A fakir was once sentenced to death by an emperor. In that land the custom was to erect the gallows by the riverbank, hang the condemned, and leave him dangling there. His corpse would drop into the river and be carried away. But something went wrong: the noose around the fakir’s neck wasn’t strong enough. He slipped out alive and fell into the river. No one noticed; the executioners had already departed.
Ten years later, that same fakir was again condemned to die. As they led him up the scaffold and were tying the noose, he said, “Friends, please be careful this time—fix the knot properly. Last time I got into great trouble.”
They said, “We don’t understand. What do you mean, last time? What last time?”
He said, “This is my second hanging. I don’t know how to swim. Last time I fell into the river and had to swim across—and I don’t know how to swim. So please set the noose right, otherwise I may fall into that same difficulty again.”
The executioners were amazed. Before hanging him they asked, “Don’t you want to live? It would have been better to pray to God that the noose be as loose as it was last time!”
The fakir replied, “I’ve lived ten years and seen—nothing was gained. With what face can I pray to God for more?”
We all live many years and gain nothing. Yet we keep longing to live. Whoever truly understands the craving to live will not remain a drunkard and madman of that craving—the lust for life. And as long as one is filled with the lust for life, with thirst for living, there is no entry at the door of the divine.
So let the first sutra you remember be this: in your life, sometimes in the morning, sometimes at dusk, pause and see—what have you actually gained from life? Just ask—of yourself, not of anyone else. No one else can answer this. Ask yourself, from time to time: what have I gained?
This very question gradually reveals the futility of this life. And unless this life becomes futile, the door to the other, meaningful life does not open. The futility of this life means: now we are ready to go beyond it. A student moves from first grade to second; it simply means first grade has become useless for him—nothing remains there to learn. We can rise to the higher life only when this life turns futile. Whatever could be learned from this…
But before what has been gained can become stale, we start running after the next thing. Our desires are overlapping. One desire is not even fulfilled before we are entangled in the next. We never get a gap in life to stand between two desires and look, to think again, reconsider: in all this running and getting, is anything really being gained?
I have heard that a dog in Kashi once got a craze to travel to Delhi. He was an MP’s dog—no small creature. Listening every day in that house to “Let’s go to Delhi!” it wouldn’t be surprising if his brain went off. It happens to humans; he was just a dog. One day he asked his leader, “Everyone is going to Delhi; I also want to go. Which way is it? How do I get there?”
The leader gave him the same road he himself walked. “If you meet poor dogs,” he said, “tell them the rich dogs are exploiting you, and that no one but me is your savior from the rich. And if you meet rich dogs, tell them the poor dogs are joining hands to kill you, and that no one but me can save you.”
But the dog was clever too—he was a politician’s dog. He asked, “What if both the poor and rich dogs gather together?”
The leader said, “Then speak of sarvodaya—that we want the rise of all; we serve everyone.”
Very soon the dog became a leader; the secret key was in his hands. He sent word to Delhi: “I’m coming.” He reckoned it would take a month to travel from Kashi to Delhi, so he announced the date he would set out and the date, a month later, he would arrive. He informed the Delhi dogs to arrange accommodation in the circuit house and such.
But the dog reached Delhi in seven days! The Delhi dogs were astonished: “How did you travel so fast? How did you get here so quickly?”
He managed to say a little before he died. For one who travels so fast, it is hard to reach the goal alive. But he did tell his tale: “I didn’t make this journey; I might not have reached even in a month. The other dogs made the journey for me. I wouldn’t even get past one village before the dogs of the next were after me. To save my life I ran. Before those would even return from the edge of their village, the dogs of the next would be upon me. And I ran to save my life. I wasn’t coming to Delhi; I was escaping.” That’s what he said before, I have heard, he died. But he revealed a great secret.
Man too reaches his particular “Delhi”—desire after desire. He leaves one village, and the dogs of the next village—new desires—chase him. He runs and runs only to save himself. In the end nothing remains and nothing is gained.
Therefore the first sutra says: keep asking yourself again and again, what have I gotten from this life? And also ask, what will I get? Because what you wanted yesterday is what you want today; what you wanted the day before yesterday is what you wanted yesterday; what you wanted a year ago you want still. If a lifetime of wanting has given nothing, what will you get now? When this question settles deeply in a man’s heart, transformation begins at once. When such a man gets angry, he asks, “What will I gain from this?” And the very asking makes anger difficult.
A friend of mine is very hot-tempered. He asked me, “What should I do to be free of anger?” He had tried many recipes; none worked. He had practised great self-control, but the more he controlled, the more angry he became. He would suppress for a day or two, then on the third day anger would explode ten times stronger. I wrote a sentence on a slip of paper for him: “What will I gain from this anger?” I told him, “Keep it in your pocket. Don’t repress your anger; when it arises, read this slip and put it back.”
Fifteen days later he came and said, “This is a strange paper! Does it contain some secret, some mantra, some magic?”
I said, “No secret, no mantra, no magic. Just ordinary paper and my handwriting.”
He said, “No, there must be something. Now I don’t even need to read it. As soon as my hand moves toward my pocket, the whole matter slips away. The moment the thought arises—What will I gain from this anger?—a lifetime of experience says: I have never gained anything. I have only lost.”
Remember, when nothing is gained, don’t assume only nothing is gained; something is always lost. In this life there is always either a minus or a plus. Either something is gained or something is lost—there is never a neutral. If you have gained nothing, then I tell you you have lost something without knowing it. We don’t stand still; either we move forward or we fall behind. There is no standing in place.
Eddington, a great scientist, wrote in his autobiography: in human language the word “rest” is the biggest lie—rest. He wrote, “After a lifetime’s experience I say: nothing is at rest; things are either going forward or going backward. Nothing is stationary. Nothing is at rest.”
I tell you: either you will lose or you will gain. If you are not gaining, you are constantly losing. But that is secondary. First we must know: are we gaining anything? Are we getting anything? This question must arise. In the mind where this question takes birth, there is no way to keep that person far from the divine for long. If not today, then tomorrow; if not tomorrow, then the day after—his journey toward the divine begins.
The second sutra I want to share: nothing in life stays. Things don’t even arrive before they’re gone. Life is a stream, a river, a flux—the banks are barely touched before they’re released. Things come and go, but we keep worrying.
Someone hurls an abuse. The abuse comes, echoes, and is gone. But for us sleep is impossible the whole night. The abuse doesn’t linger—but we cling to it. Life is a flow, but man clings hard and grabs at everything.
One morning a man spat on Buddha. He was in a rage, and he spat. Buddha wiped his face with his robe and said to the man, “Anything more to say?”
The man said, “Say? I didn’t say anything; I directly insulted you!”
Buddha said, “As far as I understand, you wanted to say something, but words wouldn’t serve, so by spitting you said it. It often happens: someone in great love cannot say it in words and so embraces; someone in deep reverence cannot say it and so places his head at another’s feet; someone in intense anger cannot say it and so spits. I take it that you have said something. Do you have more to say, or is it complete?”
The man must have been thrown into great confusion. He went away and couldn’t sleep all night. In the morning he returned to ask forgiveness. “Please forgive me,” he said.
Buddha asked, “For what are you asking forgiveness?”
“I spat on you yesterday.”
Buddha said, “There is no spit now, there is no yesterday now; nor are you the same, nor am I the same. Who is to forgive whom? Who is to be angry with whom? Everything has flowed by. You aren’t the same person! Yesterday you spat; today you bow at my feet. How can I believe you are the same?”
Everything flows away. Life is a current. If you build houses in this current, you do not know the river’s nature, and in trying to build on the river you are ruined. Yet we clutch at everything. Whoever clutches tightly will struggle against the flow and suffer. He will torment himself by his own hands.
I have heard a Sufi story. A river was in flood, the current fierce. Two little straws were floating. One straw lay crosswise against the current, fighting it—trying to stop the river from moving forward. Of course it was swept along, for how would the river know that a straw was trying to block it! But the straw was miserable—struggling all the time and losing all the time; trying and sinking; striving to move upstream and being carried downstream. The river was unaffected; the straw was tormented.
The other straw lay lengthwise, aligned with the current. It flowed with the river, full of delight, thinking, “I am helping the river to flow.” The river did not know this either, but the straw was not troubled. For the river, neither straw mattered; but from the standpoint of the straws, everything was different.
In the stream of life, are you lying like the crosswise straw, or like the aligned one? If you agree to flow with life’s current, it will carry you to the divine. If you refuse to flow, you will be very troubled. Your trouble will become such a smoke that even if the ocean of the divine appears before you, you won’t see it—you’ll only see your failures, your defeats.
So the second sutra says: there is no stillness in life; nothing stayed. Don’t get into the effort to make things stay.
We are all in that effort. That effort becomes worry. That effort becomes sadness, anguish, torment. That effort drives us mad. It sickens our very being. No—nothing stays in the current of life. Whoever remembers this from moment to moment will not go deranged; he will not go mad.
I have heard that an emperor once told his vizier, “Bring me a sutra from some wise man that will be useful to me at all times.” A fakir gave him a talisman, saying, “Keep it, but don’t open it unless there is real need.” The emperor wore it; years passed; there was no special need, so he didn’t open it.
Then enemies attacked, and the emperor was defeated. He fled on his horse. The hoofbeats of the pursuers sounded behind him. He reached the edge of a mountain—no road ahead, only a precipice. The hoofbeats were nearing; there was no way back. Then he remembered the talisman. He opened it. On a small slip of paper were written: This too will pass. That’s all: This too will pass. This is not going to stay. At first he didn’t fully grasp it. But indeed—it passed. The hoofbeats, the voices—where did they vanish in the forest?
Seven days later the emperor returned to his capital, sat again in his palace, and summoned the fakir. “I could never have imagined what was in that talisman,” he said. “Just a little scrap of paper and a small sentence! But had it not been there, perhaps I would have jumped into that gorge and killed myself. Thinking, ‘This too will pass,’ I decided to wait a little.”
Everything passes. Sorrow passes; joy passes. In sorrow, remember it will pass—then sorrow won’t hurt. In joy, remember it will pass—then joy won’t inflate the ego. In failure, remember it will pass—then there will be no anxiety. In success, remember it will pass—then madness won’t arise. In pleasure and in pain; in shadow and in light; in illness and in health; in night and in day; in youth and in old age; in birth and in death—whoever remembers, “This too will pass,” sees tension leave his life. No tension remains.
And the one whose life is free of tension can step toward the temple of the divine. The one whose life is full of tension steps only toward the madhouse. We are all moving toward the madhouse. Some have reached the door; some are inside; some are at the gate; some are on the road; some at the crossroads—but our faces are turned toward the madhouse.
William James, a great psychologist, once visited an asylum and, after returning, could never be cheerful again. Days passed; his wife worried; his friends worried. “Why so downcast?” they asked.
He said, “Since I came back from the asylum, all my joy has gone.”
“What was there?” they asked.
“In the asylum,” William James said, “those I saw were, yesterday, people just like me. Then the thought came: might it be that one day I too will land there?”
They tried to console him. “Why should you go mad?”
He replied, “The families of those people must have told them the same. If they said, ‘What if I go mad?’ they were told, ‘Why would you go mad? Don’t think such thoughts.’ But they did go mad. Who can stop me from going mad? I am anxious as they were anxious. The difference is only of degree. Their fever has passed a hundred degrees; mine may be at ninety or ninety-eight. How long before I too reach a hundred?”
We are all anxious, troubled, tense—faces turned toward the madhouse. To face the divine and turn your back to the madhouse can happen only when you harbor no tension at all. He doesn’t nurture tension; he doesn’t accept it. Things come and pass; he remains standing. Storms come, and great trees fall—because great trees hold great tension, full of stiffness and pride in their height. The storm comes and the big trees fall; the small blades of grass bend. The storm goes, and the grass stands again.
Life is a storm, gales blowing day and night, who knows what around us. The man who breaks in each storm will break entirely. The man who, in each storm, knows—this too will pass—will stand again after each gale. And for one who stands after hundreds of storms, the storms no longer seem storms; they become play. Storms no longer frighten; they become leela.
For the religious mind, this second sutra is essential: move through life as one moves through water without letting the water touch his feet. Difficult! Water will wet the feet. But one can certainly pass through life without being touched by it. Life doesn’t touch us; we clutch at it.
Buddha could have clutched at that spittle, could have asked, “Why did this man spit? What should I do?” He could have been restless all night—if he had clutched.
The spit came and went; the insult came and went. We clutch. Life does not make us hold on; we seize it. Our clutching becomes our anxiety. Slowly we grow so disturbed that we go about asking, “How to be peaceful?” Many come to me. “How to be peaceful?” they ask.
I ask them first, “Tell me: how did you become un-peaceful?” Until we know how you got disturbed, how will peace happen?
A man was brought to me. He said, “I have come from the Aurobindo Ashram. I went to Sivananda’s. I went to Mahesh Yogi. I went to Rishikesh. Here and there. I went to Ramana’s ashram. Peace is not found. Someone told me your name, so I’ve come.”
I said, “Before you go away disappointed, go now. Otherwise you’ll add my name to your list: ‘I went there too and didn’t find peace.’ Better we stop here.”
“What do you mean?” he asked. “I’ve come with great hope.”
I said, “In which ashram did you learn disturbance? Which guru taught you unrest? You will learn restlessness, and if I can’t give you peace I will be the culprit? Forget your worry about peace. Tell me how you became un-peaceful. Because the very method of becoming un-peaceful contains the key to peace. No one finds peace anywhere else.”
We become restless because we cling to life. We won’t let it flow. We fight like the crosswise straw. If we flowed like the lengthwise straw, there would be no reason for unrest. Our way of living breeds unrest. And then we go searching for peace—in some mantra, in some rosary, by someone’s blessing, by God’s grace. We keep arranging for our disturbance and keep seeking peace. Then this search for peace becomes just another disturbance—and nothing else happens.
So the ordinary man is ordinarily disturbed; the so-called religious man becomes extraordinarily disturbed. He says, “I must have peace.” And all that he wanted before—wealth, fame, position—he still wants. To the list he adds one more item: peace. Later he will write: God also. His disturbance increases. When one person in a house becomes “religious,” he himself becomes restless and makes it hard for others to remain calm. He disrupts everyone. His very demand for peace becomes his unrest.
Peace cannot be desired; only unrest can be understood. Peace cannot be an object of desire—because desire is unrest. How can you desire peace? That is contradictory. No one can desire peace. Peace cannot be made the object of desire—every desire creates disturbance; therefore peace cannot be a desire. Just understand your disturbance and stop being disturbed; what remains is called peace. Peace is absence. It is a lack.
What is health? If you ask a doctor, he will say: the absence of disease. If you ask him to inject you with health, he will say, “Forgive me. We can inject to remove disease; there is no injection for health.” Ask him to give you health; he will say, “We can remove illness; how can we give health? When illness is gone, what remains is health.”
Therefore in medical science—Ayurveda, Allopathy, Homeopathy—you will find definitions of diseases, not of health. Where disease is not, what remains is health. Health’s definitions are negative.
Where the causes of disturbance are not, there is peace.
And remember: if you think God will give you peace, you err. Your relationship with the divine begins when you are peaceful. God cannot give you peace. If you pray, “God, give me peace,” you are imposing a wrong condition. Only when you are peaceful does the relationship begin; until then, prayer falls into emptiness. Without connection there is no communication; prayer does not reach. Only a peaceful person can pray.
But up to now, the disturbed person keeps praying—and thinks, “My prayer is not being heard.” It is as if someone speaks into a telephone without lifting the receiver and then says, “They aren’t listening!”
I have heard: a man called a mechanic to fix his doorbell. Two, three days passed; the mechanic didn’t come. He phoned, “You haven’t come; I’ve been waiting.”
The mechanic said, “I did come. I rang the bell, but no one opened the door.”
He had been called to repair the bell; he pressed it, no one heard—and went away.
Most people’s prayers are like that—pressing a bell that is broken, that won’t ring anywhere. They pray all their lives; nothing is heard. Then they get angry with God.
Be angry with yourself; God is not at fault. The first sutra of communication with the divine is peace. Through the door of peace we relate. Or say it the other way: because of disturbance we are disconnected; because of peace we become connected. Peace is connection; disturbance is disconnection—the wire is cut.
So don’t ask the divine for peace; take peace with you to his door. Bliss can be received from him; peace you must create.
Understand it well: peace is our receptivity; bliss is his grace. We must become peaceful; he will fill us with bliss. Peace is our bowl; bliss is his rain. You cannot make yourself blissful; you can only become peaceful. Bliss will shower. Think like this: peace is our vessel, and bliss is the river from which we fill it.
But you go to the river without a vessel, shouting for the river to give you one! The river can give water; the vessel must be yours. People ask God for the bowl. The bowl you must be.
So the second sutra for your receptivity: don’t clutch at life; let it flow. Then you won’t be disturbed. Clutching brings disturbance. Whatever you clutch brings unrest—even love. Yesterday a man was your friend; today he is not—and you are disturbed. Why? Is it not enough that he was your friend yesterday? Your clutching says: “If he was my friend yesterday, he must be today.” Now you will be disturbed. Is it not enough that he was your friend yesterday? Give thanks for yesterday—and be done. Then there is no disturbance.
Our expectations, our demands, are our clutches. We say, “It must be like this.”
Recently I stayed at a friend’s house. He was very troubled—tranquilizer upon tranquilizer—and still could not sleep. Doctors said perhaps he needed electric shocks. I asked, “What’s the matter?”
“Great loss,” he said. “A loss of five lakhs.”
I asked his wife, “Is he telling it right?”
“In one sense yes,” she said. “But ask him how much profit he made.”
“How much profit?” I asked him.
“Nothing special,” he said. “Only one lakh profit. So a loss of five lakhs.”
He had been expecting six lakhs profit. Since he made only one lakh, he calls it a loss of five. Now his sleep is ruined. Then I understood his peculiar loss. But our losses are like this. We expect—and when expectation isn’t met, we call it loss.
On the road I expect a man to greet me. If he doesn’t, my suffering begins. What right have I to expect his greeting? If he throws a stone, I suffer more. But at least he threw only a stone, not a boulder—is that nothing?
Buddha had a disciple, Purna Kashyapa. When his training was complete, Buddha said, “Go and carry my message to the people.”
Purna said, “There is a place in Bihar called Suktam; I want to go there.”
Buddha said, “Don’t go there. The people are not good.”
Purna replied, “What will I do where people are good? Let me go where they are not good—that is where I am needed. A physician is needed among the sick; a teacher among the ignorant. A monk is needed where the unholy are. Let me go.”
Buddha said, “Go then, but answer three questions. First: if the people there abuse you, what will happen in your mind?”
He said, “I will think: they are very good—they only abuse; they don’t beat. Is that not enough!”
Buddha asked, “And if they beat you?”
“I will think: they are very good—they only beat; they don’t kill. They could kill.”
Buddha said, “One last question. If they kill you, in your final moment what will be in your mind?”
Purna said, “I will think: they are good—they freed me from a life in which I might still err, in which I might still go astray.”
Such a man you cannot disturb. Such a man becomes a vessel of peace. And in such a life, the rain of divine bliss falls.
Therefore the second sutra says: don’t clutch at anything in life. Don’t clutch at expectations, at facts, or at ambitions. From clutching you have never received anything but sorrow—nor can you.
Yet we cling. We weave such a net of clutches around us that sorrow and disturbance surround our life. We become a heap of ash in which nothing remains but unrest.
Now the third thing. If you take these three sutras to heart, you can stop worrying about the divine—because then the divine will begin to worry about you. You can forget God entirely—because then he cannot forget you. The first sutra, the second—now the third.
The third sutra: what we see, what we hear, what we understand is not all there is. There is much we do not see. There is much we do not hear. There is much that does not fit our understanding. And that is right: our understanding has limits; the eyes have limits; the ears have limits. We are limited. But man mistakes his limits for the limits of existence. He says, “What I see is truth.” Then he calls what he cannot see false. He says, “What I hear exists; what I do not hear does not exist.” Yet much exists that we do not hear. Many things cannot be grasped by the hand and yet are. Ordinarily, we take our limits as the limits of life.
Whoever takes his limits as the limits of life—I call him irreligious. Call him atheist, call him materialist—any name will do. But he is irreligious. It is like a drop taking its boundaries as the boundaries of the ocean. We are no more than drops. Let us not impose our limits upon the universe.
Therefore the third sutra says: when something is visible to you, say, “Up to here I see. Beyond, something may be—I do not see.” What comes within my grasp comes within my grasp; beyond that, whether it is or is not, I cannot decide.
Why this third sutra? Because the divine enters by the way of mystery. We have shut mystery out of our lives. There is no mystery anywhere—so we think. We “know” everything—though we know nothing. We “understand”—though we understand nothing. A doctor heals thousands. Yet he does not know what health is. He saves or assists in the dying of thousands of patients, yet he does not know what life is.
A little incident comes to mind. Edison visited a village school where the children had made a science exhibition. Edison made a thousand inventions—more than any other man. He was the greatest knower of electricity. He went to see what the children had done. A truly wise old man learns even from children. He thought, who knows what they have made? The children had made a small boat that ran on electricity, a motor, a train. Edison asked them, “How is this running?”
“On electricity,” they said.
“What is electricity?” he asked.
“We can’t tell you that,” they said. “We can show you by pressing the button that it runs. But our teacher is a graduate—we’ll call him; he might tell you.” The B.Sc. teacher came. “What is electricity?” Edison asked.
“Electricity? Electricity is a kind of power,” he said.
“What is that power?” Edison pressed.
“You ask difficult questions,” the teacher said. “I can’t answer. Our principal is a D.Sc., a Doctor of Science. We’ll call him.” The principal came. None of them knew they were facing Edison. Edison asked, “What is electricity?” The principal explained how electricity is produced.
“I’m not asking how it is produced,” Edison said. “I am asking: what is it that is produced?”
The principal then explained how electricity works.
“I’m not asking how it works,” Edison said. “I am asking: what is it that works?”
“You ask very difficult questions,” the principal said.
The old Edison laughed. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I am Edison—and I don’t know what electricity is either! I, too, can only tell you how it is produced and how it works. I do not know what it is.”
Such a man can be religious. The door of mystery is open in his life. But we—we shut that door on all sides. It seems we know everything. The man who thinks he knows closes himself. His doors and windows are shut. Then, even if the divine tries, he has not left a crack to enter.
Mystery is religion.
Therefore the third sutra says: seek mystery, moment to moment. When the sun rises, look—where is the mystery? When the night’s sky fills with stars, look—where is the mystery? When a child’s eyes shine, look—where is the mystery? When a woman’s face appears beautiful, look—what is the mystery of beauty? When a flower blooms, look—where is the mystery? When birds sing, look—where is the mystery?
This whole life is filled with unknown music. Unknown footsteps echo all around. Everywhere, mystery upon mystery. We are blind; our ears are closed. We are “knowers,” closed minds. We have shut our doors. Here, everything is mystery—a grain of dust, a ray of sunlight, the opening of a flower. But we are closed.
How will the divine enter a closed mind? The door must be open.
This third sutra is most important: let your life be capable of seeking mystery. If, again and again, you encounter places where your knowledge fails, where your understanding falls away, where your intellect refuses to go on, know that from many directions your relationship with the divine has begun. The first touch of the divine enters as mystery—his first fragrance, his first quiver, his first touch is the touch of mystery.
As our world has become more “civilized,” it has moved farther from mystery. That is why the world has become irreligious: we have drifted away from mystery. We have woven around ourselves a civilization of manmade things; in these there is no mystery. What mystery can there be in a cement road? We made it. What mystery in a concrete building? Chandigarh’s buildings carry little mystery—they are man’s making. What mystery on the streets of New York? In a factory, amidst machines, what mystery can there be? Whatever man has made cannot be mysterious—because what we can make we understand. As civilization has grown, a wall has arisen between us and the mystery of nature and existence.
A recent survey in London found that a million children said they had never seen a cow; seven hundred thousand had never seen a field. For a child who hasn’t seen a field, will the divine be easy? It will be very difficult. Everything around him is man’s arrangement. Man’s arrangements are mechanical devices; no mystery. When a seed of God cracks open, there is mystery; when man explodes an atom bomb, there is none.
So seek mystery in your life. Rise at dawn, when the last stars are about to fade. Do nothing. No need to go to a mosque—it is manmade; little mystery there. No need to go to a temple—manmade; little mystery there. No need to stand before a manmade image with folded hands—little mystery there. At dawn, when the last stars are drowning, fold your hands and sit with them, watch them sink into mystery. Something within you will sink, something will deepen. Watch the rising sun—do nothing, just watch. Let it rise. As the sun rises there, something rises here within. Lie under the open sky and gaze for an hour or two—experience vastness. How immense everything is; how small man is! Watch a flower open, watch its colors and fragrance spread. Pause at a bird’s song. Embrace a tree and sit with it. Where manmade temples cannot take you, a grain of God’s sand can. That is the temple, that is the mosque.
But man is clever. He builds houses for himself and for God too. He says, “We’ll live here; you live there. When needed, we’ll come, say a few words, lock up so you don’t run away. We’ll keep a priest as a caretaker; if we’re busy, he’ll offer the flowers.”
We have made religion formal.
The divine is everywhere. I am not saying he is not in the temple. But one who sees him everywhere will also see him in the temple. Yet one who believes he is only in the temple will see him nowhere. That is impossible.
Life is bearing news of him from every side. What we need is curiosity, a sense of mystery, a capacity for wonder—the ability to stop and look. A perception, a seeing.
The third sutra says: remember mystery, and each day find five or ten moments where your connection with mystery is restored. A child laughs on the road—stop a moment and look at his laughter. A tear falls from someone’s eye—pause and watch it fall. Countless significant happenings unfold every moment around us. But we have become habitual; we do not look. We just run—someone to his shop, someone to his temple, someone to the market, someone to an ashram—running and running. Life calls from all around: “Where are you running? What you seek is here!”
One last small story, and I will end.
I have heard that one morning a man came to a temple. Dawn was still far; the birds had just begun to sing softly. He opened the temple door, sat with folded hands before the image, and cried, “God, where are you? Give me your vision!”
A fakir had spent the night tucked in a corner of that temple. The man kept shouting before God, “Give me your vision! Where are you?” The fakir came out and shook him. “Fool,” he said, “outside the birds are crying, ‘Here!’ The flowers are saying, ‘Here!’ The rising sun says, ‘Here!’ Why don’t you listen?”
“Don’t disturb my worship!” the man said. “You sound like an atheist. Move aside—let me pray.”
He returned to his prayer: “O Lord, where are you? Give me your vision!”
The one who asks, “O God, where are you? Give me your vision!”—he will never see. Because asking “where” is the wrong question about that which is everywhere. The religious man does not ask, “Where is he?” He asks, “Where is he not?” As he searches, he finds: he is everywhere.
And the day his footsteps are heard everywhere, his song in every direction—that very day you disappear. That day the drop is gone, the ocean is. And it is not that when the drop merges into the ocean something is lost. No—when the drop merges, nothing is lost; the drop gains the ocean.
Let me end with Kabir. Kabir once said:
Searching and searching, O friend, Kabir was lost in the search. The drop merged in the ocean—where now to find it?
He set out to search and was lost in the searching! But some days later Kabir called his friends and said, “Change it; that sutra was wrong. It was written from the drop’s side. I did not yet know the ocean. Now it must be written from the ocean’s side; now I cannot find the drop.” He changed the verse:
Searching and searching, O friend, Kabir was lost in the search. The ocean merged in the drop—where now to find it?
When a person first experiences the divine, it feels as if the drop has merged into the ocean. But the very next moment you see you were mistaken—it is the ocean that has merged into the drop.
These three sutras I share with you. Let them spread a little in your life, and you will suddenly find that day by day the divine is becoming your neighbor; day by day you are entering his temple; day by day he is, and you are dissolving. A day will come when you will be able to say, “I am not; only you are.” And the day one can say, “I am not; only you are,” death is no more; sorrow is no more; anxiety is no more. That day everything old ends, and the new begins—nectar, bliss, truth.
You have listened with such love and peace; I am grateful. In the end, I bow to the divine dwelling in each of you. Please accept my salutations.
Osho's Commentary
Ten years later, that same fakir was again condemned to die. As they led him up the scaffold and were tying the noose, he said, “Friends, please be careful this time—fix the knot properly. Last time I got into great trouble.”
They said, “We don’t understand. What do you mean, last time? What last time?”
He said, “This is my second hanging. I don’t know how to swim. Last time I fell into the river and had to swim across—and I don’t know how to swim. So please set the noose right, otherwise I may fall into that same difficulty again.”
The executioners were amazed. Before hanging him they asked, “Don’t you want to live? It would have been better to pray to God that the noose be as loose as it was last time!”
The fakir replied, “I’ve lived ten years and seen—nothing was gained. With what face can I pray to God for more?”
We all live many years and gain nothing. Yet we keep longing to live. Whoever truly understands the craving to live will not remain a drunkard and madman of that craving—the lust for life. And as long as one is filled with the lust for life, with thirst for living, there is no entry at the door of the divine.
So let the first sutra you remember be this: in your life, sometimes in the morning, sometimes at dusk, pause and see—what have you actually gained from life? Just ask—of yourself, not of anyone else. No one else can answer this. Ask yourself, from time to time: what have I gained?
This very question gradually reveals the futility of this life. And unless this life becomes futile, the door to the other, meaningful life does not open. The futility of this life means: now we are ready to go beyond it. A student moves from first grade to second; it simply means first grade has become useless for him—nothing remains there to learn. We can rise to the higher life only when this life turns futile. Whatever could be learned from this…
But before what has been gained can become stale, we start running after the next thing. Our desires are overlapping. One desire is not even fulfilled before we are entangled in the next. We never get a gap in life to stand between two desires and look, to think again, reconsider: in all this running and getting, is anything really being gained?
I have heard that a dog in Kashi once got a craze to travel to Delhi. He was an MP’s dog—no small creature. Listening every day in that house to “Let’s go to Delhi!” it wouldn’t be surprising if his brain went off. It happens to humans; he was just a dog. One day he asked his leader, “Everyone is going to Delhi; I also want to go. Which way is it? How do I get there?”
The leader gave him the same road he himself walked. “If you meet poor dogs,” he said, “tell them the rich dogs are exploiting you, and that no one but me is your savior from the rich. And if you meet rich dogs, tell them the poor dogs are joining hands to kill you, and that no one but me can save you.”
But the dog was clever too—he was a politician’s dog. He asked, “What if both the poor and rich dogs gather together?”
The leader said, “Then speak of sarvodaya—that we want the rise of all; we serve everyone.”
Very soon the dog became a leader; the secret key was in his hands. He sent word to Delhi: “I’m coming.” He reckoned it would take a month to travel from Kashi to Delhi, so he announced the date he would set out and the date, a month later, he would arrive. He informed the Delhi dogs to arrange accommodation in the circuit house and such.
But the dog reached Delhi in seven days! The Delhi dogs were astonished: “How did you travel so fast? How did you get here so quickly?”
He managed to say a little before he died. For one who travels so fast, it is hard to reach the goal alive. But he did tell his tale: “I didn’t make this journey; I might not have reached even in a month. The other dogs made the journey for me. I wouldn’t even get past one village before the dogs of the next were after me. To save my life I ran. Before those would even return from the edge of their village, the dogs of the next would be upon me. And I ran to save my life. I wasn’t coming to Delhi; I was escaping.” That’s what he said before, I have heard, he died. But he revealed a great secret.
Man too reaches his particular “Delhi”—desire after desire. He leaves one village, and the dogs of the next village—new desires—chase him. He runs and runs only to save himself. In the end nothing remains and nothing is gained.
Therefore the first sutra says: keep asking yourself again and again, what have I gotten from this life? And also ask, what will I get? Because what you wanted yesterday is what you want today; what you wanted the day before yesterday is what you wanted yesterday; what you wanted a year ago you want still. If a lifetime of wanting has given nothing, what will you get now? When this question settles deeply in a man’s heart, transformation begins at once. When such a man gets angry, he asks, “What will I gain from this?” And the very asking makes anger difficult.
A friend of mine is very hot-tempered. He asked me, “What should I do to be free of anger?” He had tried many recipes; none worked. He had practised great self-control, but the more he controlled, the more angry he became. He would suppress for a day or two, then on the third day anger would explode ten times stronger. I wrote a sentence on a slip of paper for him: “What will I gain from this anger?” I told him, “Keep it in your pocket. Don’t repress your anger; when it arises, read this slip and put it back.”
Fifteen days later he came and said, “This is a strange paper! Does it contain some secret, some mantra, some magic?”
I said, “No secret, no mantra, no magic. Just ordinary paper and my handwriting.”
He said, “No, there must be something. Now I don’t even need to read it. As soon as my hand moves toward my pocket, the whole matter slips away. The moment the thought arises—What will I gain from this anger?—a lifetime of experience says: I have never gained anything. I have only lost.”
Remember, when nothing is gained, don’t assume only nothing is gained; something is always lost. In this life there is always either a minus or a plus. Either something is gained or something is lost—there is never a neutral. If you have gained nothing, then I tell you you have lost something without knowing it. We don’t stand still; either we move forward or we fall behind. There is no standing in place.
Eddington, a great scientist, wrote in his autobiography: in human language the word “rest” is the biggest lie—rest. He wrote, “After a lifetime’s experience I say: nothing is at rest; things are either going forward or going backward. Nothing is stationary. Nothing is at rest.”
I tell you: either you will lose or you will gain. If you are not gaining, you are constantly losing. But that is secondary. First we must know: are we gaining anything? Are we getting anything? This question must arise. In the mind where this question takes birth, there is no way to keep that person far from the divine for long. If not today, then tomorrow; if not tomorrow, then the day after—his journey toward the divine begins.
The second sutra I want to share: nothing in life stays. Things don’t even arrive before they’re gone. Life is a stream, a river, a flux—the banks are barely touched before they’re released. Things come and go, but we keep worrying.
Someone hurls an abuse. The abuse comes, echoes, and is gone. But for us sleep is impossible the whole night. The abuse doesn’t linger—but we cling to it. Life is a flow, but man clings hard and grabs at everything.
One morning a man spat on Buddha. He was in a rage, and he spat. Buddha wiped his face with his robe and said to the man, “Anything more to say?”
The man said, “Say? I didn’t say anything; I directly insulted you!”
Buddha said, “As far as I understand, you wanted to say something, but words wouldn’t serve, so by spitting you said it. It often happens: someone in great love cannot say it in words and so embraces; someone in deep reverence cannot say it and so places his head at another’s feet; someone in intense anger cannot say it and so spits. I take it that you have said something. Do you have more to say, or is it complete?”
The man must have been thrown into great confusion. He went away and couldn’t sleep all night. In the morning he returned to ask forgiveness. “Please forgive me,” he said.
Buddha asked, “For what are you asking forgiveness?”
“I spat on you yesterday.”
Buddha said, “There is no spit now, there is no yesterday now; nor are you the same, nor am I the same. Who is to forgive whom? Who is to be angry with whom? Everything has flowed by. You aren’t the same person! Yesterday you spat; today you bow at my feet. How can I believe you are the same?”
Everything flows away. Life is a current. If you build houses in this current, you do not know the river’s nature, and in trying to build on the river you are ruined. Yet we clutch at everything. Whoever clutches tightly will struggle against the flow and suffer. He will torment himself by his own hands.
I have heard a Sufi story. A river was in flood, the current fierce. Two little straws were floating. One straw lay crosswise against the current, fighting it—trying to stop the river from moving forward. Of course it was swept along, for how would the river know that a straw was trying to block it! But the straw was miserable—struggling all the time and losing all the time; trying and sinking; striving to move upstream and being carried downstream. The river was unaffected; the straw was tormented.
The other straw lay lengthwise, aligned with the current. It flowed with the river, full of delight, thinking, “I am helping the river to flow.” The river did not know this either, but the straw was not troubled. For the river, neither straw mattered; but from the standpoint of the straws, everything was different.
In the stream of life, are you lying like the crosswise straw, or like the aligned one? If you agree to flow with life’s current, it will carry you to the divine. If you refuse to flow, you will be very troubled. Your trouble will become such a smoke that even if the ocean of the divine appears before you, you won’t see it—you’ll only see your failures, your defeats.
So the second sutra says: there is no stillness in life; nothing stayed. Don’t get into the effort to make things stay.
We are all in that effort. That effort becomes worry. That effort becomes sadness, anguish, torment. That effort drives us mad. It sickens our very being. No—nothing stays in the current of life. Whoever remembers this from moment to moment will not go deranged; he will not go mad.
I have heard that an emperor once told his vizier, “Bring me a sutra from some wise man that will be useful to me at all times.” A fakir gave him a talisman, saying, “Keep it, but don’t open it unless there is real need.” The emperor wore it; years passed; there was no special need, so he didn’t open it.
Then enemies attacked, and the emperor was defeated. He fled on his horse. The hoofbeats of the pursuers sounded behind him. He reached the edge of a mountain—no road ahead, only a precipice. The hoofbeats were nearing; there was no way back. Then he remembered the talisman. He opened it. On a small slip of paper were written: This too will pass. That’s all: This too will pass. This is not going to stay. At first he didn’t fully grasp it. But indeed—it passed. The hoofbeats, the voices—where did they vanish in the forest?
Seven days later the emperor returned to his capital, sat again in his palace, and summoned the fakir. “I could never have imagined what was in that talisman,” he said. “Just a little scrap of paper and a small sentence! But had it not been there, perhaps I would have jumped into that gorge and killed myself. Thinking, ‘This too will pass,’ I decided to wait a little.”
Everything passes. Sorrow passes; joy passes. In sorrow, remember it will pass—then sorrow won’t hurt. In joy, remember it will pass—then joy won’t inflate the ego. In failure, remember it will pass—then there will be no anxiety. In success, remember it will pass—then madness won’t arise. In pleasure and in pain; in shadow and in light; in illness and in health; in night and in day; in youth and in old age; in birth and in death—whoever remembers, “This too will pass,” sees tension leave his life. No tension remains.
And the one whose life is free of tension can step toward the temple of the divine. The one whose life is full of tension steps only toward the madhouse. We are all moving toward the madhouse. Some have reached the door; some are inside; some are at the gate; some are on the road; some at the crossroads—but our faces are turned toward the madhouse.
William James, a great psychologist, once visited an asylum and, after returning, could never be cheerful again. Days passed; his wife worried; his friends worried. “Why so downcast?” they asked.
He said, “Since I came back from the asylum, all my joy has gone.”
“What was there?” they asked.
“In the asylum,” William James said, “those I saw were, yesterday, people just like me. Then the thought came: might it be that one day I too will land there?”
They tried to console him. “Why should you go mad?”
He replied, “The families of those people must have told them the same. If they said, ‘What if I go mad?’ they were told, ‘Why would you go mad? Don’t think such thoughts.’ But they did go mad. Who can stop me from going mad? I am anxious as they were anxious. The difference is only of degree. Their fever has passed a hundred degrees; mine may be at ninety or ninety-eight. How long before I too reach a hundred?”
We are all anxious, troubled, tense—faces turned toward the madhouse. To face the divine and turn your back to the madhouse can happen only when you harbor no tension at all. He doesn’t nurture tension; he doesn’t accept it. Things come and pass; he remains standing. Storms come, and great trees fall—because great trees hold great tension, full of stiffness and pride in their height. The storm comes and the big trees fall; the small blades of grass bend. The storm goes, and the grass stands again.
Life is a storm, gales blowing day and night, who knows what around us. The man who breaks in each storm will break entirely. The man who, in each storm, knows—this too will pass—will stand again after each gale. And for one who stands after hundreds of storms, the storms no longer seem storms; they become play. Storms no longer frighten; they become leela.
For the religious mind, this second sutra is essential: move through life as one moves through water without letting the water touch his feet. Difficult! Water will wet the feet. But one can certainly pass through life without being touched by it. Life doesn’t touch us; we clutch at it.
Buddha could have clutched at that spittle, could have asked, “Why did this man spit? What should I do?” He could have been restless all night—if he had clutched.
The spit came and went; the insult came and went. We clutch. Life does not make us hold on; we seize it. Our clutching becomes our anxiety. Slowly we grow so disturbed that we go about asking, “How to be peaceful?” Many come to me. “How to be peaceful?” they ask.
I ask them first, “Tell me: how did you become un-peaceful?” Until we know how you got disturbed, how will peace happen?
A man was brought to me. He said, “I have come from the Aurobindo Ashram. I went to Sivananda’s. I went to Mahesh Yogi. I went to Rishikesh. Here and there. I went to Ramana’s ashram. Peace is not found. Someone told me your name, so I’ve come.”
I said, “Before you go away disappointed, go now. Otherwise you’ll add my name to your list: ‘I went there too and didn’t find peace.’ Better we stop here.”
“What do you mean?” he asked. “I’ve come with great hope.”
I said, “In which ashram did you learn disturbance? Which guru taught you unrest? You will learn restlessness, and if I can’t give you peace I will be the culprit? Forget your worry about peace. Tell me how you became un-peaceful. Because the very method of becoming un-peaceful contains the key to peace. No one finds peace anywhere else.”
We become restless because we cling to life. We won’t let it flow. We fight like the crosswise straw. If we flowed like the lengthwise straw, there would be no reason for unrest. Our way of living breeds unrest. And then we go searching for peace—in some mantra, in some rosary, by someone’s blessing, by God’s grace. We keep arranging for our disturbance and keep seeking peace. Then this search for peace becomes just another disturbance—and nothing else happens.
So the ordinary man is ordinarily disturbed; the so-called religious man becomes extraordinarily disturbed. He says, “I must have peace.” And all that he wanted before—wealth, fame, position—he still wants. To the list he adds one more item: peace. Later he will write: God also. His disturbance increases. When one person in a house becomes “religious,” he himself becomes restless and makes it hard for others to remain calm. He disrupts everyone. His very demand for peace becomes his unrest.
Peace cannot be desired; only unrest can be understood. Peace cannot be an object of desire—because desire is unrest. How can you desire peace? That is contradictory. No one can desire peace. Peace cannot be made the object of desire—every desire creates disturbance; therefore peace cannot be a desire. Just understand your disturbance and stop being disturbed; what remains is called peace. Peace is absence. It is a lack.
What is health? If you ask a doctor, he will say: the absence of disease. If you ask him to inject you with health, he will say, “Forgive me. We can inject to remove disease; there is no injection for health.” Ask him to give you health; he will say, “We can remove illness; how can we give health? When illness is gone, what remains is health.”
Therefore in medical science—Ayurveda, Allopathy, Homeopathy—you will find definitions of diseases, not of health. Where disease is not, what remains is health. Health’s definitions are negative.
Where the causes of disturbance are not, there is peace.
And remember: if you think God will give you peace, you err. Your relationship with the divine begins when you are peaceful. God cannot give you peace. If you pray, “God, give me peace,” you are imposing a wrong condition. Only when you are peaceful does the relationship begin; until then, prayer falls into emptiness. Without connection there is no communication; prayer does not reach. Only a peaceful person can pray.
But up to now, the disturbed person keeps praying—and thinks, “My prayer is not being heard.” It is as if someone speaks into a telephone without lifting the receiver and then says, “They aren’t listening!”
I have heard: a man called a mechanic to fix his doorbell. Two, three days passed; the mechanic didn’t come. He phoned, “You haven’t come; I’ve been waiting.”
The mechanic said, “I did come. I rang the bell, but no one opened the door.”
He had been called to repair the bell; he pressed it, no one heard—and went away.
Most people’s prayers are like that—pressing a bell that is broken, that won’t ring anywhere. They pray all their lives; nothing is heard. Then they get angry with God.
Be angry with yourself; God is not at fault. The first sutra of communication with the divine is peace. Through the door of peace we relate. Or say it the other way: because of disturbance we are disconnected; because of peace we become connected. Peace is connection; disturbance is disconnection—the wire is cut.
So don’t ask the divine for peace; take peace with you to his door. Bliss can be received from him; peace you must create.
Understand it well: peace is our receptivity; bliss is his grace. We must become peaceful; he will fill us with bliss. Peace is our bowl; bliss is his rain. You cannot make yourself blissful; you can only become peaceful. Bliss will shower. Think like this: peace is our vessel, and bliss is the river from which we fill it.
But you go to the river without a vessel, shouting for the river to give you one! The river can give water; the vessel must be yours. People ask God for the bowl. The bowl you must be.
So the second sutra for your receptivity: don’t clutch at life; let it flow. Then you won’t be disturbed. Clutching brings disturbance. Whatever you clutch brings unrest—even love. Yesterday a man was your friend; today he is not—and you are disturbed. Why? Is it not enough that he was your friend yesterday? Your clutching says: “If he was my friend yesterday, he must be today.” Now you will be disturbed. Is it not enough that he was your friend yesterday? Give thanks for yesterday—and be done. Then there is no disturbance.
Our expectations, our demands, are our clutches. We say, “It must be like this.”
Recently I stayed at a friend’s house. He was very troubled—tranquilizer upon tranquilizer—and still could not sleep. Doctors said perhaps he needed electric shocks. I asked, “What’s the matter?”
“Great loss,” he said. “A loss of five lakhs.”
I asked his wife, “Is he telling it right?”
“In one sense yes,” she said. “But ask him how much profit he made.”
“How much profit?” I asked him.
“Nothing special,” he said. “Only one lakh profit. So a loss of five lakhs.”
He had been expecting six lakhs profit. Since he made only one lakh, he calls it a loss of five. Now his sleep is ruined. Then I understood his peculiar loss. But our losses are like this. We expect—and when expectation isn’t met, we call it loss.
On the road I expect a man to greet me. If he doesn’t, my suffering begins. What right have I to expect his greeting? If he throws a stone, I suffer more. But at least he threw only a stone, not a boulder—is that nothing?
Buddha had a disciple, Purna Kashyapa. When his training was complete, Buddha said, “Go and carry my message to the people.”
Purna said, “There is a place in Bihar called Suktam; I want to go there.”
Buddha said, “Don’t go there. The people are not good.”
Purna replied, “What will I do where people are good? Let me go where they are not good—that is where I am needed. A physician is needed among the sick; a teacher among the ignorant. A monk is needed where the unholy are. Let me go.”
Buddha said, “Go then, but answer three questions. First: if the people there abuse you, what will happen in your mind?”
He said, “I will think: they are very good—they only abuse; they don’t beat. Is that not enough!”
Buddha asked, “And if they beat you?”
“I will think: they are very good—they only beat; they don’t kill. They could kill.”
Buddha said, “One last question. If they kill you, in your final moment what will be in your mind?”
Purna said, “I will think: they are good—they freed me from a life in which I might still err, in which I might still go astray.”
Such a man you cannot disturb. Such a man becomes a vessel of peace. And in such a life, the rain of divine bliss falls.
Therefore the second sutra says: don’t clutch at anything in life. Don’t clutch at expectations, at facts, or at ambitions. From clutching you have never received anything but sorrow—nor can you.
Yet we cling. We weave such a net of clutches around us that sorrow and disturbance surround our life. We become a heap of ash in which nothing remains but unrest.
Now the third thing. If you take these three sutras to heart, you can stop worrying about the divine—because then the divine will begin to worry about you. You can forget God entirely—because then he cannot forget you. The first sutra, the second—now the third.
The third sutra: what we see, what we hear, what we understand is not all there is. There is much we do not see. There is much we do not hear. There is much that does not fit our understanding. And that is right: our understanding has limits; the eyes have limits; the ears have limits. We are limited. But man mistakes his limits for the limits of existence. He says, “What I see is truth.” Then he calls what he cannot see false. He says, “What I hear exists; what I do not hear does not exist.” Yet much exists that we do not hear. Many things cannot be grasped by the hand and yet are. Ordinarily, we take our limits as the limits of life.
Whoever takes his limits as the limits of life—I call him irreligious. Call him atheist, call him materialist—any name will do. But he is irreligious. It is like a drop taking its boundaries as the boundaries of the ocean. We are no more than drops. Let us not impose our limits upon the universe.
Therefore the third sutra says: when something is visible to you, say, “Up to here I see. Beyond, something may be—I do not see.” What comes within my grasp comes within my grasp; beyond that, whether it is or is not, I cannot decide.
Why this third sutra? Because the divine enters by the way of mystery. We have shut mystery out of our lives. There is no mystery anywhere—so we think. We “know” everything—though we know nothing. We “understand”—though we understand nothing. A doctor heals thousands. Yet he does not know what health is. He saves or assists in the dying of thousands of patients, yet he does not know what life is.
A little incident comes to mind. Edison visited a village school where the children had made a science exhibition. Edison made a thousand inventions—more than any other man. He was the greatest knower of electricity. He went to see what the children had done. A truly wise old man learns even from children. He thought, who knows what they have made? The children had made a small boat that ran on electricity, a motor, a train. Edison asked them, “How is this running?”
“On electricity,” they said.
“What is electricity?” he asked.
“We can’t tell you that,” they said. “We can show you by pressing the button that it runs. But our teacher is a graduate—we’ll call him; he might tell you.” The B.Sc. teacher came. “What is electricity?” Edison asked.
“Electricity? Electricity is a kind of power,” he said.
“What is that power?” Edison pressed.
“You ask difficult questions,” the teacher said. “I can’t answer. Our principal is a D.Sc., a Doctor of Science. We’ll call him.” The principal came. None of them knew they were facing Edison. Edison asked, “What is electricity?” The principal explained how electricity is produced.
“I’m not asking how it is produced,” Edison said. “I am asking: what is it that is produced?”
The principal then explained how electricity works.
“I’m not asking how it works,” Edison said. “I am asking: what is it that works?”
“You ask very difficult questions,” the principal said.
The old Edison laughed. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I am Edison—and I don’t know what electricity is either! I, too, can only tell you how it is produced and how it works. I do not know what it is.”
Such a man can be religious. The door of mystery is open in his life. But we—we shut that door on all sides. It seems we know everything. The man who thinks he knows closes himself. His doors and windows are shut. Then, even if the divine tries, he has not left a crack to enter.
Mystery is religion.
Therefore the third sutra says: seek mystery, moment to moment. When the sun rises, look—where is the mystery? When the night’s sky fills with stars, look—where is the mystery? When a child’s eyes shine, look—where is the mystery? When a woman’s face appears beautiful, look—what is the mystery of beauty? When a flower blooms, look—where is the mystery? When birds sing, look—where is the mystery?
This whole life is filled with unknown music. Unknown footsteps echo all around. Everywhere, mystery upon mystery. We are blind; our ears are closed. We are “knowers,” closed minds. We have shut our doors. Here, everything is mystery—a grain of dust, a ray of sunlight, the opening of a flower. But we are closed.
How will the divine enter a closed mind? The door must be open.
This third sutra is most important: let your life be capable of seeking mystery. If, again and again, you encounter places where your knowledge fails, where your understanding falls away, where your intellect refuses to go on, know that from many directions your relationship with the divine has begun. The first touch of the divine enters as mystery—his first fragrance, his first quiver, his first touch is the touch of mystery.
As our world has become more “civilized,” it has moved farther from mystery. That is why the world has become irreligious: we have drifted away from mystery. We have woven around ourselves a civilization of manmade things; in these there is no mystery. What mystery can there be in a cement road? We made it. What mystery in a concrete building? Chandigarh’s buildings carry little mystery—they are man’s making. What mystery on the streets of New York? In a factory, amidst machines, what mystery can there be? Whatever man has made cannot be mysterious—because what we can make we understand. As civilization has grown, a wall has arisen between us and the mystery of nature and existence.
A recent survey in London found that a million children said they had never seen a cow; seven hundred thousand had never seen a field. For a child who hasn’t seen a field, will the divine be easy? It will be very difficult. Everything around him is man’s arrangement. Man’s arrangements are mechanical devices; no mystery. When a seed of God cracks open, there is mystery; when man explodes an atom bomb, there is none.
So seek mystery in your life. Rise at dawn, when the last stars are about to fade. Do nothing. No need to go to a mosque—it is manmade; little mystery there. No need to go to a temple—manmade; little mystery there. No need to stand before a manmade image with folded hands—little mystery there. At dawn, when the last stars are drowning, fold your hands and sit with them, watch them sink into mystery. Something within you will sink, something will deepen. Watch the rising sun—do nothing, just watch. Let it rise. As the sun rises there, something rises here within. Lie under the open sky and gaze for an hour or two—experience vastness. How immense everything is; how small man is! Watch a flower open, watch its colors and fragrance spread. Pause at a bird’s song. Embrace a tree and sit with it. Where manmade temples cannot take you, a grain of God’s sand can. That is the temple, that is the mosque.
But man is clever. He builds houses for himself and for God too. He says, “We’ll live here; you live there. When needed, we’ll come, say a few words, lock up so you don’t run away. We’ll keep a priest as a caretaker; if we’re busy, he’ll offer the flowers.”
We have made religion formal.
The divine is everywhere. I am not saying he is not in the temple. But one who sees him everywhere will also see him in the temple. Yet one who believes he is only in the temple will see him nowhere. That is impossible.
Life is bearing news of him from every side. What we need is curiosity, a sense of mystery, a capacity for wonder—the ability to stop and look. A perception, a seeing.
The third sutra says: remember mystery, and each day find five or ten moments where your connection with mystery is restored. A child laughs on the road—stop a moment and look at his laughter. A tear falls from someone’s eye—pause and watch it fall. Countless significant happenings unfold every moment around us. But we have become habitual; we do not look. We just run—someone to his shop, someone to his temple, someone to the market, someone to an ashram—running and running. Life calls from all around: “Where are you running? What you seek is here!”
One last small story, and I will end.
I have heard that one morning a man came to a temple. Dawn was still far; the birds had just begun to sing softly. He opened the temple door, sat with folded hands before the image, and cried, “God, where are you? Give me your vision!”
A fakir had spent the night tucked in a corner of that temple. The man kept shouting before God, “Give me your vision! Where are you?” The fakir came out and shook him. “Fool,” he said, “outside the birds are crying, ‘Here!’ The flowers are saying, ‘Here!’ The rising sun says, ‘Here!’ Why don’t you listen?”
“Don’t disturb my worship!” the man said. “You sound like an atheist. Move aside—let me pray.”
He returned to his prayer: “O Lord, where are you? Give me your vision!”
The one who asks, “O God, where are you? Give me your vision!”—he will never see. Because asking “where” is the wrong question about that which is everywhere. The religious man does not ask, “Where is he?” He asks, “Where is he not?” As he searches, he finds: he is everywhere.
And the day his footsteps are heard everywhere, his song in every direction—that very day you disappear. That day the drop is gone, the ocean is. And it is not that when the drop merges into the ocean something is lost. No—when the drop merges, nothing is lost; the drop gains the ocean.
Let me end with Kabir. Kabir once said:
Searching and searching, O friend, Kabir was lost in the search.
The drop merged in the ocean—where now to find it?
He set out to search and was lost in the searching! But some days later Kabir called his friends and said, “Change it; that sutra was wrong. It was written from the drop’s side. I did not yet know the ocean. Now it must be written from the ocean’s side; now I cannot find the drop.” He changed the verse:
Searching and searching, O friend, Kabir was lost in the search.
The ocean merged in the drop—where now to find it?
When a person first experiences the divine, it feels as if the drop has merged into the ocean. But the very next moment you see you were mistaken—it is the ocean that has merged into the drop.
These three sutras I share with you. Let them spread a little in your life, and you will suddenly find that day by day the divine is becoming your neighbor; day by day you are entering his temple; day by day he is, and you are dissolving. A day will come when you will be able to say, “I am not; only you are.” And the day one can say, “I am not; only you are,” death is no more; sorrow is no more; anxiety is no more. That day everything old ends, and the new begins—nectar, bliss, truth.
You have listened with such love and peace; I am grateful. In the end, I bow to the divine dwelling in each of you. Please accept my salutations.