What is the destination of life? On this, the ancient Hindu seers speak of four things: dharma, artha, kama, and moksha. And you say, “I want to give you roots in life, and wings to fly in life’s vast sky as well.” Please tell what the harmony is between these two, and what the difference is. Also kindly tell me: are prajna and tarka; amrit and prakash; ananda and prem; and moksha and nirvana simply different names for the same goal, or do they differ?
For those who know, there is no difference between this world and that world. For those who do not know, there is also no difference between that world and this world—but for entirely different reasons. To the ignorant, this visible world appears to be everything; so the question of another world simply does not arise. These pleasures, these desires, these cravings, these ambitions—this alone is life.
Epicurus, Brihaspati, and those of the Charvaka line say: even if you must borrow, drink ghee to your heart’s content. Even if you must lie to enjoy, then lie—but enjoy, because life once gone does not return. Whether you indulge on credit or by your own labor—what difference does it make? For after death, neither creditor nor debtor remains; all is wiped out. There is no morality and no immorality. Thinkers like Brihaspati and Epicurus—ignorant, but eloquent—declare that this world is all; they support it. They are world-affirmers.
This creates a great tangle, a great confusion, because the supremely enlightened say that that world and this world are one and the same. The supremely wise also see no division; for the moment that world is seen, this world disappears.
In ignorance one remains: this world. In knowledge one remains: that world.
But for you there are two, because you are neither truly ignorant nor truly wise. And that is a most difficult condition. You are in the middle. Your mind is like Trishanku—suspended. You are in fact ignorant, but consider yourself wise. Hence, two worlds. And from these two worlds all your misery is born. Where to go? This world pulls; that world pulls in the opposite direction. Enter here, and you feel guilty for neglecting the other. Go to that side, and this world seems to be slipping away. Your condition is like the washerman’s donkey—neither of the house nor of the ghat. The ghat pulls, the house pulls; they seem opposed.
If you were truly ignorant, as animals and birds are, then that world would not exist for you. Animals have no anxiety. Anxiety is a human invention. Trees have no anxiety either, because anxiety arises only when a contrary goal takes root in the mind—when you begin to be pulled in two directions. If you move only in one direction, no tension arises. Tension means you have two opposing destinations.
So the more tension you feel, the more know that you are traveling in two directions at once. You are standing with a foot in two boats moving apart—one toward this shore, one toward that. Your suffering is deep. And you cannot fully step into either boat, because you are not ignorant like the animals, nor wise like the Buddhas.
Ignorance is nondual, and knowledge is nondual too.
Hence, all materialists say: only matter exists, not God. The world is true, all else false. The body is everything, the soul nothing. They are nondualists—Epicurus, Diderot, Marx, Engels, Lenin, Stalin, Mao—all nondualists; they admit only one.
And the supremely wise say: only Brahman is; maya has no existence. That alone is true; this is a dream. You are the soul; the body is an appearance. Mahavira, Buddha, Shankara, Ramana—they too are nondualists.
You are a dualist; that is your tension. Your trouble is that the animal pulls you down and the Buddha pulls you up. Your eyes are fixed on the Buddha, your feet are tied to the beasts. You are hanging midway on the ladder. Your feet want to go downward; your eyes want to go upward. Your life will be one of great anguish.
In Greece, it happened: a famous astrologer was walking at night, studying the stars, eyes on the sky—he fell into a well. His eyes were fixed above; he did not see the well. He screamed in panic. The road was deserted. In the distance, in a hut, an old woman—the mother of a farmer—heard him and came. She peered in. The astrologer said, “Mother, pull me out. I am a great astrologer; perhaps you’ve heard my name. Who in Athens does not know me? My fame reaches far and wide.” He announced his name and said, “Great emperors bring their horoscopes to me. My fee is thousands. If you pull me out, I’ll read your horoscope for free and foretell your future.”
The old woman said, “He who cannot see the well in front of him—how will he understand the distant stars? Keep your horoscope and your knowledge to yourself. And if you cannot even see you are about to fall into a well, how will you see the far future—someone else’s, at that! I’ll pull you out, but I want nothing of your astrology!”
We all fall into wells because our feet are going one way and our eyes are gazing another. We bump into things at every step. Our whole life looks like nothing but a struggle. We cannot take a step without a collision; we cannot rise without a fall; we cannot lift a foot without wandering off.
And wherever we go, there is pain. If we go into the world, guilt follows, “I am missing the mark. By now I could have found God; I should have gone to the temple, prayed, meditated. What is there in this world?” The words of the wise ring in your ear precisely when you go into the world.
When you descend into sex, samadhi grips you—from behind. You think, “Where am I wasting my life! I am squandering energy. This is a rare opportunity; I could meet Rama—God—through it, but I am spending it on kama.” In the moment of sex, Rama comes to mind. Because of that, even sex does not remain pleasant. The sexuality of animals is blissful and innocent. Human sexuality carries the weight of anxiety; in another gaze, it is smoke upon smoke.
And when you go to chant the name of Rama in the temple, when you sit cross-legged with eyes closed, when you sit in siddhasana—you have barely sat when kama catches hold of you. You repeat “Ram, Ram, Ram” at the surface; deep within, it is kama that repeats. While remembering Rama, some beautiful woman appears in the mind, some handsome man; dreams arise. When you sit in your shop, charity comes to mind. When you go to give charity, your shop comes to mind. You are never wholly anywhere, because you are divided in two.
People come to me and say, “Whenever we sit to meditate, other things arise. How to stop them?” I ask, “When you are doing other things, does meditation arise?” They say, “It does.” I ask, “Shall we stop that?” They protest, “What are you saying! That is a good sign.”
When you are eating and meditation arises—is that a good sign? And when you are meditating and food arises—is that a bad sign? What kind of arithmetic is this? Whoever follows such arithmetic will never reach the state where, while meditating, food does not arise. When you are eating, meditation should not arise either; only then will the day come when, in meditation, food will not trouble you. When you are in sex, the pull of samadhi should fall to zero; only then will the moment come when, in samadhi, sex will not pull you. Otherwise you will remain forever divided.
A dualist can never be whole. Therefore, those who longed to be whole spoke of nonduality. As long as there are two, you will try to get both. Only when one remains will your thirst for the second end, and the journey will become easy. Then anxiety and burden will depart from your life.
When I say I want to give you roots in this earth and wings in that sky, there is a reason. Not because earth and sky are separate. Tell me, where does earth end and where does sky begin? Dig a pit in the earth—however deep you dig, you will find the sky right there. Go down a deep well, remove the soil—as much as you remove, there is the sky. Where does the sky begin?
The earth breathes too. The earth is porous; in every limb of it the sky is woven. Ask a scientist; he says if we could remove all the sky from the earth, the earth would shrink to the size of an orange—just an orange. So much sky, so little matter. Matter is only this much; the rest is empty space.
And if the sky were removed from within you, do you know what would happen? When the earth shrinks to an orange after the sky is removed—and even that is not exact, for the sky cannot truly be removed; it would still remain—the limitation is only our instruments. With better instruments, the earth would shrink further; with even better ones… if we had perfect means, the earth would vanish and only the sky remain.
When you were a tiny particle in your mother’s womb—what was the difference between then and now? A little more sky has entered you. Then you were condensed.
Scientists say that before this century ends we will master the art of emptying things of space. They say that in the twenty-first century it could happen that a man gets off a train and shouts, “I need ten or twelve porters!” Fellow passengers nearby will say, “But we don’t see your luggage. You have only a cigarette tin with a matchbox on top. What do you need twelve porters for?”
He says, “Wait a moment.” Twelve porters come, and they cannot lift the cigarette tin, because a car is “condensed” inside it—its space has been removed. Such a big car would be foolish to bring from America to India; it takes too much room. Over there they will condense the car, like condensed milk; then here in a factory they will “inflate” it again, put the space back, and it will be large again. Big airplanes, locomotive engines—could all fit into a matchbox.
When all the space of the earth is drawn out and it shrinks to an orange, when the space in you is drawn out—what remains? You could not be seen with the naked eye. The tiny particle you were in your mother’s womb—one needed instruments, a microscope, to see it. With the naked eye you were invisible.
Where does earth begin and sky end? Every day new “earths” are being born—emerging from pure space; and every day earths dissolve, merging back into pure space.
Hindus say that when dissolution—pralaya—comes, all becomes sky. Pralaya means: only space remains; emptiness remains; all matter is gone. And when creation begins again, matter appears once more. The world comes from shunya and returns to shunya.
The further science advances, the more Hindu intuitions seem true; other notions appear childish. Because the Hindus say the world came from the nothing, and will go back into the nothing. Which means: the “nothing” is the hidden form of the everything. So when I say shunya, do not take it as mere “nothing.”
Shunya means: the concealed Whole; the unmanifest Fullness. Purna means: shunya made manifest.
When I had not yet begun speaking, when I just sat on this chair for a moment, there was shunya. Then I spoke. From where did these words come? Sound and word arise from shunya; they spread and reach you. Word is matter, which is why it can be recorded. It has an impact; it can be heard because it strikes your ear. Shunya cannot be heard because shunya is not material. What were you before birth? Where will you be after death? Before birth you were unmanifest. In a tiny seed the whole tree is hidden.
A botanist once conducted an experiment. Everyone assumes that as a tree grows, the substance in it comes from the soil, manure, water, sunlight. Botanists have made a strange discovery: this is not the whole truth. This botanist worked for years with a plant. When he planted the seed in a pot, he weighed the pot; he carefully weighed every bit of soil and fertilizer he added. When the tree grew, he weighed the pot again and was amazed: the weight he had added could not account for the tree’s mass; the tree weighed many times more.
So he removed the plant entirely, making sure not a particle of soil stuck to it, and weighed the pot alone. He was stunned. The pot weighed exactly what it should—the original pot plus the added soil and fertilizer. Not a grain had vanished. Yet the tree was three or four times heavier than the pot. From where did the tree come? The matter in the tree came from the sky.
Only the Hindus accepted akasha—space—as one of the five elements: your body has earth, water, fire, air, and a fifth beyond the four—space.
Charvakas accept four. They say man is made of four; space neither can be seen, weighed, nor measured; it is mere talk, a theory like “God.” Man is made of fire, water, earth, air—not space. Space is not visible.
But botanists say these vast trees come from space. You too, as you grow—the tiny particle in your mother’s womb develops; you are born and grow. You weighed nothing at first; you were like a seed. Now you may weigh a hundred kilos. Did this weight come from your food? It is difficult to say so simply; it came from space.
As yet, the research in this area is not as rigorous for humans as for plants; but one American scientist says it must be so for humans too. He says man cannot be different from the plant; he too comes from shunya. Therefore, he says, someday we will find a way for humans to live without food. He says food is not necessary for life; food is only an old habit. So some people have lived without food. In the story of Mahavira it seems meaningful that in twelve years he ate only three hundred sixty-five days—eleven years he remained without food.
In Europe, in Bavaria, there was Therese Neumann in this very century; she lived for forty years without food. She was not a thin, frail woman; she remained as robust as ever. And another miracle occurred with her, which Christians call stigmata. Stigmata is a Christian phenomenon, precious to them: when a devotee becomes so one with Jesus that all separation dissolves, then on Fridays—the day Jesus was crucified—wounds appear on the devotee’s hands where the nails were driven, on the heart, on the feet… as if actual nails had pierced, and blood flows continuously.
This happened with Therese Neumann for forty years. She took no food; and every Friday blood flowed from hands, feet, and heart; wounds appeared, and within twenty-four hours they healed; the bleeding stopped. Her weight never changed.
For Western medical science, Neumann became a marvel. They studied her intensely. Her intestinal tract had shrunk to thorns, because no food had passed for years. Her stomach had contracted completely—it had not been used for forty years. Yet her body persisted; her weight remained stable. And despite the weekly blood loss, her weight did not diminish. Thousands of her blood-stained garments have been collected, because every Friday…
What was happening?
Hindus say: your fundamental substratum is space. Scientists researching ask: then why do we need food at all? If a person can live without food, then if one can, anyone can—there are no exceptions here. A strange idea has come to some of them: food merely sets in motion the life-principle hidden within you.
Just as electricity is generated from water via a dynamo: water falls on the turbine, the rotor spins, and electricity is produced. Electricity does not come from the rotor, nor does the rotor give anything to the water; but the rotor, by moving, releases the energy. The electricity is hidden in the water, but the wheel is needed to set the flow in motion.
Some scientists say food merely stirs the sky within you. It sets space in motion. The food itself becomes waste and passes, but your inner sky is vibrated; life arises from that.
This theory has a strong likelihood of truth, because it matches the experience of sages. A day may come when humans can live on earth without food. And if not, they may not be able to anyway, because people increase and food decreases.
The sky is your nourishment. Space is shunya, yet within you it becomes expressed, becomes matter, becomes manifest. Creation and dissolution happen not only at the end of time; with your birth creation begins, with your death your dissolution. At the very least, you have circled between shunya and purna many times.
Where does earth begin? Where does matter begin? Where does sky end? No—the two are intermingled. It is like an iceberg floating in water—separate to the eye because water is water and ice is ice, rising above the surface. But is ice ever really separate from water? Nowhere. At every moment ice is melting into river; and at every moment river may be freezing into ice. They are two poles of one existence. One has become solid, the other liquid.
So it is with earth and sky. Earth has solidified; sky is fluid. Earth is manifest; sky unmanifest. Earths melt as they grow old and worn; they must return to shunya. As you must return in death to be fresh again, to be born anew, so too earths must return to the sky. Then new earths are born.
So when I say I want to give you roots in this earth and wings in that sky, do not think I am separating them. Only for your sake I use the language of duality, because that is the language you understand. The language of nonduality sounds senseless to you, like madness, like riddles; it doesn’t get through.
I am trying to make you understand. If I say something that you cannot possibly grasp, the door of your mind closes. That is why I speak your language, and try to pour into it something nearly impossible to pour. All sages attempt the impossible: to say what cannot be said; to speak to those not ready to hear. You live in duality; you understand two. You do not know the One. Yet only the One is real life.
So when I say “this” earth and “that” sky, I am not positing two; I am using two words because of you. For me that sky is this earth, and this earth is that sky.
But remember: there is nonduality in ignorance, and nonduality in knowledge as well. I do not want for you the nonduality of animals. They see one because they are blind. In darkness everything becomes one—because nothing is seen. To see, eyes are needed; and to see the One, very deep eyes are needed, eyes that can look beyond all distinctions and boundaries.
There are two kinds of unity. One is the unity of darkness. The house loses electricity; darkness falls—unity “is achieved.” Now table is not separate from chair; man is not separate from woman. Nothing is separate; all is lumped together. In darkness all is one because nothing is seen. The eye creates distinctions; when there is seeing, boundaries are seen.
The other is the unity of the seer, whose eyes are so deep—X-ray eyes—that you become transparent to him. He does not merely see you; he sees through you. Then boundaries disappear again, and the Boundless is revealed.
I speak of that nonduality which is available through the deepest seeing—not the nonduality of a blind eye. Hence many people, hearing my words, get confused. Some think perhaps I am an atheist, perhaps I do not accept God. The believer comes and is troubled, because he thinks I should oppose this world to stand for the other; he thinks in the language of two. He concludes that I am an atheist. The atheist comes and says, “Why even mention that other world? This world is enough.” Both leave me dissatisfied; both leave annoyed. The atheist suspects I am a hidden theist; the theist suspects I am a hidden atheist. I am neither. Because if you say yes, you have divided existence; if you say no, you have divided existence. Where yes and no become synonymous, there religion is born. Where yes and no merge, there religion is born.
You can understand my difficulty. I am not against this world, because I know that within it the other is concealed. I am not against your body, because I know that within it the bodiless abides. I am not against your enjoyment, because if you enter even into that deeply, with awareness, you will find all of Patanjali’s yoga written there. I do not speak against sex, because I know that if you can surrender yourself in it totally and remain aware—without becoming unconscious—you will taste the first flavor of samadhi.
The first step of samadhi will be placed exactly where you are. If the step is laid where you are not, how will you climb? What meaning will it have? The first rung must be placed in your world, your house; only then will the other end rise into the sky. But the first end should be near you. If the first end is far, how will the journey begin?
By “this earth” I mean: where you are. By “that sky” I mean: where you ought to be. By “this earth”: what you appear to be today. By “that sky”: what will be revealed when you reach your supreme dignity. By “this earth”: your seed-like personality. By “that sky”: the flowering God you become as a great tree.
Nietzsche has said that man is a ladder stretched between two infinities. Well said: man is a bridge spanning two infinities. The effort is to build that bridge. You stand on one shore—this shore. And your religious teachers tell you religion is on the other shore. What are you to do? You are not on the other shore; how will you live religion?
So people postpone religion until death approaches. “We’ll see in old age,” they say. “When that shore comes nearer, we’ll think about it; right now it is far.” People think religion cannot be attained without dying. But what cannot be attained in life, how will you attain it in death? What you cannot get today, how will you get tomorrow? The seeds of tomorrow are being sown today; the harvest you will reap tomorrow must be prepared today. If you sit idle today, no harvest will come tomorrow. You will remain on this shore.
There are so-called religious teachers who say religion is on that shore. They appear religious, but they become the progenitors of irreligion—because you are not on that shore; it is so far you cannot even see it. What are you to do?
And the so-called atheists, materialists, say: this shore alone is. What is visible is true. When the priest says that shore is religion, there is God—and the atheist says: this shore is visible, you are here, enjoy it; do not leave what is in hand for hopes and dreams. Who knows if the other will ever be? No one has returned to report that that shore exists. Do not commit the blunder of leaving this shore and then failing to reach that—then you lose on both sides!
Thus your priests and your atheists seem in collusion. It’s a conspiracy. Your priest tells you that shore is very far, invisible; reaching it is not easy—only a rare one ever reaches, and that too not while alive.
In the life of Mohammed there is mention that he, while alive, mounted a horse and entered heaven. This is not a historical event. What will you do with your horses in heaven? And how will you get there on horseback? But the symbol is sweet and meaningful: it says the other shore is connected with this. The horses of this shore reach that shore; the boat that departs from this bank arrives at the other. And that Mohammed enters bodily means this very earth enters heaven; they are not cut, they are joined. This earth and that sky are one. That is the meaning of Mohammed riding into heaven.
This is what I am telling you. Join your earth to that sky. Your roots must be in this earth, where you are. A contradiction seems to appear—but it is not. The deeper your roots descend into this earth, the higher your branches will rise into that sky.
The more deeply you go within, the more widely you will expand without. If with your roots you touch the nethermost, with your flowers you will touch the sky—and both are joined. Ask the tree, “Are your flowers and your roots two?” The tree will say, “My flowers are because of my roots. My roots are the other half of my flowers. However ugly, twisted, and gnarled they appear, all the beauty of my flowers has come from them; they have drawn the sap.”
You look at the flowers and go your way happy. You never thanked the roots. Your foolishness knows no end. These flowers would never be. These seven-colored blossoms bloom in the sky because the roots are ceaselessly working in the dark below. The beauty you see depends on their roughness, their crookedness. Roots cannot be beautiful; they must wind and twist, break stones, make their way, grip the ground. Their crookedness helps them hold the earth. They must remain hidden in darkness, because if they come out, the tree will die. They must stay underground; they cannot appear before you.
If you ask the flowers, they are continuously thanking the roots. If you ask the roots, they continuously thank the flowers. The roots live for the flowers to bloom. Their good fortune opens; their life’s labor flowers; the dignity of their life is revealed; they are fulfilled. The day the flowers bloom, the roots’ joy knows no bounds—because all their toil has found meaning. Perhaps they labored fifty years before the flower came. In darkness, among stones, in the soil, they searched for water—and then flowers came. In every kind of struggle they persisted—and then flowers came. So the flower is their ultimate fulfillment, their siddhi. And the flowers cannot live without the roots. They are interlinked.
That sky and this earth are linked.
So I say: spread your roots here. And do not be afraid. If you fear to spread your roots, your branches will shrink. If you become too frightened and do not spread roots at all—“It is dark, it is earth, it is matter, it is pleasure, it is the world”—if fear grips you, you will contract. Your roots shrink, your sky becomes small. Then you cannot spread.
Go look at your so-called ascetics; there you will find such people whose roots have shriveled and whose sky has also become small. They live in perpetual fear that their roots might spread, because “this is the world.” In this anxiety they are so preoccupied that they never get the chance to expand.
Psychologists say only those people are creative in this world—the great scientists, great poets, great painters, great thinkers—those who are deeply rooted in this world, who dare, who explore, who create the new.
I would add—psychologists do not, for it lies beyond their scope—that the great Buddhas, great Mahaviras, great Krishnas, great Christs—creators of consciousness—whose painting is not on an outer canvas, whose song is not sung in words, who did not sculpt a statue but sculpted themselves; who are sculptors of their own being; who created themselves, became a song, transformed their whole consciousness into a beautiful image—these also are born only when roots run deep in the earth.
There is no way for a tree to be on this earth that is afraid of its roots. Your so-called sadhus and sannyasins fear roots. Because of that fear, they cannot be creative. Fear drains their energy. Fighting fear, they die without arriving anywhere.
I want to make you fearless. This earth is not opposed to the divine; otherwise it could not have arisen. This life has flowed from That; otherwise, from where? And it flows back into That; otherwise, where would it go? So do not create a conflict; expand. Plant your roots in the world, and spread your wings in the sky. Break the opposition between the two. Become a bridge between them. Be a ladder that is grounded firmly on the earth, and that is free in the open sky where there is nowhere to rest. Remember: where will you lean a ladder in the sky? If you must lean it, it must be on earth. The other side is the endless sky; there is no place to lean. There you simply go on rising. Slowly the ladder disappears—and you too disappear.
The root is very strong, earthly. The leaves are less strong; a slight excess of sun, and they wilt; a little too much water, and they begin to rot. They are not so resilient. The flower is subtler still, more delicate. What a leaf can endure, the flower cannot. What water a leaf can bear, the flower cannot. It is a very delicate joining.
And after the flower there is fragrance, which you cannot catch—where is it? It comes and it goes. Even its form is unknown—formless. That is why in temples we burn incense and light lamps. The incense is for fragrance—to suggest that the divine is like fragrance: the last, most subtle essence of this earth; the final refinement; the point where matter dissolves and only perfume remains. It comes—and it goes; you cannot grasp it, you cannot even recognize it fully. Soon it is lost in the vast sky. Nothing really vanishes; that fragrance must remain somewhere—becoming formless. As a symbol of the formless we light incense in temples; Muslims burn loban—the formless. Even the flower has form; fragrance is its quintessence.
That is why Islam gives great importance to ittar—perfume. On festival days a Muslim applies perfume before going out. Perhaps he does not know why he does so! It is essence, distillation. Roots are very gross; perfume is pure essence, the ultimate extract.
From roots to perfume—this is your journey. But remember: perfume will be lost if there are no roots. And roots alone—what is their meaning? The atheist insists on roots only; the so-called theist insists only on perfume.
I insist on both, because to me they are not two. They are one continuum. Without roots there is no perfume; without perfume, roots are meaningless. They have no point, no significance. Spread your roots, so that someday you may become perfume.
And the perfumes bought in the marketplace will not do. The incense lit in temples is not enough. You must become incense; you must become fragrance. The day your life’s fragrance spreads, the far end of that ladder begins to approach; you will be lost in it, you will be absorbed.
Have you watched incense burning? Smoke rises—visible for a moment—then vanishes. Just so, from matter toward the divine, you will slowly vanish.
Do not set up a conflict. Whoever sets up duality misses. Whoever lives without conflict arrives.
The Hindus understood this; hence they divided life’s pattern into four purusharthas: dharma, artha, kama, moksha. We should understand this a little. Kama is the most gross; moksha the most subtle. Kama is the root; moksha is the perfume. Kama is understandable and visible; Rama is not. Sex is easily grasped; samadhi is not. But sex is the root; samadhi is the flower.
The Hindu says: practice kama too, because it is the first step toward the divine. The Hindu says: enter into kama as his grace; whatever he has given is meaningful—use it. Do not see it as an obstacle on the path; make it a step. A stone lies in the road; you can turn back, “There’s a stone—how to go further?” The wise will step onto the stone and discover a new path begins, higher, with a changed ground.
Some turn back at sex. They collide and retreat; the road is blocked. Those who explore beyond kama one day reach moksha. Kama is the root—first: this world, this earth. Hence kama is very earthly, purely bodily.
Then there are two more—artha and dharma. To preserve the roots, roots alone cannot survive. They need water, manure, the warmth of the sun, protection. Artha: economics. The economics of life. Food, clothing, shelter—only then can kama live; otherwise its roots will dry up. Without wealth, kama cannot live. That is why wealth has such a fascination.
People shout, “Why are you mad after money?” No one is mad for money itself. But without money, the roots of kama wither. Sometimes the obsession takes over—you forget the goal and get lost in the means. You gather wealth so that one day you can enjoy kama without worry. But then you become obsessed with accumulation and forget why. One day you amass wealth, and discover life is over in the collecting.
Food, clothes, adornment, beauty, health—all protect the roots. You could take a cheap route to be free of kama: stop eating. That is why many take to fasting. Their fasting is futile; they are cutting the roots. The sole purpose of fasting would be: no food, no water for the roots, they will dry up. But when the roots are dry, how will the flowers of moksha bloom? The roots can be dried; stop eating and sex desire disappears within three weeks. In three weeks the roots dry; no juice remains.
In the West, many experiments were conducted. Psychologists took a group of students—young, healthy, interested in girls, movies, nude photos—and kept them hungry. After one week the interest faded. No matter how erotic the music on the radio, they turned it off—it was only an irritant. No matter how glossy the nude magazines—Playboy lay there—they did not even flip them open. By twenty-one days all interest was gone. A nude woman could pass by and they would not lift their eyes. Put the most beautiful woman—Miss Universe—in front of them, and they would sit dully with eyes closed.
What happened? Did they become rishis in twenty-one days simply by hunger? Many of your rishis are of this state. Then the researchers began feeding them again. As food entered the body, interest in sex returned. After two days of food, the radio had charm, Playboy was flipped open, banter with girls resumed, jokes, stories. After seven days of food they were healthy again; water returned to the roots.
You could keep these boys as “sages.” Feed them just enough to survive, never enough for sprouts to arise; keep their energy too low to overflow—and they will appear celibate. But this brahmacharya is false—born of hunger. It is not an attainment; it is a lack.
Hindus say: practice artha too; otherwise roots will dry, and flowers will never come. And flowers must come.
So artha is the support for kama.
Just as artha supports kama, dharma supports moksha. Artha maintains the tree, but the tree’s fulfillment is in flowering. So artha is not enough; the support of dharma is needed. Therefore maintain artha—run your shop—but do not forget the temple. Use the shop in such a way that it turns toward the temple. Do not use wealth only for enjoyment; let it become dana, generosity, so that flowers are supported too. If wealth is only for indulgence, then water flows only to the roots; it must flow toward the flowers as well.
Water must travel in two directions—downward and upward. The upward flow is difficult because it goes against gravitation. So supplying water to the roots is easy. You cannot imagine the miracle trees perform: they make rivers flow upward. Rivers cannot do this; they flow down. Trees have discovered a deep alchemy by which water moves upward. Because unless the life-energy rises upward, how will flowers bloom? Flowers bloom above.
What is the tree’s trick? How does it lift water up? Sit near a tree at dusk when the sun has set; you will see vapor rising from every leaf. All day the tree has absorbed heat; it has drunk the warmth. Through that warmth each leaf turns water into vapor and releases it into the sky—this is its gift. It did not only take water; it gives. Those clouds you see in the sky—this is the donation of trees. As the leaf gives up its water as vapor, the leaf becomes dry. The moment it dries, the water in the branch below flows toward the dryness. Dip any dry thing into water and instantly it fills.
This leaf has let go; it has not clutched. If it were miserly, it would die. The miser stops at wealth. He has enough to maintain roots, but there is no upward movement. Therefore wealth must become dana. Your actions must turn into seva, service. Do not cling—let go—so that your hands are empty. As soon as the leaf empties, the water below rushes to fill it. By this art water climbs upward. When the branch’s water goes into the leaf, the branch dries; then the branch draws from the root. Where there is emptiness, water goes to fill it.
Existence does not tolerate emptiness. Empty yourself, and the divine will fill you. If you clutch at yourself, the divine’s flow will cease. Convince a tree to be a miser and it will die. Try this: paint its leaves so that no water can evaporate. In two or three days the tree will die.
You must give. The secret of receiving lies in giving.
Hence dharma. From below, dharma means: dana, tyaga, the capacity to let go, service. This is the method, the means. Soon flowers will come, because water flows upward. And when the upward flow becomes steady, fruits begin to form. Flowers, then fruits. The tree attains dignity, fulfillment; its end is achieved, its siddhi.
Hindus say: kama is the root; artha is the arrangement; dharma is the means to the final end; and moksha is the flower. Hence the Hindus say: do not run away midway. They spoke of four purusharthas in life. Fulfill all four. Your manhood—the meaning of being human—lies in these. Do not flee in the middle, for then you remain a half-grown tree. Therefore the Hindus did not permit sannyas in the middle. They said: the first twenty-five years—brahmacharya.
This is most interesting. No one thinks on it. The so-called Hindu pundits never ponder what it means. Twenty-five years of celibacy—not for celibacy’s sake, but for the accumulation of energy, so that you can be fully satisfied in kama. Only he who has remained celibate in the first stage can attain the depth of sex. He who has squandered his raw energy cannot plumb the depths of kama.
The Hindus are unique. Their understanding is naturally deep; on this soil the oldest civilization lived. They experimented a lot. On the basis of experience they discovered some sutras.
Twenty-five years—if we take a human life as a hundred, then the first quarter is twenty-five. The first purushartha is kama; in contrast, the first ashrama is brahmacharya. Hence four purusharthas, four ashramas, and four varnas. Hindu arithmetic is clear.
First, kama—the world of roots. There, establish brahmacharya. Let no lust arise in the mind, so that you become a brimful energy. Be a full reservoir. Then when you flow, there will be relish in the flow. Otherwise you will drip like a faucet in summer: drop… drop. From that no river will be born to reach the ocean.
In today’s world this is nearly the case. He who has not known brahmacharya does not taste sex either; he remains discontented, dripping drop by drop. For experience, a flood is needed—excess is needed. So much life-energy that you can take a leap and enter another realm.
For twenty-five years, against kama, the Hindu says brahmacharya. For twenty-five, against artha, the Hindu says grihastha—householder. Then you concern yourself with money, run your shop, wrestle in politics—struggle, don’t be afraid. Earn—do not be afraid. The third quarter—vanaprastha—paired with dharma. Then you begin practicing dharma. You have known wealth, known kama—now the journey of the higher tree begins. Life’s circle turns at fifty. If we assume a hundred years, then fifty is the midpoint. Two purusharthas complete, two remain. A new journey begins. Become vanaprasthi; take the flavor of renunciation.
And the final twenty-five years are for moksha—sannyas.
Artha with grihastha. Kama with brahmacharya. Dharma with vanaprastha. Moksha with sannyas. The final flower is sannyas.
And with these four they gave the arrangement of four varnas: whoever stops at the first is a shudra. Understand my interpretation: the one who stops at kama is a shudra. Hence Hindus say all are born shudras, because all are born out of kama. Whoever stops at the second—artha—is a vaishya, a trader: the shop is everything. Whoever stops at the third is a kshatriya. Wealth is not the kshatriya’s taste; it is fame, honor! And the vanaprasthi receives more honor than anyone—the warrior fought in life and also rose beyond fighting, because he attained renown. But the craving for fame remains; the ego remains. The vanaprasthi retains ego. The kshatriya is an image of ego; he can go up to vanaprastha, because in sannyas he must drop the ego.
So he who stops at vanaprastha is a kshatriya. And he who attains moksha is a brahmin.
Thus four purusharthas, four ashramas, four varnas. This is the Hindu mathematics—and it is precious. Understand it, and no other mathematics is needed.
Osho's Commentary
dharma, artha, kama, and moksha.
And you say, “I want to give you roots in life, and wings to fly in life’s vast sky as well.”
Please tell what the harmony is between these two, and what the difference is.
Also kindly tell me: are prajna and tarka; amrit and prakash; ananda and prem; and moksha and nirvana simply different names for the same goal, or do they differ?
For those who know, there is no difference between this world and that world. For those who do not know, there is also no difference between that world and this world—but for entirely different reasons. To the ignorant, this visible world appears to be everything; so the question of another world simply does not arise. These pleasures, these desires, these cravings, these ambitions—this alone is life.
Epicurus, Brihaspati, and those of the Charvaka line say: even if you must borrow, drink ghee to your heart’s content. Even if you must lie to enjoy, then lie—but enjoy, because life once gone does not return. Whether you indulge on credit or by your own labor—what difference does it make? For after death, neither creditor nor debtor remains; all is wiped out. There is no morality and no immorality. Thinkers like Brihaspati and Epicurus—ignorant, but eloquent—declare that this world is all; they support it. They are world-affirmers.
This creates a great tangle, a great confusion, because the supremely enlightened say that that world and this world are one and the same. The supremely wise also see no division; for the moment that world is seen, this world disappears.
In ignorance one remains: this world.
In knowledge one remains: that world.
But for you there are two, because you are neither truly ignorant nor truly wise. And that is a most difficult condition. You are in the middle. Your mind is like Trishanku—suspended. You are in fact ignorant, but consider yourself wise. Hence, two worlds. And from these two worlds all your misery is born. Where to go? This world pulls; that world pulls in the opposite direction. Enter here, and you feel guilty for neglecting the other. Go to that side, and this world seems to be slipping away. Your condition is like the washerman’s donkey—neither of the house nor of the ghat. The ghat pulls, the house pulls; they seem opposed.
If you were truly ignorant, as animals and birds are, then that world would not exist for you. Animals have no anxiety. Anxiety is a human invention. Trees have no anxiety either, because anxiety arises only when a contrary goal takes root in the mind—when you begin to be pulled in two directions. If you move only in one direction, no tension arises. Tension means you have two opposing destinations.
So the more tension you feel, the more know that you are traveling in two directions at once. You are standing with a foot in two boats moving apart—one toward this shore, one toward that. Your suffering is deep. And you cannot fully step into either boat, because you are not ignorant like the animals, nor wise like the Buddhas.
Ignorance is nondual, and knowledge is nondual too.
Hence, all materialists say: only matter exists, not God. The world is true, all else false. The body is everything, the soul nothing. They are nondualists—Epicurus, Diderot, Marx, Engels, Lenin, Stalin, Mao—all nondualists; they admit only one.
And the supremely wise say: only Brahman is; maya has no existence. That alone is true; this is a dream. You are the soul; the body is an appearance. Mahavira, Buddha, Shankara, Ramana—they too are nondualists.
You are a dualist; that is your tension. Your trouble is that the animal pulls you down and the Buddha pulls you up. Your eyes are fixed on the Buddha, your feet are tied to the beasts. You are hanging midway on the ladder. Your feet want to go downward; your eyes want to go upward. Your life will be one of great anguish.
In Greece, it happened: a famous astrologer was walking at night, studying the stars, eyes on the sky—he fell into a well. His eyes were fixed above; he did not see the well. He screamed in panic. The road was deserted. In the distance, in a hut, an old woman—the mother of a farmer—heard him and came. She peered in. The astrologer said, “Mother, pull me out. I am a great astrologer; perhaps you’ve heard my name. Who in Athens does not know me? My fame reaches far and wide.” He announced his name and said, “Great emperors bring their horoscopes to me. My fee is thousands. If you pull me out, I’ll read your horoscope for free and foretell your future.”
The old woman said, “He who cannot see the well in front of him—how will he understand the distant stars? Keep your horoscope and your knowledge to yourself. And if you cannot even see you are about to fall into a well, how will you see the far future—someone else’s, at that! I’ll pull you out, but I want nothing of your astrology!”
We all fall into wells because our feet are going one way and our eyes are gazing another. We bump into things at every step. Our whole life looks like nothing but a struggle. We cannot take a step without a collision; we cannot rise without a fall; we cannot lift a foot without wandering off.
And wherever we go, there is pain. If we go into the world, guilt follows, “I am missing the mark. By now I could have found God; I should have gone to the temple, prayed, meditated. What is there in this world?” The words of the wise ring in your ear precisely when you go into the world.
When you descend into sex, samadhi grips you—from behind. You think, “Where am I wasting my life! I am squandering energy. This is a rare opportunity; I could meet Rama—God—through it, but I am spending it on kama.” In the moment of sex, Rama comes to mind. Because of that, even sex does not remain pleasant. The sexuality of animals is blissful and innocent. Human sexuality carries the weight of anxiety; in another gaze, it is smoke upon smoke.
And when you go to chant the name of Rama in the temple, when you sit cross-legged with eyes closed, when you sit in siddhasana—you have barely sat when kama catches hold of you. You repeat “Ram, Ram, Ram” at the surface; deep within, it is kama that repeats. While remembering Rama, some beautiful woman appears in the mind, some handsome man; dreams arise. When you sit in your shop, charity comes to mind. When you go to give charity, your shop comes to mind. You are never wholly anywhere, because you are divided in two.
People come to me and say, “Whenever we sit to meditate, other things arise. How to stop them?” I ask, “When you are doing other things, does meditation arise?” They say, “It does.” I ask, “Shall we stop that?” They protest, “What are you saying! That is a good sign.”
When you are eating and meditation arises—is that a good sign? And when you are meditating and food arises—is that a bad sign? What kind of arithmetic is this? Whoever follows such arithmetic will never reach the state where, while meditating, food does not arise. When you are eating, meditation should not arise either; only then will the day come when, in meditation, food will not trouble you. When you are in sex, the pull of samadhi should fall to zero; only then will the moment come when, in samadhi, sex will not pull you. Otherwise you will remain forever divided.
A dualist can never be whole. Therefore, those who longed to be whole spoke of nonduality. As long as there are two, you will try to get both. Only when one remains will your thirst for the second end, and the journey will become easy. Then anxiety and burden will depart from your life.
When I say I want to give you roots in this earth and wings in that sky, there is a reason. Not because earth and sky are separate. Tell me, where does earth end and where does sky begin? Dig a pit in the earth—however deep you dig, you will find the sky right there. Go down a deep well, remove the soil—as much as you remove, there is the sky. Where does the sky begin?
The earth breathes too. The earth is porous; in every limb of it the sky is woven. Ask a scientist; he says if we could remove all the sky from the earth, the earth would shrink to the size of an orange—just an orange. So much sky, so little matter. Matter is only this much; the rest is empty space.
And if the sky were removed from within you, do you know what would happen? When the earth shrinks to an orange after the sky is removed—and even that is not exact, for the sky cannot truly be removed; it would still remain—the limitation is only our instruments. With better instruments, the earth would shrink further; with even better ones… if we had perfect means, the earth would vanish and only the sky remain.
When you were a tiny particle in your mother’s womb—what was the difference between then and now? A little more sky has entered you. Then you were condensed.
Scientists say that before this century ends we will master the art of emptying things of space. They say that in the twenty-first century it could happen that a man gets off a train and shouts, “I need ten or twelve porters!” Fellow passengers nearby will say, “But we don’t see your luggage. You have only a cigarette tin with a matchbox on top. What do you need twelve porters for?”
He says, “Wait a moment.” Twelve porters come, and they cannot lift the cigarette tin, because a car is “condensed” inside it—its space has been removed. Such a big car would be foolish to bring from America to India; it takes too much room. Over there they will condense the car, like condensed milk; then here in a factory they will “inflate” it again, put the space back, and it will be large again. Big airplanes, locomotive engines—could all fit into a matchbox.
When all the space of the earth is drawn out and it shrinks to an orange, when the space in you is drawn out—what remains? You could not be seen with the naked eye. The tiny particle you were in your mother’s womb—one needed instruments, a microscope, to see it. With the naked eye you were invisible.
Where does earth begin and sky end? Every day new “earths” are being born—emerging from pure space; and every day earths dissolve, merging back into pure space.
Hindus say that when dissolution—pralaya—comes, all becomes sky. Pralaya means: only space remains; emptiness remains; all matter is gone. And when creation begins again, matter appears once more. The world comes from shunya and returns to shunya.
The further science advances, the more Hindu intuitions seem true; other notions appear childish. Because the Hindus say the world came from the nothing, and will go back into the nothing. Which means: the “nothing” is the hidden form of the everything. So when I say shunya, do not take it as mere “nothing.”
Shunya means: the concealed Whole; the unmanifest Fullness. Purna means: shunya made manifest.
When I had not yet begun speaking, when I just sat on this chair for a moment, there was shunya. Then I spoke. From where did these words come? Sound and word arise from shunya; they spread and reach you. Word is matter, which is why it can be recorded. It has an impact; it can be heard because it strikes your ear. Shunya cannot be heard because shunya is not material. What were you before birth? Where will you be after death? Before birth you were unmanifest. In a tiny seed the whole tree is hidden.
A botanist once conducted an experiment. Everyone assumes that as a tree grows, the substance in it comes from the soil, manure, water, sunlight. Botanists have made a strange discovery: this is not the whole truth. This botanist worked for years with a plant. When he planted the seed in a pot, he weighed the pot; he carefully weighed every bit of soil and fertilizer he added. When the tree grew, he weighed the pot again and was amazed: the weight he had added could not account for the tree’s mass; the tree weighed many times more.
So he removed the plant entirely, making sure not a particle of soil stuck to it, and weighed the pot alone. He was stunned. The pot weighed exactly what it should—the original pot plus the added soil and fertilizer. Not a grain had vanished. Yet the tree was three or four times heavier than the pot. From where did the tree come? The matter in the tree came from the sky.
Only the Hindus accepted akasha—space—as one of the five elements: your body has earth, water, fire, air, and a fifth beyond the four—space.
Charvakas accept four. They say man is made of four; space neither can be seen, weighed, nor measured; it is mere talk, a theory like “God.” Man is made of fire, water, earth, air—not space. Space is not visible.
But botanists say these vast trees come from space. You too, as you grow—the tiny particle in your mother’s womb develops; you are born and grow. You weighed nothing at first; you were like a seed. Now you may weigh a hundred kilos. Did this weight come from your food? It is difficult to say so simply; it came from space.
As yet, the research in this area is not as rigorous for humans as for plants; but one American scientist says it must be so for humans too. He says man cannot be different from the plant; he too comes from shunya. Therefore, he says, someday we will find a way for humans to live without food. He says food is not necessary for life; food is only an old habit. So some people have lived without food. In the story of Mahavira it seems meaningful that in twelve years he ate only three hundred sixty-five days—eleven years he remained without food.
In Europe, in Bavaria, there was Therese Neumann in this very century; she lived for forty years without food. She was not a thin, frail woman; she remained as robust as ever. And another miracle occurred with her, which Christians call stigmata. Stigmata is a Christian phenomenon, precious to them: when a devotee becomes so one with Jesus that all separation dissolves, then on Fridays—the day Jesus was crucified—wounds appear on the devotee’s hands where the nails were driven, on the heart, on the feet… as if actual nails had pierced, and blood flows continuously.
This happened with Therese Neumann for forty years. She took no food; and every Friday blood flowed from hands, feet, and heart; wounds appeared, and within twenty-four hours they healed; the bleeding stopped. Her weight never changed.
For Western medical science, Neumann became a marvel. They studied her intensely. Her intestinal tract had shrunk to thorns, because no food had passed for years. Her stomach had contracted completely—it had not been used for forty years. Yet her body persisted; her weight remained stable. And despite the weekly blood loss, her weight did not diminish. Thousands of her blood-stained garments have been collected, because every Friday…
What was happening?
Hindus say: your fundamental substratum is space. Scientists researching ask: then why do we need food at all? If a person can live without food, then if one can, anyone can—there are no exceptions here. A strange idea has come to some of them: food merely sets in motion the life-principle hidden within you.
Just as electricity is generated from water via a dynamo: water falls on the turbine, the rotor spins, and electricity is produced. Electricity does not come from the rotor, nor does the rotor give anything to the water; but the rotor, by moving, releases the energy. The electricity is hidden in the water, but the wheel is needed to set the flow in motion.
Some scientists say food merely stirs the sky within you. It sets space in motion. The food itself becomes waste and passes, but your inner sky is vibrated; life arises from that.
This theory has a strong likelihood of truth, because it matches the experience of sages. A day may come when humans can live on earth without food. And if not, they may not be able to anyway, because people increase and food decreases.
The sky is your nourishment. Space is shunya, yet within you it becomes expressed, becomes matter, becomes manifest. Creation and dissolution happen not only at the end of time; with your birth creation begins, with your death your dissolution. At the very least, you have circled between shunya and purna many times.
Where does earth begin? Where does matter begin? Where does sky end? No—the two are intermingled. It is like an iceberg floating in water—separate to the eye because water is water and ice is ice, rising above the surface. But is ice ever really separate from water? Nowhere. At every moment ice is melting into river; and at every moment river may be freezing into ice. They are two poles of one existence. One has become solid, the other liquid.
So it is with earth and sky. Earth has solidified; sky is fluid. Earth is manifest; sky unmanifest. Earths melt as they grow old and worn; they must return to shunya. As you must return in death to be fresh again, to be born anew, so too earths must return to the sky. Then new earths are born.
So when I say I want to give you roots in this earth and wings in that sky, do not think I am separating them. Only for your sake I use the language of duality, because that is the language you understand. The language of nonduality sounds senseless to you, like madness, like riddles; it doesn’t get through.
I am trying to make you understand. If I say something that you cannot possibly grasp, the door of your mind closes. That is why I speak your language, and try to pour into it something nearly impossible to pour. All sages attempt the impossible: to say what cannot be said; to speak to those not ready to hear. You live in duality; you understand two. You do not know the One. Yet only the One is real life.
So when I say “this” earth and “that” sky, I am not positing two; I am using two words because of you. For me that sky is this earth, and this earth is that sky.
But remember: there is nonduality in ignorance, and nonduality in knowledge as well. I do not want for you the nonduality of animals. They see one because they are blind. In darkness everything becomes one—because nothing is seen. To see, eyes are needed; and to see the One, very deep eyes are needed, eyes that can look beyond all distinctions and boundaries.
There are two kinds of unity. One is the unity of darkness. The house loses electricity; darkness falls—unity “is achieved.” Now table is not separate from chair; man is not separate from woman. Nothing is separate; all is lumped together. In darkness all is one because nothing is seen. The eye creates distinctions; when there is seeing, boundaries are seen.
The other is the unity of the seer, whose eyes are so deep—X-ray eyes—that you become transparent to him. He does not merely see you; he sees through you. Then boundaries disappear again, and the Boundless is revealed.
I speak of that nonduality which is available through the deepest seeing—not the nonduality of a blind eye. Hence many people, hearing my words, get confused. Some think perhaps I am an atheist, perhaps I do not accept God. The believer comes and is troubled, because he thinks I should oppose this world to stand for the other; he thinks in the language of two. He concludes that I am an atheist. The atheist comes and says, “Why even mention that other world? This world is enough.” Both leave me dissatisfied; both leave annoyed. The atheist suspects I am a hidden theist; the theist suspects I am a hidden atheist. I am neither. Because if you say yes, you have divided existence; if you say no, you have divided existence. Where yes and no become synonymous, there religion is born. Where yes and no merge, there religion is born.
You can understand my difficulty. I am not against this world, because I know that within it the other is concealed. I am not against your body, because I know that within it the bodiless abides. I am not against your enjoyment, because if you enter even into that deeply, with awareness, you will find all of Patanjali’s yoga written there. I do not speak against sex, because I know that if you can surrender yourself in it totally and remain aware—without becoming unconscious—you will taste the first flavor of samadhi.
The first step of samadhi will be placed exactly where you are. If the step is laid where you are not, how will you climb? What meaning will it have? The first rung must be placed in your world, your house; only then will the other end rise into the sky. But the first end should be near you. If the first end is far, how will the journey begin?
By “this earth” I mean: where you are. By “that sky” I mean: where you ought to be. By “this earth”: what you appear to be today. By “that sky”: what will be revealed when you reach your supreme dignity. By “this earth”: your seed-like personality. By “that sky”: the flowering God you become as a great tree.
Nietzsche has said that man is a ladder stretched between two infinities. Well said: man is a bridge spanning two infinities. The effort is to build that bridge. You stand on one shore—this shore. And your religious teachers tell you religion is on the other shore. What are you to do? You are not on the other shore; how will you live religion?
So people postpone religion until death approaches. “We’ll see in old age,” they say. “When that shore comes nearer, we’ll think about it; right now it is far.” People think religion cannot be attained without dying. But what cannot be attained in life, how will you attain it in death? What you cannot get today, how will you get tomorrow? The seeds of tomorrow are being sown today; the harvest you will reap tomorrow must be prepared today. If you sit idle today, no harvest will come tomorrow. You will remain on this shore.
There are so-called religious teachers who say religion is on that shore. They appear religious, but they become the progenitors of irreligion—because you are not on that shore; it is so far you cannot even see it. What are you to do?
And the so-called atheists, materialists, say: this shore alone is. What is visible is true. When the priest says that shore is religion, there is God—and the atheist says: this shore is visible, you are here, enjoy it; do not leave what is in hand for hopes and dreams. Who knows if the other will ever be? No one has returned to report that that shore exists. Do not commit the blunder of leaving this shore and then failing to reach that—then you lose on both sides!
Thus your priests and your atheists seem in collusion. It’s a conspiracy. Your priest tells you that shore is very far, invisible; reaching it is not easy—only a rare one ever reaches, and that too not while alive.
In the life of Mohammed there is mention that he, while alive, mounted a horse and entered heaven. This is not a historical event. What will you do with your horses in heaven? And how will you get there on horseback? But the symbol is sweet and meaningful: it says the other shore is connected with this. The horses of this shore reach that shore; the boat that departs from this bank arrives at the other. And that Mohammed enters bodily means this very earth enters heaven; they are not cut, they are joined. This earth and that sky are one. That is the meaning of Mohammed riding into heaven.
This is what I am telling you. Join your earth to that sky. Your roots must be in this earth, where you are. A contradiction seems to appear—but it is not. The deeper your roots descend into this earth, the higher your branches will rise into that sky.
The more deeply you go within, the more widely you will expand without. If with your roots you touch the nethermost, with your flowers you will touch the sky—and both are joined. Ask the tree, “Are your flowers and your roots two?” The tree will say, “My flowers are because of my roots. My roots are the other half of my flowers. However ugly, twisted, and gnarled they appear, all the beauty of my flowers has come from them; they have drawn the sap.”
You look at the flowers and go your way happy. You never thanked the roots. Your foolishness knows no end. These flowers would never be. These seven-colored blossoms bloom in the sky because the roots are ceaselessly working in the dark below. The beauty you see depends on their roughness, their crookedness. Roots cannot be beautiful; they must wind and twist, break stones, make their way, grip the ground. Their crookedness helps them hold the earth. They must remain hidden in darkness, because if they come out, the tree will die. They must stay underground; they cannot appear before you.
If you ask the flowers, they are continuously thanking the roots. If you ask the roots, they continuously thank the flowers. The roots live for the flowers to bloom. Their good fortune opens; their life’s labor flowers; the dignity of their life is revealed; they are fulfilled. The day the flowers bloom, the roots’ joy knows no bounds—because all their toil has found meaning. Perhaps they labored fifty years before the flower came. In darkness, among stones, in the soil, they searched for water—and then flowers came. In every kind of struggle they persisted—and then flowers came. So the flower is their ultimate fulfillment, their siddhi. And the flowers cannot live without the roots. They are interlinked.
That sky and this earth are linked.
So I say: spread your roots here. And do not be afraid. If you fear to spread your roots, your branches will shrink. If you become too frightened and do not spread roots at all—“It is dark, it is earth, it is matter, it is pleasure, it is the world”—if fear grips you, you will contract. Your roots shrink, your sky becomes small. Then you cannot spread.
Go look at your so-called ascetics; there you will find such people whose roots have shriveled and whose sky has also become small. They live in perpetual fear that their roots might spread, because “this is the world.” In this anxiety they are so preoccupied that they never get the chance to expand.
Psychologists say only those people are creative in this world—the great scientists, great poets, great painters, great thinkers—those who are deeply rooted in this world, who dare, who explore, who create the new.
I would add—psychologists do not, for it lies beyond their scope—that the great Buddhas, great Mahaviras, great Krishnas, great Christs—creators of consciousness—whose painting is not on an outer canvas, whose song is not sung in words, who did not sculpt a statue but sculpted themselves; who are sculptors of their own being; who created themselves, became a song, transformed their whole consciousness into a beautiful image—these also are born only when roots run deep in the earth.
There is no way for a tree to be on this earth that is afraid of its roots. Your so-called sadhus and sannyasins fear roots. Because of that fear, they cannot be creative. Fear drains their energy. Fighting fear, they die without arriving anywhere.
I want to make you fearless. This earth is not opposed to the divine; otherwise it could not have arisen. This life has flowed from That; otherwise, from where? And it flows back into That; otherwise, where would it go? So do not create a conflict; expand. Plant your roots in the world, and spread your wings in the sky. Break the opposition between the two. Become a bridge between them. Be a ladder that is grounded firmly on the earth, and that is free in the open sky where there is nowhere to rest. Remember: where will you lean a ladder in the sky? If you must lean it, it must be on earth. The other side is the endless sky; there is no place to lean. There you simply go on rising. Slowly the ladder disappears—and you too disappear.
The root is very strong, earthly. The leaves are less strong; a slight excess of sun, and they wilt; a little too much water, and they begin to rot. They are not so resilient. The flower is subtler still, more delicate. What a leaf can endure, the flower cannot. What water a leaf can bear, the flower cannot. It is a very delicate joining.
And after the flower there is fragrance, which you cannot catch—where is it? It comes and it goes. Even its form is unknown—formless. That is why in temples we burn incense and light lamps. The incense is for fragrance—to suggest that the divine is like fragrance: the last, most subtle essence of this earth; the final refinement; the point where matter dissolves and only perfume remains. It comes—and it goes; you cannot grasp it, you cannot even recognize it fully. Soon it is lost in the vast sky. Nothing really vanishes; that fragrance must remain somewhere—becoming formless. As a symbol of the formless we light incense in temples; Muslims burn loban—the formless. Even the flower has form; fragrance is its quintessence.
That is why Islam gives great importance to ittar—perfume. On festival days a Muslim applies perfume before going out. Perhaps he does not know why he does so! It is essence, distillation. Roots are very gross; perfume is pure essence, the ultimate extract.
From roots to perfume—this is your journey. But remember: perfume will be lost if there are no roots. And roots alone—what is their meaning? The atheist insists on roots only; the so-called theist insists only on perfume.
I insist on both, because to me they are not two. They are one continuum. Without roots there is no perfume; without perfume, roots are meaningless. They have no point, no significance. Spread your roots, so that someday you may become perfume.
And the perfumes bought in the marketplace will not do. The incense lit in temples is not enough. You must become incense; you must become fragrance. The day your life’s fragrance spreads, the far end of that ladder begins to approach; you will be lost in it, you will be absorbed.
Have you watched incense burning? Smoke rises—visible for a moment—then vanishes. Just so, from matter toward the divine, you will slowly vanish.
Do not set up a conflict. Whoever sets up duality misses. Whoever lives without conflict arrives.
The Hindus understood this; hence they divided life’s pattern into four purusharthas: dharma, artha, kama, moksha. We should understand this a little. Kama is the most gross; moksha the most subtle. Kama is the root; moksha is the perfume. Kama is understandable and visible; Rama is not. Sex is easily grasped; samadhi is not. But sex is the root; samadhi is the flower.
The Hindu says: practice kama too, because it is the first step toward the divine. The Hindu says: enter into kama as his grace; whatever he has given is meaningful—use it. Do not see it as an obstacle on the path; make it a step. A stone lies in the road; you can turn back, “There’s a stone—how to go further?” The wise will step onto the stone and discover a new path begins, higher, with a changed ground.
Some turn back at sex. They collide and retreat; the road is blocked. Those who explore beyond kama one day reach moksha. Kama is the root—first: this world, this earth. Hence kama is very earthly, purely bodily.
Then there are two more—artha and dharma. To preserve the roots, roots alone cannot survive. They need water, manure, the warmth of the sun, protection. Artha: economics. The economics of life. Food, clothing, shelter—only then can kama live; otherwise its roots will dry up. Without wealth, kama cannot live. That is why wealth has such a fascination.
People shout, “Why are you mad after money?” No one is mad for money itself. But without money, the roots of kama wither. Sometimes the obsession takes over—you forget the goal and get lost in the means. You gather wealth so that one day you can enjoy kama without worry. But then you become obsessed with accumulation and forget why. One day you amass wealth, and discover life is over in the collecting.
Food, clothes, adornment, beauty, health—all protect the roots. You could take a cheap route to be free of kama: stop eating. That is why many take to fasting. Their fasting is futile; they are cutting the roots. The sole purpose of fasting would be: no food, no water for the roots, they will dry up. But when the roots are dry, how will the flowers of moksha bloom? The roots can be dried; stop eating and sex desire disappears within three weeks. In three weeks the roots dry; no juice remains.
In the West, many experiments were conducted. Psychologists took a group of students—young, healthy, interested in girls, movies, nude photos—and kept them hungry. After one week the interest faded. No matter how erotic the music on the radio, they turned it off—it was only an irritant. No matter how glossy the nude magazines—Playboy lay there—they did not even flip them open. By twenty-one days all interest was gone. A nude woman could pass by and they would not lift their eyes. Put the most beautiful woman—Miss Universe—in front of them, and they would sit dully with eyes closed.
What happened? Did they become rishis in twenty-one days simply by hunger? Many of your rishis are of this state. Then the researchers began feeding them again. As food entered the body, interest in sex returned. After two days of food, the radio had charm, Playboy was flipped open, banter with girls resumed, jokes, stories. After seven days of food they were healthy again; water returned to the roots.
You could keep these boys as “sages.” Feed them just enough to survive, never enough for sprouts to arise; keep their energy too low to overflow—and they will appear celibate. But this brahmacharya is false—born of hunger. It is not an attainment; it is a lack.
Hindus say: practice artha too; otherwise roots will dry, and flowers will never come. And flowers must come.
So artha is the support for kama.
Just as artha supports kama, dharma supports moksha. Artha maintains the tree, but the tree’s fulfillment is in flowering. So artha is not enough; the support of dharma is needed. Therefore maintain artha—run your shop—but do not forget the temple. Use the shop in such a way that it turns toward the temple. Do not use wealth only for enjoyment; let it become dana, generosity, so that flowers are supported too. If wealth is only for indulgence, then water flows only to the roots; it must flow toward the flowers as well.
Water must travel in two directions—downward and upward. The upward flow is difficult because it goes against gravitation. So supplying water to the roots is easy. You cannot imagine the miracle trees perform: they make rivers flow upward. Rivers cannot do this; they flow down. Trees have discovered a deep alchemy by which water moves upward. Because unless the life-energy rises upward, how will flowers bloom? Flowers bloom above.
What is the tree’s trick? How does it lift water up? Sit near a tree at dusk when the sun has set; you will see vapor rising from every leaf. All day the tree has absorbed heat; it has drunk the warmth. Through that warmth each leaf turns water into vapor and releases it into the sky—this is its gift. It did not only take water; it gives. Those clouds you see in the sky—this is the donation of trees. As the leaf gives up its water as vapor, the leaf becomes dry. The moment it dries, the water in the branch below flows toward the dryness. Dip any dry thing into water and instantly it fills.
Whoever gives, receives.
Whoever lets go, attains.
Tena tyaktena bhunjitha—by renouncing, enjoy.
This leaf has let go; it has not clutched. If it were miserly, it would die. The miser stops at wealth. He has enough to maintain roots, but there is no upward movement. Therefore wealth must become dana. Your actions must turn into seva, service. Do not cling—let go—so that your hands are empty. As soon as the leaf empties, the water below rushes to fill it. By this art water climbs upward. When the branch’s water goes into the leaf, the branch dries; then the branch draws from the root. Where there is emptiness, water goes to fill it.
Existence does not tolerate emptiness. Empty yourself, and the divine will fill you. If you clutch at yourself, the divine’s flow will cease. Convince a tree to be a miser and it will die. Try this: paint its leaves so that no water can evaporate. In two or three days the tree will die.
You must give. The secret of receiving lies in giving.
Hence dharma. From below, dharma means: dana, tyaga, the capacity to let go, service. This is the method, the means. Soon flowers will come, because water flows upward. And when the upward flow becomes steady, fruits begin to form. Flowers, then fruits. The tree attains dignity, fulfillment; its end is achieved, its siddhi.
Hindus say: kama is the root; artha is the arrangement; dharma is the means to the final end; and moksha is the flower. Hence the Hindus say: do not run away midway. They spoke of four purusharthas in life. Fulfill all four. Your manhood—the meaning of being human—lies in these. Do not flee in the middle, for then you remain a half-grown tree. Therefore the Hindus did not permit sannyas in the middle. They said: the first twenty-five years—brahmacharya.
This is most interesting. No one thinks on it. The so-called Hindu pundits never ponder what it means. Twenty-five years of celibacy—not for celibacy’s sake, but for the accumulation of energy, so that you can be fully satisfied in kama. Only he who has remained celibate in the first stage can attain the depth of sex. He who has squandered his raw energy cannot plumb the depths of kama.
The Hindus are unique. Their understanding is naturally deep; on this soil the oldest civilization lived. They experimented a lot. On the basis of experience they discovered some sutras.
Twenty-five years—if we take a human life as a hundred, then the first quarter is twenty-five. The first purushartha is kama; in contrast, the first ashrama is brahmacharya. Hence four purusharthas, four ashramas, and four varnas. Hindu arithmetic is clear.
First, kama—the world of roots. There, establish brahmacharya. Let no lust arise in the mind, so that you become a brimful energy. Be a full reservoir. Then when you flow, there will be relish in the flow. Otherwise you will drip like a faucet in summer: drop… drop. From that no river will be born to reach the ocean.
In today’s world this is nearly the case. He who has not known brahmacharya does not taste sex either; he remains discontented, dripping drop by drop. For experience, a flood is needed—excess is needed. So much life-energy that you can take a leap and enter another realm.
For twenty-five years, against kama, the Hindu says brahmacharya.
For twenty-five, against artha, the Hindu says grihastha—householder. Then you concern yourself with money, run your shop, wrestle in politics—struggle, don’t be afraid. Earn—do not be afraid.
The third quarter—vanaprastha—paired with dharma. Then you begin practicing dharma. You have known wealth, known kama—now the journey of the higher tree begins. Life’s circle turns at fifty. If we assume a hundred years, then fifty is the midpoint. Two purusharthas complete, two remain. A new journey begins. Become vanaprasthi; take the flavor of renunciation.
And the final twenty-five years are for moksha—sannyas.
Artha with grihastha. Kama with brahmacharya. Dharma with vanaprastha. Moksha with sannyas. The final flower is sannyas.
And with these four they gave the arrangement of four varnas: whoever stops at the first is a shudra. Understand my interpretation: the one who stops at kama is a shudra. Hence Hindus say all are born shudras, because all are born out of kama. Whoever stops at the second—artha—is a vaishya, a trader: the shop is everything. Whoever stops at the third is a kshatriya. Wealth is not the kshatriya’s taste; it is fame, honor! And the vanaprasthi receives more honor than anyone—the warrior fought in life and also rose beyond fighting, because he attained renown. But the craving for fame remains; the ego remains. The vanaprasthi retains ego. The kshatriya is an image of ego; he can go up to vanaprastha, because in sannyas he must drop the ego.
So he who stops at vanaprastha is a kshatriya. And he who attains moksha is a brahmin.
Thus four purusharthas, four ashramas, four varnas. This is the Hindu mathematics—and it is precious. Understand it, and no other mathematics is needed.
Enough for today.