One day Goso said to his disciples, “A buffalo has escaped from the courtyard in which it was imprisoned. It has smashed the courtyard wall. Its whole body has come out through the wall—horns, head, legs, trunk, everything; but the tail cannot come out. And the tail is not entangled anywhere. No one is holding the tail either. I ask you, why can’t the tail come out?”
The disciples began to think—and Goso began to laugh. Then he said, “Whoever thought, his tail is entangled.” The disciples sank even deeper into thought. Then Goso said, “Whoever doesn’t understand—go back and look at your own tail.”
Please explain the meaning of this story.
To be free of what is, is very easy. To be free of what is not, is very difficult. Anything visible—no matter how hard—it is not impossible to break it; but that which is invisible, even if you want to break it, how will you break it?
This seemingly paradoxical point is utterly true of the inner realities of life. A man can become free of everything—except the ego. And the ego is not. It has no existence. If you go searching for it, you won’t find it. That by which you are bound—if you search for it you will not be able to locate it anywhere. Perhaps that is why the bondage is so deep. There is no way to break it—if it could be seen, you would break it; if it existed, you would break it. We are terribly bound by that which is not! Yet even what is not can bind. A few reasons must be understood.
Bodhidharma went to China fourteen hundred years ago. The Emperor of China said, “I am very disturbed, very restless.” Bodhidharma said, “Come tomorrow morning. But remember—bring your restlessness along. Because if you forget it at home, how will I treat you?”
The emperor did go home, but unsure whether to return in the morning. “This man seems a bit mad,” he thought. “Restlessness is not a thing you can leave at home or bring along. What is this talk of bringing and taking?” He pondered all night: to go or not to go? Yet the man was strangely magnetic; there was power in his eyes, depth in his being. And the way he said, “Bring your restlessness with you—otherwise whom shall I make peaceful?”—there was such truth and authenticity in it that the emperor decided there was no harm in going. It was worth the experiment. Such an opportunity should not be lost.
Early next morning the emperor arrived. The sun had not yet risen. Bodhidharma was sitting outside his temple on the steps. Seeing the emperor he said, “Sit down. Now—where is the restlessness? Where is your mind? Take it out so I can make it still.”
The emperor said, “Are you mocking me—or are you deranged? Restlessness is not a thing I can show you.”
Bodhidharma said, “If you can see it, why should I not be able to see it? And if restlessness is no ‘thing’ at all, how has it been troubling you so much? It must be—perhaps hidden, covered by some veil. That which keeps you so agitated, that which won’t let you sleep, that which won’t even let your food digest, because of which you cannot enjoy the pleasures of your empire—it must be; and strong enough.”
The emperor said, “That I know—that it is, and it is strong. But it is not something outside; it is inside.”
So Bodhidharma said, “Close your eyes and look within. And when you catch hold of it, tell me. I am ready here outside. The moment you catch it there, I will solve it here. I will send you away in peace.”
The emperor closed his eyes and began to search for where the restlessness was. He peered into every nook and corner of the mind. He lifted each layer of mind and looked. He removed every garment. The more he searched, the more amazed he became: he could not find restlessness at all. On the contrary, the mind was becoming more and more still.
Whoever goes within to search for restlessness—becomes peaceful. Restlessness is there because you have never looked at it closely. Its existence is only in your not-looking. In itself, it is nothing at all.
As he lifted layer upon layer, a deep, silent sky opened. It was as if the doors of a temple were opening—where everything is calm. That music which had begun to play within began to spread without as well. An hour passed, two hours passed, the sun rose. The first rays fell on the emperor’s face. He sat utterly still, like a stone statue—a statue of a Buddha. At last Bodhidharma shook him and said, “Enough. I have other work as well. Open your eyes. If you have caught it, speak; otherwise come again tomorrow morning.”
The emperor opened his eyes, bowed, touched Bodhidharma’s feet and said, “Blessed one! You have stilled me. When I look, I do not find restlessness; when I do not look, there is restlessness. When I look, it cannot be seen—it disappears. When I don’t look, when I turn my back, it becomes heavy, immense, terrifying.”
You are tormented by that restlessness which is not. You suffer from diseases that have no existence. And that which is not—grips you fiercely. And you cannot get free of it. If it were manifest, you could devise a way to be free; but it is unmanifest. So subtle, next to nothing. Like emptiness.
The prison walls that are visible—no matter how high—ladders can be found. The prison walls that are visible—no matter how strong, made of rock—can be broken. But you are imprisoned in a jail that cannot be seen. Where will you place your ladder? The walls are invisible—how will you break them? And your prison is of such a kind that it is not outside you; it is within you. And it is such that you are not confined inside it; you carry it with you. You take it along wherever you go. And the prison is such that everything can get out—but your tail will remain stuck.
In Hindi there is a marvelous word, poochh—“to be asked after, to be given attention”—and if one plays with the word, it becomes a great secret, for it also echoes poonchh, tail. People complain, “We went—no one even asked after us.” No one inquired, no one paid attention. They are miserable. If there is “asking after,” they feel happy; if there isn’t, they feel unhappy. That “asking after,” that being-noticed, is the ego. You go to someone’s house, you are a guest; if no one even asks after you, you return hurt. If there is much asking after, you return delighted. Someone looks at you, respects you, honors you, acknowledges that you are—that you are someone special.
This “being asked after” is specialness. Everyone is imprisoned in specialness.
And the day you become ordinary, that day you are free. That day the tail will no longer remain caught. And everyone thinks, “I am special, I am something extraordinary.” You will not find a person who does not secretly believe himself special. If you ever do, never leave his feet—he is a god. The thought “I am extraordinary” is the most ordinary thought—everyone has it. Not only you—trees, insects, everyone feels, “I am extraordinary.” Even a tiny moth or a fly is stuffed with this idea.
There is an old tale of Luqman. Luqman was one of the ancient sages—long before Jesus. Muhammad mentions Luqman with great respect in the Quran, dedicating a whole chapter to him. There is hardly a language on earth where the name of Luqman has not found its way into proverbs. People who have no idea who Luqman was still use the expression. When annoyed they say, “What a Luqman he imagines himself to be!” There’s a saying: “What is there to explain to Luqman!”—no one wiser than Luqman. Someone asked him, “How did you become so wise?” Luqman said, “When I became a fool.” Someone asked, “Why are you so honored?” Luqman said, “When I dropped the desire for honor.”
Here is a little story of Luqman. He told his message through stories. Most of Aesop’s famous fables are Luqman’s stories retold by Aesop. Luqman says: A fly sat on an elephant. The elephant didn’t notice when the fly sat down. The fly buzzed loudly and said, “Brother!”—a fly loves to call an elephant brother—“Brother! If you’re troubled at all, tell me. If my weight bothers you, just say the word and I’ll get off.” But the elephant heard nothing. Then they came to a bridge over a fierce mountain river, a deep ravine. The fly said, “Look—we are two! The bridge might break! If you feel any fear, tell me. I have wings; I’ll fly off.” A little buzzing reached the elephant’s ear; he paid it no attention. At last it was time for the fly to depart. She said, “The journey was very pleasant. A pilgrimage, companions, friendship—now I’m going. If you ever need anything, let me know.”
At that moment a bit of her voice reached the elephant. He said, “I don’t know who you are. When you came, when you sat on my body, when you flew away—there’s no accounting. But by then the fly had already gone.”
Luqman says, our being is just like that. On this great earth, our being or not-being makes no difference. In this vast existence our proportion, compared to that of the elephant and the fly, is even smaller. What difference does it make? Yet we make a lot of noise. We make a great fuss! Why this noise? What did the fly want? She wanted the elephant to acknowledge: “You are too; you also exist.” She wanted “being asked after.”
Our ego cannot live alone. Only if others recognize it can it survive. So we do everything to make others acknowledge it, pay attention, look our way—do not neglect us. We dress for others, we bathe for others, we groom ourselves for others. We amass wealth, build houses—for others. So that others will see and acknowledge that you are somebody special. You are not ordinary. You are not a clay doll—born of dust and to dust returning. You are special. Your dignity is unique. You are one-of-a-kind. The ego is always searching—for those eyes that will give weight to my shadow.
Now let us understand Goso’s story.
Goso is one of those few who attained Buddhahood. He told his disciples, “Listen! In a courtyard a buffalo is imprisoned; it tries to get out.”
Everyone tries. Wherever there is bondage, we try to escape. Because wherever bondage is, there the ego is hurt. Dependence stings, pricks us—why? Because dependence means you are no longer able to be on your own. You cannot walk when you wish, sit when you wish. There is no room for your ego to spread. Hence the ego demands freedom.
Understand this: the freedom the ego wants is not the freedom of the soul. And however much freedom the ego wants, it can never want total freedom. This is the paradox of the ego, the contradiction of asmitā.
This is subtle. Try to see it. The ego wants not to be dependent, yet it cannot live without others. You want to be alone, and yet you cannot live without others. The ego’s state is like those who say, “Living with the wife is hard—impossible. Without her, too, it’s hard—also impossible.” With her there are difficulties; without her the fun is gone. The ego wants others to be there, but not to make it dependent. It wants to exploit others, to make others dependent, while remaining independent itself.
Goso said the buffalo is confined in a courtyard. The gate is open; there are no chains. To be free, the buffalo steps out. The horns get through, the head, the trunk—everything passes through—but the tail doesn’t. And no one is holding the tail, nor is it tied.
Now the doorway must be big; if the buffalo could pass through, why not the tail? The buffalo herself must have stopped. No one tries to pull the tail out anyway. While she was confined, she wanted freedom, liberation. But when the whole buffalo had emerged, then she realized: if the tail also comes out—what will you do with your freedom?
The renunciate flees to the Himalayas—but the tail remains here in the world. Sitting on a Himalayan rock he still thinks of you—“When will you come? When will you have my darshan? When will you offer flowers at my feet?” Even far away in the Himalayas he waits: someone should come and say, “Never have we seen anyone so one-pointed, so secluded in solitude.” Let the world be informed that I have come to the Himalayas. Let the world know that I have renounced. But let the world know!
Even the renunciate wants his renunciation reported in the newspapers—what a joke! The buffalo comes out, the tail stays inside. The very world he renounced—its newspaper is not renounced. Everything is dropped, but may the world ask after you, know about you, recognize that you are—this is not dropped. You have come to the Himalayas, but your heart will be pleased only when people in every corner of the world know that you have left the world and are living in seclusion. Only when others know that you are in solitude will you enjoy your solitude.
The buffalo comes out, the tail stays within. No one is holding it. Who is holding you? You went as far as the Himalayas—no one stopped you. No one bound you; who would bind you? Everyone is worried about their own tail; who has time to tie yours? You are worried about yours; others about theirs. Yet the tail is left inside.
And Goso asked, “Tell me—what is the obstacle? The whole buffalo is out; no one binds, no one holds; the door is open—why is the tail inside? It isn’t even caught anywhere.”
The disciples began to think. Goso laughed and said, “If you think—your tail too will stay inside.”
Whoever does not think—his tail disappears at once, because without thinking the ego has nowhere to stand.
You think—therefore the ego is constructed. The more you think, the more ego is made. That is why your so-called intellectuals are the most egotistical. Those you call the intelligentsia, the learned—they will be the most egoistic. It is not easy to sit two pundits together. Two dogs might sit quietly for a while, not bark at each other—two pundits cannot. In heaven everyone will find a place; pundits will not. Otherwise there will be no peace there. There will be so much blathering, so many pointless arguments, such noise and quarrels that heaven will become worse than hell.
The pundit’s ego becomes monstrous. The more the mind thinks, the greater the sense of “I am great.” In no-mind you cannot survive as an ego; you survive only in thought. Thought is the prop. Hence the ignorant cannot be very egoistic. The learned have written fine lines: “In a country where wealth is worshiped and the king is revered—the wise man is worshiped everywhere.” Who writes this? They themselves! Their wisdom cannot be very deep. The tail is caught within; the buffalo is out.
And even when they pursue knowledge, it is only so they may be worshiped everywhere—so that all may bow. But what do you gain from seeing worship in others’ eyes? What energy do you gather? What power?—you just become “special.” You feel you are something. You gain confidence in your “somebody-ness”: otherwise why would so many look at me? So many look at me with such eagerness, all eyes upon me—I cannot be ordinary. I must be a rare diamond.
Those we call intelligent are deeply unintelligent—if you look at their tails. That is why most of the world’s upheavals happen because of these so-called intellectuals.
Only in two places did society learn to deal with this trick. One was India; now the other is Russia. In India there were no revolutions for five thousand years—because we gave the rebel the highest possible place: the Brahmin. And above that there was no place. He who was intelligent was revered. Look at the Brahmin’s swagger! He walks the road a beggar, yet see his nose! His tail sprouts from that nose. He may not have a penny, not a farthing, but look at his gait—would even a king walk with such a strut! And the way he looks at you—as if you were some paltry insect. That Brahmin pride has slowly vanished; hence India will not be able to avoid revolution for long. The unrest is rising.
Russia has repeated the experiment. The most suppressed society in the past fifty years—yet no revolution there now, because the Brahmins are honored. The intellectuals—professors, academicians, writers, poets—are honored in Russia as nowhere else on earth. The old age of Brahmins has returned there. There will be no revolution until the Brahmin is dethroned; the moment he is, he will start the trouble—because his tail must be.
That is why the centers of unrest across the world are the universities; Brahmins are made there. Universities are hotbeds of upheaval. The greatest fire is there. The gunpowder there is utterly dry—only a spark is needed. In the coming fifty years, whatever troubles, unrest, obstacles, anxieties arise in the world will come from the university. There all the professors are dissatisfied. The future professors—the present students—are dissatisfied. The more intelligence grows, the more dissatisfaction grows. For however much respect the ego gets, it is never enough; the demand keeps increasing. The demand of intellect has no end. The greatest throne soon feels too small. Universities are dens of politics. From the peon to the vice-chancellor—everyone is deeply entangled in politics. Everyone wants to climb higher. This race for higher will be strongest among the clever.
Goso said, “Watch it! If you think, your tail will get entangled too.”
How can a thinker be egoless? A man can be egoless only when the bricks of the ego are removed. This house stands here; its bricks are not visible because plaster covers them. The bricks of your ego are not visible either, covered over by the plaster. But remove the bricks one by one—do you think the house will remain when all the bricks are gone? The day the bricks are gone, the house vanishes. Thoughts are the bricks of the ego’s mansion. The more thoughts you keep, the bigger the palace becomes.
Goso is right: “Who thinks—wanders.”
Religion is the opposite of thinking. Religion is not philosophy. Religion is not the art of thought. Religion is the experience of no-thought.
In the moment of no-thought, the palace is gone. You remain—but the ego is not. You stand beneath the open sky. All prisons are gone. And suddenly, when you look back, you will find there is no tail. For one who is in no-mind becomes like a tree, like a bird, like a waterfall, like sunlight trembling in the breeze, like a cloud flying in the sky. Where can there be ego?
I have heard another tale of Luqman. One day an argument was going on and Luqman was sitting and listening. Luqman was a poor slave; a king had bought him. The way he was bought is worth understanding. In the marketplace Luqman was on sale. Two other slaves were being sold with him. One of them was very handsome. Luqman was very ugly. The buyer’s eye first went to the handsome, healthy one. He asked, “What can you do?” The man said, “Anything.” An egotist evidently—“anything.” Then he looked at the second and asked, “What can you do?” He said, “Everything.”
Hearing these answers the buyer thought he should ask the third as well—though he had no intention of buying him. Luqman was ugly. “And what can you do?” he asked. Luqman said, “Nothing. I can do nothing.” The king said, “Strange answers! One says ‘anything,’ another says ‘everything,’ and you say ‘nothing.’ Surely you can do something—how can you do nothing?” Luqman replied, “There is nothing left. One says ‘everything,’ one says ‘anything’—what remains to be done? Only ‘nothing’ remains—and that I can do.”
Meditation is the art of “no-thing.”
As long as you can do something, the ego will be built; the tail will grow. The more skillful you become in doing, the more ego will grow. The palace will rise. Luqman was right: “no-thing.” The king liked the answer. Luqman said, “Buy me! What are you thinking? Anyone will buy these two; only a king can buy me. These others—anyone can buy them, even a poor laborer; they can do something. They are caught by their hands. They will be sold into the hands of some fool. Only a king who understands can buy me.” That, of course, pricked the king’s ego. The tail swelled. The moment someone says “Only a king can buy me,” he buys at once—and pays a hefty price.
Luqman went to the king’s house and lived there as a slave. He later wrote a memoir: One day he was cleaning a room. Outside the palace, the royal flag was fluttering in the wind. Inside, a carpet lay resting on the stairs. Luqman said, I overheard a conversation. The flag was saying, “I am always in trouble—gusts of wind, sun, rain, storms, hurricanes! In the battlefield I go riding before the first horse. Where bullets fly and cannons roar—I am at the very front. My life is always at risk. And you—” it said to the carpet, “you always rest here in the shade; no sun, no wind, no storms, no going to war. You are always at ease. What is your trick, your secret?”
The carpet said to the flag, “Be a no-thing—that is my trick, my secret. I am dust underfoot. You have taken upon yourself the idea of being on the head, on high. You are the flag; your swagger is great. Bullets will fly around you, storms will rise around you—how else will your pride be proved? You will remain in tension. I am nothing; dust underfoot. Whoever is nothing finds rest.”
Luqman was dusting, cleaning; he began to laugh. The king asked, “Why are you laughing?” Luqman said, “This carpet has reached exactly where I reached. When I told you ‘nothing’—that I can do nothing—this carpet too has discovered the same secret. O King, if you want to learn, learn from the carpet; avoid the flag.”
But how to avoid being the flag! The ego’s flag goes ahead of you. You come after; the flag of the ego goes before you. Perhaps you are only the pole that carries the flag. The flag is the real thing.
Goso said, “Think—and your tail will be entangled.” Hearing this, they became even more anxious, because so far it had been a story; now it had become about their lives. It was not about some other buffalo—Goso was talking about them. They grew more restless. They thought even more.
There are certain things you cannot go beyond by effort. The more you try, the more entangled you become. For example, if sleep doesn’t come—what will you do? Whatever you do will hinder sleep. Will you chant a mantra, repeat the name of Rama? Will you pace the room? Count sheep? From one to a hundred, then backward—ninety-nine, ninety-eight, back to one? Whatever you do—it will obstruct sleep. Because sleep happens when you are not doing. Whenever you do, tension arises. Doing cannot become rest.
Yet go to anyone—if you have insomnia, you will find plenty of free advice: what to do. And because of their advice you will never sleep again—beware of them! For sleep nothing can be done. Whatever you do, the opposite will happen. Sleep comes only when you are doing nothing. Some things are like this—do anything and you will be caught.
Meditation is akin to sleep. No-thought is akin to sleep. That is why the Hindu scriptures say samadhi and sushupti (deep sleep) have the same nature. Deep, dreamless sleep is like samadhi. The difference is small: in sleep you are not aware; in samadhi you are aware. But the quality is the same. The supreme sage is one who is in the same rest as you are in deep sleep—but he is aware. That is the only difference. He is awake while asleep; you are asleep while awake. He is utterly different from you. Some things are such that the moment you employ a method, you are in trouble. Understand this well.
Goso said, “If you think, your tail will be entangled.” But they did not stop thinking; they became even more lost in thought. The more they thought, Goso said, “Look! If you think too much, turn around and see: your tail is growing longer and longer.”
Thought cannot take you beyond thought. Ego cannot take you beyond ego.
If you are full of ego, the whole world will teach you to become humble—“Be humble, and people will honor you.” In temples, mosques, churches it is taught: be humble, because only the humble are respected. A strange trick! The desire for respect is being used as bait to make you humble. This humility will be false. It will be an ornament of the ego.
In temples it is preached: renounce, do not be greedy—because whoever renounces will receive in the other world. What a joke! But the renouncing is still for the sake of obtaining. Who will renounce? The clever person—who wants to make arrangements even for the next world. Give in charity so that God will return it to you a thousandfold. Even here there is no business so profitable. This deal is really delicious: you give a penny and a million come back. It sounds like gambling.
There is a lottery not only here—there is one in heaven too. And here’s lottery—there is no guarantee you will win. You might lose. But the heavenly lottery never misses. You give a penny—millions are assured. The scriptures say, “God returns a millionfold—so give!”
You are being taught charity, but its foundation is greed. This charity will be false. That is why this land has been speaking of charity for five thousand years—yet you will not find more greedy people anywhere.
On this earth nowhere will you find greed as monstrous as in India. And here there is constant talk of charity—and charity too is being done. Temples are being built, mosques are being raised, dharmshalas erected. Charity goes on—and greed beyond measure.
What has happened? Somewhere a miscalculation has crept in. Our charity too stands on greed. Our heaven stands upon this world. “Renounce here—to attain there.” What kind of renunciation is this! Renunciation means there is no longer any desire to attain. There is nothing to get, hence one drops. The matter is closed; a full stop. No more race to obtain. It is not an investment. Not a new business where you put in money. It is simply dropping. You are free of it.
Renunciation—the full stop that asks for no beyond—that alone is renunciation. Humility—the full stop that does not crave respect—that alone is humility.
The ego cannot drop the ego. To drop ego we persuade the ego—we coax it. We say, “Look—if you are humble everyone will honor you; but if you show arrogance no one will honor you—you’ll be slapped. If you want garlands, walk with your neck bowed.” But inside the desire is for the garland.
You cannot go beyond thought by thought. What will you do? If you begin to think, “How to become thoughtless?”—this is what many people do. They listen to gurus, wise men, saints—and the idea of thoughtlessness arises. But that too is a thought, a desire: “How to become thoughtless?” Now you sit with eyes closed and think, “How to become thoughtless? What is the trick?” All this thinking goes on. Even no-thought becomes a thought for you. No one has ever reached no-thought through thought.
Goso saw they were getting more and more lost in thought. He laughed and said, “Turn back and look. Your tail is growing longer.”
Had you been there you too would have turned to look. Even if you restrained yourself in the assembly, once out of Goso’s temple you would have slipped into some quiet lane and looked back to see whether the tail had grown! But this tail is not a visible thing you can look at from behind. It is not a part of the body. And yet Goso is right. People like Goso do not speak wrongly.
“Turn back and look” does not mean look with your physical back. It means, “Close your eyes and look within.” There the tail is growing. The more you think, the more smoke arises; the more ego grows. “Turning back” means pratikraman—what Mahavira called pratikraman.
There are two movements of consciousness. One is aggression—when you move toward the other. The other is regression—when you turn your awareness upon yourself. “Turn back and look” means what Kabir said: “Close your eyes and let your eyes turn inward.” Turning back means become aware of what is going on within you. Think—and thought increases. From one thought a thousand are born. Has anyone ever reached no-mind by thinking? Thinking brings more thought, and more—at the end madness may come. You can go deranged, not liberated. The bricks of thought build your ego-sense. That is your tail.
The buffalo is no one else—it is you. The courtyard is nowhere else—it is your mind. You are wholly out—only the tail is caught. It sounds absurd. It sounds like a riddle: if the whole buffalo is out, how can the tail be stuck? And yet it is always so: the buffalo comes out; the tail gets caught. You can go out; nothing hinders your freedom—except your ego remains entangled.
Think a little. You go to the temple to pray. Prayer means surrender before God. Yet even there you peep through half-closed eyes—“Is anyone watching?” You are not concerned with God; you are concerned whether the village sees that you are a great religious man. People do not go to pray alone; they go in crowds. Let people see that you are religious—that brings respectability, honor. You bow before God, but you are thinking only of your tail—“Is anyone seeing?”
If people are watching closely, you become deeply absorbed in prayer. That absorption is false. If no one were there, you would quickly finish your prayer and go home. You have nothing to do with God—it is the crowd all around...
Imagine: the day you are praying, the TV people arrive with their cameras. What absorption will appear that day! Reporters are there, photographers too, flashbulbs firing, cameras circling you—never before was your meditation so deep. Because that day the tail is growing nicely. For this tail you will do anything. You can miss God—but you cannot miss this tail.
Jesus said, “When your left hand gives, do not let your right hand know; otherwise the charity is wasted.” Give and run away. Do not wait for thanks; otherwise the gift is wasted. But we give for the sake of thanks. If we give and no thanks comes, we linger: “How long will you take to say it?” If he says nothing at all, we return hurt and upset. “The giving was wasted!” And Jesus says, “Give and slip away—so that he cannot even say thank you. Let not your right hand know what your left has given.”
The Sufis say, “Pray in the dark of night—so that even your wife does not know you are praying. If she knows, the matter goes awry.” Not that her knowing itself spoils anything; but you are so cunning that you will arrange for it to be ‘accidentally’ known. We are very skillful at deceiving ourselves. We devise ways to deceive—so skillful that we ourselves fail to notice we are deceiving. Recall—have you ever done anything in which there was no thought of the tail?
Even beggars know well: if you are walking alone, they don’t harass you; alone you will say, “Get lost!” No one is watching; what is there to fear? But if you are walking with four others, the beggar will trap you. He will cling to your legs and hands, wail and cry. Now you will have to give. Inside you are cursing: “If I had met you alone I would have taught you!” But now, before these four, you must give—otherwise, what will they think? You become generous at once. That generosity is false. You give four coins instead of two—for those four pairs of eyes. Your tail is wagging in those eyes; your ego is swelling. Even a beggar knows when to catch you—there is a psychology to begging. He knows you cannot give all the time; he has to extract it from you. You do not want to give—yet you give.
There is a town I know well; I lived there many days. Whenever people went to solicit donations, they first went to the richest man. It was known he never gave—but he would have them write down ten thousand, fifteen thousand, twenty thousand against his name. That was accepted—though he would not give a paisa. But once he had “given” twenty thousand, the small-tail people were caught too. If the great miser has given twenty thousand—now if they give nothing, they will stand worse than him. So they too wrote their pledges. If you ask the fundraisers in your towns, they know whose names to write first! Whether they give or not is not the big question. Because of those names, others begin to feel the prick of ego. One rich man “gives,” the other thinks, “Am I small? Will I lag behind?”
Your pilgrimages and temples are sustained by the same beggar-psychology. In temples, charity is never done in private. People gather; then the pledges are called out. In Jain temples after Paryushan there is a day for donations. That day the bidding begins. Someone says “ten thousand.” It is like an auction—the tail is on sale. Once one says “ten thousand,” another, even if he cannot afford it, says “fifteen.” The pride keeps rising. Then it becomes a question of prestige—who comes first. The race becomes one of ambition.
The temple thrives on ambition; the shop thrives on ambition. There is no difference. The mathematics is the same. Methods may look different from above, but the inner process is one—ego. A race to install the biggest stone, to donate the most. Your whole life runs on ego.
A life run by ego is called the world—samsara. You are imprisoned in it though no one has imprisoned you. The doors are open. You too want out, because dependence is suffering. But you cannot go out—because the ego depends on others. If you go completely out, the ego will die. This is the dilemma.
The buffalo stands in the doorway. The whole body has come out; the tail she has left inside—of her own accord. If even one of Goso’s disciples had been awake, he would have said, “There is no obstacle; the buffalo is not going out by her own decision.” Goso makes it clear. The riddle is straightforward: no one is holding the tail; it is not entangled; the whole buffalo has passed; the door is large enough. There is no cause for the tail to remain—causeless.
But Goso’s disciples started thinking. Such a simple fact they could not see. Thought has a blindness that cannot see truth. The simple fact is that the buffalo is standing by choice. Perhaps she is thinking of returning—that dependence was comfortable. Or perhaps she wants both joys at once—freedom and ego; and ego can be had only in dependence.
Whoever you seek prestige from—you will become his slave. Whoever you seek honor from—he will become your master. Because he will not honor you for free—he will have terms. He will tell you how to walk and sit and act. Look at monks—behind them gather crowds of disciples, and the disciples run the monk. How to get up, how to sit, what to do, what not to do. They keep watch—slip a little, and your prestige is gone; your status, your sainthood—lost.
Whoever you seek prestige from—you become his slave. If you want to be free—do not seek prestige. If you want freedom—drop the desire for respect. Then the buffalo can go out. There is no need to keep the tail inside. Most monks never come fully out—the tail remains within.
Goso’s disciples began to think because they did not grasp the truth. It can be understood only if you have recognized it in your own life. So they thought.
This was no riddle to be solved by thinking. It is a fact to be seen by attention. Riddles can be solved by thought. Facts cannot. For facts you need open, clear, empty eyes. They are present before you—you only have to see. Open your eyes and see.
What difficulty is there? The story is simple: the buffalo stands by her own choice—she has hesitated. Perhaps she is afraid—outside may not be safe. Inside is better. And at least let so much remain inside that the tail stays—so that people keep you in mind. Let everything go—but keep this much of the world: a place in people’s memory. Even if you flee to the jungle, leave your tail here. Take sannyas, sit in a monastery—leave your tail here. Even the monk in his cell keeps inquiring after the gossip, takes the news: who is saying what about him? What wind is blowing in the village?
I once went to see a Jain muni. There was nothing in his room. I was surprised—only a stack of newspapers beside his mat, a whole pile! I asked, “There’s nothing in the room. You have left everything—why this heap of newspapers? Do you sell them for scrap? You have left the world—why keep track of what’s happening in it? If you have left it, what difference do the events there make?” No—he had not left it. He kept his tail there. Those newspapers are a bridge. The politician reads the papers—understandable, his whole buffalo is inside; he must keep track of the weather. But the monk is equally concerned with “what is happening there.” He also has left his tail in. The buffalo stands in the doorway.
Remember—be on one side or the other. Hanging in the middle is a great danger. It is good to be worldly; it is good to be a renunciate. But this buffalo stuck in the doorway—is the worst. It is the state of Trishanku. Great tension is born. You want what the worldly get—and you also want what the sannyasin should get. The sannyasin’s freedom and the worldly man’s status, prestige, the nectar of ego—you want both. You have one foot in two boats.
This buffalo must be very clever—like your monks, skilled in arithmetic. She has seen how to manage both. Let neither this world go nor that world. So half the buffalo stands in that world—beneath the open sky of freedom—while the tail is left inside. Keep at least that much of a foothold, so if you ever want to return you won’t lose the way. And remember—once your tail goes out, the door closes. So think before pulling it out. Keep the door open—stand in the middle. Who knows—you might change your mind and want to return! And the mind is changing every moment.
And note one last thing about mind—it always wants opposites. You want the kind of love that comes only to one who prays; and you also want the kind of lust that comes only to the lustful. These two never come to one person. You want the love that belongs to God; and you want to satisfy the lust that belongs to animals. The two cannot be together. You will spoil both. You will belong neither here nor there.
The buffalo stands exactly in such a state. She cannot go into the free sky—because the tail is left behind. She cannot return either—the open sky calls, freedom beckons.
People come to me; the trouble of ninety-nine out of a hundred is the buffalo’s state. They say to me, “Let this be taken care of—and that too.” They say, “There is the house, family, the shop, the market—let that be looked after—and let God also be found.” They want their money in hand—and their religion too. They are even ready to drop a little money—if religion is on sale somewhere.
This Trishanku-state will fill you with great torment. This buffalo cannot be at rest; today or tomorrow she will go mad. How can one ride two boats? And the two boats are going in opposite directions. For a while the tail will be in one world and the buffalo in another. The strain between the two—that is your anxiety and anguish. What is your anxiety?
Goso has told a very sweet story. In it he has caught you completely. And do not think; otherwise you will miss, you will not understand. Look directly. There is no need to use intellect here. It is so simple that if you bring in intellect, you will complicate it. It is a simple fact. Look straight at your life—where are you standing? Are you not standing in the middle? And is the longing for the tail not pounding in your heart?
People come to me; if I pay them a little less attention, they return hurt and upset. If I give a little more attention—trouble! They return sick. They feel as if I needed them. Whatever I do, it is hard to send them away at peace. Because one who stands on two boats cannot be quiet. They come here for peace—and yet the desire for ego remains behind. They themselves don’t know it—that is the beauty of it. Ask them and they will be startled.
Does this buffalo know she is standing in the middle by her own choice? She too must be rationalizing. And buffaloes know rationalization very well. She must be thinking, “I am not standing in the middle—someone has caught my tail. I am not standing in the middle—there is no way ahead. I am not standing in the middle—I have come through the door, but the tail is entangled. Until it is freed, how can I go out?” She too must be consoling herself. The event is unconscious. Consciously the buffalo wants total freedom; unconsciously she wants ego too.
Your ego is your unconscious fact. You have no idea that you want it every moment. You walk down the road; if there is no one there, your face is one way. Suddenly someone appears—instantly your face changes. You compose yourself; you straighten your tie. If there is a mirror, you take a look. You are not as foolish as women—or you would carry a handbag, quickly take out your mirror and set yourself right. Why such flurry when another arrives? You are adjusting your tail. In the mirror you are watching your tail. What need is there of a mirror to see your face? Why so flustered by another’s presence? Why not stay as you were when alone? You cannot—because the other has become the issue.
I have heard: a husband said to his wife, “Now this is going beyond limits. Every day I tell you—my trouser buttons are broken; another day, the coat buttons; another, the shirt. If women cannot even sew buttons—what can they do?” His wife said, “And if there were no women—what would become of you men? You cannot even manage your own buttons!” The man said, “If there were no women, why would we sew on buttons at all? We keep them on for them.”
We wear clothes for others. We sew buttons for others. We wear faces for others. Men are dressed for women; women are dressed for men. Everything for the other. But what juice comes from the other? What do you really get?
When a beautiful woman walking by turns and looks back at you—your tail swells at once. You stiffen your spine, you begin to hum, your steps gain bounce, vigor, power. “Even now women look at me!”
I have heard: a cashier, a woman working in a bank, once told her boss, sadly, “I need a couple of months’ leave. I think age is taking its toll, and the body feels weak. For my health I want to go to the mountains.” Her boss said, “You are perfectly healthy. How did you know? Did you see a doctor?” She said, “No—but the men to whom I return small change have started counting it.” When a woman is beautiful, men don’t count the change—they slip it quickly into their pockets; to linger would seem improper! When they start counting—it means beauty is fading.
Ego is present at every moment, in every activity—hidden in all ways, unconscious. And if you start thinking—it will hide even more, because before thinking the doors of the unconscious do not open—they close.
This is why Freud evolved a method to discover the unconscious: free association—free flow of thoughts. He had a knack: he never sat in front of the patient. He laid the patient down on a couch. Not sitting—lying down. Behind the couch he hung a curtain and sat behind it. When his students asked, “Why do you insist the patient lie down?” he said, “Sitting produces more stiffness.”
True. Standing produces even more stiffness. Lying down is least stiff—lying down is no big deal; even children do it. And when one lies down one returns to the animal realm. Standing, man is apart from animals; sitting, too. Lying down, he is one with them. Hence sleeping while sitting is difficult; sleeping while standing—more difficult; in a headstand—impossible. But lying down—man sleeps; he relaxes; he falls into nature.
Freud says, when lying down the unconscious becomes active and the conscious, less. Therefore if you want to think hard, you cannot do it lying down. For thinking, one must sit. And if you want to think very hard indeed, sit with your spine absolutely straight, like a yogi. Straight spine is less connected with meditation than with intense, focused thinking—with concentration. And if a very tough problem is to be mulled over, you will often find yourself standing and pacing. Lying down, one relaxes. So Freud says: to expose the unconscious—I make them lie down.
His students asked, “Then why not sit in front?” He said, “If I am in front, the other is full of ego. As long as someone is present, he will not relax. So I sit behind a curtain so that he feels alone—so that he can drop his faces. No one is there—no fear.”
Then his procedure was: whatever comes up inside, say it without thinking. Trivial thoughts, disconnected thoughts—no logic, no thinking—just say it. So that the unconscious can be revealed. And the diseases are in the unconscious.
When you think, the doors of the unconscious close. When you don’t think—they open. Every night in sleep the unconscious doors open. Your dreams are thoughts from the unconscious. That is why your dreams are truer than your waking; and if you want to know anything about yourself, psychologists say, look into your dreams. When you are awake you can deceive; in dreams you cannot. Awake, you are the faithful husband or wife; in sleep, all that drops. In sleep all the women of the world are yours. In sleep you don’t bother whether the woman is the neighbor’s or yours. In truth, one rarely dreams of one’s own wife; if you do, something is wrong. You dream of other people’s wives. Whatever you have repressed—appears from the unconscious. Whatever you have hidden—the unconscious opens the door. Dreams will remain until your unconscious is emptied.
Only the meditator sleeps dreamlessly. The one who has not attained meditation—his night is full of dreams. His sleep is sick, feverish. His night is a marketplace, a shop, a chase of desires. Sleep should heal you—but it exhausts you. Hence people often wake more tired than when they went to bed. Dreams tire you out. Somehow you gather yourself together during the day—then night comes again. Again the dreams tire you. Night should make you peaceful and whole—but the opposite happens.
Do not think. Otherwise, the door of the unconscious will shut at once. The moment you think—tension arises. Tension brings contraction. The mind is very touch-me-not—like the plant mimosa pudica. Touch it and its leaves close. So is the mind: think—and its leaves close. Do not think—just watch. Sit by the mimosa plant and just watch; after a while the closed leaves open again. Just watch.
Watching is meditation. In that watching you will find the unconscious opening.
In that unconscious you will see—you are standing there; you are the buffalo. Do not think—this is a fact of your life. You have, of your own accord, left your tail inside. Now if you want the tail to stay in and you to be out—that is your decision. Then do not make a fuss; do not be miserable. You are following your own thought. Accept it. Then do not go seeking religion and liberation and God. Do not deceive yourself.
Or decide this: I myself left the tail in. If I have come out entirely—then why not come out wholly, tail included? Then come out. No one is stopping you.
In your freedom there is no obstacle other than you. Other than you—there is no enemy.
Goso has said a very sweet thing through a very sweet story. Do not think about it. Sit and look. The day you see—where the buffalo stands, you are—that day the key will be in your hand. As long as you keep seeing some other buffalo, know the key has not come.
Osho's Commentary
“A buffalo has escaped from the courtyard in which it was imprisoned.
It has smashed the courtyard wall.
Its whole body has come out through the wall—horns, head, legs, trunk, everything;
but the tail cannot come out. And the tail is not entangled anywhere.
No one is holding the tail either.
I ask you, why can’t the tail come out?”
The disciples began to think—and Goso began to laugh.
Then he said, “Whoever thought, his tail is entangled.”
The disciples sank even deeper into thought.
Then Goso said, “Whoever doesn’t understand—go back and look at your own tail.”
Please explain the meaning of this story.
To be free of what is, is very easy. To be free of what is not, is very difficult. Anything visible—no matter how hard—it is not impossible to break it; but that which is invisible, even if you want to break it, how will you break it?
This seemingly paradoxical point is utterly true of the inner realities of life. A man can become free of everything—except the ego. And the ego is not. It has no existence. If you go searching for it, you won’t find it. That by which you are bound—if you search for it you will not be able to locate it anywhere. Perhaps that is why the bondage is so deep. There is no way to break it—if it could be seen, you would break it; if it existed, you would break it. We are terribly bound by that which is not! Yet even what is not can bind. A few reasons must be understood.
Bodhidharma went to China fourteen hundred years ago. The Emperor of China said, “I am very disturbed, very restless.” Bodhidharma said, “Come tomorrow morning. But remember—bring your restlessness along. Because if you forget it at home, how will I treat you?”
The emperor did go home, but unsure whether to return in the morning. “This man seems a bit mad,” he thought. “Restlessness is not a thing you can leave at home or bring along. What is this talk of bringing and taking?” He pondered all night: to go or not to go? Yet the man was strangely magnetic; there was power in his eyes, depth in his being. And the way he said, “Bring your restlessness with you—otherwise whom shall I make peaceful?”—there was such truth and authenticity in it that the emperor decided there was no harm in going. It was worth the experiment. Such an opportunity should not be lost.
Early next morning the emperor arrived. The sun had not yet risen. Bodhidharma was sitting outside his temple on the steps. Seeing the emperor he said, “Sit down. Now—where is the restlessness? Where is your mind? Take it out so I can make it still.”
The emperor said, “Are you mocking me—or are you deranged? Restlessness is not a thing I can show you.”
Bodhidharma said, “If you can see it, why should I not be able to see it? And if restlessness is no ‘thing’ at all, how has it been troubling you so much? It must be—perhaps hidden, covered by some veil. That which keeps you so agitated, that which won’t let you sleep, that which won’t even let your food digest, because of which you cannot enjoy the pleasures of your empire—it must be; and strong enough.”
The emperor said, “That I know—that it is, and it is strong. But it is not something outside; it is inside.”
So Bodhidharma said, “Close your eyes and look within. And when you catch hold of it, tell me. I am ready here outside. The moment you catch it there, I will solve it here. I will send you away in peace.”
The emperor closed his eyes and began to search for where the restlessness was. He peered into every nook and corner of the mind. He lifted each layer of mind and looked. He removed every garment. The more he searched, the more amazed he became: he could not find restlessness at all. On the contrary, the mind was becoming more and more still.
Whoever goes within to search for restlessness—becomes peaceful. Restlessness is there because you have never looked at it closely. Its existence is only in your not-looking. In itself, it is nothing at all.
As he lifted layer upon layer, a deep, silent sky opened. It was as if the doors of a temple were opening—where everything is calm. That music which had begun to play within began to spread without as well. An hour passed, two hours passed, the sun rose. The first rays fell on the emperor’s face. He sat utterly still, like a stone statue—a statue of a Buddha. At last Bodhidharma shook him and said, “Enough. I have other work as well. Open your eyes. If you have caught it, speak; otherwise come again tomorrow morning.”
The emperor opened his eyes, bowed, touched Bodhidharma’s feet and said, “Blessed one! You have stilled me. When I look, I do not find restlessness; when I do not look, there is restlessness. When I look, it cannot be seen—it disappears. When I don’t look, when I turn my back, it becomes heavy, immense, terrifying.”
You are tormented by that restlessness which is not. You suffer from diseases that have no existence. And that which is not—grips you fiercely. And you cannot get free of it. If it were manifest, you could devise a way to be free; but it is unmanifest. So subtle, next to nothing. Like emptiness.
The prison walls that are visible—no matter how high—ladders can be found. The prison walls that are visible—no matter how strong, made of rock—can be broken. But you are imprisoned in a jail that cannot be seen. Where will you place your ladder? The walls are invisible—how will you break them? And your prison is of such a kind that it is not outside you; it is within you. And it is such that you are not confined inside it; you carry it with you. You take it along wherever you go. And the prison is such that everything can get out—but your tail will remain stuck.
In Hindi there is a marvelous word, poochh—“to be asked after, to be given attention”—and if one plays with the word, it becomes a great secret, for it also echoes poonchh, tail. People complain, “We went—no one even asked after us.” No one inquired, no one paid attention. They are miserable. If there is “asking after,” they feel happy; if there isn’t, they feel unhappy. That “asking after,” that being-noticed, is the ego. You go to someone’s house, you are a guest; if no one even asks after you, you return hurt. If there is much asking after, you return delighted. Someone looks at you, respects you, honors you, acknowledges that you are—that you are someone special.
This “being asked after” is specialness. Everyone is imprisoned in specialness.
And the day you become ordinary, that day you are free. That day the tail will no longer remain caught. And everyone thinks, “I am special, I am something extraordinary.” You will not find a person who does not secretly believe himself special. If you ever do, never leave his feet—he is a god. The thought “I am extraordinary” is the most ordinary thought—everyone has it. Not only you—trees, insects, everyone feels, “I am extraordinary.” Even a tiny moth or a fly is stuffed with this idea.
There is an old tale of Luqman. Luqman was one of the ancient sages—long before Jesus. Muhammad mentions Luqman with great respect in the Quran, dedicating a whole chapter to him. There is hardly a language on earth where the name of Luqman has not found its way into proverbs. People who have no idea who Luqman was still use the expression. When annoyed they say, “What a Luqman he imagines himself to be!” There’s a saying: “What is there to explain to Luqman!”—no one wiser than Luqman. Someone asked him, “How did you become so wise?” Luqman said, “When I became a fool.” Someone asked, “Why are you so honored?” Luqman said, “When I dropped the desire for honor.”
Here is a little story of Luqman. He told his message through stories. Most of Aesop’s famous fables are Luqman’s stories retold by Aesop. Luqman says: A fly sat on an elephant. The elephant didn’t notice when the fly sat down. The fly buzzed loudly and said, “Brother!”—a fly loves to call an elephant brother—“Brother! If you’re troubled at all, tell me. If my weight bothers you, just say the word and I’ll get off.” But the elephant heard nothing. Then they came to a bridge over a fierce mountain river, a deep ravine. The fly said, “Look—we are two! The bridge might break! If you feel any fear, tell me. I have wings; I’ll fly off.” A little buzzing reached the elephant’s ear; he paid it no attention. At last it was time for the fly to depart. She said, “The journey was very pleasant. A pilgrimage, companions, friendship—now I’m going. If you ever need anything, let me know.”
At that moment a bit of her voice reached the elephant. He said, “I don’t know who you are. When you came, when you sat on my body, when you flew away—there’s no accounting. But by then the fly had already gone.”
Luqman says, our being is just like that. On this great earth, our being or not-being makes no difference. In this vast existence our proportion, compared to that of the elephant and the fly, is even smaller. What difference does it make? Yet we make a lot of noise. We make a great fuss! Why this noise? What did the fly want? She wanted the elephant to acknowledge: “You are too; you also exist.” She wanted “being asked after.”
Our ego cannot live alone. Only if others recognize it can it survive. So we do everything to make others acknowledge it, pay attention, look our way—do not neglect us. We dress for others, we bathe for others, we groom ourselves for others. We amass wealth, build houses—for others. So that others will see and acknowledge that you are somebody special. You are not ordinary. You are not a clay doll—born of dust and to dust returning. You are special. Your dignity is unique. You are one-of-a-kind. The ego is always searching—for those eyes that will give weight to my shadow.
Now let us understand Goso’s story.
Goso is one of those few who attained Buddhahood. He told his disciples, “Listen! In a courtyard a buffalo is imprisoned; it tries to get out.”
Everyone tries. Wherever there is bondage, we try to escape. Because wherever bondage is, there the ego is hurt. Dependence stings, pricks us—why? Because dependence means you are no longer able to be on your own. You cannot walk when you wish, sit when you wish. There is no room for your ego to spread. Hence the ego demands freedom.
Understand this: the freedom the ego wants is not the freedom of the soul. And however much freedom the ego wants, it can never want total freedom. This is the paradox of the ego, the contradiction of asmitā.
This is subtle. Try to see it. The ego wants not to be dependent, yet it cannot live without others. You want to be alone, and yet you cannot live without others. The ego’s state is like those who say, “Living with the wife is hard—impossible. Without her, too, it’s hard—also impossible.” With her there are difficulties; without her the fun is gone. The ego wants others to be there, but not to make it dependent. It wants to exploit others, to make others dependent, while remaining independent itself.
Goso said the buffalo is confined in a courtyard. The gate is open; there are no chains. To be free, the buffalo steps out. The horns get through, the head, the trunk—everything passes through—but the tail doesn’t. And no one is holding the tail, nor is it tied.
Now the doorway must be big; if the buffalo could pass through, why not the tail? The buffalo herself must have stopped. No one tries to pull the tail out anyway. While she was confined, she wanted freedom, liberation. But when the whole buffalo had emerged, then she realized: if the tail also comes out—what will you do with your freedom?
The renunciate flees to the Himalayas—but the tail remains here in the world. Sitting on a Himalayan rock he still thinks of you—“When will you come? When will you have my darshan? When will you offer flowers at my feet?” Even far away in the Himalayas he waits: someone should come and say, “Never have we seen anyone so one-pointed, so secluded in solitude.” Let the world be informed that I have come to the Himalayas. Let the world know that I have renounced. But let the world know!
Even the renunciate wants his renunciation reported in the newspapers—what a joke! The buffalo comes out, the tail stays inside. The very world he renounced—its newspaper is not renounced. Everything is dropped, but may the world ask after you, know about you, recognize that you are—this is not dropped. You have come to the Himalayas, but your heart will be pleased only when people in every corner of the world know that you have left the world and are living in seclusion. Only when others know that you are in solitude will you enjoy your solitude.
The buffalo comes out, the tail stays within. No one is holding it. Who is holding you? You went as far as the Himalayas—no one stopped you. No one bound you; who would bind you? Everyone is worried about their own tail; who has time to tie yours? You are worried about yours; others about theirs. Yet the tail is left inside.
And Goso asked, “Tell me—what is the obstacle? The whole buffalo is out; no one binds, no one holds; the door is open—why is the tail inside? It isn’t even caught anywhere.”
The disciples began to think. Goso laughed and said, “If you think—your tail too will stay inside.”
Whoever does not think—his tail disappears at once, because without thinking the ego has nowhere to stand.
You think—therefore the ego is constructed. The more you think, the more ego is made. That is why your so-called intellectuals are the most egotistical. Those you call the intelligentsia, the learned—they will be the most egoistic. It is not easy to sit two pundits together. Two dogs might sit quietly for a while, not bark at each other—two pundits cannot. In heaven everyone will find a place; pundits will not. Otherwise there will be no peace there. There will be so much blathering, so many pointless arguments, such noise and quarrels that heaven will become worse than hell.
The pundit’s ego becomes monstrous. The more the mind thinks, the greater the sense of “I am great.” In no-mind you cannot survive as an ego; you survive only in thought. Thought is the prop. Hence the ignorant cannot be very egoistic. The learned have written fine lines: “In a country where wealth is worshiped and the king is revered—the wise man is worshiped everywhere.” Who writes this? They themselves! Their wisdom cannot be very deep. The tail is caught within; the buffalo is out.
And even when they pursue knowledge, it is only so they may be worshiped everywhere—so that all may bow. But what do you gain from seeing worship in others’ eyes? What energy do you gather? What power?—you just become “special.” You feel you are something. You gain confidence in your “somebody-ness”: otherwise why would so many look at me? So many look at me with such eagerness, all eyes upon me—I cannot be ordinary. I must be a rare diamond.
Those we call intelligent are deeply unintelligent—if you look at their tails. That is why most of the world’s upheavals happen because of these so-called intellectuals.
Only in two places did society learn to deal with this trick. One was India; now the other is Russia. In India there were no revolutions for five thousand years—because we gave the rebel the highest possible place: the Brahmin. And above that there was no place. He who was intelligent was revered. Look at the Brahmin’s swagger! He walks the road a beggar, yet see his nose! His tail sprouts from that nose. He may not have a penny, not a farthing, but look at his gait—would even a king walk with such a strut! And the way he looks at you—as if you were some paltry insect. That Brahmin pride has slowly vanished; hence India will not be able to avoid revolution for long. The unrest is rising.
Russia has repeated the experiment. The most suppressed society in the past fifty years—yet no revolution there now, because the Brahmins are honored. The intellectuals—professors, academicians, writers, poets—are honored in Russia as nowhere else on earth. The old age of Brahmins has returned there. There will be no revolution until the Brahmin is dethroned; the moment he is, he will start the trouble—because his tail must be.
That is why the centers of unrest across the world are the universities; Brahmins are made there. Universities are hotbeds of upheaval. The greatest fire is there. The gunpowder there is utterly dry—only a spark is needed. In the coming fifty years, whatever troubles, unrest, obstacles, anxieties arise in the world will come from the university. There all the professors are dissatisfied. The future professors—the present students—are dissatisfied. The more intelligence grows, the more dissatisfaction grows. For however much respect the ego gets, it is never enough; the demand keeps increasing. The demand of intellect has no end. The greatest throne soon feels too small. Universities are dens of politics. From the peon to the vice-chancellor—everyone is deeply entangled in politics. Everyone wants to climb higher. This race for higher will be strongest among the clever.
Goso said, “Watch it! If you think, your tail will get entangled too.”
How can a thinker be egoless? A man can be egoless only when the bricks of the ego are removed. This house stands here; its bricks are not visible because plaster covers them. The bricks of your ego are not visible either, covered over by the plaster. But remove the bricks one by one—do you think the house will remain when all the bricks are gone? The day the bricks are gone, the house vanishes. Thoughts are the bricks of the ego’s mansion. The more thoughts you keep, the bigger the palace becomes.
Goso is right: “Who thinks—wanders.”
Religion is the opposite of thinking. Religion is not philosophy. Religion is not the art of thought. Religion is the experience of no-thought.
In the moment of no-thought, the palace is gone. You remain—but the ego is not. You stand beneath the open sky. All prisons are gone. And suddenly, when you look back, you will find there is no tail. For one who is in no-mind becomes like a tree, like a bird, like a waterfall, like sunlight trembling in the breeze, like a cloud flying in the sky. Where can there be ego?
I have heard another tale of Luqman. One day an argument was going on and Luqman was sitting and listening. Luqman was a poor slave; a king had bought him. The way he was bought is worth understanding. In the marketplace Luqman was on sale. Two other slaves were being sold with him. One of them was very handsome. Luqman was very ugly. The buyer’s eye first went to the handsome, healthy one. He asked, “What can you do?” The man said, “Anything.” An egotist evidently—“anything.” Then he looked at the second and asked, “What can you do?” He said, “Everything.”
Hearing these answers the buyer thought he should ask the third as well—though he had no intention of buying him. Luqman was ugly. “And what can you do?” he asked. Luqman said, “Nothing. I can do nothing.” The king said, “Strange answers! One says ‘anything,’ another says ‘everything,’ and you say ‘nothing.’ Surely you can do something—how can you do nothing?” Luqman replied, “There is nothing left. One says ‘everything,’ one says ‘anything’—what remains to be done? Only ‘nothing’ remains—and that I can do.”
Meditation is the art of “no-thing.”
As long as you can do something, the ego will be built; the tail will grow. The more skillful you become in doing, the more ego will grow. The palace will rise. Luqman was right: “no-thing.” The king liked the answer. Luqman said, “Buy me! What are you thinking? Anyone will buy these two; only a king can buy me. These others—anyone can buy them, even a poor laborer; they can do something. They are caught by their hands. They will be sold into the hands of some fool. Only a king who understands can buy me.” That, of course, pricked the king’s ego. The tail swelled. The moment someone says “Only a king can buy me,” he buys at once—and pays a hefty price.
Luqman went to the king’s house and lived there as a slave. He later wrote a memoir:
One day he was cleaning a room. Outside the palace, the royal flag was fluttering in the wind. Inside, a carpet lay resting on the stairs. Luqman said, I overheard a conversation. The flag was saying, “I am always in trouble—gusts of wind, sun, rain, storms, hurricanes! In the battlefield I go riding before the first horse. Where bullets fly and cannons roar—I am at the very front. My life is always at risk. And you—” it said to the carpet, “you always rest here in the shade; no sun, no wind, no storms, no going to war. You are always at ease. What is your trick, your secret?”
The carpet said to the flag, “Be a no-thing—that is my trick, my secret. I am dust underfoot. You have taken upon yourself the idea of being on the head, on high. You are the flag; your swagger is great. Bullets will fly around you, storms will rise around you—how else will your pride be proved? You will remain in tension. I am nothing; dust underfoot. Whoever is nothing finds rest.”
Luqman was dusting, cleaning; he began to laugh. The king asked, “Why are you laughing?” Luqman said, “This carpet has reached exactly where I reached. When I told you ‘nothing’—that I can do nothing—this carpet too has discovered the same secret. O King, if you want to learn, learn from the carpet; avoid the flag.”
But how to avoid being the flag! The ego’s flag goes ahead of you. You come after; the flag of the ego goes before you. Perhaps you are only the pole that carries the flag. The flag is the real thing.
Goso said, “Think—and your tail will be entangled.” Hearing this, they became even more anxious, because so far it had been a story; now it had become about their lives. It was not about some other buffalo—Goso was talking about them. They grew more restless. They thought even more.
There are certain things you cannot go beyond by effort. The more you try, the more entangled you become. For example, if sleep doesn’t come—what will you do? Whatever you do will hinder sleep. Will you chant a mantra, repeat the name of Rama? Will you pace the room? Count sheep? From one to a hundred, then backward—ninety-nine, ninety-eight, back to one? Whatever you do—it will obstruct sleep. Because sleep happens when you are not doing. Whenever you do, tension arises. Doing cannot become rest.
Yet go to anyone—if you have insomnia, you will find plenty of free advice: what to do. And because of their advice you will never sleep again—beware of them! For sleep nothing can be done. Whatever you do, the opposite will happen. Sleep comes only when you are doing nothing. Some things are like this—do anything and you will be caught.
Meditation is akin to sleep. No-thought is akin to sleep. That is why the Hindu scriptures say samadhi and sushupti (deep sleep) have the same nature. Deep, dreamless sleep is like samadhi. The difference is small: in sleep you are not aware; in samadhi you are aware. But the quality is the same. The supreme sage is one who is in the same rest as you are in deep sleep—but he is aware. That is the only difference. He is awake while asleep; you are asleep while awake. He is utterly different from you. Some things are such that the moment you employ a method, you are in trouble. Understand this well.
Goso said, “If you think, your tail will be entangled.” But they did not stop thinking; they became even more lost in thought. The more they thought, Goso said, “Look! If you think too much, turn around and see: your tail is growing longer and longer.”
Thought cannot take you beyond thought. Ego cannot take you beyond ego.
If you are full of ego, the whole world will teach you to become humble—“Be humble, and people will honor you.” In temples, mosques, churches it is taught: be humble, because only the humble are respected. A strange trick! The desire for respect is being used as bait to make you humble. This humility will be false. It will be an ornament of the ego.
In temples it is preached: renounce, do not be greedy—because whoever renounces will receive in the other world. What a joke! But the renouncing is still for the sake of obtaining. Who will renounce? The clever person—who wants to make arrangements even for the next world. Give in charity so that God will return it to you a thousandfold. Even here there is no business so profitable. This deal is really delicious: you give a penny and a million come back. It sounds like gambling.
There is a lottery not only here—there is one in heaven too. And here’s lottery—there is no guarantee you will win. You might lose. But the heavenly lottery never misses. You give a penny—millions are assured. The scriptures say, “God returns a millionfold—so give!”
You are being taught charity, but its foundation is greed. This charity will be false. That is why this land has been speaking of charity for five thousand years—yet you will not find more greedy people anywhere.
On this earth nowhere will you find greed as monstrous as in India. And here there is constant talk of charity—and charity too is being done. Temples are being built, mosques are being raised, dharmshalas erected. Charity goes on—and greed beyond measure.
What has happened? Somewhere a miscalculation has crept in. Our charity too stands on greed. Our heaven stands upon this world. “Renounce here—to attain there.” What kind of renunciation is this! Renunciation means there is no longer any desire to attain. There is nothing to get, hence one drops. The matter is closed; a full stop. No more race to obtain. It is not an investment. Not a new business where you put in money. It is simply dropping. You are free of it.
Renunciation—the full stop that asks for no beyond—that alone is renunciation. Humility—the full stop that does not crave respect—that alone is humility.
The ego cannot drop the ego. To drop ego we persuade the ego—we coax it. We say, “Look—if you are humble everyone will honor you; but if you show arrogance no one will honor you—you’ll be slapped. If you want garlands, walk with your neck bowed.” But inside the desire is for the garland.
You cannot go beyond thought by thought. What will you do? If you begin to think, “How to become thoughtless?”—this is what many people do. They listen to gurus, wise men, saints—and the idea of thoughtlessness arises. But that too is a thought, a desire: “How to become thoughtless?” Now you sit with eyes closed and think, “How to become thoughtless? What is the trick?” All this thinking goes on. Even no-thought becomes a thought for you. No one has ever reached no-thought through thought.
Goso saw they were getting more and more lost in thought. He laughed and said, “Turn back and look. Your tail is growing longer.”
Had you been there you too would have turned to look. Even if you restrained yourself in the assembly, once out of Goso’s temple you would have slipped into some quiet lane and looked back to see whether the tail had grown! But this tail is not a visible thing you can look at from behind. It is not a part of the body. And yet Goso is right. People like Goso do not speak wrongly.
“Turn back and look” does not mean look with your physical back. It means, “Close your eyes and look within.” There the tail is growing. The more you think, the more smoke arises; the more ego grows. “Turning back” means pratikraman—what Mahavira called pratikraman.
There are two movements of consciousness. One is aggression—when you move toward the other. The other is regression—when you turn your awareness upon yourself. “Turn back and look” means what Kabir said: “Close your eyes and let your eyes turn inward.” Turning back means become aware of what is going on within you. Think—and thought increases. From one thought a thousand are born. Has anyone ever reached no-mind by thinking? Thinking brings more thought, and more—at the end madness may come. You can go deranged, not liberated. The bricks of thought build your ego-sense. That is your tail.
The buffalo is no one else—it is you. The courtyard is nowhere else—it is your mind. You are wholly out—only the tail is caught. It sounds absurd. It sounds like a riddle: if the whole buffalo is out, how can the tail be stuck? And yet it is always so: the buffalo comes out; the tail gets caught. You can go out; nothing hinders your freedom—except your ego remains entangled.
Think a little. You go to the temple to pray. Prayer means surrender before God. Yet even there you peep through half-closed eyes—“Is anyone watching?” You are not concerned with God; you are concerned whether the village sees that you are a great religious man. People do not go to pray alone; they go in crowds. Let people see that you are religious—that brings respectability, honor. You bow before God, but you are thinking only of your tail—“Is anyone seeing?”
If people are watching closely, you become deeply absorbed in prayer. That absorption is false. If no one were there, you would quickly finish your prayer and go home. You have nothing to do with God—it is the crowd all around...
Imagine: the day you are praying, the TV people arrive with their cameras. What absorption will appear that day! Reporters are there, photographers too, flashbulbs firing, cameras circling you—never before was your meditation so deep. Because that day the tail is growing nicely. For this tail you will do anything. You can miss God—but you cannot miss this tail.
Jesus said, “When your left hand gives, do not let your right hand know; otherwise the charity is wasted.” Give and run away. Do not wait for thanks; otherwise the gift is wasted. But we give for the sake of thanks. If we give and no thanks comes, we linger: “How long will you take to say it?” If he says nothing at all, we return hurt and upset. “The giving was wasted!” And Jesus says, “Give and slip away—so that he cannot even say thank you. Let not your right hand know what your left has given.”
The Sufis say, “Pray in the dark of night—so that even your wife does not know you are praying. If she knows, the matter goes awry.” Not that her knowing itself spoils anything; but you are so cunning that you will arrange for it to be ‘accidentally’ known. We are very skillful at deceiving ourselves. We devise ways to deceive—so skillful that we ourselves fail to notice we are deceiving. Recall—have you ever done anything in which there was no thought of the tail?
Even beggars know well: if you are walking alone, they don’t harass you; alone you will say, “Get lost!” No one is watching; what is there to fear? But if you are walking with four others, the beggar will trap you. He will cling to your legs and hands, wail and cry. Now you will have to give. Inside you are cursing: “If I had met you alone I would have taught you!” But now, before these four, you must give—otherwise, what will they think? You become generous at once. That generosity is false. You give four coins instead of two—for those four pairs of eyes. Your tail is wagging in those eyes; your ego is swelling. Even a beggar knows when to catch you—there is a psychology to begging. He knows you cannot give all the time; he has to extract it from you. You do not want to give—yet you give.
There is a town I know well; I lived there many days. Whenever people went to solicit donations, they first went to the richest man. It was known he never gave—but he would have them write down ten thousand, fifteen thousand, twenty thousand against his name. That was accepted—though he would not give a paisa. But once he had “given” twenty thousand, the small-tail people were caught too. If the great miser has given twenty thousand—now if they give nothing, they will stand worse than him. So they too wrote their pledges. If you ask the fundraisers in your towns, they know whose names to write first! Whether they give or not is not the big question. Because of those names, others begin to feel the prick of ego. One rich man “gives,” the other thinks, “Am I small? Will I lag behind?”
Your pilgrimages and temples are sustained by the same beggar-psychology. In temples, charity is never done in private. People gather; then the pledges are called out. In Jain temples after Paryushan there is a day for donations. That day the bidding begins. Someone says “ten thousand.” It is like an auction—the tail is on sale. Once one says “ten thousand,” another, even if he cannot afford it, says “fifteen.” The pride keeps rising. Then it becomes a question of prestige—who comes first. The race becomes one of ambition.
The temple thrives on ambition; the shop thrives on ambition. There is no difference. The mathematics is the same. Methods may look different from above, but the inner process is one—ego. A race to install the biggest stone, to donate the most. Your whole life runs on ego.
A life run by ego is called the world—samsara. You are imprisoned in it though no one has imprisoned you. The doors are open. You too want out, because dependence is suffering. But you cannot go out—because the ego depends on others. If you go completely out, the ego will die. This is the dilemma.
The buffalo stands in the doorway. The whole body has come out; the tail she has left inside—of her own accord. If even one of Goso’s disciples had been awake, he would have said, “There is no obstacle; the buffalo is not going out by her own decision.” Goso makes it clear. The riddle is straightforward: no one is holding the tail; it is not entangled; the whole buffalo has passed; the door is large enough. There is no cause for the tail to remain—causeless.
But Goso’s disciples started thinking. Such a simple fact they could not see. Thought has a blindness that cannot see truth. The simple fact is that the buffalo is standing by choice. Perhaps she is thinking of returning—that dependence was comfortable. Or perhaps she wants both joys at once—freedom and ego; and ego can be had only in dependence.
Whoever you seek prestige from—you will become his slave. Whoever you seek honor from—he will become your master. Because he will not honor you for free—he will have terms. He will tell you how to walk and sit and act. Look at monks—behind them gather crowds of disciples, and the disciples run the monk. How to get up, how to sit, what to do, what not to do. They keep watch—slip a little, and your prestige is gone; your status, your sainthood—lost.
Whoever you seek prestige from—you become his slave. If you want to be free—do not seek prestige. If you want freedom—drop the desire for respect. Then the buffalo can go out. There is no need to keep the tail inside. Most monks never come fully out—the tail remains within.
Goso’s disciples began to think because they did not grasp the truth. It can be understood only if you have recognized it in your own life. So they thought.
This was no riddle to be solved by thinking. It is a fact to be seen by attention. Riddles can be solved by thought. Facts cannot. For facts you need open, clear, empty eyes. They are present before you—you only have to see. Open your eyes and see.
What difficulty is there? The story is simple: the buffalo stands by her own choice—she has hesitated. Perhaps she is afraid—outside may not be safe. Inside is better. And at least let so much remain inside that the tail stays—so that people keep you in mind. Let everything go—but keep this much of the world: a place in people’s memory. Even if you flee to the jungle, leave your tail here. Take sannyas, sit in a monastery—leave your tail here. Even the monk in his cell keeps inquiring after the gossip, takes the news: who is saying what about him? What wind is blowing in the village?
I once went to see a Jain muni. There was nothing in his room. I was surprised—only a stack of newspapers beside his mat, a whole pile! I asked, “There’s nothing in the room. You have left everything—why this heap of newspapers? Do you sell them for scrap? You have left the world—why keep track of what’s happening in it? If you have left it, what difference do the events there make?” No—he had not left it. He kept his tail there. Those newspapers are a bridge. The politician reads the papers—understandable, his whole buffalo is inside; he must keep track of the weather. But the monk is equally concerned with “what is happening there.” He also has left his tail in. The buffalo stands in the doorway.
Remember—be on one side or the other. Hanging in the middle is a great danger. It is good to be worldly; it is good to be a renunciate. But this buffalo stuck in the doorway—is the worst. It is the state of Trishanku. Great tension is born. You want what the worldly get—and you also want what the sannyasin should get. The sannyasin’s freedom and the worldly man’s status, prestige, the nectar of ego—you want both. You have one foot in two boats.
This buffalo must be very clever—like your monks, skilled in arithmetic. She has seen how to manage both. Let neither this world go nor that world. So half the buffalo stands in that world—beneath the open sky of freedom—while the tail is left inside. Keep at least that much of a foothold, so if you ever want to return you won’t lose the way. And remember—once your tail goes out, the door closes. So think before pulling it out. Keep the door open—stand in the middle. Who knows—you might change your mind and want to return! And the mind is changing every moment.
And note one last thing about mind—it always wants opposites. You want the kind of love that comes only to one who prays; and you also want the kind of lust that comes only to the lustful. These two never come to one person. You want the love that belongs to God; and you want to satisfy the lust that belongs to animals. The two cannot be together. You will spoil both. You will belong neither here nor there.
The buffalo stands exactly in such a state. She cannot go into the free sky—because the tail is left behind. She cannot return either—the open sky calls, freedom beckons.
People come to me; the trouble of ninety-nine out of a hundred is the buffalo’s state. They say to me, “Let this be taken care of—and that too.” They say, “There is the house, family, the shop, the market—let that be looked after—and let God also be found.” They want their money in hand—and their religion too. They are even ready to drop a little money—if religion is on sale somewhere.
This Trishanku-state will fill you with great torment. This buffalo cannot be at rest; today or tomorrow she will go mad. How can one ride two boats? And the two boats are going in opposite directions. For a while the tail will be in one world and the buffalo in another. The strain between the two—that is your anxiety and anguish. What is your anxiety?
Goso has told a very sweet story. In it he has caught you completely. And do not think; otherwise you will miss, you will not understand. Look directly. There is no need to use intellect here. It is so simple that if you bring in intellect, you will complicate it. It is a simple fact. Look straight at your life—where are you standing? Are you not standing in the middle? And is the longing for the tail not pounding in your heart?
People come to me; if I pay them a little less attention, they return hurt and upset. If I give a little more attention—trouble! They return sick. They feel as if I needed them. Whatever I do, it is hard to send them away at peace. Because one who stands on two boats cannot be quiet. They come here for peace—and yet the desire for ego remains behind. They themselves don’t know it—that is the beauty of it. Ask them and they will be startled.
Does this buffalo know she is standing in the middle by her own choice? She too must be rationalizing. And buffaloes know rationalization very well. She must be thinking, “I am not standing in the middle—someone has caught my tail. I am not standing in the middle—there is no way ahead. I am not standing in the middle—I have come through the door, but the tail is entangled. Until it is freed, how can I go out?” She too must be consoling herself. The event is unconscious. Consciously the buffalo wants total freedom; unconsciously she wants ego too.
Your ego is your unconscious fact. You have no idea that you want it every moment. You walk down the road; if there is no one there, your face is one way. Suddenly someone appears—instantly your face changes. You compose yourself; you straighten your tie. If there is a mirror, you take a look. You are not as foolish as women—or you would carry a handbag, quickly take out your mirror and set yourself right. Why such flurry when another arrives? You are adjusting your tail. In the mirror you are watching your tail. What need is there of a mirror to see your face? Why so flustered by another’s presence? Why not stay as you were when alone? You cannot—because the other has become the issue.
I have heard: a husband said to his wife, “Now this is going beyond limits. Every day I tell you—my trouser buttons are broken; another day, the coat buttons; another, the shirt. If women cannot even sew buttons—what can they do?” His wife said, “And if there were no women—what would become of you men? You cannot even manage your own buttons!” The man said, “If there were no women, why would we sew on buttons at all? We keep them on for them.”
We wear clothes for others. We sew buttons for others. We wear faces for others. Men are dressed for women; women are dressed for men. Everything for the other. But what juice comes from the other? What do you really get?
When a beautiful woman walking by turns and looks back at you—your tail swells at once. You stiffen your spine, you begin to hum, your steps gain bounce, vigor, power. “Even now women look at me!”
I have heard: a cashier, a woman working in a bank, once told her boss, sadly, “I need a couple of months’ leave. I think age is taking its toll, and the body feels weak. For my health I want to go to the mountains.” Her boss said, “You are perfectly healthy. How did you know? Did you see a doctor?” She said, “No—but the men to whom I return small change have started counting it.” When a woman is beautiful, men don’t count the change—they slip it quickly into their pockets; to linger would seem improper! When they start counting—it means beauty is fading.
Ego is present at every moment, in every activity—hidden in all ways, unconscious. And if you start thinking—it will hide even more, because before thinking the doors of the unconscious do not open—they close.
This is why Freud evolved a method to discover the unconscious: free association—free flow of thoughts. He had a knack: he never sat in front of the patient. He laid the patient down on a couch. Not sitting—lying down. Behind the couch he hung a curtain and sat behind it. When his students asked, “Why do you insist the patient lie down?” he said, “Sitting produces more stiffness.”
True. Standing produces even more stiffness. Lying down is least stiff—lying down is no big deal; even children do it. And when one lies down one returns to the animal realm. Standing, man is apart from animals; sitting, too. Lying down, he is one with them. Hence sleeping while sitting is difficult; sleeping while standing—more difficult; in a headstand—impossible. But lying down—man sleeps; he relaxes; he falls into nature.
Freud says, when lying down the unconscious becomes active and the conscious, less. Therefore if you want to think hard, you cannot do it lying down. For thinking, one must sit. And if you want to think very hard indeed, sit with your spine absolutely straight, like a yogi. Straight spine is less connected with meditation than with intense, focused thinking—with concentration. And if a very tough problem is to be mulled over, you will often find yourself standing and pacing. Lying down, one relaxes. So Freud says: to expose the unconscious—I make them lie down.
His students asked, “Then why not sit in front?” He said, “If I am in front, the other is full of ego. As long as someone is present, he will not relax. So I sit behind a curtain so that he feels alone—so that he can drop his faces. No one is there—no fear.”
Then his procedure was: whatever comes up inside, say it without thinking. Trivial thoughts, disconnected thoughts—no logic, no thinking—just say it. So that the unconscious can be revealed. And the diseases are in the unconscious.
When you think, the doors of the unconscious close. When you don’t think—they open. Every night in sleep the unconscious doors open. Your dreams are thoughts from the unconscious. That is why your dreams are truer than your waking; and if you want to know anything about yourself, psychologists say, look into your dreams. When you are awake you can deceive; in dreams you cannot. Awake, you are the faithful husband or wife; in sleep, all that drops. In sleep all the women of the world are yours. In sleep you don’t bother whether the woman is the neighbor’s or yours. In truth, one rarely dreams of one’s own wife; if you do, something is wrong. You dream of other people’s wives. Whatever you have repressed—appears from the unconscious. Whatever you have hidden—the unconscious opens the door. Dreams will remain until your unconscious is emptied.
Only the meditator sleeps dreamlessly. The one who has not attained meditation—his night is full of dreams. His sleep is sick, feverish. His night is a marketplace, a shop, a chase of desires. Sleep should heal you—but it exhausts you. Hence people often wake more tired than when they went to bed. Dreams tire you out. Somehow you gather yourself together during the day—then night comes again. Again the dreams tire you. Night should make you peaceful and whole—but the opposite happens.
Do not think. Otherwise, the door of the unconscious will shut at once. The moment you think—tension arises. Tension brings contraction. The mind is very touch-me-not—like the plant mimosa pudica. Touch it and its leaves close. So is the mind: think—and its leaves close. Do not think—just watch. Sit by the mimosa plant and just watch; after a while the closed leaves open again. Just watch.
Watching is meditation. In that watching you will find the unconscious opening.
In that unconscious you will see—you are standing there; you are the buffalo. Do not think—this is a fact of your life. You have, of your own accord, left your tail inside. Now if you want the tail to stay in and you to be out—that is your decision. Then do not make a fuss; do not be miserable. You are following your own thought. Accept it. Then do not go seeking religion and liberation and God. Do not deceive yourself.
Or decide this: I myself left the tail in. If I have come out entirely—then why not come out wholly, tail included? Then come out. No one is stopping you.
In your freedom there is no obstacle other than you. Other than you—there is no enemy.
Goso has said a very sweet thing through a very sweet story. Do not think about it. Sit and look. The day you see—where the buffalo stands, you are—that day the key will be in your hand. As long as you keep seeing some other buffalo, know the key has not come.
Enough for today.