice begins to be heard.
We became flowers, became leaves, became fragrance—
before the seasons,
we already were in relation.
A tree—like a sign—became a memory;
having found it,
we came from very far,
singing a body;
by the touch of lips we became bonds—
before the seasons,
we already were in relation.
Trill upon trill, a flute
played on that far shore;
village, house, and rooftop awoke,
faces washed at daybreak;
we became a ban upon sleep—
before the seasons,
we already were in relation.
A bird polishing its beak,
in the heart, lightning—monsoon;
our belonging like a straw,
this river of ours in flood;
we became new essays written by the rain—
before the seasons,
we already were in relation.
Our relationship with the Divine is from the very first. It is here even now; it will be to the end. We have never been severed from the Divine. Only the Divine has been forgotten by us. And we have not been forgotten by the Divine. This alone is the hope, the assurance. We may forget Him; He does not forget us.
We became flowers, became leaves, became fragrance—
we have taken on many forms.
We became flowers, became leaves, became fragrance—
before the seasons,
we already were in relation.
But first of all, in the beginning, we were joined only to Him—before all seasons. And even now we are joined to Him. We may have become flowers, may have become leaves—but our roots are still sunk in His soil. Our life we receive from Him. However big a tree may become, it is part of the earth, an extension of the earth. Wherever we may roam, we are His very hands. The day we awaken, we will be amazed to find that the relationship had never broken, could not break; only in between there was forgetfulness. As if sleep had come and we had seen a dream. Because of the dream, what truly was got forgotten, and what was not seemed to be ours. This is why the wise have called the world maya—a dream—in which what is not ours appears ours, and what is truly ours is forgotten, its remembrance lost.
We have joined ourselves to this body. We have joined ourselves to the kinships that come with this body.
A body like a temple, a mind like deerskin;
I was wed without a garland.
Eyes opened—I saw all astray
in the darkness of the petty body.
Love could not awaken;
the throat got caught in a jeweled necklace.
In this great night of bondage
I search for a free light.
Like a note with broken beat, exiled
from the shops of art,
how could I mount the peak of fame
when I stayed far from recognitions?
I shrank when I saw
how, by whom, whom they were flinging.
In the snatch-and-grab of pleasure and pain,
half asleep, half awake,
whenever the road of pilgrimage grew sullied
I set fire within the drops of tears.
The spell of delusion broke that very day
the day I dyed my feet crimson.
A body like a temple, a mind like deerskin;
I was wed without a garland.
Eyes opened—I saw all astray
in the darkness of the petty body.
Love could not awaken;
the throat got caught in a jeweled necklace.
In this great night of bondage
I search for a free light.
There is a sleep, and a darkness of sleep. The darkness is nowhere else: the whole existence is filled with light; only our eyes are closed. It is sleep—because of sleep. Your ears are filled with the marketplace’s noise, the unnecessary. Other people’s words have blocked your hearing. Hence, the veena that is playing within—day and night it plays—does not get heard. Be silent; sit in stillness. There is nothing else to do. For a few minutes become as if you are not: dead to the world, immersed in yourself.
At first there will be difficulty. The habit of thinking is old; thoughts will queue up—close your eyes and even more vistas of the bazaar will stand up; try to sit in silence and a mob of thoughts will attack. Do not fight, do not quarrel; keep watching—be a witness. Let thoughts come; let them come. They will come, they will also go. Stand at a distance—uninvolved. As someone stands by the roadside and watches people passing: nothing to take, nothing to give; no one yours, no one another’s. Beautiful passes—fine; ugly passes—fine; saint—fine; sinner—fine. Whatever thought—good or bad—arises, do not judge. Do not call it good, do not call it bad. Do not become a judge. The moment you judge, you are entangled—attachment arises. You catch one thought and push another away. Busy trying to remove the bad—you are caught. Busy trying to hold the good—you are caught. Nothing can be stopped; nothing can be pushed away. Simply sit awake, as a mirror. Whatever appears to a mirror, it sees; the shadow falls, and falls; then the shadow vanishes, the mirror remains empty—empty. So sit within—just sit... If there is even a little patience, meditation will bear fruit. Meditation ripens through patience; in truth, there is no other method.
One month, two months, three, six—if you only keep sitting, with just this much resolve: for one hour I will sit; if thoughts come, let them come; I will not fight; I will sit—and you do not hurry (“I’ve sat for three days, nothing has happened; what’s the point—let me stop”)—if you can keep courage even for a year, then one day His call will be heard. It may be today, it may be tomorrow, the day after—who can say when? Because each person’s body has been formed out of endlessly different lives, endlessly different journeys, different conditionings. You are different, each from the other. For someone it may be today, for someone tomorrow, for someone the day after. But in my experience, within nine to twelve months at the most, if one sits with patience, without haste, without craving for fruit and impatience, then one day the happening happens. And the day it happens you will be amazed. The greatest amazement is this: that what we were seeking had never been lost; what we set out to gain was enthroned within us; the veena we wanted to hear—was already playing. The lamp we wanted to light—was already lit.
Second question:
Osho, if there is no cause-and-effect relationship between practice and the awakening to truth or self-realization, then what is the need for methodical practice and meditation? If we simply accept once and for all that we are already in the Divine and then do whatever we feel and live life as it comes, why are meditation and practice necessary? Please analyze and oblige.
Osho, if there is no cause-and-effect relationship between practice and the awakening to truth or self-realization, then what is the need for methodical practice and meditation? If we simply accept once and for all that we are already in the Divine and then do whatever we feel and live life as it comes, why are meditation and practice necessary? Please analyze and oblige.
Sitaram! It will not happen by believing; it will happen by knowing. If you believe, it remains a lie. Belief as such is false. I say something and you believe it; I say, “You are the Divine,” and you believe it—yet for you it is untrue. From the very foundation you have placed a lie. You believed because I said so, or because someone else said so, because it is written in the Vedas, or the Quran says so. But belief is borrowed—and the borrowed is untrue. You cannot journey to truth on borrowed capital; it must be done by knowing.
I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin went to France. He knew no French. A French friend invited him home and called a few others. After dinner they chatted. One gentleman told a French joke. All the French burst out laughing. Mulla too laughed uproariously—more than anyone—rolling on the floor. Seeing him, everyone’s laughter vanished and they were stunned. They asked, “Do you understand our language?” Mulla said, “I don’t understand the language, but I have faith in you. It must have been something funny. I trust you. I am a believer; I always trust others. When you all are laughing, it must be a joke. Why do I need to know more?”
Do you see the difference? You laughed because you understood, and he laughed because he believed it must be laughable. Do you see the gulf? Worlds apart. That laughter is false—no matter how much you roll about or how loudly you guffaw. It did not arise from your heart; it cannot.
You say, “Let us once accept that we are in the Divine…” But that acceptance is false. Again and again you will remember, “Who knows whether what I am presuming is actually true?” Your feet will keep faltering.
Know it, and the flavor of life is utterly different. Then you are right: once you know the Divine is enthroned within, what is left to do? Then live. Then you do not live—he lives. Then nothing is bad, nothing good. How could it be otherwise? Whatever the Divine lives through is right, is auspicious.
This is the difference between a sadhu and a sant.
- Sadhu means one who, by thinking and rethinking, lives what seems right. He has a character, a discipline, a code.
- Sant means one who has left everything to the Divine; now however the Divine lives through him is right. The sant does not live by deciding what is right and wrong. He is no longer there. The Divine lives through him; therefore whatever happens is right. There is no possibility left of being “bad.”
A sant has no fixed conduct; a sadhu has conduct. That is why often the sadhu is worshiped, and you miss the sant—because conduct is visible and easy to understand. Your arithmetic and the sadhu’s arithmetic are the same: you too decide by thinking what is right, and the sadhu lives that. So you bow easily at the sadhu’s feet. The sant creates trouble for you. He stands outside your boundaries—beyond your codes.
Those who crucified Jesus were not bad people; they were sadhus—good, respectable, moral people. Sadhus have always crucified saints—remember this. Do not imagine the crucifiers were sinners and villains; they were the very people you too might respect—people of conduct, bound by propriety. And Jesus was beyond propriety. That was the problem. Jesus had no boundaries, no limits. He said, “The Father and I are one. Therefore whatever he makes me do is right. As he moves me, so it is right. Who am I to decide? I am no one in between. I am a hollow bamboo; whatever he plays, the song is his. If it seems good, it is his; if it seems bad, it is his. How can I put myself above him?”
This is the difference between Rama and Krishna.
Rama is Maryada Purushottam—supreme in rectitude—the pinnacle of sadhu-ness. Krishna is the pinnacle of sant-ness—limitless, beyond codes. That is why we have called Rama a partial avatar and Krishna a complete avatar. In the sant the Divine descends fully; in the sadhu there is only a glimpse, a fraction. The sadhu strives—rules, order, discipline. The sadhu is always honored. Wherever Rama is, honor follows. Krishna will always run into obstacles, because to the mind Krishna’s life seems unreasonable.
Krishna told Arjuna: “Abandon your claim to the fruits and do as he has you do.” The sadhu is fruit-oriented. He constantly calculates: “If I do this, this will happen; this leads to heaven, that to hell; this earns merit, that incurs sin.” He worries about results. Krishna’s teaching is not sadhu-ism; to a sadhu it even looks like non-morality.
That is why the Jains—pinnacle of sadhu-ness—put Krishna in hell. In their scriptures Krishna is in the seventh hell, not a minor one. That is the sadhu’s verdict on the sant. Why hell? Because Krishna’s life appears characterless—ruleless, free, anarchic.
Remember: the gulf between sadhu and sant is greater than the gulf between asadhu (the immoral) and sadhu. Between asadhu and sadhu the gap is not so wide; their logic is the same. The asadhu thinks and does the “bad”; the sadhu thinks and does the “good.” Both live by thinking. Both erect boundaries around themselves, define themselves. The sant is free of both—neither sadhu nor asadhu—beyond duality. There is no sin there, no virtue; no good, no bad. No goal remains. There the Divine has full freedom to flow. A sadhu is like a canal; a sant like a river.
Mark the difference between canal and river:
- A canal is confined; you run it when you like, as you like; you decide the quantity; canals never flood. Its path is laid down like iron rails—so the sadhu runs on the tracks of conduct.
- The sant is a free-flowing river. But that freedom cannot stand on faith or belief; it can only stand on knowing. Who will take that much risk merely on belief?
So, Sitaram, your question is meaningful. You say, “Let us once accept that we are in the Divine and then do as we please.” If you act out of belief, you will never be at peace. Doubts will keep arising: “Is what I am doing right? Is this truly the Divine’s will? Would the Divine really want this? Am I just doing my own will in the Divine’s name? Whom am I fooling? What a trick—I do what I want and say the Divine is making me do it!” A believer can never be free; he remains bound.
And your second point is also worth pondering. You said, “There is no cause-and-effect between practice and the awakening to truth and self-realization; then what is the need for methodical meditation?” Indeed there is no causal link between your practice and the experience of truth. But methodical meditation and practice are of great use in freeing your life from belief. They have no use in bringing truth to you—but they do help remove untruth from you.
Understand it like this. Ayurveda’s basic principle: by medicine we cannot give health to anyone. There is no cause-and-effect between medicine and health. But medicine can remove disease. And when disease goes, health can blossom. Health is bestowed by the Divine; no physician can give it—otherwise no one would die. The physician only removes disease. Or think of a spring with a rock blocking it. We can remove the rock. Removing the rock does not create the spring; there is no causal link that removing the rock produces a spring. But once the rock is gone, the spring flows. If the rock stands in the way, the spring is there but cannot flow—no one can tell it is there.
When you dig a well, do you think your digging brings water into the earth? The water already is. There is no cause-and-effect between your digging and the existence of water. But your digging removes the obstructions—the soil, stones, debris—so the water becomes available. The barrier between you and the water is removed. Medicine removes disease; with disease gone, your life-energy, no longer blocked, begins to flow.
Meditation is like that. Meditation does not give truth; truth is already given. Therefore there is no causal link. Meditation is not the seed of truth—that you sow meditation and reap a harvest of truth. Meditation only cuts away the useless inner churning, the rubbish of thoughts. Meditation is a medicine. And that is why, when meditation is complete, meditation too must be dropped. When health has come, continuing the medicine is dangerous. Do not think, “This medicine helped so much—how can I stop it?” If you are healthy, fine; but if you keep taking medicine because it helped, the medicine itself becomes the illness. The very drug that aids the sick becomes harmful to the healthy.
So in the ultimate state, when the illness is gone, thoughts are cut off, meditation’s work is done, then meditation also drops. A thorn is removed by another thorn; then both are thrown away. The thorn of thought is removed by the thorn of meditation; then both are discarded.
Do not imagine that when Buddha became enlightened he still meditated. Why would he? For what? Hence Buddha said: dharma is like a boat. Once you reach the other shore, leave the boat; do not carry it on your head, or people will call you a fool. Therefore, for the one who realizes dharma, even dharma drops.
These things may sound startling.
As soon as dharma is realized, dharma drops. There is no more need.
Regular, methodical practices—of meditation, of yoga—are valuable. They are valuable because you are ill. They are valuable because you are possessed by thoughts. They will cut your thoughts. As thoughts are cut, the truth within you manifests.
But do not proceed on belief.
You may think, “Then what is the need of meditation?” Perhaps hearing me you felt pleased: “Good, one hassle avoided; no cause–effect between meditation and truth—so we are spared meditation!” Sitaram, you will not escape so easily. You thought, “Let me simply accept that I am the Divine; then all is well.” Nothing will be well, Sitaram. You will remain just as you are—Sitaram. Neither Rama nor Sita will be found; nothing will be gained. You will only believe. For believing you have already been given this name—Sitaram—which means: you are the Divine.
In former days all names were the Divine’s names. Every person was given a name of the Divine—as a reminder. Someone was Ram, someone Krishna, someone Hari, Harihar; among Hindus and Muslims alike the names were all of God—Rahim, Rahman. Parents adopted this device knowingly: “We remind you—you too are the Divine.” But what comes of it? Everyone bears the Divine’s name—Vishnu, Ram, Krishna—yet what happens? Only the name remains; belief remains; you remain what you are. All your illnesses remain intact; nothing changes. At most you become the Ram of a Ramlila—and what will that do? A make-believe Ram, a false Ram—an actor. But inside you will know it is not you.
Believing will not do. Belief is inference. Truth is not attained by inference.
I have heard: the grandson of a famous hunter pointed to a stag’s head hanging upside down on the wall and told his little classmates, “Grandpa shot it when it was doing a headstand.” The boy inferred: “It must have been doing a headstand—its head is upside down.” Your inferences are like that. All the inferences you make about God have no value. Not inference—awakening is needed; direct seeing is needed—your own. For that direct knowing, all the obstacles on the path must be removed.
And let me repeat: there is no cause-and-effect between your doing and his happening.
I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin went to France. He knew no French. A French friend invited him home and called a few others. After dinner they chatted. One gentleman told a French joke. All the French burst out laughing. Mulla too laughed uproariously—more than anyone—rolling on the floor. Seeing him, everyone’s laughter vanished and they were stunned. They asked, “Do you understand our language?” Mulla said, “I don’t understand the language, but I have faith in you. It must have been something funny. I trust you. I am a believer; I always trust others. When you all are laughing, it must be a joke. Why do I need to know more?”
Do you see the difference? You laughed because you understood, and he laughed because he believed it must be laughable. Do you see the gulf? Worlds apart. That laughter is false—no matter how much you roll about or how loudly you guffaw. It did not arise from your heart; it cannot.
You say, “Let us once accept that we are in the Divine…” But that acceptance is false. Again and again you will remember, “Who knows whether what I am presuming is actually true?” Your feet will keep faltering.
Know it, and the flavor of life is utterly different. Then you are right: once you know the Divine is enthroned within, what is left to do? Then live. Then you do not live—he lives. Then nothing is bad, nothing good. How could it be otherwise? Whatever the Divine lives through is right, is auspicious.
This is the difference between a sadhu and a sant.
- Sadhu means one who, by thinking and rethinking, lives what seems right. He has a character, a discipline, a code.
- Sant means one who has left everything to the Divine; now however the Divine lives through him is right. The sant does not live by deciding what is right and wrong. He is no longer there. The Divine lives through him; therefore whatever happens is right. There is no possibility left of being “bad.”
A sant has no fixed conduct; a sadhu has conduct. That is why often the sadhu is worshiped, and you miss the sant—because conduct is visible and easy to understand. Your arithmetic and the sadhu’s arithmetic are the same: you too decide by thinking what is right, and the sadhu lives that. So you bow easily at the sadhu’s feet. The sant creates trouble for you. He stands outside your boundaries—beyond your codes.
Those who crucified Jesus were not bad people; they were sadhus—good, respectable, moral people. Sadhus have always crucified saints—remember this. Do not imagine the crucifiers were sinners and villains; they were the very people you too might respect—people of conduct, bound by propriety. And Jesus was beyond propriety. That was the problem. Jesus had no boundaries, no limits. He said, “The Father and I are one. Therefore whatever he makes me do is right. As he moves me, so it is right. Who am I to decide? I am no one in between. I am a hollow bamboo; whatever he plays, the song is his. If it seems good, it is his; if it seems bad, it is his. How can I put myself above him?”
This is the difference between Rama and Krishna.
Rama is Maryada Purushottam—supreme in rectitude—the pinnacle of sadhu-ness. Krishna is the pinnacle of sant-ness—limitless, beyond codes. That is why we have called Rama a partial avatar and Krishna a complete avatar. In the sant the Divine descends fully; in the sadhu there is only a glimpse, a fraction. The sadhu strives—rules, order, discipline. The sadhu is always honored. Wherever Rama is, honor follows. Krishna will always run into obstacles, because to the mind Krishna’s life seems unreasonable.
Krishna told Arjuna: “Abandon your claim to the fruits and do as he has you do.” The sadhu is fruit-oriented. He constantly calculates: “If I do this, this will happen; this leads to heaven, that to hell; this earns merit, that incurs sin.” He worries about results. Krishna’s teaching is not sadhu-ism; to a sadhu it even looks like non-morality.
That is why the Jains—pinnacle of sadhu-ness—put Krishna in hell. In their scriptures Krishna is in the seventh hell, not a minor one. That is the sadhu’s verdict on the sant. Why hell? Because Krishna’s life appears characterless—ruleless, free, anarchic.
Remember: the gulf between sadhu and sant is greater than the gulf between asadhu (the immoral) and sadhu. Between asadhu and sadhu the gap is not so wide; their logic is the same. The asadhu thinks and does the “bad”; the sadhu thinks and does the “good.” Both live by thinking. Both erect boundaries around themselves, define themselves. The sant is free of both—neither sadhu nor asadhu—beyond duality. There is no sin there, no virtue; no good, no bad. No goal remains. There the Divine has full freedom to flow. A sadhu is like a canal; a sant like a river.
Mark the difference between canal and river:
- A canal is confined; you run it when you like, as you like; you decide the quantity; canals never flood. Its path is laid down like iron rails—so the sadhu runs on the tracks of conduct.
- The sant is a free-flowing river. But that freedom cannot stand on faith or belief; it can only stand on knowing. Who will take that much risk merely on belief?
So, Sitaram, your question is meaningful. You say, “Let us once accept that we are in the Divine and then do as we please.” If you act out of belief, you will never be at peace. Doubts will keep arising: “Is what I am doing right? Is this truly the Divine’s will? Would the Divine really want this? Am I just doing my own will in the Divine’s name? Whom am I fooling? What a trick—I do what I want and say the Divine is making me do it!” A believer can never be free; he remains bound.
And your second point is also worth pondering. You said, “There is no cause-and-effect between practice and the awakening to truth and self-realization; then what is the need for methodical meditation?” Indeed there is no causal link between your practice and the experience of truth. But methodical meditation and practice are of great use in freeing your life from belief. They have no use in bringing truth to you—but they do help remove untruth from you.
Understand it like this. Ayurveda’s basic principle: by medicine we cannot give health to anyone. There is no cause-and-effect between medicine and health. But medicine can remove disease. And when disease goes, health can blossom. Health is bestowed by the Divine; no physician can give it—otherwise no one would die. The physician only removes disease. Or think of a spring with a rock blocking it. We can remove the rock. Removing the rock does not create the spring; there is no causal link that removing the rock produces a spring. But once the rock is gone, the spring flows. If the rock stands in the way, the spring is there but cannot flow—no one can tell it is there.
When you dig a well, do you think your digging brings water into the earth? The water already is. There is no cause-and-effect between your digging and the existence of water. But your digging removes the obstructions—the soil, stones, debris—so the water becomes available. The barrier between you and the water is removed. Medicine removes disease; with disease gone, your life-energy, no longer blocked, begins to flow.
Meditation is like that. Meditation does not give truth; truth is already given. Therefore there is no causal link. Meditation is not the seed of truth—that you sow meditation and reap a harvest of truth. Meditation only cuts away the useless inner churning, the rubbish of thoughts. Meditation is a medicine. And that is why, when meditation is complete, meditation too must be dropped. When health has come, continuing the medicine is dangerous. Do not think, “This medicine helped so much—how can I stop it?” If you are healthy, fine; but if you keep taking medicine because it helped, the medicine itself becomes the illness. The very drug that aids the sick becomes harmful to the healthy.
So in the ultimate state, when the illness is gone, thoughts are cut off, meditation’s work is done, then meditation also drops. A thorn is removed by another thorn; then both are thrown away. The thorn of thought is removed by the thorn of meditation; then both are discarded.
Do not imagine that when Buddha became enlightened he still meditated. Why would he? For what? Hence Buddha said: dharma is like a boat. Once you reach the other shore, leave the boat; do not carry it on your head, or people will call you a fool. Therefore, for the one who realizes dharma, even dharma drops.
These things may sound startling.
As soon as dharma is realized, dharma drops. There is no more need.
Regular, methodical practices—of meditation, of yoga—are valuable. They are valuable because you are ill. They are valuable because you are possessed by thoughts. They will cut your thoughts. As thoughts are cut, the truth within you manifests.
But do not proceed on belief.
You may think, “Then what is the need of meditation?” Perhaps hearing me you felt pleased: “Good, one hassle avoided; no cause–effect between meditation and truth—so we are spared meditation!” Sitaram, you will not escape so easily. You thought, “Let me simply accept that I am the Divine; then all is well.” Nothing will be well, Sitaram. You will remain just as you are—Sitaram. Neither Rama nor Sita will be found; nothing will be gained. You will only believe. For believing you have already been given this name—Sitaram—which means: you are the Divine.
In former days all names were the Divine’s names. Every person was given a name of the Divine—as a reminder. Someone was Ram, someone Krishna, someone Hari, Harihar; among Hindus and Muslims alike the names were all of God—Rahim, Rahman. Parents adopted this device knowingly: “We remind you—you too are the Divine.” But what comes of it? Everyone bears the Divine’s name—Vishnu, Ram, Krishna—yet what happens? Only the name remains; belief remains; you remain what you are. All your illnesses remain intact; nothing changes. At most you become the Ram of a Ramlila—and what will that do? A make-believe Ram, a false Ram—an actor. But inside you will know it is not you.
Believing will not do. Belief is inference. Truth is not attained by inference.
I have heard: the grandson of a famous hunter pointed to a stag’s head hanging upside down on the wall and told his little classmates, “Grandpa shot it when it was doing a headstand.” The boy inferred: “It must have been doing a headstand—its head is upside down.” Your inferences are like that. All the inferences you make about God have no value. Not inference—awakening is needed; direct seeing is needed—your own. For that direct knowing, all the obstacles on the path must be removed.
And let me repeat: there is no cause-and-effect between your doing and his happening.
The third question:
Osho, before the discourse, when Jagjivan’s verses were recited, my heart suddenly filled, my eyes welled up, and as the recitation continued my tears kept flowing on their own. When the recitation ended, the tears stopped. I understood the meaning of those verses after your discourse. Why did this happen?
Osho, before the discourse, when Jagjivan’s verses were recited, my heart suddenly filled, my eyes welled up, and as the recitation continued my tears kept flowing on their own. When the recitation ended, the tears stopped. I understood the meaning of those verses after your discourse. Why did this happen?
Dr. Sumer Singh! There is a kind of understanding that belongs to the intellect, and another that belongs to the heart. The heart understands long before the intellect does. The heart does not grasp words; it grasps feelings. It does not understand language, yet when something deeper than language is present, it catches it. And such are these verses. Here lies the difference between ordinary poets and rishis. In an ordinary poet’s poetry there are only words—a lovely, skillful array of words! Meter, rhyme, grammar—perfect on every count. Only one thing is missing: the life-breath. A rishi means one whose utterance is also poured through with self-experience. Then it may happen that meter and rhyme are not exact, grammar may falter—Kabir knew little grammar; he has himself said: “Masi kagad chhuyo nahin!”—“I never touched ink or paper.” So there won’t be much arrangement of language. And if there is any arrangement, it is not of language but a shadow of the crystallization of feeling. Feeling has congealed.
So whenever a rishi’s voice resounds near you, and you are in a receptive state, your eyes will brim and tears will begin to fall. And you will be startled too. Which means your head will be startled—your intellect will be startled: What is happening? Why is it happening? Why am I crying? You will feel a little as though you are becoming unhinged. What kind of madness is this?
That is why satsang is so greatly valued. Satsang means simply this: a place where, if you cry, no one thinks you have gone mad; where your tears are honored; where, seeing tears fall from your eyes, those sitting nearby feel a touch of envy, of reverence; where your tears are valued, not condemned. Satsang means a gathering of drunkards—the place where the language of feeling is understood. Not only the feeling of language, but the very language of feeling. And where feeling is given reverence.
You were sitting with an open heart. Whoever comes to me and truly wants to come, there is only one way: sit with an open heart. Your heart’s doors were open. You had made no defenses. You had put up no locks and latches, posted no guards. You had set reasoning aside. You were eager, with a clear heart, for satsang. The wave caught you. Before the intellect could understand, the heart understood. Before the intellect could understand, the heart was drenched. And the soaking of the heart is what is essential.
Later, when I explained the meanings, then you understood them. In truth, had your heart not been soaked, even the meanings I explained could not have been understood by you. Because your heart was drenched, the intellect followed.
Understand this well.
If the intellect is the master, life becomes a hell. If the heart is the master and the intellect its attendant, life becomes a heaven. The intellect is very useful—not as master, but as servant. That is the only difference. In some people the intellect has become the master and the heart the servant. These are their dark days—an accident has happened. You are no longer riding the boat; the boat is riding you. You are no longer riding the horse; the horse is riding you!
I have heard: A father took his little boy each day to stroll in a garden where there stood a statue of Alexander the Great—mounted on a horse. Every day the child would go stand before that statue, fixed and delighted. The father too was pleased: Good, he has such reverence for Alexander the Great; he will become something! Signs of the son show in the cradle! Then the father’s job was transferred; they had to leave town. The son said, “Let’s go once more to take darshan of Alexander the Great.” The father was delighted. They went to the garden again. Tears began to fall from the boy’s eyes—it was the moment of farewell. The father asked, “Are you crying? You love Alexander the Great so much?” The boy said, “Yes, I love him very much. I just have one question: who is that sitting on top of Alexander the Great?”
He was in love with the horse!
He said, “I never asked you before, but now that we are leaving I want to ask: Alexander the Great is amazing, but who is this sitting on top of him? Why doesn’t someone get him down? Even Alexander must get tired!”
A child has a different world. For him Alexander is worth two pennies; the horse has the life. The child’s eye is on the horse. The father perhaps never even noticed the horse; while he was seeing Alexander the Great, how could he see the horse?
An accident has happened in your life if your intellect has mounted you. This is the pundit’s misfortune. Even sinners reach God; that scholars reach—such a thing is never heard. If the heart rides, the intellect becomes very beautiful, very useful, very precious.
That is what happened, Dr. Sumer Singh! Feeling danced first. The wave reached your heart first. The song echoed in your very life-breath. You were moistened; you were drenched, bathed. Only then could you understand the meanings I gave—because feeling was ready, now meanings became expressive.
Therefore, among those who listen to me here, there are two kinds of people. Those who let feeling be soaked first—that is what discipleship means. If feeling is drenched, you have become a disciple. If feeling is not drenched and you only understand with the intellect, then you are a student, not a disciple. People come and ask, write letters: “We are new here; let us sit in front. Those who always sit in front—what harm if they sit at the back for once? We have come from far; we are here only a few days. Residents of the ashram are always in the front—why not let us sit there?” You are still students. Even if you are allowed to sit at the back, consider it a grace! In front I seat only those whose feeling is soaked.
Thus you will see a marvel here: many sitting in front, while I speak in Hindi, do not even know Hindi. But it doesn’t matter—their feeling is drenched! They may not know the language, but they know me. And that knowing is more valuable. What is there in language? For a little while words will resound in the mind and then dissolve. But if the heart is stirred, if a stamp is made—not what I have said is the great question, but from where it has been said. Therefore the one who listens here as a sannyasin—his attainment is vast, manifold. The one who listens merely as a curious mind—his attainment is not so much. You cannot be seated in front.
Sometimes it happens that one or two people sit in front whose feeling is not drenched, and because of them an obstruction occurs. A gap remains, an empty space. Better if the space had remained empty. Their presence—their vibration—creates hindrance and obstacles even around them.
Sumer Singh, you are fortunate that your feeling was soaked, and afterward understanding came. First dive, then understand. First be colored, then understand. First let things descend into the heart; afterward the intellect will do the arithmetic on its own. Those who say, “First we will do the intellectual accounting, and then we will drown the heart”—their heart never drowns, because the intellect’s accounting is never complete. It never completes! The intellect never comes to a conclusion; it has no conclusions. The intellect does not know how to conclude. It cannot conclude, because its nature is doubt. The heart’s nature is trust. The intellect can doubt, can think; it cannot conclude. The heart cannot think, cannot doubt; it takes the leap—and the conclusion happens. These two processes are very different. Therefore conversation between the intellectual and the feeling one cannot really happen; even in conversation, dilemma arises, dispute arises. There is no way.
Good! When such ecstasy comes through feeling, you could also understand me. And now, from the union of feeling and understanding, your richness will grow greatly!
Na tabe-masti, na hoshe-hasti, ki shukr-e-ne’mat ada karenge;
Khizaan mein jab hai ye apna aalam, bahaar aayi to kya karenge.
We have neither the stamina for ecstasy nor the awareness of existence—how shall we give thanks for Your bounty, O God? When this is our condition in autumn, what will we do when spring arrives? When, from feeling alone, so much has happened—tears flowed—then when understanding also arrives, when feeling and understanding meet, when heart and intellect unite, you become a sovereign. That very union is called becoming an emperor. Then even if you possess nothing, there is no worry—you are a king.
When the intellect and the heart come into harmony, life’s greatest duality is dissolved. Spring has come! Now it is flowers everywhere; now it is all song.
What happened today—pray that it happens day after day. Give thanks to the Lord for what has happened. It came unasked today; be careful you do not miss ahead. What has happened spontaneously—gradually give it a path so it may happen more strongly, more and more, until it becomes your nature.
And do not be afraid. Tears frighten us, because for centuries we have been taught, “Don’t cry.” An effort has been made to turn our eyes to stone. And in countless people the eyes have become stone. Tears do not come; the eyes have dried—that is proof the heart has dried. And when tears do not come, life too will dry up; the stream of rasa will not flow. And the Divine is rasa—the juice of love, as Jagjivan has said. Raso vai sah—He is of the very nature of rasa. Only when the juice flows within you can there be a connection with that Supreme Juice.
Taste this rasa, drown in it—drop all concern for public opinion. Jagjivan has said: all social shyness falls away, all status and propriety dissolve. One needs the courage to go mad—only then does someone succeed in attaining the Divine.
So whenever a rishi’s voice resounds near you, and you are in a receptive state, your eyes will brim and tears will begin to fall. And you will be startled too. Which means your head will be startled—your intellect will be startled: What is happening? Why is it happening? Why am I crying? You will feel a little as though you are becoming unhinged. What kind of madness is this?
That is why satsang is so greatly valued. Satsang means simply this: a place where, if you cry, no one thinks you have gone mad; where your tears are honored; where, seeing tears fall from your eyes, those sitting nearby feel a touch of envy, of reverence; where your tears are valued, not condemned. Satsang means a gathering of drunkards—the place where the language of feeling is understood. Not only the feeling of language, but the very language of feeling. And where feeling is given reverence.
You were sitting with an open heart. Whoever comes to me and truly wants to come, there is only one way: sit with an open heart. Your heart’s doors were open. You had made no defenses. You had put up no locks and latches, posted no guards. You had set reasoning aside. You were eager, with a clear heart, for satsang. The wave caught you. Before the intellect could understand, the heart understood. Before the intellect could understand, the heart was drenched. And the soaking of the heart is what is essential.
Later, when I explained the meanings, then you understood them. In truth, had your heart not been soaked, even the meanings I explained could not have been understood by you. Because your heart was drenched, the intellect followed.
Understand this well.
If the intellect is the master, life becomes a hell. If the heart is the master and the intellect its attendant, life becomes a heaven. The intellect is very useful—not as master, but as servant. That is the only difference. In some people the intellect has become the master and the heart the servant. These are their dark days—an accident has happened. You are no longer riding the boat; the boat is riding you. You are no longer riding the horse; the horse is riding you!
I have heard: A father took his little boy each day to stroll in a garden where there stood a statue of Alexander the Great—mounted on a horse. Every day the child would go stand before that statue, fixed and delighted. The father too was pleased: Good, he has such reverence for Alexander the Great; he will become something! Signs of the son show in the cradle! Then the father’s job was transferred; they had to leave town. The son said, “Let’s go once more to take darshan of Alexander the Great.” The father was delighted. They went to the garden again. Tears began to fall from the boy’s eyes—it was the moment of farewell. The father asked, “Are you crying? You love Alexander the Great so much?” The boy said, “Yes, I love him very much. I just have one question: who is that sitting on top of Alexander the Great?”
He was in love with the horse!
He said, “I never asked you before, but now that we are leaving I want to ask: Alexander the Great is amazing, but who is this sitting on top of him? Why doesn’t someone get him down? Even Alexander must get tired!”
A child has a different world. For him Alexander is worth two pennies; the horse has the life. The child’s eye is on the horse. The father perhaps never even noticed the horse; while he was seeing Alexander the Great, how could he see the horse?
An accident has happened in your life if your intellect has mounted you. This is the pundit’s misfortune. Even sinners reach God; that scholars reach—such a thing is never heard. If the heart rides, the intellect becomes very beautiful, very useful, very precious.
That is what happened, Dr. Sumer Singh! Feeling danced first. The wave reached your heart first. The song echoed in your very life-breath. You were moistened; you were drenched, bathed. Only then could you understand the meanings I gave—because feeling was ready, now meanings became expressive.
Therefore, among those who listen to me here, there are two kinds of people. Those who let feeling be soaked first—that is what discipleship means. If feeling is drenched, you have become a disciple. If feeling is not drenched and you only understand with the intellect, then you are a student, not a disciple. People come and ask, write letters: “We are new here; let us sit in front. Those who always sit in front—what harm if they sit at the back for once? We have come from far; we are here only a few days. Residents of the ashram are always in the front—why not let us sit there?” You are still students. Even if you are allowed to sit at the back, consider it a grace! In front I seat only those whose feeling is soaked.
Thus you will see a marvel here: many sitting in front, while I speak in Hindi, do not even know Hindi. But it doesn’t matter—their feeling is drenched! They may not know the language, but they know me. And that knowing is more valuable. What is there in language? For a little while words will resound in the mind and then dissolve. But if the heart is stirred, if a stamp is made—not what I have said is the great question, but from where it has been said. Therefore the one who listens here as a sannyasin—his attainment is vast, manifold. The one who listens merely as a curious mind—his attainment is not so much. You cannot be seated in front.
Sometimes it happens that one or two people sit in front whose feeling is not drenched, and because of them an obstruction occurs. A gap remains, an empty space. Better if the space had remained empty. Their presence—their vibration—creates hindrance and obstacles even around them.
Sumer Singh, you are fortunate that your feeling was soaked, and afterward understanding came. First dive, then understand. First be colored, then understand. First let things descend into the heart; afterward the intellect will do the arithmetic on its own. Those who say, “First we will do the intellectual accounting, and then we will drown the heart”—their heart never drowns, because the intellect’s accounting is never complete. It never completes! The intellect never comes to a conclusion; it has no conclusions. The intellect does not know how to conclude. It cannot conclude, because its nature is doubt. The heart’s nature is trust. The intellect can doubt, can think; it cannot conclude. The heart cannot think, cannot doubt; it takes the leap—and the conclusion happens. These two processes are very different. Therefore conversation between the intellectual and the feeling one cannot really happen; even in conversation, dilemma arises, dispute arises. There is no way.
Good! When such ecstasy comes through feeling, you could also understand me. And now, from the union of feeling and understanding, your richness will grow greatly!
Na tabe-masti, na hoshe-hasti, ki shukr-e-ne’mat ada karenge;
Khizaan mein jab hai ye apna aalam, bahaar aayi to kya karenge.
We have neither the stamina for ecstasy nor the awareness of existence—how shall we give thanks for Your bounty, O God? When this is our condition in autumn, what will we do when spring arrives? When, from feeling alone, so much has happened—tears flowed—then when understanding also arrives, when feeling and understanding meet, when heart and intellect unite, you become a sovereign. That very union is called becoming an emperor. Then even if you possess nothing, there is no worry—you are a king.
When the intellect and the heart come into harmony, life’s greatest duality is dissolved. Spring has come! Now it is flowers everywhere; now it is all song.
What happened today—pray that it happens day after day. Give thanks to the Lord for what has happened. It came unasked today; be careful you do not miss ahead. What has happened spontaneously—gradually give it a path so it may happen more strongly, more and more, until it becomes your nature.
And do not be afraid. Tears frighten us, because for centuries we have been taught, “Don’t cry.” An effort has been made to turn our eyes to stone. And in countless people the eyes have become stone. Tears do not come; the eyes have dried—that is proof the heart has dried. And when tears do not come, life too will dry up; the stream of rasa will not flow. And the Divine is rasa—the juice of love, as Jagjivan has said. Raso vai sah—He is of the very nature of rasa. Only when the juice flows within you can there be a connection with that Supreme Juice.
Taste this rasa, drown in it—drop all concern for public opinion. Jagjivan has said: all social shyness falls away, all status and propriety dissolve. One needs the courage to go mad—only then does someone succeed in attaining the Divine.
The fourth question: Osho, should I rise higher or should I supplicate? I cannot figure it out—the tighter I clench my fist, the farther it goes away. What should I do, Lord? Show me the path.
Vishesh! The more you clench the fist, the more you miss. You cannot imprison the sky in a fist. If you want to receive the sky, you must keep the hand open. In an open hand the sky is; in a closed hand it is gone.
The laws of the world and of the divine are opposite; their mathematics differs. In the world, if you open your fist, your wealth goes. In the world you must keep your fist tightly closed, only then can wealth be preserved—because here wealth is a matter of snatching and grabbing, of exploitation. Here your wealth is not truly yours; no one’s is. Here wealth is what is snatched. So you must clench the fist—and even then others are busy trying to pry it open. You sit on a chair; others are trying to push you off, so they can sit on the same chair. The world’s wealth is limited; therefore the struggle is great. If you have it, I cannot. If I have it, you cannot. Scarcity rules; hence a throat-cut competition.
But God is infinite. If I find God, it does not obstruct your finding. It is not that because I have found, now how will you—or if you find, how will your neighbor? God is boundless. In truth, if I have found, it becomes easier for you to find. If your neighbor has found, it becomes easier for you. The more people find, the more the possibility opens for you. Buddha’s finding did not rob you; Buddha’s finding reminds you that you too must seek. If Buddha could find, so can you—this assurance arises.
So God is not a scarce commodity. The economic rule that applies in the world does not apply to the divine; there it is reversed. There is no need to clench the fist, because the divine wealth is already yours—there is no need to guard it. No one can steal or snatch it. Krishna has said: no weapon can pierce it, no fire can burn it. Even death cannot put a scratch on that treasure. Why clench the fist? In clenching, a worldly delusion is operating. God is not to be locked in a safe. And remember: in the world, if you share something it diminishes; in the realm of the divine, if you withhold something it diminishes—if you share, it increases. Love is like this: the more you give, the more it grows. Love is the formula of God. Whoever finds God is compelled to share; the more he shares, the more he receives.
The urge to clench the fist is the ego’s urge: “Let it be mine!” Whose is the fist? The fist is the ego. “Let it be mine!” God can belong to no one. When the I-sense dissolves, God is revealed.
So Vishesh, you are right:
“Should I rise higher or should I supplicate?
I cannot find out...”
You will not find by rising “up,” because the urge to rise upward is also the ego’s urge. Notice: the ego wants to rise, to be superior. It is ambitious—higher and higher... By rising above you will not find God. Those who look toward the sky imagining God are speaking the language of the ego—“above.” God is within, not above. You won’t find by going up. Go on climbing to the skies—you won’t find.
People once thought he was on Mount Kailash. Then man reached Kailash—did not find him. Then they thought he is on the moon; now man has reached the moon—didn’t find him there either. You know in Russia they built a museum for stones and such brought back from space. The inscription on the museum says: “The moon has been searched—God is not there.”
Yuri Gagarin wrote that when he reached his village, an old woman of perhaps eighty-five grabbed him and said, “Gagarin, did you really go to the moon? Did you have the vision of God?” Gagarin said, “No, there is no God.” The old woman laughed: “Don’t fool me! Either you did not go to the moon, or you are joking. One should not joke with the old. Tell the truth!” Gagarin wrote: there were only two options—either I didn’t go, or if I went, I am lying; because God is on the moon. Now that man has reached the moon, God will have to move from there—he has moved. Wherever you place him “above,” man will reach there too. You keep setting him higher and higher, and God is within you—deeper and deeper.
The upward search is the ego’s search.
“Should I rise higher or should I supplicate...”
And supplication, praise, is also an ego-device: “Let me bow, place my head at your feet—see my renunciation, see my humility, see my surrender!” This too is the ego’s process.
The ego works in two ways. First it tries to make the other bow. The whole world is busy trying to make others bow somehow. To make someone bow is the ego’s language. Then the ego thinks: God cannot be made to bow, so let us bow. But the language is the same—simply standing on its head. We bow. God is not found by making him bow, nor is there a question of bowing. Because even in bowing, the ego remains. He is found by disappearing, not by bowing—by disappearing! Not even a hair should remain of you; not even a trace of ego. This too is the ego’s new costume: “See, I have bowed! See, I am nothing!” This too is the ego’s claim. It looks like a very pious claim—the claim of the holy man: “See, I am nothing—dust of your feet.”
Have you noticed? If someone says, “I am nothing, I am the dust of your feet,” and you reply, “We already knew that. We’ve always said you are indeed the dust of the feet—nothing at all!”—that person will never forgive you. Never! He did not mean that you should accept he is the dust of your feet. He is saying, “Look at me! The world is full of egotists—except me, the egoless one. See my glory: I declare myself the dust of the feet of a two-penny fellow like you—do recognize my grandeur.” And you say, “You are laboring in vain; we already know you are the dust of the feet.” He will never forgive you.
I’ve heard: a politician went to a psychologist and said, “I suffer from an inferiority complex.” The psychologist analyzed him, treated him for a month or two, pondered—and finally said, “Be at ease; you have nothing to worry about.” The politician was delighted: “So I am cured?” The psychologist said, “Don’t misunderstand. The truth is: after all our investigation, it is clear you do not suffer from an inferiority complex—you are inferior. That is not an illness. There is no cure for it, because that is what you are—pure, solid inferiority, nothing else.”
Now this politician will never forgive that psychologist. People suffer from an inferiority complex; they are saying: “We are not inferior, but this complex has possessed us. Free us from it. We are truly superior—remove this delusion and restore our superiority.”
No—neither rising up nor supplicating will help; you will not find an “address” for God. And the “addresses” that have been given are of no use. Those who know have given no address. They have said: he is untraceable; he is without abode; he has no location. Yes, the ignorant have exploited the address-seekers: they made a Kaaba—“he is here”; they set up Kashi—“he is here.” Here is the temple; bring your worship and offerings here.
There you will only find priests and pundits living.
Nanak went to the Kaaba. At night he slept with his feet toward the holy stone—this created a sensation. Only a saint can do this. No ordinary ascetic has that courage; ascetics kiss the Kaaba stone. See the absurdity! Mohammed said, “Make no image of him.” And the Kaaba stone has been kissed more than any stone in the world—it has become an idol. What else is an idol?
Nanak slept with his feet toward it. The priests came, very angry: “We heard you are a fakir, a realized saint—what is this? Have you no manners? This is insolence—to sleep with your feet toward the holy stone. This is an insult to God.” Nanak said, “Then put my feet where God is not. I myself am in difficulty—where shall I direct my feet? Wherever I place them, they point to him. You put them where God is not.”
That is enough. But storytellers have stretched it a bit—and the stretch is meaningful. They say the priests tried to turn Nanak’s feet in another direction, but whichever way they turned, the Kaaba stone moved there. Whether it happened or not is not the point. The meaning is true: wherever you point your feet, God is there. Whether the stone moves or not—he abides everywhere. How can there be an address? Addresses are for what is limited. Your address can be given—how can his?
I’ve heard: a stranger was searching long for someone’s house. He found Mulla Nasruddin sitting beneath a bush and asked, “Sir, where does Menaka Bai live?” Mulla asked, “What does she do?” “She’s a dancer.” “Large eyes?” “Yes, yes, that’s her!” “Beautiful, sari tied below the navel?” “Exactly—yes!” “Sways as she walks? Long hair, and...” The stranger grew impatient: “Man, exactly! Tell me quickly—where does she live?” Mulla said, “How would I know?”
The stranger was exasperated: “You know so much and don’t know where she lives?” Mulla said, “Sir, all dancers are like that.”
What address can there be for God? He is not a dancer. He has no face, no color or form, no direction, no location. However high you fly and however much you supplicate, you will not find. And often it happens: when, after much searching, one doesn’t find, one concludes—there must be no God. This is the greatest danger in seeking. For when the seeker gets tired, discouraged—how long to drag this search?
There are so many atheists in the world—do not be angry with them. They too are seekers. They too went in search of an address and did not find it. Patience has a limit—how long to pursue what yields no address? At some point one must decide: “He must not be. I have searched so much, and he is not found—how long will I waste my life? There are other things to do.”
But the difficulty is not that God is not; God is. Your direction is mistaken. He is not outside, not above; he will not be found by flights of imagination, nor by your so‑called praises and supplications. By praising God you will not find him. Think: whom do you praise? Those who delight in ego. Praise a politician and he is pleased—will get you a license, a job for your boy. He is pleased because he wants his ego inflated—some flowers pinned to it.
But all the moons are already upon God—what will you add? All the moons are his, all the stars are his. All flowers are already offered to him; all songs rise as his prayer. The waves of the ocean rise and surrender at his feet. The stars circling in the sky revolve around him. The lofty peaks of the Himalayas stand in his praise, in his meditation. The babble of rivers—what is it if not adoration? This entire existence is absorbed in praise and prayer. From the tiniest blade of grass to the great suns, worship is going on—day and night. What “special” thing will you add, Vishesh? Your words will only lisp. Even the words of great scholars are no more than stammering. What will we say? How will we propitiate him? How will we please him? All we say will be small, all we say will be futile.
Be silent. Stop speaking; stop flying in imagination. Do not search for him above, or outside. Praise will be of no use. He is no emperor to be pleased with eulogies. Nor is he a person who can be hurt by your denial, or pleased by your foot-massage.
“The more I clench my fist,
the farther he goes.”
Understand from this: do not clench the fist. The way to receive him is to open the hand. The way to search is not to search—drop the whole search. Close the eyes and sit within. He is not found by running, but by sitting. In the world, things are gained by running; God is found by dropping the run. In the world, things are gained by thinking; God is found by no-thought.
The way to gain the world and the way to gain him are exactly opposite. If you use the worldly ways, one day you will become an atheist—that is how people become atheists. And if you do not become an atheist, an even greater danger awaits: you will become a false theist. You will concede: “All right, let it be—he must be. I do not have the capacity; I don’t find him. But those who say so must be right—he must be. Accept it, end the hassle.”
Most people believe in God to avoid trouble. Who wants the trouble? Who wants to get entangled in this useless, endless debate? “No one has crossed this argument—let’s just agree.” Out of politeness, cultured people do not discuss God. They simply assent. On Sundays they even go to church; sometimes they have a Satyanarayan katha done—not that they listen; they put up loudspeakers so the neighborhood hears. Sometimes a yajna-havan—“End the hassle! If he exists fine; if not, fine. If not, what is lost? If yes, we’ll have something to say when we meet him—we had a havan done.”
A gentleman died. He didn’t really believe in God, but he was clever; he had one havan done once. When he reached heaven and came face to face with God, he panicked: “If only I’d had two or four more done! If only I’d had Satyanarayan katha done! Never kept a tuft, never wore the sacred thread—what a mess! I wasted life! Still, I have one hope: at least I did one havan—surely some fruit will come of it.” God looked up and asked, “Well? Ever did any religion?” Trembling, he said, “I did—not much, forgive me—once I had a havan done.” “How much did it cost?” “Three rupees.” A cheap havan—some bargain priest must have done it; there wasn’t much faith—couldn’t spend more. A make‑do havan. God grew thoughtful, closed his eyes, asked his aide, “What should we do with this gentleman?” The aide said, “Return his three rupees and send him to hell. If he wants interest, give that too—and send him to hell.”
A person either becomes an atheist—which is more honest. And I would prefer that: if God is not found, better to be an atheist—at least you are honest: “I have not found—how can I believe?” And one who has that honesty—“I have not found, how can I believe?”—his search will not stop. He will keep seeking—this way and that, today or tomorrow, tomorrow or the day after—his search will continue.
The greatest danger is the false theist. He simply believes; therefore the search stops entirely. No way remains. He says, “God already is—what is there to seek? We visit the temple, perform a yajna, do a havan, read the Ramayana—what more is needed?”
The most unfortunate is the false theist. A true atheist is better than a false theist—at least he is truthful. And true atheism, one day, leads to true theism. Because human nature cannot live on “no.”
Understand this well. Man cannot live on “no.” “No” becomes an obstruction; life blossoms only in “yes.” In “no” it shrivels. One who tries to live on “no” finds a stone obstructing him at every step, doors closed. “Yes” is expansion; in “yes” one opens. Observe: whenever you say “no,” your consciousness contracts. A beggar asks you for two pieces of bread and you say “no”—observe, you become small. You feel small. Beggars are clever: they ask in front of four people, because in front of others you will feel a little shame; you cannot become so small. In the market, amidst the crowd, they catch you: “Give me two breads, O giver!” They call you “giver” beforehand—puffing your ego: “See, we’ve declared you giver; now don’t shrink.” And the crowd is watching—you think, “For two breads shall I lose the title of ‘giver’ and become small in the marketplace—what will people say?” You don’t give the beggar two breads—you give to rid yourself of the nuisance he has created by making you small: “Take, brother—farewell. Leave me!” Alone on the road, the beggar slips by; he knows alone you may not give bread—and may grab him by the neck. Alone, who knows, you may snatch the coins from his bowl. Alone, anything can happen; you may start preaching: “You lazy fellow—begging! No shame?”
When you say “no,” you shrink; when you say “yes,” you expand. Test this in life. It is a kind of inner chemistry. Theism is the greatest expansion, because to say “yes” to God is to say “yes” to existence. We have given unconditional consent to existence—we are with it. That is the meaning of theism. We have opened our doors without reserve.
Open the fist; you won’t get him by clenching. Open the fist and go within. Opening the fist means relaxation. Opening the fist means being natural. Notice: if you try to keep your fist clenched always, how long can you keep it? But open—you can keep it open all your life. Because when the hand is open, it is natural; when closed, it is unnatural. A closed fist expends energy; an open hand does not. Therefore you have to clench; you do not have to “open.” If you clench and keep clenching, you are exerting effort; your energy is being spent. What does it take to open? Only this: stop clenching—at once the hand is open. Opening is natural.
Be natural, be simple, and search within. Do not fly upward; do not supplicate anyone, because God is not other than you. Whom are you appeasing? It is like bowing to your own image in the mirror. God is not separate from you—whom are you praising? God is your consciousness. To bend at the feet of God is to bend at your own feet—it has no value.
Pause, be still, sit. Allow a moment of rest, of interval, in life’s rush. Close your eyes, sink within, become quiet within—and one day that incomparable light happens. Certainly God can be known—but in the right direction. God is the inner journey.
When God is not found, we invent arguments to console ourselves: “That’s why he didn’t come.” One believes, “There is no God, therefore I didn’t find.” Another, “My sins are many, therefore he didn’t come.” Another, “The web of karma.” Another, “It is not in my fate, my destiny.” These are our devices to persuade ourselves.
I’ve heard: a humorist, born and raised in the city, went to a village. Watching his host’s daughter milking a cow, he saw a big bull, head down, charging straight at him. He leapt into the house. Peeking through the window he saw the girl calmly milking; the bull came right up to the cow, suddenly started, turned around and ran straight back. When the bull had vanished from sight, the humorist came out and asked, “Why did the bull come close, get startled and run back?” The farm girl replied, “That cow is his mother‑in‑law!”
Ask foolish questions, and you will get foolish answers—either from others, or if not, you will manufacture them yourself.
“Why is God not found?” Either you will find someone to answer—there is no dearth of answerers. Seek one, you will find a thousand. They are ready, waiting for your neck to fall into their hands; answers memorized like parrots. You are not asking—that makes them restless. They will tell you: because of past sins, because of fate, because of karma—this reason or that. Meet an atheist and he will say: “He does not exist—how can you find him? If he existed, you would have found him by now; no one ever has.” And the likelihood is some answer among these will suit your mind—you will be satisfied, and the search will end.
I want to tell you: all these answers are wrong. Sin does not stop you, because whatever sins you have done, you did in sleep—what can dreams hinder? If someone steals in a dream, is it a sin in the morning? If in a dream you murdered, on waking do you think of repentance? Whatever you have done so far, you have done in sleep, in unconsciousness. Nothing you have done is really sin. These sins are excuses to console yourself: “What to do? I lack the merit to find God.” I tell you: you can meet God this very moment; only one thing is needed—seek in the direction where he is. Nothing else blocks you. Close your eyes and look within—into your own nature. Nature is God. And when you see him within, you will see him everywhere without. One who has known oneself has known all.
The laws of the world and of the divine are opposite; their mathematics differs. In the world, if you open your fist, your wealth goes. In the world you must keep your fist tightly closed, only then can wealth be preserved—because here wealth is a matter of snatching and grabbing, of exploitation. Here your wealth is not truly yours; no one’s is. Here wealth is what is snatched. So you must clench the fist—and even then others are busy trying to pry it open. You sit on a chair; others are trying to push you off, so they can sit on the same chair. The world’s wealth is limited; therefore the struggle is great. If you have it, I cannot. If I have it, you cannot. Scarcity rules; hence a throat-cut competition.
But God is infinite. If I find God, it does not obstruct your finding. It is not that because I have found, now how will you—or if you find, how will your neighbor? God is boundless. In truth, if I have found, it becomes easier for you to find. If your neighbor has found, it becomes easier for you. The more people find, the more the possibility opens for you. Buddha’s finding did not rob you; Buddha’s finding reminds you that you too must seek. If Buddha could find, so can you—this assurance arises.
So God is not a scarce commodity. The economic rule that applies in the world does not apply to the divine; there it is reversed. There is no need to clench the fist, because the divine wealth is already yours—there is no need to guard it. No one can steal or snatch it. Krishna has said: no weapon can pierce it, no fire can burn it. Even death cannot put a scratch on that treasure. Why clench the fist? In clenching, a worldly delusion is operating. God is not to be locked in a safe. And remember: in the world, if you share something it diminishes; in the realm of the divine, if you withhold something it diminishes—if you share, it increases. Love is like this: the more you give, the more it grows. Love is the formula of God. Whoever finds God is compelled to share; the more he shares, the more he receives.
The urge to clench the fist is the ego’s urge: “Let it be mine!” Whose is the fist? The fist is the ego. “Let it be mine!” God can belong to no one. When the I-sense dissolves, God is revealed.
So Vishesh, you are right:
“Should I rise higher or should I supplicate?
I cannot find out...”
You will not find by rising “up,” because the urge to rise upward is also the ego’s urge. Notice: the ego wants to rise, to be superior. It is ambitious—higher and higher... By rising above you will not find God. Those who look toward the sky imagining God are speaking the language of the ego—“above.” God is within, not above. You won’t find by going up. Go on climbing to the skies—you won’t find.
People once thought he was on Mount Kailash. Then man reached Kailash—did not find him. Then they thought he is on the moon; now man has reached the moon—didn’t find him there either. You know in Russia they built a museum for stones and such brought back from space. The inscription on the museum says: “The moon has been searched—God is not there.”
Yuri Gagarin wrote that when he reached his village, an old woman of perhaps eighty-five grabbed him and said, “Gagarin, did you really go to the moon? Did you have the vision of God?” Gagarin said, “No, there is no God.” The old woman laughed: “Don’t fool me! Either you did not go to the moon, or you are joking. One should not joke with the old. Tell the truth!” Gagarin wrote: there were only two options—either I didn’t go, or if I went, I am lying; because God is on the moon. Now that man has reached the moon, God will have to move from there—he has moved. Wherever you place him “above,” man will reach there too. You keep setting him higher and higher, and God is within you—deeper and deeper.
The upward search is the ego’s search.
“Should I rise higher or should I supplicate...”
And supplication, praise, is also an ego-device: “Let me bow, place my head at your feet—see my renunciation, see my humility, see my surrender!” This too is the ego’s process.
The ego works in two ways. First it tries to make the other bow. The whole world is busy trying to make others bow somehow. To make someone bow is the ego’s language. Then the ego thinks: God cannot be made to bow, so let us bow. But the language is the same—simply standing on its head. We bow. God is not found by making him bow, nor is there a question of bowing. Because even in bowing, the ego remains. He is found by disappearing, not by bowing—by disappearing! Not even a hair should remain of you; not even a trace of ego. This too is the ego’s new costume: “See, I have bowed! See, I am nothing!” This too is the ego’s claim. It looks like a very pious claim—the claim of the holy man: “See, I am nothing—dust of your feet.”
Have you noticed? If someone says, “I am nothing, I am the dust of your feet,” and you reply, “We already knew that. We’ve always said you are indeed the dust of the feet—nothing at all!”—that person will never forgive you. Never! He did not mean that you should accept he is the dust of your feet. He is saying, “Look at me! The world is full of egotists—except me, the egoless one. See my glory: I declare myself the dust of the feet of a two-penny fellow like you—do recognize my grandeur.” And you say, “You are laboring in vain; we already know you are the dust of the feet.” He will never forgive you.
I’ve heard: a politician went to a psychologist and said, “I suffer from an inferiority complex.” The psychologist analyzed him, treated him for a month or two, pondered—and finally said, “Be at ease; you have nothing to worry about.” The politician was delighted: “So I am cured?” The psychologist said, “Don’t misunderstand. The truth is: after all our investigation, it is clear you do not suffer from an inferiority complex—you are inferior. That is not an illness. There is no cure for it, because that is what you are—pure, solid inferiority, nothing else.”
Now this politician will never forgive that psychologist. People suffer from an inferiority complex; they are saying: “We are not inferior, but this complex has possessed us. Free us from it. We are truly superior—remove this delusion and restore our superiority.”
No—neither rising up nor supplicating will help; you will not find an “address” for God. And the “addresses” that have been given are of no use. Those who know have given no address. They have said: he is untraceable; he is without abode; he has no location. Yes, the ignorant have exploited the address-seekers: they made a Kaaba—“he is here”; they set up Kashi—“he is here.” Here is the temple; bring your worship and offerings here.
There you will only find priests and pundits living.
Nanak went to the Kaaba. At night he slept with his feet toward the holy stone—this created a sensation. Only a saint can do this. No ordinary ascetic has that courage; ascetics kiss the Kaaba stone. See the absurdity! Mohammed said, “Make no image of him.” And the Kaaba stone has been kissed more than any stone in the world—it has become an idol. What else is an idol?
Nanak slept with his feet toward it. The priests came, very angry: “We heard you are a fakir, a realized saint—what is this? Have you no manners? This is insolence—to sleep with your feet toward the holy stone. This is an insult to God.” Nanak said, “Then put my feet where God is not. I myself am in difficulty—where shall I direct my feet? Wherever I place them, they point to him. You put them where God is not.”
That is enough. But storytellers have stretched it a bit—and the stretch is meaningful. They say the priests tried to turn Nanak’s feet in another direction, but whichever way they turned, the Kaaba stone moved there. Whether it happened or not is not the point. The meaning is true: wherever you point your feet, God is there. Whether the stone moves or not—he abides everywhere. How can there be an address? Addresses are for what is limited. Your address can be given—how can his?
I’ve heard: a stranger was searching long for someone’s house. He found Mulla Nasruddin sitting beneath a bush and asked, “Sir, where does Menaka Bai live?” Mulla asked, “What does she do?” “She’s a dancer.” “Large eyes?” “Yes, yes, that’s her!” “Beautiful, sari tied below the navel?” “Exactly—yes!” “Sways as she walks? Long hair, and...” The stranger grew impatient: “Man, exactly! Tell me quickly—where does she live?” Mulla said, “How would I know?”
The stranger was exasperated: “You know so much and don’t know where she lives?” Mulla said, “Sir, all dancers are like that.”
What address can there be for God? He is not a dancer. He has no face, no color or form, no direction, no location. However high you fly and however much you supplicate, you will not find. And often it happens: when, after much searching, one doesn’t find, one concludes—there must be no God. This is the greatest danger in seeking. For when the seeker gets tired, discouraged—how long to drag this search?
There are so many atheists in the world—do not be angry with them. They too are seekers. They too went in search of an address and did not find it. Patience has a limit—how long to pursue what yields no address? At some point one must decide: “He must not be. I have searched so much, and he is not found—how long will I waste my life? There are other things to do.”
But the difficulty is not that God is not; God is. Your direction is mistaken. He is not outside, not above; he will not be found by flights of imagination, nor by your so‑called praises and supplications. By praising God you will not find him. Think: whom do you praise? Those who delight in ego. Praise a politician and he is pleased—will get you a license, a job for your boy. He is pleased because he wants his ego inflated—some flowers pinned to it.
But all the moons are already upon God—what will you add? All the moons are his, all the stars are his. All flowers are already offered to him; all songs rise as his prayer. The waves of the ocean rise and surrender at his feet. The stars circling in the sky revolve around him. The lofty peaks of the Himalayas stand in his praise, in his meditation. The babble of rivers—what is it if not adoration? This entire existence is absorbed in praise and prayer. From the tiniest blade of grass to the great suns, worship is going on—day and night. What “special” thing will you add, Vishesh? Your words will only lisp. Even the words of great scholars are no more than stammering. What will we say? How will we propitiate him? How will we please him? All we say will be small, all we say will be futile.
Be silent. Stop speaking; stop flying in imagination. Do not search for him above, or outside. Praise will be of no use. He is no emperor to be pleased with eulogies. Nor is he a person who can be hurt by your denial, or pleased by your foot-massage.
“The more I clench my fist,
the farther he goes.”
Understand from this: do not clench the fist. The way to receive him is to open the hand. The way to search is not to search—drop the whole search. Close the eyes and sit within. He is not found by running, but by sitting. In the world, things are gained by running; God is found by dropping the run. In the world, things are gained by thinking; God is found by no-thought.
The way to gain the world and the way to gain him are exactly opposite. If you use the worldly ways, one day you will become an atheist—that is how people become atheists. And if you do not become an atheist, an even greater danger awaits: you will become a false theist. You will concede: “All right, let it be—he must be. I do not have the capacity; I don’t find him. But those who say so must be right—he must be. Accept it, end the hassle.”
Most people believe in God to avoid trouble. Who wants the trouble? Who wants to get entangled in this useless, endless debate? “No one has crossed this argument—let’s just agree.” Out of politeness, cultured people do not discuss God. They simply assent. On Sundays they even go to church; sometimes they have a Satyanarayan katha done—not that they listen; they put up loudspeakers so the neighborhood hears. Sometimes a yajna-havan—“End the hassle! If he exists fine; if not, fine. If not, what is lost? If yes, we’ll have something to say when we meet him—we had a havan done.”
A gentleman died. He didn’t really believe in God, but he was clever; he had one havan done once. When he reached heaven and came face to face with God, he panicked: “If only I’d had two or four more done! If only I’d had Satyanarayan katha done! Never kept a tuft, never wore the sacred thread—what a mess! I wasted life! Still, I have one hope: at least I did one havan—surely some fruit will come of it.” God looked up and asked, “Well? Ever did any religion?” Trembling, he said, “I did—not much, forgive me—once I had a havan done.” “How much did it cost?” “Three rupees.” A cheap havan—some bargain priest must have done it; there wasn’t much faith—couldn’t spend more. A make‑do havan. God grew thoughtful, closed his eyes, asked his aide, “What should we do with this gentleman?” The aide said, “Return his three rupees and send him to hell. If he wants interest, give that too—and send him to hell.”
A person either becomes an atheist—which is more honest. And I would prefer that: if God is not found, better to be an atheist—at least you are honest: “I have not found—how can I believe?” And one who has that honesty—“I have not found, how can I believe?”—his search will not stop. He will keep seeking—this way and that, today or tomorrow, tomorrow or the day after—his search will continue.
The greatest danger is the false theist. He simply believes; therefore the search stops entirely. No way remains. He says, “God already is—what is there to seek? We visit the temple, perform a yajna, do a havan, read the Ramayana—what more is needed?”
The most unfortunate is the false theist. A true atheist is better than a false theist—at least he is truthful. And true atheism, one day, leads to true theism. Because human nature cannot live on “no.”
Understand this well. Man cannot live on “no.” “No” becomes an obstruction; life blossoms only in “yes.” In “no” it shrivels. One who tries to live on “no” finds a stone obstructing him at every step, doors closed. “Yes” is expansion; in “yes” one opens. Observe: whenever you say “no,” your consciousness contracts. A beggar asks you for two pieces of bread and you say “no”—observe, you become small. You feel small. Beggars are clever: they ask in front of four people, because in front of others you will feel a little shame; you cannot become so small. In the market, amidst the crowd, they catch you: “Give me two breads, O giver!” They call you “giver” beforehand—puffing your ego: “See, we’ve declared you giver; now don’t shrink.” And the crowd is watching—you think, “For two breads shall I lose the title of ‘giver’ and become small in the marketplace—what will people say?” You don’t give the beggar two breads—you give to rid yourself of the nuisance he has created by making you small: “Take, brother—farewell. Leave me!” Alone on the road, the beggar slips by; he knows alone you may not give bread—and may grab him by the neck. Alone, who knows, you may snatch the coins from his bowl. Alone, anything can happen; you may start preaching: “You lazy fellow—begging! No shame?”
When you say “no,” you shrink; when you say “yes,” you expand. Test this in life. It is a kind of inner chemistry. Theism is the greatest expansion, because to say “yes” to God is to say “yes” to existence. We have given unconditional consent to existence—we are with it. That is the meaning of theism. We have opened our doors without reserve.
Open the fist; you won’t get him by clenching. Open the fist and go within. Opening the fist means relaxation. Opening the fist means being natural. Notice: if you try to keep your fist clenched always, how long can you keep it? But open—you can keep it open all your life. Because when the hand is open, it is natural; when closed, it is unnatural. A closed fist expends energy; an open hand does not. Therefore you have to clench; you do not have to “open.” If you clench and keep clenching, you are exerting effort; your energy is being spent. What does it take to open? Only this: stop clenching—at once the hand is open. Opening is natural.
Be natural, be simple, and search within. Do not fly upward; do not supplicate anyone, because God is not other than you. Whom are you appeasing? It is like bowing to your own image in the mirror. God is not separate from you—whom are you praising? God is your consciousness. To bend at the feet of God is to bend at your own feet—it has no value.
Pause, be still, sit. Allow a moment of rest, of interval, in life’s rush. Close your eyes, sink within, become quiet within—and one day that incomparable light happens. Certainly God can be known—but in the right direction. God is the inner journey.
When God is not found, we invent arguments to console ourselves: “That’s why he didn’t come.” One believes, “There is no God, therefore I didn’t find.” Another, “My sins are many, therefore he didn’t come.” Another, “The web of karma.” Another, “It is not in my fate, my destiny.” These are our devices to persuade ourselves.
I’ve heard: a humorist, born and raised in the city, went to a village. Watching his host’s daughter milking a cow, he saw a big bull, head down, charging straight at him. He leapt into the house. Peeking through the window he saw the girl calmly milking; the bull came right up to the cow, suddenly started, turned around and ran straight back. When the bull had vanished from sight, the humorist came out and asked, “Why did the bull come close, get startled and run back?” The farm girl replied, “That cow is his mother‑in‑law!”
Ask foolish questions, and you will get foolish answers—either from others, or if not, you will manufacture them yourself.
“Why is God not found?” Either you will find someone to answer—there is no dearth of answerers. Seek one, you will find a thousand. They are ready, waiting for your neck to fall into their hands; answers memorized like parrots. You are not asking—that makes them restless. They will tell you: because of past sins, because of fate, because of karma—this reason or that. Meet an atheist and he will say: “He does not exist—how can you find him? If he existed, you would have found him by now; no one ever has.” And the likelihood is some answer among these will suit your mind—you will be satisfied, and the search will end.
I want to tell you: all these answers are wrong. Sin does not stop you, because whatever sins you have done, you did in sleep—what can dreams hinder? If someone steals in a dream, is it a sin in the morning? If in a dream you murdered, on waking do you think of repentance? Whatever you have done so far, you have done in sleep, in unconsciousness. Nothing you have done is really sin. These sins are excuses to console yourself: “What to do? I lack the merit to find God.” I tell you: you can meet God this very moment; only one thing is needed—seek in the direction where he is. Nothing else blocks you. Close your eyes and look within—into your own nature. Nature is God. And when you see him within, you will see him everywhere without. One who has known oneself has known all.
Last question:
Osho, why do you always make fun of politicians? And I also want to know why politicians wear churidar pajamas.
Osho, why do you always make fun of politicians? And I also want to know why politicians wear churidar pajamas.
This is a bit of a difficult question.
I don’t make fun of politicians. “Politician” itself is a kind of abuse. Don’t, even by mistake, call someone a “politician.”
I have heard that Mark Twain wrote: On February 17, George A. Rodrick started a quarrel with Dr. R. Wilson in front of the state assembly building in New York. For a long time Wilson kept listening to the abuses and restrained his anger. Rodrick called him a thief, a liar, a swindler—Wilson heard all that calmly too. Rodrick kept piling filthy epithets on Wilson one after another. In the end he called him son of an owl, bastard, and—other words; even then Wilson listened calmly. Then he hurled such abuses as can neither be written nor spoken. But Wilson was remarkable—he stood there just like Buddha and kept listening! And then, finally, Rodrick said: You politician’s brat! Hey, Member of Parliament! The moment he heard that, Wilson sprang to his feet and said to Rodrick, “This insult I will not tolerate in any case,” and he shot him dead. The court acquitted Dr. Wilson, saying the cause of his provocation was justified.
I do not know how true this story is. But it ought to be true.
“Leader” is a kind of abuse. Those eager for politics are people of a petty disposition. The meanest people are eager for politics. The lowest rung of society is keen on politics. Those who can be nothing else become politicians. The one who could be a musician will want to be a politician—after laying down the veena! The one who could be a painter will want to be a politician—after laying down the brush! From whose throat songs could rise, whose songs could intoxicate people—he will want to be a politician. Whoever could be anything else would not want to be a politician. Anyone who has any capacity for creation will not want to be a politician. Politicians are precisely those people who can be nothing else. From whom neither songs, nor paintings, nor sculptures can be born; from whom no creation is possible—people utterly empty of creative capacity—such people become politicians. And then, naturally, what they do is visible to all.
I have heard: a working committee meeting of a political party was in session when a member’s pocket was picked—right in the meeting! He immediately stood up on his chair and shouted, “Dear gentlemen, someone has taken six hundred rupees from my pocket. Whoever finds out who did it, I’ll give him fifty rupees.” A voice came from one corner: “I’ll give seventy-five.” From another corner: “I’ll give a hundred.” As if an auction was going on!
Traveling on a train, a leader said to the passenger next to him, “Would you be kind enough to lend me your spectacles for a little while?” The man took off his glasses and handed them over. Taking the glasses, the leader said, “Since you can’t read without your glasses, now please turn your newspaper my way as well.”
With these leaders there is no need to make jokes at all.
Leader
takes with this hand,
and with the other too
A leader’s smile,
twenty-four hours—
as though a shop were always open
A leader’s attire
turns ordinary people
into “special” ones
A leader’s slogans
to the herd—
like a coachman coaxing his horses
A leader’s promise,
every time—
a beaten pawn
I don’t make fun of politicians. “Politician” itself is a kind of abuse. Don’t, even by mistake, call someone a “politician.”
I have heard that Mark Twain wrote: On February 17, George A. Rodrick started a quarrel with Dr. R. Wilson in front of the state assembly building in New York. For a long time Wilson kept listening to the abuses and restrained his anger. Rodrick called him a thief, a liar, a swindler—Wilson heard all that calmly too. Rodrick kept piling filthy epithets on Wilson one after another. In the end he called him son of an owl, bastard, and—other words; even then Wilson listened calmly. Then he hurled such abuses as can neither be written nor spoken. But Wilson was remarkable—he stood there just like Buddha and kept listening! And then, finally, Rodrick said: You politician’s brat! Hey, Member of Parliament! The moment he heard that, Wilson sprang to his feet and said to Rodrick, “This insult I will not tolerate in any case,” and he shot him dead. The court acquitted Dr. Wilson, saying the cause of his provocation was justified.
I do not know how true this story is. But it ought to be true.
“Leader” is a kind of abuse. Those eager for politics are people of a petty disposition. The meanest people are eager for politics. The lowest rung of society is keen on politics. Those who can be nothing else become politicians. The one who could be a musician will want to be a politician—after laying down the veena! The one who could be a painter will want to be a politician—after laying down the brush! From whose throat songs could rise, whose songs could intoxicate people—he will want to be a politician. Whoever could be anything else would not want to be a politician. Anyone who has any capacity for creation will not want to be a politician. Politicians are precisely those people who can be nothing else. From whom neither songs, nor paintings, nor sculptures can be born; from whom no creation is possible—people utterly empty of creative capacity—such people become politicians. And then, naturally, what they do is visible to all.
I have heard: a working committee meeting of a political party was in session when a member’s pocket was picked—right in the meeting! He immediately stood up on his chair and shouted, “Dear gentlemen, someone has taken six hundred rupees from my pocket. Whoever finds out who did it, I’ll give him fifty rupees.” A voice came from one corner: “I’ll give seventy-five.” From another corner: “I’ll give a hundred.” As if an auction was going on!
Traveling on a train, a leader said to the passenger next to him, “Would you be kind enough to lend me your spectacles for a little while?” The man took off his glasses and handed them over. Taking the glasses, the leader said, “Since you can’t read without your glasses, now please turn your newspaper my way as well.”
With these leaders there is no need to make jokes at all.
Leader
takes with this hand,
and with the other too
A leader’s smile,
twenty-four hours—
as though a shop were always open
A leader’s attire
turns ordinary people
into “special” ones
A leader’s slogans
to the herd—
like a coachman coaxing his horses
A leader’s promise,
every time—
a beaten pawn
And the question you’ve asked is even harder: why do politicians wear churidar pajamas? A churidar pajama has one great virtue! If you try to take someone’s off, you can’t do it quickly. And politicians keep trying to pull off each other’s pajamas—who will undo whose drawstring first! So the churidar pajama has great value. There’s a lot of security in it. You can put it on yourself, but no one else can take it off. Only after much pulling and tugging does it finally come off. Politicians have very thoughtfully chosen the churidar pajama.
Right now you can see it— in Delhi they’re busy undoing each other’s drawstrings. Everyone is grabbing everyone else’s drawstring. Who will open whose first, who will save his own!
Politics is the filthiest of games.
Sometimes when I make fun of politics, it is only so that you stay alert. Politics is hidden in everyone’s mind. It has to be scorched, burned away. If even the tiniest seed of ambition, of politics, remains within you, that alone will lead you astray.
The one who is free of politics is pure. And the pure one is a vessel of the divine.
That’s all for today.
Politics is the filthiest of games.
Sometimes when I make fun of politics, it is only so that you stay alert. Politics is hidden in everyone’s mind. It has to be scorched, burned away. If even the tiniest seed of ambition, of politics, remains within you, that alone will lead you astray.
The one who is free of politics is pure. And the pure one is a vessel of the divine.
That’s all for today.