Dhyan Ke Kamal #1

That which does not come within the grasp of the senses is the imperishable. And when, in the morning, I say to you, “Touch it,” I do not mean, “Touch it with the senses.” Whatever is touched by the senses is bound to be perishable. But there is a deeper touch that does not happen through the senses—it happens through the inner being. And when I say, “Listen to it,” or “See it,” that seeing and hearing are not matters of the senses. There is a kind of hearing that happens within without the senses, and a kind of seeing that happens within without the eyes. I am speaking of that inner hearing, seeing, and touching. And if that experience begins, then even in what appears perishable all around, the thread of the imperishable begins to be felt within it.

There is not the slightest contradiction. It appears so—and will appear so. The whole language of religion is contradictory, full of opposites. There is a reason: the language we have to use was not created for that for which we are compelled to use it.

“Touch” was coined for sensory experience; yet we have to use it for the supersensory as well. “Darshan” was made for the use of the eyes; but when we say “darshan of the divine,” the eyes have nothing to do with it. Whatever words we have, whatever language there is, it is all for the senses. And the samadhi toward which we wish to step is beyond the senses. The language belongs to the senses; the experience is of the beyond. Naturally, contradictions will seem to be there: the very language we are speaking in is not meant for what we want to say.

But if this much is understood, then remember: language is only a pointer. If you clutch the pointer too tightly, there will be confusion. A pointer is meant to be left behind. I raise a finger toward the moon and say, “That is the moon.” You can, if you wish, seize my finger and ask, “Where is the moon here?” The moon is not in my finger. The finger has nothing to do with the moon. There is no relationship between the finger and the moon; yet if you let go of my finger and let your eyes rise toward the moon, the finger can indicate the moon. But if you keep holding the finger tightly and begin to insist, “By pointing with this finger you said there is a moon—so where is the moon?” then there will be obstruction, there will be difficulty.

Words can serve as pointers toward the wordless; speech can point toward silence. But if you hold on to the speech, you will get no news of silence. And if you hold on to the words, your eyes will not lift toward the wordless.

I say: “Touch.” And yet the aim is not sensory touch. I say: “Listen.” Yet there is no word there to be heard. I say: “See.” Yet the eyes have no use there. Understand the pointer—and set out on the journey.

There are a few differences. Even those are not differences in sannyas itself; they are simply the differences between “old” and “new.” What difference can there be in sannyas? Whenever sannyas happens, it is the same. Time cannot change sannyas. If someone became a sannyasin ten thousand years ago and someone becomes one today, sannyas itself cannot be different; only the form, the coverings, the outer shape can differ—and they should.

The old sannyas stood upon certain foundational stones. Those stones long ago collapsed in society. But the old sannyas is still trying to stand upon them. Because of this, it has become more and more blocked; its stream has grown feeble; a large segment of life could no longer be included in it.

For example, five thousand years ago, if a son wanted to take sannyas, a father’s joy knew no bounds. Nothing greater could happen than that the son became a sannyasin. The father’s own prayer would be: may my son take sannyas. So leaving the home was not difficult in those days. The wife rejoiced that her husband had become a sannyasin. Why? Because the entire culture, the whole social outlook, was oriented toward moksha—liberation was life’s ultimate fruit. Everyone was to arrive there.

In those days we had structured society in such a way that moksha was the final goal. On that day the wife also desired that the husband attain moksha; the husband desired the same for the wife. And whenever anyone took a step toward it, the whole society, the whole family became cooperative. That was our prayer. Even before a son was born, the mother’s prayer was that he become a sannyasin.

Those days are gone. The entire social framework has changed. Today if a husband becomes a drunkard, that can be tolerated; if he becomes a sannyasin, it cannot. If a son becomes a thief, a father may bear it; but if the son speaks of becoming a sannyasin, the father cannot bear it. Moksha has slipped from the center. Wealth is now at the center; religion is not.

So if, even today, we insist on maintaining only that form of sannyas which leaves the home, then every day the number of sannyasins will diminish—and soon you will find that they have vanished. They cannot survive.

A new sannyas will have to be born—one that can flower within the home, right where you are. If you are a husband, then while remaining a husband; if you are a father, then while remaining a father; if you are a son, then while remaining a son—without touching your outer world, accepting it as it is. Let the revolution happen within. Then we can create a vast movement of sannyasins in this world. Otherwise, sannyas is almost moribund.

There is another consequence. In those ancient times, five thousand years ago, the “cream” among us—the truly gifted—would become sannyasins. Naturally so, because nothing was considered higher than sannyas. The finest talents went to sannyas.

Today nothing is considered higher than wealth. So the finest talents rush toward making money, toward fame. The class that now drifts toward sannyas tends to be talentless. And remember: wherever the untalented begin to dominate and the talented become scarce, that direction very quickly withers.

If we want to reconnect talent with sannyas, we must give sannyas such a form that the talented can be attracted to it. Why? Because the language of “renunciation” has become out of date. It has fallen outside the times. Each age has its own language. If we keep speaking in the language of renunciation today, it will not be understood. We will have to change the language. Now we must present sannyas in the language of attainment, in the language of gaining.

The old sannyas said: leaving the world is sannyas. I say: attaining the divine is sannyas. That negative attitude of “drop this, drop that, drop that”—today it does not work. And there is a reason. When people are very content, the language of gaining doesn’t work; what they have seems enough. When people are very discontent, the language of renunciation doesn’t work. They are already so harassed—now you ask them to give up more? Everyone feels, “I have nothing.” And you tell them to renounce? They will say, “What should I drop? I don’t have anything.”

With the age, the language must be changed. The old sannyas spoke a negative language—the language of negation. The new sannyas will speak a language of positivity, of construction—of attainment. And the beauty is: if someone can leave the world, he attains the divine; and if someone sets out to attain the divine, the world falls away on its own. They are two sides of the same coin. In truth, the one who becomes intent on attaining the divine finds the world beginning to slip away by itself. But let this dropping be from within; there is no need to enforce it from the outside. If it slips inwardly, that is enough.

The new sannyas accepts you exactly where you are. It seeks to change the state of mind, not the circumstances. Although, as the state of mind changes, circumstances begin to appear different—because what we call circumstances is largely our interpretation.

So I say to you: do not leave the world; transform it into a mere play. If you are a father, play the role. And understand: you can be far more skillful in acting than you can ever be in being the doer. Do not take being a father too seriously—take it as play. Do not take being a husband too seriously—take it as play. See it as a part in a drama, and perform it joyfully. If the world becomes a play for you, you have begun to walk toward sannyas.

In those ancient days we carried the sannyasin on our heads, because the whole society believed: even if we cannot become that, it is enough that at least one flower among us has bloomed. Emperors would fall at a sannyasin’s feet.

Today the sannyasin worries: if only such-and-such minister would come to see him; if his name appeared in the newspapers, how nice it would be. These days it seems no one goes to a sannyasin—only the defeated. If a minister loses an election, he goes to take refuge with sannyasins; no victorious person goes. As soon as someone loses his position, a religious feeling arises; otherwise it does not.

But that was another time—when emperors touched the feet of beggars.

I have heard: Buddha arrived in a certain town. The local king asked his vizier, “Must I go to welcome Buddha?” The vizier looked keenly at his king and said, “Please accept my resignation!” The king asked, “What has happened?” The old vizier replied, “When a king begins to ask whether he must go to welcome Buddha, that place is no longer fit to live in. I resign.” The king said, “Don’t do that! I only sought your advice, as one seeks from an elder. I asked whether it is proper for a king to go welcome a beggar—a man with a begging bowl!” The vizier said, “He too had a kingdom, and he could renounce it. You too have a kingdom, and you still clutch it. He looks like a beggar by the road, but he is the emperor of emperors—because he could leave his empire. You look like a king, but you are the beggar of beggars—because you are clinging so hard. You must go to welcome him!”

That was another time. Then, by renouncing, one became so rich that it was beyond measure. As a beggar by the road, he became an emperor. Those were days when the language of negation worked. By dropping, one received immeasurably. Today, even by getting, one does not receive that much. So the language has to change. Therefore I speak the language of attainment. And I say: don’t drop anything. Stay where you are, take whatever is happening around you as a play, and keep doing it. The very moment you see it as play, something within breaks—a thread snaps, a bridge collapses. What used to bind—attachment—departs.

And today society will not be ready to feed sannyasins. People were willing then because they saw sannyas as life’s ultimate flower.

Just now the government of Thailand has made a rule that no one may take sannyas without government permission. The very day sannyas needs government permission, what meaning remains? Is it like a driving license, that one must get a license for sannyas?

But it is the compulsion of the times. Thailand’s population is forty million, and there are two million sannyasins. A population of forty million is no longer willing to support two million sannyasins. It is difficult. How can four crores support twenty lakhs of sannyasins? It’s hard.

In Russia sannyas disappeared. Wherever socialism comes, there sannyas disappears—because the sannyasin appears to be an exploiter. Once sannyas was life’s supreme attainment; today he seems an exploiter, a freeloader. If sannyas is to be saved, its form must change. The sannyasin will have to work; only then can he survive in the future. He can no longer depend on others. Even asking for a piece of bread is now ignorance.

There were other days. One had to give alms to a sannyasin—and along with it, people offered their thanks for his accepting the alms. That is the meaning of dakshina: a thanks given after alms. “You accepted our alms—this is your grace upon us.”

Today no one is willing even to give alms. After giving, it is the sannyasin who must express gratitude: “It is your great kindness that you gave me two rotis.”

Those must have been wondrous days. What people they were! They would give alms, touch the feet, and then offer dakshina—thanks—that you came. You could even refuse.

Today we ask, “What is this sannyasin giving in return for what he eats?”

So the old sannyas cannot last. You may drag it along for a few days, but it is dead; it cannot survive. Because the entire direction of society has changed. Now only that sannyasin will survive who labors—who works in an office, toils in a shop; who produces his own bread—and produces bread for ten others. Only such a sannyasin can survive in the future.

Thus the new sannyas does not ask you to negate life. Stay where you are, as you are. There are only a few small indications in the new sannyas. The ochre robe is only so that you remember—and those around you also remember—that this person will now live as if in a play. He will not go away; he will live as play. It is merely for remembering—for remembrance.

And I have kept only one condition with the new sannyas; I have dropped all the others, because they are now useless. Only one condition: a sannyasin will meditate at least one hour in every twenty-four.

My understanding is that if meditation begins to bear fruit, all other conditions enter from the back door; they don’t need to be brought. One who attains to meditation will gradually be drawn toward brahmacharya. I do not say, “Impose brahmacharya”—and what is the worth of a celibacy that is enforced? But as meditation deepens, sexual energy will settle down on its own. If it does not, know simply that the meditation is not right; nothing else needs to be understood.

I do not say, “Do not be angry.” As meditation grows, anger becomes impossible. I do not say, “Give up meat.” One whose meditation deepens—how will he be able to eat meat? So I have dropped all conditions and kept only one basic condition: inside, let meditation grow; outside, let playfulness grow. Everything else will come of itself.

With the old sannyas the reverse has happened—at least with those who follow the old style today. They do leave the world, but they do not take what they do as sannyasins to be a play; they take it with heavy seriousness. The house is left, and then the ashram’s lawsuits drag on in court—no difference. Sons are left, and then the question of whom to appoint as successor goes on—no difference. There is no play. And what can be done as play can be done at home; there is no special need to go to an ashram. All the other conditions are zealously followed—only the single condition of meditation is not being fulfilled. The old-style sannyasin meets every other condition, but cannot manage meditation.

As I travel in the country, even the most senior sannyasins ask me how to meditate. Just two days ago an eighty-year-old sannyasin came—he had taken sannyas in 1932. He had been a doctor. After only five years of practice he renounced and took sannyas. At eighty years of age he came to ask me: “How should I meditate?” I asked him, “It has been forty years since you took sannyas—did you not ask your guru?” He said, “My guru told me: give up this food; rise at this time; sleep at this time. I have followed all the rules and disciplines he gave. But he never told me about meditation! I turn the mala, I read the Brahmasutra, I read the Upanishads, I study, reflect, contemplate—but meditation?”

If secondary conditions become too important, meditation gets left behind. So I have removed them all; there is only one condition: inside, meditation; outside, play. That alone is my formula for sannyas. The rest comes by itself—it always does.

Two things about the morning meditation, and then we will move into it.

First: meditation is for those who can muster the courage to enter into ecstasy. It is not for the faint-hearted. Meditation is a great adventure, a great daring—leaping beyond oneself into some unknown depth. To descend into the unfamiliar, the unknown, the unknowable—you need courage.

Second: remember, you cannot go on that journey while tightly holding yourself together. So be brave. The way you have been—you have seen enough, and gained nothing. Now take the courage to live in a different way; otherwise you will die as you are. You have stayed as you are for thirty, forty, seventy years—and found nothing. I tell you: dare to try another way—perhaps…

But you cling to your old style. You say, “I have never danced—how can I dance? I have never done kirtan—how can I?” You think, “I am an educated, cultured person—how can I do such things?” You may be very cultured—but in that cultured way you have seen enough and found nothing. Now it is time to set aside these hollow ideas. Put them down in a corner. Gather courage. Try a new experiment.

There are three stages. First fifteen minutes: kirtan. Do it with great joy—not with tension or strain. This is not a task. You are not laboring. It is joy, delight. Do it with great playfulness, great exuberance. Let your joy be expressed in the kirtan. Let a great sweetness spread within and around you. Not tense, not tight, as if doing some heavy work—no; feel you are entering a small play with the divine, a little dance with the divine. You don’t know what the dance is; it has no rules, no steps. Nothing is known—but with the feeling that you are taking the divine by the hand and entering a dance, step in.

Fifteen minutes kirtan. Then for fifteen minutes the music will continue but the kirtan will stop. Then, individually, as your own mood arises, dive within in your own way—dance, rejoice. If the urge to shout comes, shout; if laughter comes, laugh; if tears come, let them flow. Become light. Whatever happens within, allow it.

After that, thirty minutes: lie down like a corpse. Having reached his door dancing, now lay your head upon his steps. These are moments of surrender. In those moments, do nothing. Remain a witness, just watch whatever comes into experience. A great light may spread within. A great thrill of bliss may arise. The presence of the divine may be felt—the touch, the vision, the experience. But for those thirty minutes remain silent and still.

Now we begin. Spread out with some space; if you stay too close, you won’t be able to dance. There is plenty of room. And no matter how far you are from me, the result will be the same. So don’t insist on being near me—spread out.