On this sacred occasion of Guru Purnima, accept our salutations a hundred times over.
A true master called to his disciple, “Hoshin!” The master’s name was Kokushi. At the master’s voice the disciple replied, “Yes.” Kokushi called again, “Hoshin!” And again the disciple said, “Yes.” But the master called a third time, “Hoshin!” And Hoshin again said, “Yes.” Then Kokushi said to him, “I ought to ask your forgiveness for calling you again and again—but in truth, it is you who should ask forgiveness of me.”
Please reveal the heart of this story.
The sleep is very deep. Perhaps “sleep” is not even the right word—this is unconsciousness. Call as much as you like, the voice does not pass through the curtains of sleep. You can shout and scream, you can pound on the door—dreams are sturdy. They tremble a little, then settle right back into place.
“Master” means only this: someone who breaks your sleep. Who shakes you awake, shatters your dreams, and fills you with awareness.
Of course, it’s a hard task. And not only hard; the disciple will continually feel that the master is a disturbance.
Even when someone wakes you from ordinary sleep, it feels as if the waker is no friend but an enemy. Sleep is sweet. And perhaps you are dreaming a pleasant dream and want it to continue. You don’t feel like waking up. The mind always wants to sleep.
The mind is a principle of laziness. That’s why anyone who jolts you, who wakes you, feels bad to you. The one who consoles you, sings to you, lulls you to sleep, seems good. You are seeking consolation, not truth. And because you seek consolation, out of a hundred “masters” in the world, ninety-nine are false. For whenever there is a demand, someone appears to supply it. The false master thrives because seekers are asking for the wrong thing.
There is a little rule in economics: demand creates supply.
If thousands, millions, hundreds of millions are demanding consolation, someone will oblige. Someone will exploit your need for comfort. Someone will sing to you, lull you. You will surely find a lullaby-singer who deepens your sleep and strengthens your dream. If you find that your sleep deepens around a certain master, run from there—don’t stay a moment. Beware the one who does not shake you, who is not ready to erase you, to cut you down.
Jesus said, People say I bring peace, but I tell you, I have come with a sword.
This saying has been a great difficulty for Christians. Because on the one hand Jesus says, If someone strikes you on one cheek, turn the other also. If someone takes your coat, give him your shirt too. If someone forces you to carry his load one mile, go with him two.
Such a peace-loving man, unwilling to create conflict, ready to endure all—says, I have not brought peace, but a sword. What kind of sword is this? It is the master’s sword. It has nothing to do with the sword you see at a soldier’s hip. This is no visible blade. It will strike you down and not a drop of your blood will fall. It will cut you—and you will not die. It will burn you—but only your rubbish will burn; your gold will be refined and shine forth.
Every master carries a sword. And when a master intends to awaken you, he will appear to you like an enemy.
Besides, your sleep is not of today; it’s ancient. And it’s not just sleep—within that sleep is bound up your greed, your attachment, your likes and loves. Your hopes and ambitions are woven into it. Your future, your heavens, your liberation—everything has sunk its roots into that sleep. And when the sleep breaks, everything breaks.
Understand this: when your sleep breaks, not only will your worldly life fall away. Even the “God” you knew until yesterday will drop. What truth can there be in a God known in sleep? Your shop will close, yes—but your temples won’t survive either. Because you built the shop in sleep, and you chose the temple in sleep. If the shop of sleep was false, how could the temples of sleep be true? Not only will your idle chatter fall away; your scriptures will be worth two pennies. Because you read them in sleep, memorized them in sleep, interpreted them in sleep. And if the ledgers on your shop’s counter were false, your Gita, your Quran, your Bible cannot be true.
If the sleep is false, all that spreads from it is false.
Therefore when the master steals your sleep, he doesn’t only snatch away your world, he snatches away your liberation too. He doesn’t just take your wealth, he takes your religion as well.
Krishna tells Arjuna in the Gita: Sarva-dharmān parityajya—“Abandon all religions and come to me.”
If you are a Hindu, upon coming to the master you will no longer be a Hindu. If you remain a Hindu, know that the master is false. If you are a Muslim, upon coming to the master you will no longer be a Muslim. If your Islam still stays dear, know you have reached the wrong door. Jain, Buddhist, whatever you are—the master will say, “Sarva-dharmān parityajya! Leave all religions and come to me.”
Religion is the blind man’s stick—he gropes with it. Scripture is the chatter of the unknowing. One who does not know is satisfied with doctrines. When you come to the master, your scriptures, your religions, your mosques and temples, you yourself—everything will be taken away.
That’s why going to a master is the greatest courage.
And having come, staying with the master is the work of the very few.
People come and go. They come—and they run. The moment the sleep is struck, restlessness begins. As long as you placate them, pat them, sing lullabies, deepen their sleep—they are pleased. The moment you shake them, restlessness begins.
It was not for nothing that you crucified Jesus. You did not give Socrates poison without cause. Jesus must be crucified—this man will not let you sleep. You are tired, you want to sink into slumber. You are so anxious and troubled, you want a little peace, to disappear, to be unconscious. Truly understood, the whole world’s search is a search for unconsciousness. Some seek it in wine, some in music, some in sex—and some foolish ones even seek it in meditation: somehow to forget that you are.
The master will awaken you and remind you that you are. He will break your intoxications, snatch the bottle from your hand. He will steal all your inebriations—your bhajans, your kirtans, your name-repetitions, your mantras—so that no device remains for you to sleep. You will have to wake. You will have to wake utterly to know who you are.
From that realization the old world of sleep ends and a new world begins. The name of that new world is liberation. Not a dream seen in sleep; what is realized when sleep breaks—that alone is the divine. Not the prayer uttered in sleep; when sleep is no more, the state of your heart—only that is prayer.
This little Zen story is highly symbolic. Surely the disciple must have wondered, What is the master doing?
He called once—“Hoshin!” Once is excusable. Hoshin must have thought, There must be some task. But remember, no master calls you for a task. Even if he gives you a task, it is only a pretext to be able to call you.
First grasp this: the master calls you without a task—without cause. In the world, every call has a cause. The wife calls you—there is a reason. The husband calls you—there is a reason. The son calls—there is a reason. Even an innocent little child cries out with a reason. His innocence is not causeless. He is hungry and cries for his mother. There is a purpose, an interest.
I have heard: A man returned home one evening. His wife was sobbing, tears flowing. The man sat down and quietly opened the newspaper. The wife said, At least ask why I’m crying! He said, Asking that has bankrupted me. If you’re crying, the meaning is obvious: some trouble, some demand. Asking why is exactly what’s ruining me. So I’ve stopped asking.
Even our weeping, our laughter, our calling out—all are purposeful. There is some utility. You won’t even greet a stranger on the road without a reason. Without cause you won’t smile. Why take the trouble to call out?
Amid the echoes of this world the master’s call is fundamentally different. Its quality is other. First quality: he is not calling you for anything. He calls you without work. He calls to wake you, not for a task.
“Hoshin!” the master said. The disciple must have thought, there’s some task. He answered, “Yes.” He must have waited. The master fell silent; no task was given. Hoshin was left puzzled. Then the nap slipped back.
After a little while the master called again, “Hoshin!” Startled from sleep he answered again, “Yes.” He must have thought, perhaps the master forgot—now surely there will be some task! But again the master was silent. Again the nap slid back. The third time the master called, “Hoshin!” He said again, “Yes.”
He must have been bewildered: Has the master gone mad? When someone calls, there is a period at the end; something follows the call. With this master, the period falls right after the name—“Hoshin!”—as if that is the end. As if he is calling only for the sake of calling. As if no further journey begins from the summons.
The master’s call is not the cry of desire; it carries no demand. The call is complete in itself. He does not want to take you elsewhere, to set you chasing some attainment. With his call, the matter is complete. If you can understand the call, it becomes meditation. His summons breaks your inner drowsiness. “Hoshin!”—in that one instant, Hoshin’s thoughts must have stopped. Only then could he say, “Yes.”
For that one instant he must have been alert. For that one instant his spine must have straightened. For a moment the trance of thought must have dissolved, the smoke cleared, the clouds vanished. For a moment, the inner blue sky peeks through. From that blue sky the “Yes” arises.
If Hoshin remained lost, he wouldn’t even know when the master called. He wouldn’t know whether there was a call or not. If he remained sunk in stupor, the arrow of the voice would not enter within. But he must have been puzzled, uneasy: The master calls—and then falls silent.
Often the master will seem mad to you… in a world of madmen, the one who is aware must look mad. That is his fate.
Hoshin must have thought, What has happened to the master? He calls, then is silent—what kind of call is this?
We understand things only when they show a sequence. We understand a path that leads somewhere, to some destination. But if there is a path that goes nowhere, we are thrown into a strange dilemma. Hoshin must have fallen into that dilemma. Seeing his inner perplexity, the master said, “Hoshin, I ought to ask your forgiveness.”
Many times the master will say to you, Hoshin, I should ask your forgiveness because I am breaking your sleep. And I’m doing it without cause; there is no task. No desire, no wish is involved. I want nothing from you. I ask for nothing. I have no intention of exploiting you—still I call you; still I summon you. I should ask forgiveness.
Hoshin’s face must have brightened: That’s true—calling me for nothing!
We understand when there is work to be done. Wherever there is action without self-interest, we are out of our depth. Even when we think of God, we imagine he must have made the world for some purpose, some end.
People come to me and ask, For what purpose did God create this universe? What does it mean? What is the intention? There must be some hidden intention.
We imagine God in our own image. We will not take a single step without a reason. We won’t even flick our eyes without a reason. Then such a vast arrangement! Surely there must be some business behind it, some purpose.
But whoever asks purpose in relation to God will soon find the purpose remains and God disappears. Such a person, today or tomorrow, will become an atheist. Because here there is no purpose—and you won’t be able to accept a purposeless God.
Hindus have shown immense courage—such courage is found nowhere else on earth. They said, This is lila, divine play. It is not God’s “work.” There is nothing to be gained; the world is not going anywhere. The world is happening, but not heading to a destination. It is a path that arrives nowhere—yet it is.
A beggar sat by a road for years. A traveler lost his way and asked, Can you tell me where this road is going? The beggar said, I’ve been here many years; I’ve never seen the road go anywhere. Yes, people come and go upon it. As far as I understand, the road stays where it is.
God stays where he is; neither coming nor going. But you travel upon him—now in this direction, now in that—toward wealth, toward renunciation; toward indulgence, toward yoga. You do not stop. Whether indulgence or yoga—you keep running. Your labor never ceases.
You will understand God the day you become like that road—going nowhere, simply being. The day desire drops; the day neither yoga calls you nor indulgence; the day neither the world pulls nor liberation—the day you drop “going,” the day you become a full stop right where you are.
The master called, “Hoshin”—and there was a full stop. This call is purposeless. This call is play. This call is a game. Seeing the worry stirring in Hoshin, the master said, I should ask your forgiveness. I wake you for no reason, won’t let you sleep. If there were a reason, it would be excusable; but I shake you for nothing. You don’t have to get up to open the shop, to go to market, to go to work—still I wake you. I won’t let you sleep. I should ask your forgiveness.
Hoshin’s concern must have eased. He must have felt, The master is right—he should ask forgiveness. He won’t even let me sit peacefully. For no reason it’s “Hoshin, Hoshin, Hoshin”—won’t even let me think in peace, stirs up obstacles within.
But immediately the master said, Yet in truth, it is you who must ask forgiveness of me. I had to call three times because calling once didn’t do. You said “Yes,” but you turned over and fell asleep again—so I had to call again. In truth you must ask forgiveness, because your sleep is your responsibility. Your laziness is your doing. Even after the third call you turn and go back to sleep.
Even if he must call three thousand times, the master does not tire. The day you awaken, you will ask forgiveness. You will say, What should have happened with one call, you had to repeat three thousand times—for no reason.
Whenever anyone came to Buddha and asked a question, he would answer—and always repeat the answer three times. Someone would ask, Is there nirvana? Buddha would say, “There is.” Then as if he’d forgotten he had just said it, he would say again, “There is.” And then again, “There is.”
Editors compiling the Buddhist scriptures faced a problem. If they wrote like that, the scriptures would become three times as long—unnecessarily big, inconvenient for readers. What one “is” could do, Buddha was saying three times.
So the editors made a notation: “is”—and a sign meaning “three times.” They made a glyph for three so they didn’t have to write it thrice. The editors seemed more “efficient.”
Someone asked Buddha, I ask once—why do you say it three times? Buddha said, If someone truly hears it in three times, he is rare indeed. Who hears even in three? You aren’t even present to listen. You ask the question—and then you fall asleep. Perhaps you ask your question in sleep.
Like a little child, hungry, who cries in his sleep; you give him milk and he sleeps again. He knows neither hunger nor milk. Both acts happen in sleep. Or like a drunkard walking along, staggering—yet somehow he walks. So is your life; so is your walking; so is your awareness—staggering.
Buddha says, If someone hears even in three, he has heard quickly.
This true master said, “Hoshin, on the surface it seems I should ask your forgiveness; but seen from within, you must ask forgiveness of me.”
The story ends there. Many things are contained. Zen speaks in short stories—perhaps short so you can remain alert just that long. Longer than that, you would not hear with awareness.
I have heard a doctor ask his patient, On Sundays you have a holiday—how long do you sleep Sunday morning? The man said, “It depends.” It depends on how long the sermon runs at church—that long I sleep.
Temples are to awaken—but people sleep there too! Churches are to awaken—but there too, people doze! We are so clever we use even the medicines of wakefulness as sleeping pills. We fold everything into our sleep—church, temple, mosque—we drown them all in our slumber. Our sleep is huge, immense. And unless someone strikes at us relentlessly, we may never awaken.
Hence the ancients all said: without a master, there is no knowing. Even with a master, it is a rare event; without one, it will not happen. “Master” only means this: someone keeps knocking at your door. The knock will be gentle. It cannot be aggressive. It will be like water falling on rock. “Hoshin”—the master’s voice cannot be harsh. A master cannot be harsh. The “Hoshin” falls like droplets of water upon stone. But he will repeat it. This soft, sweet fall will carve the rock.
Lao Tzu says, The master is like water; you are like stone. Remember, in the end you will lose. Your hardness won’t help much. Water keeps falling. The blow is gentle—no hammer stroke—but sooner or later the rock crumbles, becomes sand. And still the water flows.
The master’s strike is sweet, yet deep. Sweet not in the sense that it is sugary and helps your sleep—but because it pours from compassion.
All blows of desire are harsh because desire uses the other. Whether a lover speaks to his beloved, a mother to her child, a husband to his wife—there the other is a means; I am the end. I am the goal. My pleasure is the center. I am using the other.
Hence friends are restless, lovers are troubled. There is always conflict among lovers and friends. The basis is this: whenever we use the other, we insult the other. He feels made into a thing, not a person. He feels used, without intrinsic value. He becomes like an object.
When desire calls, it is harsh—because exploitation is harsh.
The master’s voice is gentle. He says, “Hoshin.” The Japanese word itself must have been chosen with care; it is mellifluous. The voice will enter within, but its blow is like a drop of water. Only if it continues, unbroken, will it be able to break you. So the master keeps calling.
And the meeting of his calling and your answering “Yes”—that has been called satsang. If you do not listen at all, satsang does not happen. The master is there—but you are not. If you listen wholly, there remains no disciple. You listen a little, and you don’t listen a little. Your sleep is disturbed a little. You half open your eyes; the lids are heavy; the nap returns. You do say “Yes.” You give at least this sign: I am here, I am listening—this is satsang.
This is a story of satsang. The master calls, the disciple hears. The disciple cannot understand what the master is saying. But he has enough trust that when he calls, he says “Yes.” At least he does not get angry.
You would likely get angry: What nonsense is this? If you have something to say, say it—otherwise why “Hoshin, Hoshin, Hoshin” again and again? If you have something to say, say it; otherwise be quiet. That’s what would rise in your mind. Then there is no trust.
Understand one thing: even in Hoshin’s mind there is doubt. That is why the master says, I should ask your forgiveness. Seeing his doubt, he says it. His trust is not complete. For when trust is complete, there is no need to call. Trust is not complete; there is doubt—but the doubt is not complete either, otherwise he would just sleep—it is half-and-half.
A great Christian mystic, Tertullian, added a line to his daily prayer to God: My faith is in you—but be mindful also of my unfaith. I trust you—but within me there is doubt too; please take care of that.
This is the voice of an honest disciple. If you hide your doubt, it will not disappear. You may keep saying your surrender is complete—but if even a grain of doubt remains, your surrender is not complete, nor can it ever be, because you will live in the illusion that it is. As you are, you cannot be complete. Doubt will be there. You can only do this much: lower the doubt and raise the trust; but the doubt will remain hidden, gnawing at trust like a worm. And today trust is on top—how long can it stay? Any moment doubt may rise.
Often, when two wrestlers grapple, the one on top must keep exerting, lest the one beneath slip out and mount him. The one underneath can relax; he need not exert. To be underneath requires no effort. The one on top grows tired. If for an hour he stays on top while the other lies below, the one above will tire from effort and fall. In that very fatigue the one below will come up.
When you seat trust upon doubt, trust is tiring while doubt is resting. Not long, and doubt will be on top, trust beneath. But if you have Tertullian’s attitude—where you do not only proclaim your trust but also tell your God, Doubt is here too. I’m not suppressing it, not hiding it, not denying it. As naked as I am—ugly or beautiful, trusting or doubting—I am before you. I will take care of trust; you take care of doubt.
There is doubt in Hoshin’s mind—but with reverence he answers, “Yes.” He does not say even once, Why are you calling me for nothing? Why do you call? What work is there?
I have heard of a fakir who went to visit another fakir. He saw the disciples had great reverence for the master, great love. He said, I am in trouble—I cannot evoke such devotion in my disciples. What should I do? The other said, I’ll come to your home for a meal today. We’ll talk there.
That evening the fakir arrived. His feet were muddy—rainy days, muddy roads, clothes wet. The host told his wife, Bring some water; I must wash my friend’s feet. The wife shouted from inside, The well isn’t far. Take your friend there—wash his feet and give him a bath. Where were you in the morning when you should have filled water?
The two fakirs went, washed at the well, returned clean. After the meal, the host said, Now, speak.
The guest said, You come to my home tomorrow to eat. Rainy days, mud—of course.
The next day he went to the other’s house. At the door, the fakir told his wife, Bring the jar of ghee. She brought it out. He said, My friend has come; once in a while, why wash feet with water? Wash his feet with ghee. The wife poured the whole jar of ghee over his feet and washed them.
After the meal, the host said, Anything to ask—or is the matter complete? The other said, The matter is complete. Nothing more to say.
Where there is love, reverence follows like a shadow. Where there is love, there is acceptance. Where there is love, call out “Hoshin” without explanation—and the answer “Yes” arrives.
It’s not that this wife had no thoughts—of course thoughts arose. The mind’s job is to raise thoughts. She must have thought, You are wasting ghee. Water would have sufficed. Times are hard, ghee is costly, we gather it with difficulty. All these thoughts must have come. But even with all that, love became first. She thought, If my husband says so, there must be some meaning. Let me be silent. Let me not be hasty.
Thoughts are arising in Hoshin’s mind too—but he does not speak them. He knows that if the master is calling, there is some secret—whether I know it or not. If he calls three times, surely there is something—some deeper matter, some key. Today or tomorrow the key will be revealed. Yet within, there are thoughts, there is doubt.
The mind always doubts. This is natural. So keep one thing in view: if doubt is within, don’t hide it—know it. Don’t let it become active; don’t let it overpower your trust. But don’t suppress it either; don’t force it away. If doubt is within, don’t hide it—wait. Soon the moment will come when the knot of doubt opens. But walk behind trust.
“Disciple” cannot mean someone of perfect trust; one whose trust is perfect is already a master. Disciple means half trust, half doubt.
With this half trust you can do two things. One: sit on the chest of doubt. Then your trust becomes crippled. Whatever you suppress, you are bound to. Your trust will be busy fighting doubt, and your energy will be wasted—like your right hand and left hand fighting while your strength is squandered. Don’t make trust and doubt fight—though it happens naturally. Move with trust.
Set trust in motion and, without hiding doubt, wait for time to reveal the key. Do not attend to doubt; ignore it. Where attention goes, nourishment goes. Whatever you attend to, your life-energy feeds it. Give only neglect to doubt—don’t fight it. No inner war. No repression. Simply direct your attention toward trust. Water trust with attention. Ignore doubt and wait.
“Hoshin!” Hoshin heard; doubt arose; but he kept his attention on trust. He said, “Yes.”
That “Yes” rises from deep trust. Doubt stands beside it, but in the moment of the “Yes,” doubt seems to vanish—as if, for a moment, the whole heart became “Yes.”
In the beginning, it happens so. And the master will give you many chances to put your attention on doubt. Because without such chances, your current of attention cannot be secured toward trust. The master will shake you often. He will become unintelligible again and again. He will behave in ways you did not expect. Expectations belong to the mind; the mind must be broken—and so must your expectations. If the master behaves exactly as you want, then you are manufacturing the master.
Therefore, the master who complies with your expectations will not transform your life. This is why there is a crowd of so-called gurus, and yet scarcely a ray of religion in life. So many renunciates! So many fakirs! So many saints and sages! But they all fulfill your expectations. It is as if a doctor followed the prescriptions of patients! They behave as you prefer. The slightest deviation and you create an uproar.
If a Jain monk is forbidden to walk at night, then all the Jain householders keep an eye out to catch him walking after dark. If he is forbidden to drink cold water and is caught doing so, they act like judges! The follower acts like a judge. He is waiting to pounce—shouting, This monk is corrupt.
The day the ignorant decide how the enlightened should behave; the day the ignorant lay down the norms for how the wise should walk, sit, and act—that day the master must follow the disciple. What worth then has such a master? What value? This is a physician obeying his patients. Your expectations will be broken when you come to a true master.
There is an incident about Hoshin’s master. Many monks lived in that monastery. The Buddhist rule is to eat once before sunset. But this master had an odd habit: he always ate after sunset; and what’s more, Buddhist monks are to eat together, openly, so all can see what each eats—no eating in secret, no eating alone. But Hoshin’s master made a regular practice of eating at night with the doors of his hut closed—and eating all night long.
This news reached the emperor. He was a devotee. He said, This is misconduct.
Our blind eyes see only petty things. The master’s light is not seen. His glory is not seen. The Buddhahood that has flowered in him is not seen. That he eats at night—this we notice immediately. And why close the door?
The emperor grew suspicious. He too was a disciple. He said, We must find out. This is corruption. If he eats in hiding at night, there must be sweets… or who knows what forbidden delicacies—otherwise why hide? Why shut the door? What purpose to conceal a monk’s alms-bowl?
We hide what is wrong—that is the rule of our lives. We keep secret what is wrong, and display what is right. If there is no “right” to display, we still display as though we have it; and we bury the wrong. Large chapters of our lives are secret. Our book of life cannot be an open book. But we think the master’s book must be open.
The emperor said, We must investigate. That night the emperor and his vizier hid behind the master’s hut, naked swords drawn—because this is a matter of saving religion.
At times the ignorant take it upon themselves to “save religion.” They are always anxious that religion is in danger. Those who have no religion are the most concerned to save it. And such fools have destroyed religion most thoroughly.
They hid there with swords, determined to settle the matter that night. At dusk the master came. Hidden in his robe, he brought food. He locked his door. They had already made a hole in the wall to peer through. The master sat with his back toward the peephole and began to eat, keeping his bowl completely hidden. They said, This is intolerable! The man is too cunning. They never thought that he, in his innocence, had seen through their cunning—not because of cunning, but because of innocence.
They broke the window and leapt inside. The master covered his bowl with his robe again. The emperor said, We will not leave without seeing what you are eating. The master said, No—your eyes are not fit to see it. The emperor became even more suspicious. He said, Remove your hands. Now we will not even respect the disciple’s decorum. The master said, As you wish—but the emperor’s eyes should not fall on such ordinary things.
He removed the robe. In the alms-bowl there were no sweets, no costly delicacies—only the stalks and rotten leaves of vegetables that the monastery discarded, boiled up for food.
The emperor was in a bind. The night was cold, yet sweat beaded his brow. He asked, Why the need to hide this?
The master said, Do you think only the wrong must be hidden? The right must be hidden too. You hide your wrong; we hide our right—that is the difference between us. You display the right because showing it feeds your ego; showing the wrong would shatter it. We reveal our wrong and conceal our right. We are your opposites. We live upside down.
“Why hide eating grass and leaves?”
The master laughed. I knew you would come sooner or later; your eyes are fixed on the trivial. The vast is happening—but you do not see it. Enough—this is my last evening here. I am leaving this monastery. Now you take charge—and let those who make rules govern. I cannot fulfill your expectations. And as long as I fulfill your expectations, how will I transform you?
Only the master who does not walk by your expectations can transform you. The one who follows you cannot change you. And it is very hard to follow one who does not follow you. The path becomes thorny. The disciple’s mind will doubt—doubt will arise. Enough trust is needed simply to walk behind the master without expectation.
Do not measure the master by his conduct—for it may be that his conduct is arranged only for you.
A report reached the court of a Sufi, Junnaid—his disciple was also an emperor: What kind of man are you following? He drinks wine and has been seen with improper women. The emperor said, If so, I will sever his head with my own hands. If the one at whose feet I lay my head is false, I will not hold back. This sword will separate his head. But since you have brought the report, you must prove it. The man said, That will be easy; come with me tomorrow.
They went to the lakeshore and hid. Across the lake sat Junnaid; a decanter by his side; cups being poured; and a woman in a veil filling the cups. The emperor drew his sword. He told the man, Go. No need to prove further. I will settle this. He took ten steps forward—but fear arose: How will I cut Junnaid? Then he thought, Why should I do it with my own hands? Soldiers can do it. Why should I bear this murder?
He turned his horse. As he turned, he heard Junnaid’s voice: Since you’ve come this far, don’t go back now—come a little closer. Let there be no distance if you want to know. Hearing his voice, the emperor couldn’t retreat. He had to come near.
Junnaid put the decanter in his hands. It contained nothing but water. He lifted the woman’s veil—it was Junnaid’s mother.
The emperor asked, Then why this drama? Junnaid said, For the disciples. This drama goes on daily. Because of it, many have fled; good—because they would have fled anyway. They were looking for a pretext.
Anyone who judges the master by outward behavior has judged from afar—because behavior is outside. He did not bring his horse right up close; he turned back quickly. Only those who judge from within will come close.
Only those can come near who stop attending to doubt. Doubt is always saying, Listen to me! The one who listens to trust and not to doubt—today or tomorrow, trust will take him to the place where all seeds of doubt are burned. There perfect trust becomes complete. There is fulfillment.
Life has a law: if you can wait, everything ripens. Life’s way is to bring things to completion—if you can wait. Don’t pick unripe fruit—wait a little. It will ripen and fall. You won’t have to pluck it; you won’t have to climb the tree. Here, everything completes itself; only patience is needed.
Of course, if you rush, you can pluck an unripe fruit. Then you will have to climb—and you may break your limbs falling—only to get an unripe fruit. Once torn from the tree, the ways to ripen are gone. If you “ripen” it at home, that is not ripening—it is rotting, because ripening needs living energy. It’s like someone whitening his hair in the sun—that is not maturity found through life’s process.
You can force ripening in hiding—but it is only decay. To ripen, the living energy of the tree was needed—and you severed it. Everything ripens here. Nothing remains unfulfilled. Everything reaches completion. Only don’t be in a hurry. And our mind is always in a hurry.
Attend to trust; don’t fight doubt. This is the way to be near a master. When the master calls, say “Yes.” It does not mean your doubts have vanished; they will be there—but do not listen to them. In spite of them, your answer should come. They are present—acknowledge them; don’t hide them. And even if you hide, how will you hide them from the master?
In this story, whatever is said is said by the master. Hoshin only says “Yes” three times. Then the master himself says, I should ask your forgiveness—seeing his doubts. Then, seeing his trust, he says, Yet in truth, you should ask forgiveness of me.
These two statements are precious. One is for Hoshin’s doubts: I know there is doubt in you. Those doubts are telling you this man should apologize to you—he is disturbing your sleep; won’t let you sit still; calls you for nothing; his calling is madness. Seeing his doubts, the master says, I should ask your forgiveness.
Perhaps at that very moment Hoshin was giving attention to doubt. Hearing this, he must have started—and shifted attention from doubt to trust. Immediately the master said, Yet in truth, you must ask forgiveness. I had to call three times and you did not wake—ask forgiveness. I must call again—ask forgiveness. And since I call you without any reason, you are blessed by me.
When desire calls, there is a reason; when compassion calls, there is none—therefore who is graced?
In this small tale your whole heart is contained—with its two halves. As I said, everything completes itself if you can wait. And attention is your life-energy. Wherever you place attention, life begins to blossom there.
Scientists now say that even plants grow faster under attention. If you give plants your loving attention, they flower and fruit earlier. Give other plants water and fertilizer regularly, but withhold attention—they will not thrive; even if they grow, they remain stunted; they flower late; they never fully spread.
A child whom the mother attends grows faster, healthier. The child she neglects—though she gives milk regularly—still suffers from neglect.
There is food for the body, which is milk; and there is food for the soul, which is attention. We grant attention to those we love. Our eyes keep returning to them. Whatever we are doing, our awareness flows toward them. Even thousands of miles away, the beloved remains in mind. Our attention clings there.
Love your trust. That becomes your love for the master. If you are not connected to the trust within, you will not connect with the master without. But if you have no relationship with your inner trust, you may wander around the master endlessly and the distance will not lessen.
There is a secret in life: everything longs to be complete.
Scientists say—leaving aside humans—even animals seek completeness. Go to a zoo, draw a circle before a chimpanzee—leave it incomplete, leave a gap; drop the chalk. The chimp will quickly complete it. He too is uneasy with the incomplete.
You too are uneasy until things are complete. Until you finish, there is a restlessness. But some things you can complete—and some you cannot; for those, you must wait.
This is the difference between science and religion. Science seeks those things you can complete. The circle is incomplete, the chalk is in your hand—you can add the missing arc. A machine lacks a part; you can make it and fit it. Science completes “things”—they can be completed because they are outside you.
Religion completes you. But there, you can do nothing—because you yourself must be completed. How will you “do” it? There you are both sculptor and statue. There is no separation between maker and made. How will you complete it? There you must wait.
Hence science is effort; religion is patience. Science is in haste; religion is in trust. There you do nothing; there the life-energy is flowing into the tree. You only wait. Turn yourself in the right direction and wait. Keep your gaze true and wait—you will arrive. Let your eyes be on trust, your back toward doubt. No enmity, no struggle—just a turning away. Pour all your love on trust. And wait.
Soon you will find the energy that fed your doubts turning into trust. Soon you will find the tree of doubt withers, and the water that once nourished doubt now flows into the tree of trust.
The day trust is complete within you, that day the master will call, Hoshin! Perhaps you won’t even have to say “Yes.” You will awaken. One call will make you stand. For that one call, all the preparation is made.
This day of Guru Purnima is chosen because of the full moon. It is a symbol of completeness. The moon moves, begins as a slender thread, and becomes full. The moon has nothing to “do” to be full; it only has to wait. Fullness comes, and the moon pours out its light.
Remember another thing: when the moon is not full, we see it as incomplete—but in truth it is always complete. It only appears incomplete. The reason the second-day or third-day moon seems small is not that the moon is lacking; the moon is whole, but sunlight falls only on so much of it as we see. On the full moon, light falls on the entire face; on the new moon, the moon disappears altogether. The moon remains; nothing comes or goes. Only light fails to fall.
Your attention is your light. Your attention is your life. You are whole. Your attention is not on you. As your attention falls upon you, the moon begins to appear. First as a delicate crescent—sometimes seen, sometimes lost. If you keep waiting and keep raining the energy of attention upon trust, keep the focus, keep showering attention—today or tomorrow the moon will move toward fullness and one day it will be full.
Guru Purnima is chosen for the full moon. And all are on the path to fullness. Sooner or later, all will be complete. Do not hurry—for in hurry you will spoil things.
Who hurries? Only the mind. You know this: when you are in a hurry, everything takes longer. You must catch a train; in haste, the bottom button goes to the top hole, the tie is crooked, the shoe goes on the wrong foot; then you must change it all. Changing makes you rush even more. In haste, you miss the train. No one misses in patience; people miss by hurrying. The more hurry, the more tension. The more patience, the more relaxation.
I have heard: A new railway line was laid through a forest in a tribal area. When it was ready and the inauguration day arrived, the railway minister came to see. The tribals gathered—curious, happy. The minister asked, How long does it take you to go to the city? To sell wood, fruit, vegetables? They said, Three days for the round trip. He said, Now rejoice. This train is ready. Now you’ll go in the morning and be home by evening.
Hearing this, they looked worried. He asked, This is good news—why are you sad? They said, What will we do with the other two days?
The old world was quiet. It moved with great patience. No speed, no tension, no hurry to arrive, no hurry to return. Time felt ample, sufficient. All would happen in time. The greater the speed, the greater the tension. With speed, you become hasty. Every minute becomes a worry—don’t lose it!
And you never ask what you will do with the time you save. Those tribals asked rightly: What will we do with the two days? It takes us three now; two will be saved—what then? They were sad. You never ask: having hurried, what will you do?
You do not hurry for any real reason—you hurry out of restlessness. You are not hurrying toward a certain arrival. If you knew for sure you would arrive, then a question would arise—what will you do upon arrival? You hurry because you are agitated. In hurry, agitation gets masked by busyness. The more restless, the more hurried. The more hurried, the more restless. A vicious circle forms. In it, you end in madness.
Keep patience. Impatience is the sowing of madness. The moon becomes full by itself—you need do nothing. The river reaches the ocean by itself—you need do nothing. No one shoves the river to the sea. And you don’t work on the moon to make it full. When the whole of nature is moving on its own, are you the lone exception? You too will reach the divine—that is your full moon. But do not hurry. Keep patience. The deeper the patience, the sooner the result. If patience is perfect, this very moment you are the full moon—because you are the moon always. When patience is complete, attention becomes complete. Understand this well.
When you are restless, attention scatters—into twenty-five things. One hand fastening buttons, another putting on shoes, a third adjusting your coat, a fourth… You will say, I don’t have so many hands! Look at our Hindu gods—they are given a thousand hands for this reason. Whether your hands are a thousand or not, you act as if they were.
I saw a cartoon: A woman is knitting a sweater, reading the newspaper, the radio is on, she is rocking the baby’s cradle with her foot—a thousand hands. The more hurried you are, the more you want to do, the more you split yourself. She is not truly listening to the radio, nor knitting, nor reading, nor loving the child. Yet she thinks she’s doing so much. Nothing is happening. The child is neglected. The foot is a poor instrument—rocking like a task. No stream of love flows through it. No attention flows toward the child. It is duty, performed mechanically. She is an automaton, without heart. She has a thousand hands.
Forgive the gods their thousand hands; don’t create them for yourself. Don’t create a thousand occupations. Don’t create a thousand tensions. Flow with patience. Flow slowly. The moon will appear. Fullness arrives of itself.
Only one thing to remember: let your attention be on trust. Let all the energy of your attention rain upon trust. If that rain falls on trust, you will connect with the master.
The way to connect with the master is to connect with the trust within.
And the day you are connected to the master—the day, even with doubt present, a bridge is built between you and him—on that day the revolution in your life begins. Because joining with the master is joining with a catalytic agent. The master does nothing; the value of doing is little. His presence does something.
Scientists acknowledge the phenomenon of a catalytic agent. It means: when two elements are to join, the mere presence of a third is needed. It does nothing; nothing of it enters into the product. If we analyze the result, we find only the two; the third is not found. But without its presence, the two would not combine.
It is a mysterious fact. But scientists accept it—there is no other way.
To join oxygen and hydrogen, a spark is needed; lightning flashes in the sky when it rains. If lightning does not strike, there is no rain. The presence of electricity is needed. In its presence oxygen and hydrogen instantly combine to become water. But if you decompose water, you get hydrogen and oxygen—you do not get the electricity. It was only a presence. In its presence, the event occurred.
If in the physical realm catalytic agents exist, they exist in the spiritual. The master is a catalytic agent. He will not do anything; you connect with him, and in his presence the event happens within you. Your inner halves join in his presence and become one. Under the master’s eyes, you become one. And the master does nothing. In your unification, no trace of the master can be found. In your inner revolution there is no donation from him—only his presence.
That is why being near the master is called satsang. Simply being near him is enough—within his presence. He is present; and in his presence you grow, you expand, and your moon appears.
When the master calls, “Hoshin,” forget doubt—and let your trust answer, “Yes.”
And if the master calls again and again, be ready to answer again and again. Be ready to become alert again and again. The master’s watery blows will one day cut your rock. You will flow. You will reach the ocean.
Osho's Commentary
A true master called to his disciple, “Hoshin!”
The master’s name was Kokushi.
At the master’s voice the disciple replied, “Yes.”
Kokushi called again, “Hoshin!”
And again the disciple said, “Yes.”
But the master called a third time, “Hoshin!”
And Hoshin again said, “Yes.”
Then Kokushi said to him, “I ought to ask your forgiveness for calling you again and again—but in truth, it is you who should ask forgiveness of me.”
Please reveal the heart of this story.
The sleep is very deep. Perhaps “sleep” is not even the right word—this is unconsciousness. Call as much as you like, the voice does not pass through the curtains of sleep. You can shout and scream, you can pound on the door—dreams are sturdy. They tremble a little, then settle right back into place.
“Master” means only this: someone who breaks your sleep. Who shakes you awake, shatters your dreams, and fills you with awareness.
Of course, it’s a hard task. And not only hard; the disciple will continually feel that the master is a disturbance.
Even when someone wakes you from ordinary sleep, it feels as if the waker is no friend but an enemy. Sleep is sweet. And perhaps you are dreaming a pleasant dream and want it to continue. You don’t feel like waking up. The mind always wants to sleep.
The mind is a principle of laziness. That’s why anyone who jolts you, who wakes you, feels bad to you. The one who consoles you, sings to you, lulls you to sleep, seems good. You are seeking consolation, not truth. And because you seek consolation, out of a hundred “masters” in the world, ninety-nine are false. For whenever there is a demand, someone appears to supply it. The false master thrives because seekers are asking for the wrong thing.
There is a little rule in economics: demand creates supply.
If thousands, millions, hundreds of millions are demanding consolation, someone will oblige. Someone will exploit your need for comfort. Someone will sing to you, lull you. You will surely find a lullaby-singer who deepens your sleep and strengthens your dream. If you find that your sleep deepens around a certain master, run from there—don’t stay a moment. Beware the one who does not shake you, who is not ready to erase you, to cut you down.
Jesus said, People say I bring peace, but I tell you, I have come with a sword.
This saying has been a great difficulty for Christians. Because on the one hand Jesus says, If someone strikes you on one cheek, turn the other also. If someone takes your coat, give him your shirt too. If someone forces you to carry his load one mile, go with him two.
Such a peace-loving man, unwilling to create conflict, ready to endure all—says, I have not brought peace, but a sword. What kind of sword is this? It is the master’s sword. It has nothing to do with the sword you see at a soldier’s hip. This is no visible blade. It will strike you down and not a drop of your blood will fall. It will cut you—and you will not die. It will burn you—but only your rubbish will burn; your gold will be refined and shine forth.
Every master carries a sword. And when a master intends to awaken you, he will appear to you like an enemy.
Besides, your sleep is not of today; it’s ancient. And it’s not just sleep—within that sleep is bound up your greed, your attachment, your likes and loves. Your hopes and ambitions are woven into it. Your future, your heavens, your liberation—everything has sunk its roots into that sleep. And when the sleep breaks, everything breaks.
Understand this: when your sleep breaks, not only will your worldly life fall away. Even the “God” you knew until yesterday will drop. What truth can there be in a God known in sleep? Your shop will close, yes—but your temples won’t survive either. Because you built the shop in sleep, and you chose the temple in sleep. If the shop of sleep was false, how could the temples of sleep be true? Not only will your idle chatter fall away; your scriptures will be worth two pennies. Because you read them in sleep, memorized them in sleep, interpreted them in sleep. And if the ledgers on your shop’s counter were false, your Gita, your Quran, your Bible cannot be true.
If the sleep is false, all that spreads from it is false.
Therefore when the master steals your sleep, he doesn’t only snatch away your world, he snatches away your liberation too. He doesn’t just take your wealth, he takes your religion as well.
Krishna tells Arjuna in the Gita: Sarva-dharmān parityajya—“Abandon all religions and come to me.”
If you are a Hindu, upon coming to the master you will no longer be a Hindu. If you remain a Hindu, know that the master is false. If you are a Muslim, upon coming to the master you will no longer be a Muslim. If your Islam still stays dear, know you have reached the wrong door. Jain, Buddhist, whatever you are—the master will say, “Sarva-dharmān parityajya! Leave all religions and come to me.”
Religion is the blind man’s stick—he gropes with it. Scripture is the chatter of the unknowing. One who does not know is satisfied with doctrines. When you come to the master, your scriptures, your religions, your mosques and temples, you yourself—everything will be taken away.
That’s why going to a master is the greatest courage.
And having come, staying with the master is the work of the very few.
People come and go. They come—and they run. The moment the sleep is struck, restlessness begins. As long as you placate them, pat them, sing lullabies, deepen their sleep—they are pleased. The moment you shake them, restlessness begins.
It was not for nothing that you crucified Jesus. You did not give Socrates poison without cause. Jesus must be crucified—this man will not let you sleep. You are tired, you want to sink into slumber. You are so anxious and troubled, you want a little peace, to disappear, to be unconscious. Truly understood, the whole world’s search is a search for unconsciousness. Some seek it in wine, some in music, some in sex—and some foolish ones even seek it in meditation: somehow to forget that you are.
The master will awaken you and remind you that you are. He will break your intoxications, snatch the bottle from your hand. He will steal all your inebriations—your bhajans, your kirtans, your name-repetitions, your mantras—so that no device remains for you to sleep. You will have to wake. You will have to wake utterly to know who you are.
From that realization the old world of sleep ends and a new world begins. The name of that new world is liberation. Not a dream seen in sleep; what is realized when sleep breaks—that alone is the divine. Not the prayer uttered in sleep; when sleep is no more, the state of your heart—only that is prayer.
This little Zen story is highly symbolic. Surely the disciple must have wondered, What is the master doing?
He called once—“Hoshin!”
Once is excusable. Hoshin must have thought, There must be some task. But remember, no master calls you for a task. Even if he gives you a task, it is only a pretext to be able to call you.
First grasp this: the master calls you without a task—without cause. In the world, every call has a cause. The wife calls you—there is a reason. The husband calls you—there is a reason. The son calls—there is a reason. Even an innocent little child cries out with a reason. His innocence is not causeless. He is hungry and cries for his mother. There is a purpose, an interest.
I have heard: A man returned home one evening. His wife was sobbing, tears flowing. The man sat down and quietly opened the newspaper. The wife said, At least ask why I’m crying! He said, Asking that has bankrupted me. If you’re crying, the meaning is obvious: some trouble, some demand. Asking why is exactly what’s ruining me. So I’ve stopped asking.
Even our weeping, our laughter, our calling out—all are purposeful. There is some utility. You won’t even greet a stranger on the road without a reason. Without cause you won’t smile. Why take the trouble to call out?
Amid the echoes of this world the master’s call is fundamentally different. Its quality is other. First quality: he is not calling you for anything. He calls you without work. He calls to wake you, not for a task.
“Hoshin!” the master said.
The disciple must have thought, there’s some task. He answered, “Yes.”
He must have waited. The master fell silent; no task was given. Hoshin was left puzzled. Then the nap slipped back.
After a little while the master called again, “Hoshin!”
Startled from sleep he answered again, “Yes.”
He must have thought, perhaps the master forgot—now surely there will be some task! But again the master was silent. Again the nap slid back. The third time the master called, “Hoshin!” He said again, “Yes.”
He must have been bewildered: Has the master gone mad? When someone calls, there is a period at the end; something follows the call. With this master, the period falls right after the name—“Hoshin!”—as if that is the end. As if he is calling only for the sake of calling. As if no further journey begins from the summons.
The master’s call is not the cry of desire; it carries no demand. The call is complete in itself. He does not want to take you elsewhere, to set you chasing some attainment. With his call, the matter is complete. If you can understand the call, it becomes meditation. His summons breaks your inner drowsiness. “Hoshin!”—in that one instant, Hoshin’s thoughts must have stopped. Only then could he say, “Yes.”
For that one instant he must have been alert. For that one instant his spine must have straightened. For a moment the trance of thought must have dissolved, the smoke cleared, the clouds vanished. For a moment, the inner blue sky peeks through. From that blue sky the “Yes” arises.
If Hoshin remained lost, he wouldn’t even know when the master called. He wouldn’t know whether there was a call or not. If he remained sunk in stupor, the arrow of the voice would not enter within. But he must have been puzzled, uneasy: The master calls—and then falls silent.
Often the master will seem mad to you… in a world of madmen, the one who is aware must look mad. That is his fate.
Hoshin must have thought, What has happened to the master? He calls, then is silent—what kind of call is this?
We understand things only when they show a sequence. We understand a path that leads somewhere, to some destination. But if there is a path that goes nowhere, we are thrown into a strange dilemma. Hoshin must have fallen into that dilemma. Seeing his inner perplexity, the master said, “Hoshin, I ought to ask your forgiveness.”
Many times the master will say to you, Hoshin, I should ask your forgiveness because I am breaking your sleep. And I’m doing it without cause; there is no task. No desire, no wish is involved. I want nothing from you. I ask for nothing. I have no intention of exploiting you—still I call you; still I summon you. I should ask forgiveness.
Hoshin’s face must have brightened: That’s true—calling me for nothing!
We understand when there is work to be done. Wherever there is action without self-interest, we are out of our depth. Even when we think of God, we imagine he must have made the world for some purpose, some end.
People come to me and ask, For what purpose did God create this universe? What does it mean? What is the intention? There must be some hidden intention.
We imagine God in our own image. We will not take a single step without a reason. We won’t even flick our eyes without a reason. Then such a vast arrangement! Surely there must be some business behind it, some purpose.
But whoever asks purpose in relation to God will soon find the purpose remains and God disappears. Such a person, today or tomorrow, will become an atheist. Because here there is no purpose—and you won’t be able to accept a purposeless God.
Hindus have shown immense courage—such courage is found nowhere else on earth. They said, This is lila, divine play. It is not God’s “work.” There is nothing to be gained; the world is not going anywhere. The world is happening, but not heading to a destination. It is a path that arrives nowhere—yet it is.
A beggar sat by a road for years. A traveler lost his way and asked, Can you tell me where this road is going? The beggar said, I’ve been here many years; I’ve never seen the road go anywhere. Yes, people come and go upon it. As far as I understand, the road stays where it is.
God stays where he is; neither coming nor going. But you travel upon him—now in this direction, now in that—toward wealth, toward renunciation; toward indulgence, toward yoga. You do not stop. Whether indulgence or yoga—you keep running. Your labor never ceases.
You will understand God the day you become like that road—going nowhere, simply being. The day desire drops; the day neither yoga calls you nor indulgence; the day neither the world pulls nor liberation—the day you drop “going,” the day you become a full stop right where you are.
The master called, “Hoshin”—and there was a full stop. This call is purposeless. This call is play. This call is a game. Seeing the worry stirring in Hoshin, the master said, I should ask your forgiveness. I wake you for no reason, won’t let you sleep. If there were a reason, it would be excusable; but I shake you for nothing. You don’t have to get up to open the shop, to go to market, to go to work—still I wake you. I won’t let you sleep. I should ask your forgiveness.
Hoshin’s concern must have eased. He must have felt, The master is right—he should ask forgiveness. He won’t even let me sit peacefully. For no reason it’s “Hoshin, Hoshin, Hoshin”—won’t even let me think in peace, stirs up obstacles within.
But immediately the master said, Yet in truth, it is you who must ask forgiveness of me. I had to call three times because calling once didn’t do. You said “Yes,” but you turned over and fell asleep again—so I had to call again. In truth you must ask forgiveness, because your sleep is your responsibility. Your laziness is your doing. Even after the third call you turn and go back to sleep.
Even if he must call three thousand times, the master does not tire. The day you awaken, you will ask forgiveness. You will say, What should have happened with one call, you had to repeat three thousand times—for no reason.
Whenever anyone came to Buddha and asked a question, he would answer—and always repeat the answer three times. Someone would ask, Is there nirvana? Buddha would say, “There is.” Then as if he’d forgotten he had just said it, he would say again, “There is.” And then again, “There is.”
Editors compiling the Buddhist scriptures faced a problem. If they wrote like that, the scriptures would become three times as long—unnecessarily big, inconvenient for readers. What one “is” could do, Buddha was saying three times.
So the editors made a notation: “is”—and a sign meaning “three times.” They made a glyph for three so they didn’t have to write it thrice. The editors seemed more “efficient.”
Someone asked Buddha, I ask once—why do you say it three times? Buddha said, If someone truly hears it in three times, he is rare indeed. Who hears even in three? You aren’t even present to listen. You ask the question—and then you fall asleep. Perhaps you ask your question in sleep.
Like a little child, hungry, who cries in his sleep; you give him milk and he sleeps again. He knows neither hunger nor milk. Both acts happen in sleep. Or like a drunkard walking along, staggering—yet somehow he walks. So is your life; so is your walking; so is your awareness—staggering.
Buddha says, If someone hears even in three, he has heard quickly.
This true master said, “Hoshin, on the surface it seems I should ask your forgiveness; but seen from within, you must ask forgiveness of me.”
The story ends there. Many things are contained. Zen speaks in short stories—perhaps short so you can remain alert just that long. Longer than that, you would not hear with awareness.
I have heard a doctor ask his patient, On Sundays you have a holiday—how long do you sleep Sunday morning? The man said, “It depends.” It depends on how long the sermon runs at church—that long I sleep.
Temples are to awaken—but people sleep there too! Churches are to awaken—but there too, people doze! We are so clever we use even the medicines of wakefulness as sleeping pills. We fold everything into our sleep—church, temple, mosque—we drown them all in our slumber. Our sleep is huge, immense. And unless someone strikes at us relentlessly, we may never awaken.
Hence the ancients all said: without a master, there is no knowing. Even with a master, it is a rare event; without one, it will not happen. “Master” only means this: someone keeps knocking at your door. The knock will be gentle. It cannot be aggressive. It will be like water falling on rock. “Hoshin”—the master’s voice cannot be harsh. A master cannot be harsh. The “Hoshin” falls like droplets of water upon stone. But he will repeat it. This soft, sweet fall will carve the rock.
Lao Tzu says, The master is like water; you are like stone. Remember, in the end you will lose. Your hardness won’t help much. Water keeps falling. The blow is gentle—no hammer stroke—but sooner or later the rock crumbles, becomes sand. And still the water flows.
The master’s strike is sweet, yet deep. Sweet not in the sense that it is sugary and helps your sleep—but because it pours from compassion.
All blows of desire are harsh because desire uses the other. Whether a lover speaks to his beloved, a mother to her child, a husband to his wife—there the other is a means; I am the end. I am the goal. My pleasure is the center. I am using the other.
Hence friends are restless, lovers are troubled. There is always conflict among lovers and friends. The basis is this: whenever we use the other, we insult the other. He feels made into a thing, not a person. He feels used, without intrinsic value. He becomes like an object.
When desire calls, it is harsh—because exploitation is harsh.
The master’s voice is gentle. He says, “Hoshin.” The Japanese word itself must have been chosen with care; it is mellifluous. The voice will enter within, but its blow is like a drop of water. Only if it continues, unbroken, will it be able to break you. So the master keeps calling.
And the meeting of his calling and your answering “Yes”—that has been called satsang. If you do not listen at all, satsang does not happen. The master is there—but you are not. If you listen wholly, there remains no disciple. You listen a little, and you don’t listen a little. Your sleep is disturbed a little. You half open your eyes; the lids are heavy; the nap returns. You do say “Yes.” You give at least this sign: I am here, I am listening—this is satsang.
This is a story of satsang. The master calls, the disciple hears. The disciple cannot understand what the master is saying. But he has enough trust that when he calls, he says “Yes.” At least he does not get angry.
You would likely get angry: What nonsense is this? If you have something to say, say it—otherwise why “Hoshin, Hoshin, Hoshin” again and again? If you have something to say, say it; otherwise be quiet. That’s what would rise in your mind. Then there is no trust.
Understand one thing: even in Hoshin’s mind there is doubt.
That is why the master says, I should ask your forgiveness. Seeing his doubt, he says it. His trust is not complete. For when trust is complete, there is no need to call. Trust is not complete; there is doubt—but the doubt is not complete either, otherwise he would just sleep—it is half-and-half.
A great Christian mystic, Tertullian, added a line to his daily prayer to God: My faith is in you—but be mindful also of my unfaith. I trust you—but within me there is doubt too; please take care of that.
This is the voice of an honest disciple. If you hide your doubt, it will not disappear. You may keep saying your surrender is complete—but if even a grain of doubt remains, your surrender is not complete, nor can it ever be, because you will live in the illusion that it is. As you are, you cannot be complete. Doubt will be there. You can only do this much: lower the doubt and raise the trust; but the doubt will remain hidden, gnawing at trust like a worm. And today trust is on top—how long can it stay? Any moment doubt may rise.
Often, when two wrestlers grapple, the one on top must keep exerting, lest the one beneath slip out and mount him. The one underneath can relax; he need not exert. To be underneath requires no effort. The one on top grows tired. If for an hour he stays on top while the other lies below, the one above will tire from effort and fall. In that very fatigue the one below will come up.
When you seat trust upon doubt, trust is tiring while doubt is resting. Not long, and doubt will be on top, trust beneath. But if you have Tertullian’s attitude—where you do not only proclaim your trust but also tell your God, Doubt is here too. I’m not suppressing it, not hiding it, not denying it. As naked as I am—ugly or beautiful, trusting or doubting—I am before you. I will take care of trust; you take care of doubt.
There is doubt in Hoshin’s mind—but with reverence he answers, “Yes.” He does not say even once, Why are you calling me for nothing? Why do you call? What work is there?
I have heard of a fakir who went to visit another fakir. He saw the disciples had great reverence for the master, great love. He said, I am in trouble—I cannot evoke such devotion in my disciples. What should I do? The other said, I’ll come to your home for a meal today. We’ll talk there.
That evening the fakir arrived. His feet were muddy—rainy days, muddy roads, clothes wet. The host told his wife, Bring some water; I must wash my friend’s feet. The wife shouted from inside, The well isn’t far. Take your friend there—wash his feet and give him a bath. Where were you in the morning when you should have filled water?
The two fakirs went, washed at the well, returned clean. After the meal, the host said, Now, speak.
The guest said, You come to my home tomorrow to eat. Rainy days, mud—of course.
The next day he went to the other’s house. At the door, the fakir told his wife, Bring the jar of ghee. She brought it out. He said, My friend has come; once in a while, why wash feet with water? Wash his feet with ghee. The wife poured the whole jar of ghee over his feet and washed them.
After the meal, the host said, Anything to ask—or is the matter complete?
The other said, The matter is complete. Nothing more to say.
Where there is love, reverence follows like a shadow. Where there is love, there is acceptance. Where there is love, call out “Hoshin” without explanation—and the answer “Yes” arrives.
It’s not that this wife had no thoughts—of course thoughts arose. The mind’s job is to raise thoughts. She must have thought, You are wasting ghee. Water would have sufficed. Times are hard, ghee is costly, we gather it with difficulty. All these thoughts must have come. But even with all that, love became first. She thought, If my husband says so, there must be some meaning. Let me be silent. Let me not be hasty.
Thoughts are arising in Hoshin’s mind too—but he does not speak them. He knows that if the master is calling, there is some secret—whether I know it or not. If he calls three times, surely there is something—some deeper matter, some key. Today or tomorrow the key will be revealed. Yet within, there are thoughts, there is doubt.
The mind always doubts. This is natural. So keep one thing in view: if doubt is within, don’t hide it—know it. Don’t let it become active; don’t let it overpower your trust. But don’t suppress it either; don’t force it away. If doubt is within, don’t hide it—wait. Soon the moment will come when the knot of doubt opens. But walk behind trust.
“Disciple” cannot mean someone of perfect trust; one whose trust is perfect is already a master. Disciple means half trust, half doubt.
With this half trust you can do two things. One: sit on the chest of doubt. Then your trust becomes crippled. Whatever you suppress, you are bound to. Your trust will be busy fighting doubt, and your energy will be wasted—like your right hand and left hand fighting while your strength is squandered. Don’t make trust and doubt fight—though it happens naturally. Move with trust.
Set trust in motion and, without hiding doubt, wait for time to reveal the key. Do not attend to doubt; ignore it. Where attention goes, nourishment goes. Whatever you attend to, your life-energy feeds it. Give only neglect to doubt—don’t fight it. No inner war. No repression. Simply direct your attention toward trust. Water trust with attention. Ignore doubt and wait.
“Hoshin!” Hoshin heard; doubt arose; but he kept his attention on trust. He said, “Yes.”
That “Yes” rises from deep trust. Doubt stands beside it, but in the moment of the “Yes,” doubt seems to vanish—as if, for a moment, the whole heart became “Yes.”
In the beginning, it happens so. And the master will give you many chances to put your attention on doubt. Because without such chances, your current of attention cannot be secured toward trust. The master will shake you often. He will become unintelligible again and again. He will behave in ways you did not expect. Expectations belong to the mind; the mind must be broken—and so must your expectations. If the master behaves exactly as you want, then you are manufacturing the master.
Therefore, the master who complies with your expectations will not transform your life. This is why there is a crowd of so-called gurus, and yet scarcely a ray of religion in life. So many renunciates! So many fakirs! So many saints and sages! But they all fulfill your expectations. It is as if a doctor followed the prescriptions of patients! They behave as you prefer. The slightest deviation and you create an uproar.
If a Jain monk is forbidden to walk at night, then all the Jain householders keep an eye out to catch him walking after dark. If he is forbidden to drink cold water and is caught doing so, they act like judges! The follower acts like a judge. He is waiting to pounce—shouting, This monk is corrupt.
The day the ignorant decide how the enlightened should behave; the day the ignorant lay down the norms for how the wise should walk, sit, and act—that day the master must follow the disciple. What worth then has such a master? What value? This is a physician obeying his patients. Your expectations will be broken when you come to a true master.
There is an incident about Hoshin’s master. Many monks lived in that monastery. The Buddhist rule is to eat once before sunset. But this master had an odd habit: he always ate after sunset; and what’s more, Buddhist monks are to eat together, openly, so all can see what each eats—no eating in secret, no eating alone. But Hoshin’s master made a regular practice of eating at night with the doors of his hut closed—and eating all night long.
This news reached the emperor. He was a devotee. He said, This is misconduct.
Our blind eyes see only petty things. The master’s light is not seen. His glory is not seen. The Buddhahood that has flowered in him is not seen. That he eats at night—this we notice immediately. And why close the door?
The emperor grew suspicious. He too was a disciple. He said, We must find out. This is corruption. If he eats in hiding at night, there must be sweets… or who knows what forbidden delicacies—otherwise why hide? Why shut the door? What purpose to conceal a monk’s alms-bowl?
We hide what is wrong—that is the rule of our lives. We keep secret what is wrong, and display what is right. If there is no “right” to display, we still display as though we have it; and we bury the wrong. Large chapters of our lives are secret. Our book of life cannot be an open book. But we think the master’s book must be open.
The emperor said, We must investigate. That night the emperor and his vizier hid behind the master’s hut, naked swords drawn—because this is a matter of saving religion.
At times the ignorant take it upon themselves to “save religion.” They are always anxious that religion is in danger. Those who have no religion are the most concerned to save it. And such fools have destroyed religion most thoroughly.
They hid there with swords, determined to settle the matter that night. At dusk the master came. Hidden in his robe, he brought food. He locked his door. They had already made a hole in the wall to peer through. The master sat with his back toward the peephole and began to eat, keeping his bowl completely hidden. They said, This is intolerable! The man is too cunning. They never thought that he, in his innocence, had seen through their cunning—not because of cunning, but because of innocence.
They broke the window and leapt inside. The master covered his bowl with his robe again. The emperor said, We will not leave without seeing what you are eating. The master said, No—your eyes are not fit to see it. The emperor became even more suspicious. He said, Remove your hands. Now we will not even respect the disciple’s decorum. The master said, As you wish—but the emperor’s eyes should not fall on such ordinary things.
He removed the robe. In the alms-bowl there were no sweets, no costly delicacies—only the stalks and rotten leaves of vegetables that the monastery discarded, boiled up for food.
The emperor was in a bind. The night was cold, yet sweat beaded his brow. He asked, Why the need to hide this?
The master said, Do you think only the wrong must be hidden? The right must be hidden too. You hide your wrong; we hide our right—that is the difference between us. You display the right because showing it feeds your ego; showing the wrong would shatter it. We reveal our wrong and conceal our right. We are your opposites. We live upside down.
“Why hide eating grass and leaves?”
The master laughed. I knew you would come sooner or later; your eyes are fixed on the trivial. The vast is happening—but you do not see it. Enough—this is my last evening here. I am leaving this monastery. Now you take charge—and let those who make rules govern. I cannot fulfill your expectations. And as long as I fulfill your expectations, how will I transform you?
Only the master who does not walk by your expectations can transform you. The one who follows you cannot change you. And it is very hard to follow one who does not follow you. The path becomes thorny. The disciple’s mind will doubt—doubt will arise. Enough trust is needed simply to walk behind the master without expectation.
Do not measure the master by his conduct—for it may be that his conduct is arranged only for you.
A report reached the court of a Sufi, Junnaid—his disciple was also an emperor: What kind of man are you following? He drinks wine and has been seen with improper women. The emperor said, If so, I will sever his head with my own hands. If the one at whose feet I lay my head is false, I will not hold back. This sword will separate his head. But since you have brought the report, you must prove it. The man said, That will be easy; come with me tomorrow.
They went to the lakeshore and hid. Across the lake sat Junnaid; a decanter by his side; cups being poured; and a woman in a veil filling the cups. The emperor drew his sword. He told the man, Go. No need to prove further. I will settle this. He took ten steps forward—but fear arose: How will I cut Junnaid? Then he thought, Why should I do it with my own hands? Soldiers can do it. Why should I bear this murder?
He turned his horse. As he turned, he heard Junnaid’s voice: Since you’ve come this far, don’t go back now—come a little closer. Let there be no distance if you want to know. Hearing his voice, the emperor couldn’t retreat. He had to come near.
Junnaid put the decanter in his hands. It contained nothing but water. He lifted the woman’s veil—it was Junnaid’s mother.
The emperor asked, Then why this drama?
Junnaid said, For the disciples. This drama goes on daily. Because of it, many have fled; good—because they would have fled anyway. They were looking for a pretext.
Anyone who judges the master by outward behavior has judged from afar—because behavior is outside. He did not bring his horse right up close; he turned back quickly. Only those who judge from within will come close.
Only those can come near who stop attending to doubt. Doubt is always saying, Listen to me! The one who listens to trust and not to doubt—today or tomorrow, trust will take him to the place where all seeds of doubt are burned. There perfect trust becomes complete. There is fulfillment.
Life has a law: if you can wait, everything ripens. Life’s way is to bring things to completion—if you can wait. Don’t pick unripe fruit—wait a little. It will ripen and fall. You won’t have to pluck it; you won’t have to climb the tree. Here, everything completes itself; only patience is needed.
Of course, if you rush, you can pluck an unripe fruit. Then you will have to climb—and you may break your limbs falling—only to get an unripe fruit. Once torn from the tree, the ways to ripen are gone. If you “ripen” it at home, that is not ripening—it is rotting, because ripening needs living energy. It’s like someone whitening his hair in the sun—that is not maturity found through life’s process.
You can force ripening in hiding—but it is only decay. To ripen, the living energy of the tree was needed—and you severed it. Everything ripens here. Nothing remains unfulfilled. Everything reaches completion. Only don’t be in a hurry. And our mind is always in a hurry.
Attend to trust; don’t fight doubt. This is the way to be near a master. When the master calls, say “Yes.” It does not mean your doubts have vanished; they will be there—but do not listen to them. In spite of them, your answer should come. They are present—acknowledge them; don’t hide them. And even if you hide, how will you hide them from the master?
In this story, whatever is said is said by the master. Hoshin only says “Yes” three times. Then the master himself says, I should ask your forgiveness—seeing his doubts. Then, seeing his trust, he says, Yet in truth, you should ask forgiveness of me.
These two statements are precious. One is for Hoshin’s doubts: I know there is doubt in you. Those doubts are telling you this man should apologize to you—he is disturbing your sleep; won’t let you sit still; calls you for nothing; his calling is madness. Seeing his doubts, the master says, I should ask your forgiveness.
Perhaps at that very moment Hoshin was giving attention to doubt. Hearing this, he must have started—and shifted attention from doubt to trust. Immediately the master said, Yet in truth, you must ask forgiveness. I had to call three times and you did not wake—ask forgiveness. I must call again—ask forgiveness. And since I call you without any reason, you are blessed by me.
When desire calls, there is a reason; when compassion calls, there is none—therefore who is graced?
In this small tale your whole heart is contained—with its two halves. As I said, everything completes itself if you can wait. And attention is your life-energy. Wherever you place attention, life begins to blossom there.
Scientists now say that even plants grow faster under attention. If you give plants your loving attention, they flower and fruit earlier. Give other plants water and fertilizer regularly, but withhold attention—they will not thrive; even if they grow, they remain stunted; they flower late; they never fully spread.
A child whom the mother attends grows faster, healthier. The child she neglects—though she gives milk regularly—still suffers from neglect.
There is food for the body, which is milk; and there is food for the soul, which is attention. We grant attention to those we love. Our eyes keep returning to them. Whatever we are doing, our awareness flows toward them. Even thousands of miles away, the beloved remains in mind. Our attention clings there.
Love your trust. That becomes your love for the master. If you are not connected to the trust within, you will not connect with the master without. But if you have no relationship with your inner trust, you may wander around the master endlessly and the distance will not lessen.
There is a secret in life: everything longs to be complete.
Scientists say—leaving aside humans—even animals seek completeness. Go to a zoo, draw a circle before a chimpanzee—leave it incomplete, leave a gap; drop the chalk. The chimp will quickly complete it. He too is uneasy with the incomplete.
You too are uneasy until things are complete. Until you finish, there is a restlessness. But some things you can complete—and some you cannot; for those, you must wait.
This is the difference between science and religion. Science seeks those things you can complete. The circle is incomplete, the chalk is in your hand—you can add the missing arc. A machine lacks a part; you can make it and fit it. Science completes “things”—they can be completed because they are outside you.
Religion completes you. But there, you can do nothing—because you yourself must be completed. How will you “do” it? There you are both sculptor and statue. There is no separation between maker and made. How will you complete it? There you must wait.
Hence science is effort; religion is patience. Science is in haste; religion is in trust. There you do nothing; there the life-energy is flowing into the tree. You only wait. Turn yourself in the right direction and wait. Keep your gaze true and wait—you will arrive. Let your eyes be on trust, your back toward doubt. No enmity, no struggle—just a turning away. Pour all your love on trust. And wait.
Soon you will find the energy that fed your doubts turning into trust. Soon you will find the tree of doubt withers, and the water that once nourished doubt now flows into the tree of trust.
The day trust is complete within you, that day the master will call, Hoshin! Perhaps you won’t even have to say “Yes.” You will awaken. One call will make you stand. For that one call, all the preparation is made.
This day of Guru Purnima is chosen because of the full moon. It is a symbol of completeness. The moon moves, begins as a slender thread, and becomes full. The moon has nothing to “do” to be full; it only has to wait. Fullness comes, and the moon pours out its light.
Remember another thing: when the moon is not full, we see it as incomplete—but in truth it is always complete. It only appears incomplete. The reason the second-day or third-day moon seems small is not that the moon is lacking; the moon is whole, but sunlight falls only on so much of it as we see. On the full moon, light falls on the entire face; on the new moon, the moon disappears altogether. The moon remains; nothing comes or goes. Only light fails to fall.
Your attention is your light. Your attention is your life. You are whole. Your attention is not on you. As your attention falls upon you, the moon begins to appear. First as a delicate crescent—sometimes seen, sometimes lost. If you keep waiting and keep raining the energy of attention upon trust, keep the focus, keep showering attention—today or tomorrow the moon will move toward fullness and one day it will be full.
Guru Purnima is chosen for the full moon. And all are on the path to fullness. Sooner or later, all will be complete. Do not hurry—for in hurry you will spoil things.
Who hurries? Only the mind. You know this: when you are in a hurry, everything takes longer. You must catch a train; in haste, the bottom button goes to the top hole, the tie is crooked, the shoe goes on the wrong foot; then you must change it all. Changing makes you rush even more. In haste, you miss the train. No one misses in patience; people miss by hurrying. The more hurry, the more tension. The more patience, the more relaxation.
I have heard: A new railway line was laid through a forest in a tribal area. When it was ready and the inauguration day arrived, the railway minister came to see. The tribals gathered—curious, happy. The minister asked, How long does it take you to go to the city? To sell wood, fruit, vegetables? They said, Three days for the round trip. He said, Now rejoice. This train is ready. Now you’ll go in the morning and be home by evening.
Hearing this, they looked worried. He asked, This is good news—why are you sad? They said, What will we do with the other two days?
The old world was quiet. It moved with great patience. No speed, no tension, no hurry to arrive, no hurry to return. Time felt ample, sufficient. All would happen in time. The greater the speed, the greater the tension. With speed, you become hasty. Every minute becomes a worry—don’t lose it!
And you never ask what you will do with the time you save. Those tribals asked rightly: What will we do with the two days? It takes us three now; two will be saved—what then? They were sad. You never ask: having hurried, what will you do?
You do not hurry for any real reason—you hurry out of restlessness. You are not hurrying toward a certain arrival. If you knew for sure you would arrive, then a question would arise—what will you do upon arrival? You hurry because you are agitated. In hurry, agitation gets masked by busyness. The more restless, the more hurried. The more hurried, the more restless. A vicious circle forms. In it, you end in madness.
Keep patience. Impatience is the sowing of madness. The moon becomes full by itself—you need do nothing. The river reaches the ocean by itself—you need do nothing. No one shoves the river to the sea. And you don’t work on the moon to make it full. When the whole of nature is moving on its own, are you the lone exception? You too will reach the divine—that is your full moon. But do not hurry. Keep patience. The deeper the patience, the sooner the result. If patience is perfect, this very moment you are the full moon—because you are the moon always. When patience is complete, attention becomes complete. Understand this well.
When you are restless, attention scatters—into twenty-five things. One hand fastening buttons, another putting on shoes, a third adjusting your coat, a fourth… You will say, I don’t have so many hands! Look at our Hindu gods—they are given a thousand hands for this reason. Whether your hands are a thousand or not, you act as if they were.
I saw a cartoon: A woman is knitting a sweater, reading the newspaper, the radio is on, she is rocking the baby’s cradle with her foot—a thousand hands. The more hurried you are, the more you want to do, the more you split yourself. She is not truly listening to the radio, nor knitting, nor reading, nor loving the child. Yet she thinks she’s doing so much. Nothing is happening. The child is neglected. The foot is a poor instrument—rocking like a task. No stream of love flows through it. No attention flows toward the child. It is duty, performed mechanically. She is an automaton, without heart. She has a thousand hands.
Forgive the gods their thousand hands; don’t create them for yourself. Don’t create a thousand occupations. Don’t create a thousand tensions. Flow with patience. Flow slowly. The moon will appear. Fullness arrives of itself.
Only one thing to remember: let your attention be on trust. Let all the energy of your attention rain upon trust. If that rain falls on trust, you will connect with the master.
The way to connect with the master is to connect with the trust within.
And the day you are connected to the master—the day, even with doubt present, a bridge is built between you and him—on that day the revolution in your life begins. Because joining with the master is joining with a catalytic agent. The master does nothing; the value of doing is little. His presence does something.
Scientists acknowledge the phenomenon of a catalytic agent. It means: when two elements are to join, the mere presence of a third is needed. It does nothing; nothing of it enters into the product. If we analyze the result, we find only the two; the third is not found. But without its presence, the two would not combine.
It is a mysterious fact. But scientists accept it—there is no other way.
To join oxygen and hydrogen, a spark is needed; lightning flashes in the sky when it rains. If lightning does not strike, there is no rain. The presence of electricity is needed. In its presence oxygen and hydrogen instantly combine to become water. But if you decompose water, you get hydrogen and oxygen—you do not get the electricity. It was only a presence. In its presence, the event occurred.
If in the physical realm catalytic agents exist, they exist in the spiritual. The master is a catalytic agent. He will not do anything; you connect with him, and in his presence the event happens within you. Your inner halves join in his presence and become one. Under the master’s eyes, you become one. And the master does nothing. In your unification, no trace of the master can be found. In your inner revolution there is no donation from him—only his presence.
That is why being near the master is called satsang. Simply being near him is enough—within his presence. He is present; and in his presence you grow, you expand, and your moon appears.
When the master calls, “Hoshin,”
forget doubt—and let your trust answer, “Yes.”
And if the master calls again and again, be ready to answer again and again. Be ready to become alert again and again. The master’s watery blows will one day cut your rock. You will flow. You will reach the ocean.
Enough for today.