We have spoken of the outer circumference of sadhana. Now let us consider its very center.
Purifying body, thought, and feeling—making their pure form available—is the primary groundwork. Even that much brings great joy into life. Even that much invokes a certain divinity. Even that much connects us with the supernatural. But that is a relationship with the beyond, not union in it. It relates us to the divine, but does not make us one with it. It is to know the divine, but not yet to be merged with it. Purification turns us toward the divine and carries our gaze to it. After that, the vision of emptiness brings union with the divine, makes us one with it.
On the first circle we come to know truth; at the second center we become truth. Let us inquire into this second point. I called the first element purification; I am calling the second element emptiness. Emptiness too will have three stages—upon the body, upon thought, and upon feeling.
Emptiness of the body is the ending of body-identification. We have identification with the body, an identity. It doesn’t appear to us that we have a body; on some level it keeps appearing: I am the body. When the feeling “I am the body” dissolves, bodily-emptiness occurs. When identity with the body breaks, bodily-emptiness happens.
When Alexander was returning from India he wished to take a fakir back with him, so he could show Greece what an Indian fakir is like. Many fakirs were ready and eager to go. If Alexander invites and escorts you with royal honor, who would refuse? But those who were eager, Alexander did not deem fit to take—because their very eagerness revealed they were not fakirs. Alexander sought a fakir whom it would actually mean something to take.
As he was returning through the borderlands, he heard of such a fakir. People said, “There is a sage on the riverbank, in the forest—take him.” He went. He first sent his soldiers to summon the fakir. The soldiers said, “It is your great good fortune! Hundreds have begged Alexander to take them; he has chosen no one yet. Now the great Alexander has graced you, and wishes you to come. You shall be taken to Greece with royal honor.” The fakir said, “No one has the power to take a fakir anywhere.”
The soldiers were stunned. They were the troops of the world-conqueror, and a naked fakir says such a thing! They threatened, “Do not utter such words again, or you will lose your life.” The fakir said, “This life we have already left—no one can now relieve us of it. Go tell your Alexander this: your powers may conquer all, but they cannot conquer the one who has conquered himself.” He repeated, “Go tell him: your powers may conquer all, but not the one who has conquered himself.”
Alexander was amazed. Strange words—yet meaningful too, because they came from a fakir. This was the kind of man he’d been seeking. Alexander himself went, sword drawn. He said to the fakir, “If you do not come, we will separate your head from your body.” The fakir said, “Do it. Just as you will see the head cut from the body, so I too will see the head cut from the body. I too will see, and I too will be the witness of the event. But you cannot kill me, because I am only the witness.” He added, “We too will see that the head was severed from the body. But do not remain in the illusion that you have harmed me. As far as anything can be harmed, my being does not extend that far.”
This is why Krishna said: there is a reality within us which fire cannot burn, arrows cannot pierce, and sword cannot cut. There is an indivisible reality within, which no fire can burn and no arrows can wound.
Awareness of that reality, and the breaking of identification with the body—the dissolution of the feeling “I am the body”—this is bodily-emptiness. To break it, something must be done. Some sadhana is needed. And the purer the body becomes, the more easily this separation from the body can happen. The more pure the body’s state, the sooner it can be known: I am not the body. Hence bodily purification was the groundwork; bodily-emptiness is its consummate fruit.
How shall we cultivate the experience “I am not the body”? One thing: in sitting and standing, waking and sleeping, if we look with a little remembrance, a little right mindfulness—if there is some awareness of the body’s actions—then the first stage of emptiness begins to unfold gradually.
When you walk along the road, look carefully within: is there someone there who is not walking? You are walking; arms and legs are moving. Is there also an element within you that is not moving at all, that merely witnesses your walking? When hands or feet ache, when the foot is injured, look inward with alertness: has the hurt come to you—or to the body—and you are knowing the hurt? When there is pain in the body, look: is the pain happening to you—or are you only the witness of pain, the spectator of it? When hunger comes, watch with remembrance: has hunger come to you—or to the body—and are you only the observer? And when a pleasure arrives, see that too—and feel where exactly it is happening.
In every incident of life—sitting, rising, walking, sleeping, waking—maintain a mindful discrimination and a continuous effort to see: where are events happening? Are they happening to me—or am I only the one who sees?
Our habits of identification are dense. Even if you watch a film or a play, you may start to cry. You may begin to laugh. When the lights come on, you may stealthily wipe your tears so no one sees. You identified with the image, with some hero or character, and the pain that befell them infected you and you began to weep.
So too in our inner life: what happens to the body, consciousness assumes is happening to “me,” and is miserable and afflicted. The one cause of all suffering is our identification with the body. And the one cause of all bliss is the breaking of that identification, the remembrance that we are not the body.
For this, right mindfulness—toward the body’s actions—right awareness, right seeing, right observation is the process. Bodily-emptiness comes through right observation of the body.
This observation is essential. At night, when you go to bed, mindfully see: it is not “I,” it is my body going to the bed. In the morning when you rise, keep the remembrance: it is not “I,” it is my body getting up. I did not sleep; only the body slept. And when you eat, know: only the body has eaten. When you put on clothes, know: clothes cover only the body, not me. And when someone strikes, in remembrance you will know: the blow was given to the body, not to me. Awakening this awareness continuously, there comes a moment of explosion and identification breaks.
You know that in a dream you lose all memory of the body. And when you sink into deep sleep, do you know your body at all? Do you recall your face?
The deeper you go within, the more the body is forgotten in proportion. In dreams the body is not known; in deep, dreamless sleep the body is utterly unknown. As awareness returns, identification with the body slowly reappears. One morning when sleep breaks, look inside for a moment: are you the body? You will see, slowly and clearly, that body-identification is waking up, being born again.
To break this identification there is an experiment. If you do it once or twice a month, it will help break body-identification. Understand it a little.
As in our nightly meditation, relax the entire body—leaving it loose, giving suggestions at each chakra, relaxing—sit in a darkened room and enter meditation. When the body is relaxed, the breath easy, and the mind quiet, then feel: you have died—your death has happened. And remember within: If I am dead, which of my loved ones will gather around me? See their images rising around you. What will they do? Who will weep, who will cry out, who will grieve? See all of this very clearly. They will begin to appear.
Then see: neighbors and all dear ones have gathered; they have lifted your corpse, placed it on the bier. See that too. See the bier proceed, people carrying it. Let it reach the cremation ground. Let them place it on the pyre.
See it all. This is all imagination, creative visualization. Practice it for a few days and you will see it vividly. Then see: they place your body on the pyre; flames arise and your body is consumed.
When the imagination reaches the point that the body is gone, smoke has risen into the sky, flames have become wind, and ash remains, then suddenly become alert within and see what is happening! In that moment you will find: you are not the body. Identification will have broken at once.
Doing this experiment many times, even afterward as you get up, walk, and speak, you will find: you are not the body. This state we call videh—bodiless. Through this process, one who knows the Self becomes bodiless.
If this settles in for twenty-four hours—while walking, sitting, speaking—and the remembrance stays that you are not the body, the body has become empty. This emptiness of the body is wondrous. There is no event more wondrous than the breaking of body-identification.
After bodily, mental, and emotional purification, when you do this practice of bodily-emptiness, it succeeds for sure. And then marvelous transformations begin in life. All your mistakes and sins are tied to the body. You have not committed a single error or sin that is not bound to the body. If you remember you are not the body, the possibility of any distortion arising in life becomes zero.
Then, even if someone thrusts a sword into you, you will see: he has thrust it into the body, and you will not feel anything has happened to you. You will remain untouched—like a lotus leaf in water. When bodily-emptiness is known, you will live like one established in wisdom, a sthitaprajna. Then no outer whirl, no storm or gale can touch you, because they only touch the body. Their impact reaches only the body; their blows land only there. But by mistake we assume they’ve struck us—and thus we become happy, unhappy, afflicted.
This is the first step of inner, central sadhana: let us cultivate bodily-emptiness. It is not difficult. Those who make the effort succeed.
The second element of inner sadhana is emptiness of thought. Just as right observation of the body brings bodily-emptiness, right observation of thought brings thought-emptiness. The essential element of inner sadhana is right observation. In all three stages—upon body, upon thought, upon feeling—right mindfulness and right observation: seeing.
The streams of thought that run across our mind—become their mere observer sometimes. As one might sit by a riverbank and watch the flowing current—just sit and watch. Or as one sits in a forest and watches birds winging across the sky—just sit and watch. Or watch the rainy sky and the racing rows of clouds. In the same way, in the sky of your mind, stand quietly on the shore and watch the racing clouds of thought, the flying birds of thought, the flowing river of thought. Let thoughts be unbound: let them flow, run, race—while you sit silently and watch. Do nothing. Do not interfere. Do not obstruct. Do not repress. If a thought comes, do not stop it; if none comes, do not try to bring any. Be only the observer.
In that mere observation it becomes visible, experiential: thoughts are separate, and I am separate. Because it is evident that the one who sees thoughts must be distinct from thoughts. When this is known, an extraordinary peace begins to deepen. Then no worry is yours. You can be amidst worries—yet worry is not yours. You can be amidst problems—yet the problem is not yours. You can be surrounded by thoughts—yet you are not your thoughts.
And once it occurs to you “I am not thought,” the life-force of thoughts begins to break; thoughts grow lifeless. Thoughts derive power from our believing they are ours. When you argue, you say “My view!” No thought is yours. All thoughts are other, alien, separate from you. Observe them.
Let me tell a story to make it clear. This happened with Buddha. A prince had just become a monk. On the very first day he went for alms, to the door Buddha had sent him to. He received alms, ate, and returned. But he told Buddha, Forgive me, I cannot go there again. Buddha asked, “What happened?”
He said, “There was a two-mile walk. On the way I remembered the foods I like. When I reached the door, the laywoman had prepared those very dishes. I was surprised—thought it a coincidence. Then as I sat to eat, it occurred to me that at home I would rest a while after lunch—today who will ask me to rest? Just then the laywoman said, ‘Bhante, if you would rest here a few moments after your meal, it would be a blessing. It would sanctify my home.’ I was amazed. Still I thought: another coincidence. Then I lay down to rest and thought: today I have neither my bed nor my shade; today I lie under another’s roof, on another’s mat. Right then she said from behind, ‘Monk, neither the bed is yours nor mine; neither the shade is yours nor mine.’ Then I panicked—coincidence cannot happen again and again like this. I asked her, Do my thoughts reach you? Do the thought-streams within me become known to you? She said, ‘Through continuous meditation my own thoughts have become empty; now the thoughts of others are also seen.’ I was frightened and ran back. Forgive me—tomorrow I cannot go there.”
Buddha asked, “Why?” He said, “Because… how can I say—please don’t send me there.” But Buddha insisted and the monk had to tell. He said, “Seeing that beautiful young woman, defilements arose in my mind; those too would have been read. With what face can I go? How can I stand at that door again? I cannot go.”
Buddha said, “You must go there. This is part of your sadhana. In this way wakefulness toward thoughts will arise in you, and you will become an observer of thoughts.”
He had to go again the next day. But the one who went was no longer the same. The first day he had gone asleep, unaware of what thoughts were moving. The second day he went alert, for there was fear. He went mindful. As he reached the door, he paused a moment before climbing the steps. He made himself conscious. He turned his gaze within. Buddha had said: look within, do nothing else. Only keep this remembrance: let no thought pass unseen; let no thought pass unseen.
He climbed the steps, watching within. He began to see his breath. He saw the movements of his hands and feet. When he ate, each morsel he lifted he saw—as if someone else was eating, and he was watching.
When you become a witness to yourself, two elements appear within you: one that acts, and one that only witnesses. Two parts emerge within: a doer, and a seer.
He ate in that hour. But someone else was eating, and someone else was seeing. Our tradition says—and those who have known, everywhere, say—what sees is you; what acts is not you.
He saw and was amazed. He danced back to Buddha. He said, “Blessed am I, I have found something. Two realizations: first, whenever I became completely alert, thought stopped. Second, when thoughts stopped I saw the doer is separate and the seer is separate.” Buddha said, “This is the whole key. One who masters it, masters all.”
Become the seer of thought, not a thinker. Remember: not a thinker—a seer of thought.
This is why we call our rishis seers, not thinkers. Mahavira is not a thinker, Buddha is not a thinker. They are seers. Thinking is the disease of those who do not know. Those who know do not think—they see. Things become visible to them; there is direct seeing. And the method of this seeing is the observation of thought within. In sitting and rising, waking and sleeping, watch the stream of thought that flows within. Do not identify with any thought—do not become one with it. Let thought move on its own; you move separately. Two streams must be present within you.
In the ordinary person there is only one stream: thought. In the seeker there are two parallel streams: thought and seeing. In the accomplished one, again there is only one stream: seeing; thought has died. Understand this.
In the ordinary person, one stream—thought—while seeing sleeps. In the seeker, two parallel streams—thought and seeing. In the realized, again a single stream remains—pure seeing; thought is dead.
If we are to move from thought to seeing, we must practice the two together, in parallel—thought and seeing. I call this right observation, right mindfulness. Mahavira called it vivek—discernment. He who also sees thought is discernment. Thinkers are easy to find; those whose discernment is awake are rare.
Awaken discernment. How? As I said—by mindfully watching thought. If you observe the actions of the body, the body becomes empty. If you observe the process of thought—the thought-process—thought becomes empty. And if you perform inner observation of feeling, feeling becomes empty.
A moment ago I said: in purification of feeling, let love come where hatred was, friendliness where enmity was. Now I say: also know this truth—that behind the one who loves or hates, there is an element that only knows; it neither hates nor loves. It is only the witness. It saw that there was hatred; now it sees that there is love. But it only witnesses—it only sees.
When I hate someone, is there not a point within me that knows “I am hating”? When I love someone, is there not within someone who knows “I am loving”? That which knows is behind love and hatred. That is our soul, which stands behind body, thought, and feeling.
The old scriptures call it neti-neti: it is not body, not thought, not feeling—none of these. Where nothing remains, only that witness-consciousness remains—our soul.
So toward the stream of feeling too, maintain the seer-sense. In the end, preserve only that which is sheer seeing—pure witnessing. That pure seeing is wisdom. That pure seeing is what we call knowledge. That pure seeing is what we call the soul. The supreme aim of yoga and of all religions is that.
In inner sadhana the root element is right observation—of the body’s actions, the processes of thought, the inner streams of feeling. Whoever passes through these three layers and catches hold of the witness has reached the shore. Not only the shore—he has reached the goal. Whoever remains bound to any of these three remains tied to the bank; the goal is not yet attained.
I read a story. One night, a full-moon night—like tonight—the moon was full and the night very beautiful. Some friends thought to go boating. At midnight they set out. Wishing to make merry, they drank well before boarding. Then they sat in the boat, seized the oars, and began to row. They rowed hard.
Toward dawn, cool breezes arose and their intoxication wore off. They thought, “How far we must have come! We’ve rowed all night!” They looked carefully—and were moored at the very same bank from which they had set out. Then they realized: they had forgotten. They had rowed a lot—but had forgotten to untie the boat from the shore. And the one who has not untied his boat—no matter how much he thrashes or cries—will have no progress in the infinite ocean of the divine.
Where is your boat of consciousness tied? To body, to thought, to feeling. Your boat is tied to these; that is your shore. And drunk, you may row for one life—or endless lives. After endless births, when the cool breeze of some true thought, some true seeing, some ray of light strikes you and you awaken—you will find: the rowing of countless lives has gone in vain. You stand at the same bank, tied where you began. Then it becomes clear: you forgot to untie the boat.
Learn to untie the boat. Rowing is easy—untying is difficult. Ordinarily, untying a boat is easy and rowing is hard; but in the flow of life, untying from the shore is very difficult, rowing very simple. In fact—as Ramakrishna once said—“Open your boat, unfurl your sails; the winds of the divine will carry you. You won’t even need to row.”
He spoke true. If we only untie the boat—the divine winds are already blowing; they will carry us to those far horizons where, without arriving, no one can know bliss. But first, untie the boat.
In inner sadhana, we untie the boat. Why could those friends not untie it that night? They were drunk, unconscious. When the cool breezes of morning came and stupor left, they found the boat tied. I said: right observation. Right observation is the antidote to stupor. Because we are in stupor, we keep the boat tied to body, thought, and feeling. If the cool breeze of right observation touches us and we become alert, untying the boat is not hard. Stupor binds the boat; non-stupor releases it. The means to non-stupor is right observation—right awareness of all actions.
Inner sadhana is just this: right remembrance, right mindfulness, right discernment, right alertness—non-stupor. Remember this. It is supremely important. Practice it continually. Practice it without interruption.
If the three purifications and the three emptinesses come to pass—the three purifications support the arising of the three emptinesses. When the three emptinesses arise, the result is samadhi. Samadhi is the doorway to truth, to the Self, to the divine. In samadhi, the world vanishes.
Vanishing does not mean these walls will disappear and you will vanish. It means: these walls will no longer be mere walls, and you will no longer be the you you take yourself to be. It means: when a leaf trembles, not only the leaf is seen, but the life that makes it tremble. When winds blow, not only the winds are seen, but the forces that move them. In earth, in every particle, not only the earthen is seen, but the conscious as well. The world “vanishes” in the sense that the divine becomes evident.
The divine is not a maker of the world. Today someone asked me, “Who made all this?” We were by the hills and valleys; someone asked, Who made these valleys and these trees? We ask “who made it” so long as we do not know. When we know, we do not ask who made it—we know it is self-originating. There is no creator apart; creation itself is the creator. When there is seeing, when it is seen, creation itself becomes the creator. This vast world all around becomes the divine. The divine is not found in opposition to the world; rather, as the spell of “world” dissolves, the divine is realized.
In that state of samadhi there is the knowing of truth—the veiled truth that is covered over.
And what is it covered by?
By nothing else than our own stupor. There are no veils upon truth; the veils are upon our eyes. One who lets the veils of his eyes fall knows truth. How to let those veils fall—I have spoken of that. The three purifications and the three emptinesses will drop the veils from the eyes. Eyes without veils—this is samadhi. That pure vision without veils is what we call samadhi.
Samadhi is the supreme goal of all religions, of all yogas. We have reflected on this. We will contemplate it, reflect on it, meditate on it. We will think it through and absorb it into our very breath. Whoever, like a gardener, sows the seed will, one day in joy, see flowers bloom. Whoever labors and breaks the mines will one day find gems and diamonds. Whoever dives into the water and reaches the depths will one day discover he has brought up pearls.
Those who have the longing—and whose manhood, whose inner energy feels a challenge—will tremble, be stirred, and they will move forward. To climb a mountain is no great challenge; to know oneself is the greatest. For those who are truly courageous, with energy within, it is an insult to end without knowing oneself.
Let this resolve fill everyone: I will know truth, I will know myself, I will know samadhi. Holding this resolve, practicing these preparations, you too can succeed—anyone can. Consider this.
Now we will sit for the night meditation. Let me say a little more about it. Yesterday I told you of the body’s five chakras. Limbs and organs are tethered to those five. If we relax those chakras—give them suggestions of relaxation—those corresponding organs and systems relax along with them.
The first chakra is Muladhar. Near the sex center, hold the idea of the Muladhar chakra and give it the command to relax: “Muladhar, relax.” Give the command with your whole mind, a full, clear order: “Muladhar, relax.”
You may wonder, What will happen just because we say it? You might think, We’ll say, “Legs, relax,” how will the legs relax? We’ll say, “Body, become inert,” how will the body become inert?
If you are a little attentive, does it not occur to you? When you say, “Hand, pick up the kerchief,” how does the hand pick it up? When you say, “Feet, walk,” how do the feet walk? When you say, “Feet, stop,” how do they stop? Every atom of this body obeys your command. If it did not, the body could not function. You say to the eyes, “Close,” and they close. The thought arises within, “Let the eyes close,” and they close. Why? Is there no connection between thought and the eyes? Otherwise you would be sitting inside thinking “Eyes, close,” and they would not close! Or you think “Feet, walk,” and your feet just sit there!
What the mind says reaches the body instantly. If we understand just a little, we can have the body do anything. What we already do is “natural”—but do you know even this is not purely natural? Suggestion is already at work. Do you know that if a human child is raised among animals, will he stand upright? Such events have occurred.
Near Lucknow, in the forests, such a case occurred. A boy was found who had been raised by wolves. Wolves often steal children from villages; sometimes they even raise them. This has happened in various places. Four years ago a fourteen- or fifteen-year-old boy was brought from the jungle who had been raised by wolves. They took him as a small child from a village, fed him milk, and reared him.
That fourteen-year-old boy was entirely wolf-like. He moved on all fours, would not stand upright. He made sounds like wolves, was fierce and dangerous. If he caught a human, he could eat him raw. But he spoke no language.
Why does a fifteen-year-old not speak? And even if you tell him, “Speak, try to speak,” what can he do? Why does a fifteen-year-old not stand upright? He never received the suggestion to stand upright; the idea never occurred to him.
When a small child is born in your home, by seeing you all walk, he receives the suggestion that walking is possible. He gets the idea that one can stand on two legs. That thought enters him, into his subconscious. Then he attempts to walk, he tries. Seeing everyone walk around him, his courage grows, and slowly he begins to walk. Seeing others speak, he gets the idea that speaking is possible. Then he tries, and the glands that enable speech become active.
Within us are many centers that are not active. Remember: human development is not complete yet. Those who know the physiology of the body say that only a small portion of the human brain is active. The rest lies inactive. They cannot discover what purpose that remaining portion serves. It seems to have no function yet. A large part of your brain is shut; yoga says that whole portion can be activated.
Lower down from man, the animal has an even smaller active portion; more is inactive. The further down the ladder of life, the greater the inactive proportion of the brain.
Could we open the brains of Mahavira and Buddha, we would find the whole is active—nothing dormant. Their entire brain works; ours work in tiny fragments.
What does not yet work must be awakened—through awareness, suggestion, endeavor. Through the chakras, yoga has found methods to activate those brain areas. Yoga is a science—and a day will come when the greatest science in the world will be yoga.
These five chakras I spoke of: by focusing attention upon them and giving suggestion, the corresponding parts relax instantly. We will suggest to Muladhar and, along with that, feel the legs relaxing. They will relax. Then move upward. At the navel, suggest to Swadhisthan; the whole mechanism around the navel will relax. Move higher and suggest to Anahat at the heart; the entire cardiac system will relax. Higher still, suggest to Ajna between the eyebrows; all the facial nerves will relax. Then higher, at the crown, suggest to Sahasrar; the whole subtle inner mechanism of the brain will relax and grow still.
To the extent you feel this completely, to that extent it will occur completely. With a few days of steady practice, results begin to come.
If results don’t come quickly, do not be disturbed. If nothing happens very soon, do not be restless. Ordinary skills take years to learn; for one who longs to learn the soul—even if it takes a lifetime—that is but a little time. With strong resolve, patience, and great calm, results are inevitable.
We will relax the body through suggesting these five chakras. Then, when I say to relax the breath, let it loose. When I say the breath is becoming quiet, feel it. Finally, when I say thoughts are becoming empty, the mind is becoming empty, allow that too.
That will be the meditation practice. Before the meditation we will cultivate a feeling-tone for two minutes; before that, we will make a resolve five times.
Now we will sit for the night meditation. In this meditation everyone is to go to sleep—lie down and do it lying down. So prepare your place. Sit to make your resolve, cultivate the feeling—then lie down.
Osho's Commentary
We have spoken of the outer circumference of sadhana. Now let us consider its very center.
Purifying body, thought, and feeling—making their pure form available—is the primary groundwork. Even that much brings great joy into life. Even that much invokes a certain divinity. Even that much connects us with the supernatural. But that is a relationship with the beyond, not union in it. It relates us to the divine, but does not make us one with it. It is to know the divine, but not yet to be merged with it. Purification turns us toward the divine and carries our gaze to it. After that, the vision of emptiness brings union with the divine, makes us one with it.
On the first circle we come to know truth; at the second center we become truth. Let us inquire into this second point. I called the first element purification; I am calling the second element emptiness. Emptiness too will have three stages—upon the body, upon thought, and upon feeling.
Emptiness of the body is the ending of body-identification. We have identification with the body, an identity. It doesn’t appear to us that we have a body; on some level it keeps appearing: I am the body. When the feeling “I am the body” dissolves, bodily-emptiness occurs. When identity with the body breaks, bodily-emptiness happens.
When Alexander was returning from India he wished to take a fakir back with him, so he could show Greece what an Indian fakir is like. Many fakirs were ready and eager to go. If Alexander invites and escorts you with royal honor, who would refuse? But those who were eager, Alexander did not deem fit to take—because their very eagerness revealed they were not fakirs. Alexander sought a fakir whom it would actually mean something to take.
As he was returning through the borderlands, he heard of such a fakir. People said, “There is a sage on the riverbank, in the forest—take him.” He went. He first sent his soldiers to summon the fakir. The soldiers said, “It is your great good fortune! Hundreds have begged Alexander to take them; he has chosen no one yet. Now the great Alexander has graced you, and wishes you to come. You shall be taken to Greece with royal honor.” The fakir said, “No one has the power to take a fakir anywhere.”
The soldiers were stunned. They were the troops of the world-conqueror, and a naked fakir says such a thing! They threatened, “Do not utter such words again, or you will lose your life.” The fakir said, “This life we have already left—no one can now relieve us of it. Go tell your Alexander this: your powers may conquer all, but they cannot conquer the one who has conquered himself.” He repeated, “Go tell him: your powers may conquer all, but not the one who has conquered himself.”
Alexander was amazed. Strange words—yet meaningful too, because they came from a fakir. This was the kind of man he’d been seeking. Alexander himself went, sword drawn. He said to the fakir, “If you do not come, we will separate your head from your body.” The fakir said, “Do it. Just as you will see the head cut from the body, so I too will see the head cut from the body. I too will see, and I too will be the witness of the event. But you cannot kill me, because I am only the witness.” He added, “We too will see that the head was severed from the body. But do not remain in the illusion that you have harmed me. As far as anything can be harmed, my being does not extend that far.”
This is why Krishna said: there is a reality within us which fire cannot burn, arrows cannot pierce, and sword cannot cut. There is an indivisible reality within, which no fire can burn and no arrows can wound.
Awareness of that reality, and the breaking of identification with the body—the dissolution of the feeling “I am the body”—this is bodily-emptiness. To break it, something must be done. Some sadhana is needed. And the purer the body becomes, the more easily this separation from the body can happen. The more pure the body’s state, the sooner it can be known: I am not the body. Hence bodily purification was the groundwork; bodily-emptiness is its consummate fruit.
How shall we cultivate the experience “I am not the body”? One thing: in sitting and standing, waking and sleeping, if we look with a little remembrance, a little right mindfulness—if there is some awareness of the body’s actions—then the first stage of emptiness begins to unfold gradually.
When you walk along the road, look carefully within: is there someone there who is not walking? You are walking; arms and legs are moving. Is there also an element within you that is not moving at all, that merely witnesses your walking? When hands or feet ache, when the foot is injured, look inward with alertness: has the hurt come to you—or to the body—and you are knowing the hurt? When there is pain in the body, look: is the pain happening to you—or are you only the witness of pain, the spectator of it? When hunger comes, watch with remembrance: has hunger come to you—or to the body—and are you only the observer? And when a pleasure arrives, see that too—and feel where exactly it is happening.
In every incident of life—sitting, rising, walking, sleeping, waking—maintain a mindful discrimination and a continuous effort to see: where are events happening? Are they happening to me—or am I only the one who sees?
Our habits of identification are dense. Even if you watch a film or a play, you may start to cry. You may begin to laugh. When the lights come on, you may stealthily wipe your tears so no one sees. You identified with the image, with some hero or character, and the pain that befell them infected you and you began to weep.
So too in our inner life: what happens to the body, consciousness assumes is happening to “me,” and is miserable and afflicted. The one cause of all suffering is our identification with the body. And the one cause of all bliss is the breaking of that identification, the remembrance that we are not the body.
For this, right mindfulness—toward the body’s actions—right awareness, right seeing, right observation is the process. Bodily-emptiness comes through right observation of the body.
This observation is essential. At night, when you go to bed, mindfully see: it is not “I,” it is my body going to the bed. In the morning when you rise, keep the remembrance: it is not “I,” it is my body getting up. I did not sleep; only the body slept. And when you eat, know: only the body has eaten. When you put on clothes, know: clothes cover only the body, not me. And when someone strikes, in remembrance you will know: the blow was given to the body, not to me. Awakening this awareness continuously, there comes a moment of explosion and identification breaks.
You know that in a dream you lose all memory of the body. And when you sink into deep sleep, do you know your body at all? Do you recall your face?
The deeper you go within, the more the body is forgotten in proportion. In dreams the body is not known; in deep, dreamless sleep the body is utterly unknown. As awareness returns, identification with the body slowly reappears. One morning when sleep breaks, look inside for a moment: are you the body? You will see, slowly and clearly, that body-identification is waking up, being born again.
To break this identification there is an experiment. If you do it once or twice a month, it will help break body-identification. Understand it a little.
As in our nightly meditation, relax the entire body—leaving it loose, giving suggestions at each chakra, relaxing—sit in a darkened room and enter meditation. When the body is relaxed, the breath easy, and the mind quiet, then feel: you have died—your death has happened. And remember within: If I am dead, which of my loved ones will gather around me? See their images rising around you. What will they do? Who will weep, who will cry out, who will grieve? See all of this very clearly. They will begin to appear.
Then see: neighbors and all dear ones have gathered; they have lifted your corpse, placed it on the bier. See that too. See the bier proceed, people carrying it. Let it reach the cremation ground. Let them place it on the pyre.
See it all. This is all imagination, creative visualization. Practice it for a few days and you will see it vividly. Then see: they place your body on the pyre; flames arise and your body is consumed.
When the imagination reaches the point that the body is gone, smoke has risen into the sky, flames have become wind, and ash remains, then suddenly become alert within and see what is happening! In that moment you will find: you are not the body. Identification will have broken at once.
Doing this experiment many times, even afterward as you get up, walk, and speak, you will find: you are not the body. This state we call videh—bodiless. Through this process, one who knows the Self becomes bodiless.
If this settles in for twenty-four hours—while walking, sitting, speaking—and the remembrance stays that you are not the body, the body has become empty. This emptiness of the body is wondrous. There is no event more wondrous than the breaking of body-identification.
After bodily, mental, and emotional purification, when you do this practice of bodily-emptiness, it succeeds for sure. And then marvelous transformations begin in life. All your mistakes and sins are tied to the body. You have not committed a single error or sin that is not bound to the body. If you remember you are not the body, the possibility of any distortion arising in life becomes zero.
Then, even if someone thrusts a sword into you, you will see: he has thrust it into the body, and you will not feel anything has happened to you. You will remain untouched—like a lotus leaf in water. When bodily-emptiness is known, you will live like one established in wisdom, a sthitaprajna. Then no outer whirl, no storm or gale can touch you, because they only touch the body. Their impact reaches only the body; their blows land only there. But by mistake we assume they’ve struck us—and thus we become happy, unhappy, afflicted.
This is the first step of inner, central sadhana: let us cultivate bodily-emptiness. It is not difficult. Those who make the effort succeed.
The second element of inner sadhana is emptiness of thought. Just as right observation of the body brings bodily-emptiness, right observation of thought brings thought-emptiness. The essential element of inner sadhana is right observation. In all three stages—upon body, upon thought, upon feeling—right mindfulness and right observation: seeing.
The streams of thought that run across our mind—become their mere observer sometimes. As one might sit by a riverbank and watch the flowing current—just sit and watch. Or as one sits in a forest and watches birds winging across the sky—just sit and watch. Or watch the rainy sky and the racing rows of clouds. In the same way, in the sky of your mind, stand quietly on the shore and watch the racing clouds of thought, the flying birds of thought, the flowing river of thought. Let thoughts be unbound: let them flow, run, race—while you sit silently and watch. Do nothing. Do not interfere. Do not obstruct. Do not repress. If a thought comes, do not stop it; if none comes, do not try to bring any. Be only the observer.
In that mere observation it becomes visible, experiential: thoughts are separate, and I am separate. Because it is evident that the one who sees thoughts must be distinct from thoughts. When this is known, an extraordinary peace begins to deepen. Then no worry is yours. You can be amidst worries—yet worry is not yours. You can be amidst problems—yet the problem is not yours. You can be surrounded by thoughts—yet you are not your thoughts.
And once it occurs to you “I am not thought,” the life-force of thoughts begins to break; thoughts grow lifeless. Thoughts derive power from our believing they are ours. When you argue, you say “My view!” No thought is yours. All thoughts are other, alien, separate from you. Observe them.
Let me tell a story to make it clear. This happened with Buddha. A prince had just become a monk. On the very first day he went for alms, to the door Buddha had sent him to. He received alms, ate, and returned. But he told Buddha, Forgive me, I cannot go there again. Buddha asked, “What happened?”
He said, “There was a two-mile walk. On the way I remembered the foods I like. When I reached the door, the laywoman had prepared those very dishes. I was surprised—thought it a coincidence. Then as I sat to eat, it occurred to me that at home I would rest a while after lunch—today who will ask me to rest? Just then the laywoman said, ‘Bhante, if you would rest here a few moments after your meal, it would be a blessing. It would sanctify my home.’ I was amazed. Still I thought: another coincidence. Then I lay down to rest and thought: today I have neither my bed nor my shade; today I lie under another’s roof, on another’s mat. Right then she said from behind, ‘Monk, neither the bed is yours nor mine; neither the shade is yours nor mine.’ Then I panicked—coincidence cannot happen again and again like this. I asked her, Do my thoughts reach you? Do the thought-streams within me become known to you? She said, ‘Through continuous meditation my own thoughts have become empty; now the thoughts of others are also seen.’ I was frightened and ran back. Forgive me—tomorrow I cannot go there.”
Buddha asked, “Why?” He said, “Because… how can I say—please don’t send me there.” But Buddha insisted and the monk had to tell. He said, “Seeing that beautiful young woman, defilements arose in my mind; those too would have been read. With what face can I go? How can I stand at that door again? I cannot go.”
Buddha said, “You must go there. This is part of your sadhana. In this way wakefulness toward thoughts will arise in you, and you will become an observer of thoughts.”
He had to go again the next day. But the one who went was no longer the same. The first day he had gone asleep, unaware of what thoughts were moving. The second day he went alert, for there was fear. He went mindful. As he reached the door, he paused a moment before climbing the steps. He made himself conscious. He turned his gaze within. Buddha had said: look within, do nothing else. Only keep this remembrance: let no thought pass unseen; let no thought pass unseen.
He climbed the steps, watching within. He began to see his breath. He saw the movements of his hands and feet. When he ate, each morsel he lifted he saw—as if someone else was eating, and he was watching.
When you become a witness to yourself, two elements appear within you: one that acts, and one that only witnesses. Two parts emerge within: a doer, and a seer.
He ate in that hour. But someone else was eating, and someone else was seeing. Our tradition says—and those who have known, everywhere, say—what sees is you; what acts is not you.
He saw and was amazed. He danced back to Buddha. He said, “Blessed am I, I have found something. Two realizations: first, whenever I became completely alert, thought stopped. Second, when thoughts stopped I saw the doer is separate and the seer is separate.” Buddha said, “This is the whole key. One who masters it, masters all.”
Become the seer of thought, not a thinker. Remember: not a thinker—a seer of thought.
This is why we call our rishis seers, not thinkers. Mahavira is not a thinker, Buddha is not a thinker. They are seers. Thinking is the disease of those who do not know. Those who know do not think—they see. Things become visible to them; there is direct seeing. And the method of this seeing is the observation of thought within. In sitting and rising, waking and sleeping, watch the stream of thought that flows within. Do not identify with any thought—do not become one with it. Let thought move on its own; you move separately. Two streams must be present within you.
In the ordinary person there is only one stream: thought. In the seeker there are two parallel streams: thought and seeing. In the accomplished one, again there is only one stream: seeing; thought has died. Understand this.
In the ordinary person, one stream—thought—while seeing sleeps. In the seeker, two parallel streams—thought and seeing. In the realized, again a single stream remains—pure seeing; thought is dead.
If we are to move from thought to seeing, we must practice the two together, in parallel—thought and seeing. I call this right observation, right mindfulness. Mahavira called it vivek—discernment. He who also sees thought is discernment. Thinkers are easy to find; those whose discernment is awake are rare.
Awaken discernment. How? As I said—by mindfully watching thought. If you observe the actions of the body, the body becomes empty. If you observe the process of thought—the thought-process—thought becomes empty. And if you perform inner observation of feeling, feeling becomes empty.
A moment ago I said: in purification of feeling, let love come where hatred was, friendliness where enmity was. Now I say: also know this truth—that behind the one who loves or hates, there is an element that only knows; it neither hates nor loves. It is only the witness. It saw that there was hatred; now it sees that there is love. But it only witnesses—it only sees.
When I hate someone, is there not a point within me that knows “I am hating”? When I love someone, is there not within someone who knows “I am loving”? That which knows is behind love and hatred. That is our soul, which stands behind body, thought, and feeling.
The old scriptures call it neti-neti: it is not body, not thought, not feeling—none of these. Where nothing remains, only that witness-consciousness remains—our soul.
So toward the stream of feeling too, maintain the seer-sense. In the end, preserve only that which is sheer seeing—pure witnessing. That pure seeing is wisdom. That pure seeing is what we call knowledge. That pure seeing is what we call the soul. The supreme aim of yoga and of all religions is that.
In inner sadhana the root element is right observation—of the body’s actions, the processes of thought, the inner streams of feeling. Whoever passes through these three layers and catches hold of the witness has reached the shore. Not only the shore—he has reached the goal. Whoever remains bound to any of these three remains tied to the bank; the goal is not yet attained.
I read a story. One night, a full-moon night—like tonight—the moon was full and the night very beautiful. Some friends thought to go boating. At midnight they set out. Wishing to make merry, they drank well before boarding. Then they sat in the boat, seized the oars, and began to row. They rowed hard.
Toward dawn, cool breezes arose and their intoxication wore off. They thought, “How far we must have come! We’ve rowed all night!” They looked carefully—and were moored at the very same bank from which they had set out. Then they realized: they had forgotten. They had rowed a lot—but had forgotten to untie the boat from the shore. And the one who has not untied his boat—no matter how much he thrashes or cries—will have no progress in the infinite ocean of the divine.
Where is your boat of consciousness tied? To body, to thought, to feeling. Your boat is tied to these; that is your shore. And drunk, you may row for one life—or endless lives. After endless births, when the cool breeze of some true thought, some true seeing, some ray of light strikes you and you awaken—you will find: the rowing of countless lives has gone in vain. You stand at the same bank, tied where you began. Then it becomes clear: you forgot to untie the boat.
Learn to untie the boat. Rowing is easy—untying is difficult. Ordinarily, untying a boat is easy and rowing is hard; but in the flow of life, untying from the shore is very difficult, rowing very simple. In fact—as Ramakrishna once said—“Open your boat, unfurl your sails; the winds of the divine will carry you. You won’t even need to row.”
He spoke true. If we only untie the boat—the divine winds are already blowing; they will carry us to those far horizons where, without arriving, no one can know bliss. But first, untie the boat.
In inner sadhana, we untie the boat. Why could those friends not untie it that night? They were drunk, unconscious. When the cool breezes of morning came and stupor left, they found the boat tied. I said: right observation. Right observation is the antidote to stupor. Because we are in stupor, we keep the boat tied to body, thought, and feeling. If the cool breeze of right observation touches us and we become alert, untying the boat is not hard. Stupor binds the boat; non-stupor releases it. The means to non-stupor is right observation—right awareness of all actions.
Inner sadhana is just this: right remembrance, right mindfulness, right discernment, right alertness—non-stupor. Remember this. It is supremely important. Practice it continually. Practice it without interruption.
If the three purifications and the three emptinesses come to pass—the three purifications support the arising of the three emptinesses. When the three emptinesses arise, the result is samadhi. Samadhi is the doorway to truth, to the Self, to the divine. In samadhi, the world vanishes.
Vanishing does not mean these walls will disappear and you will vanish. It means: these walls will no longer be mere walls, and you will no longer be the you you take yourself to be. It means: when a leaf trembles, not only the leaf is seen, but the life that makes it tremble. When winds blow, not only the winds are seen, but the forces that move them. In earth, in every particle, not only the earthen is seen, but the conscious as well. The world “vanishes” in the sense that the divine becomes evident.
The divine is not a maker of the world. Today someone asked me, “Who made all this?” We were by the hills and valleys; someone asked, Who made these valleys and these trees? We ask “who made it” so long as we do not know. When we know, we do not ask who made it—we know it is self-originating. There is no creator apart; creation itself is the creator. When there is seeing, when it is seen, creation itself becomes the creator. This vast world all around becomes the divine. The divine is not found in opposition to the world; rather, as the spell of “world” dissolves, the divine is realized.
In that state of samadhi there is the knowing of truth—the veiled truth that is covered over.
And what is it covered by?
By nothing else than our own stupor. There are no veils upon truth; the veils are upon our eyes. One who lets the veils of his eyes fall knows truth. How to let those veils fall—I have spoken of that. The three purifications and the three emptinesses will drop the veils from the eyes. Eyes without veils—this is samadhi. That pure vision without veils is what we call samadhi.
Samadhi is the supreme goal of all religions, of all yogas. We have reflected on this. We will contemplate it, reflect on it, meditate on it. We will think it through and absorb it into our very breath. Whoever, like a gardener, sows the seed will, one day in joy, see flowers bloom. Whoever labors and breaks the mines will one day find gems and diamonds. Whoever dives into the water and reaches the depths will one day discover he has brought up pearls.
Those who have the longing—and whose manhood, whose inner energy feels a challenge—will tremble, be stirred, and they will move forward. To climb a mountain is no great challenge; to know oneself is the greatest. For those who are truly courageous, with energy within, it is an insult to end without knowing oneself.
Let this resolve fill everyone: I will know truth, I will know myself, I will know samadhi. Holding this resolve, practicing these preparations, you too can succeed—anyone can. Consider this.
Now we will sit for the night meditation. Let me say a little more about it. Yesterday I told you of the body’s five chakras. Limbs and organs are tethered to those five. If we relax those chakras—give them suggestions of relaxation—those corresponding organs and systems relax along with them.
The first chakra is Muladhar. Near the sex center, hold the idea of the Muladhar chakra and give it the command to relax: “Muladhar, relax.” Give the command with your whole mind, a full, clear order: “Muladhar, relax.”
You may wonder, What will happen just because we say it? You might think, We’ll say, “Legs, relax,” how will the legs relax? We’ll say, “Body, become inert,” how will the body become inert?
If you are a little attentive, does it not occur to you? When you say, “Hand, pick up the kerchief,” how does the hand pick it up? When you say, “Feet, walk,” how do the feet walk? When you say, “Feet, stop,” how do they stop? Every atom of this body obeys your command. If it did not, the body could not function. You say to the eyes, “Close,” and they close. The thought arises within, “Let the eyes close,” and they close. Why? Is there no connection between thought and the eyes? Otherwise you would be sitting inside thinking “Eyes, close,” and they would not close! Or you think “Feet, walk,” and your feet just sit there!
What the mind says reaches the body instantly. If we understand just a little, we can have the body do anything. What we already do is “natural”—but do you know even this is not purely natural? Suggestion is already at work. Do you know that if a human child is raised among animals, will he stand upright? Such events have occurred.
Near Lucknow, in the forests, such a case occurred. A boy was found who had been raised by wolves. Wolves often steal children from villages; sometimes they even raise them. This has happened in various places. Four years ago a fourteen- or fifteen-year-old boy was brought from the jungle who had been raised by wolves. They took him as a small child from a village, fed him milk, and reared him.
That fourteen-year-old boy was entirely wolf-like. He moved on all fours, would not stand upright. He made sounds like wolves, was fierce and dangerous. If he caught a human, he could eat him raw. But he spoke no language.
Why does a fifteen-year-old not speak? And even if you tell him, “Speak, try to speak,” what can he do? Why does a fifteen-year-old not stand upright? He never received the suggestion to stand upright; the idea never occurred to him.
When a small child is born in your home, by seeing you all walk, he receives the suggestion that walking is possible. He gets the idea that one can stand on two legs. That thought enters him, into his subconscious. Then he attempts to walk, he tries. Seeing everyone walk around him, his courage grows, and slowly he begins to walk. Seeing others speak, he gets the idea that speaking is possible. Then he tries, and the glands that enable speech become active.
Within us are many centers that are not active. Remember: human development is not complete yet. Those who know the physiology of the body say that only a small portion of the human brain is active. The rest lies inactive. They cannot discover what purpose that remaining portion serves. It seems to have no function yet. A large part of your brain is shut; yoga says that whole portion can be activated.
Lower down from man, the animal has an even smaller active portion; more is inactive. The further down the ladder of life, the greater the inactive proportion of the brain.
Could we open the brains of Mahavira and Buddha, we would find the whole is active—nothing dormant. Their entire brain works; ours work in tiny fragments.
What does not yet work must be awakened—through awareness, suggestion, endeavor. Through the chakras, yoga has found methods to activate those brain areas. Yoga is a science—and a day will come when the greatest science in the world will be yoga.
These five chakras I spoke of: by focusing attention upon them and giving suggestion, the corresponding parts relax instantly. We will suggest to Muladhar and, along with that, feel the legs relaxing. They will relax. Then move upward. At the navel, suggest to Swadhisthan; the whole mechanism around the navel will relax. Move higher and suggest to Anahat at the heart; the entire cardiac system will relax. Higher still, suggest to Ajna between the eyebrows; all the facial nerves will relax. Then higher, at the crown, suggest to Sahasrar; the whole subtle inner mechanism of the brain will relax and grow still.
To the extent you feel this completely, to that extent it will occur completely. With a few days of steady practice, results begin to come.
If results don’t come quickly, do not be disturbed. If nothing happens very soon, do not be restless. Ordinary skills take years to learn; for one who longs to learn the soul—even if it takes a lifetime—that is but a little time. With strong resolve, patience, and great calm, results are inevitable.
We will relax the body through suggesting these five chakras. Then, when I say to relax the breath, let it loose. When I say the breath is becoming quiet, feel it. Finally, when I say thoughts are becoming empty, the mind is becoming empty, allow that too.
That will be the meditation practice. Before the meditation we will cultivate a feeling-tone for two minutes; before that, we will make a resolve five times.
Now we will sit for the night meditation. In this meditation everyone is to go to sleep—lie down and do it lying down. So prepare your place. Sit to make your resolve, cultivate the feeling—then lie down.