Diya Tale Andhera #12

There is an old story. An illiterate villager, eager to have the emperor’s darshan, set off for the capital on his horse. By coincidence, the emperor too was returning to the capital along the same road after a hunt. His companions had strayed somewhere in the forest, so he was alone on horseback. The villager met the emperor.

The emperor asked, “Well, Chaudhary! Why are you going to the capital?” The villager replied, “To have the emperor’s darshan; I have longed for it for many days, and today the opportunity has come.” The emperor said, “You are very fortunate. Darshan of the emperor is not easy, but for you it will happen effortlessly today.” The villager said, “Since you’ve brought it up, let me confess one more thing. Darshan may happen easily, but how will I recognize who the emperor is? That’s the worry in my heart.” The emperor said, “Don’t be anxious. When we reach the capital, if you see a man on horseback to whom everyone bows low, understand that he is the emperor.”

Chatting in many ways as they went, they entered the city gates; people began bowing low. The villager was startled. After a little while he said, “Brother, there’s a great dilemma: either you are the emperor—or I am!”

His dilemma is the mind’s dilemma. The mind is so close to consciousness that confusion arises: either you are the emperor or I am. Whenever anyone bows, the mind assumes the bow is to me; from this delusion the ego is built. Whenever anyone loves, the mind thinks, I am being loved. The mind is only near life—very near. So near that life is reflected in it and the mind appears alive.

Mind is part of matter; it is not part of consciousness. Mind is the subtlest organ of the body, the body’s own development. But it is right next to consciousness. And the mind is so subtle, so close to consciousness, that this delusion naturally arises in the mind: I am everything.

This delusion operates in the world—and it does not leave you even in spiritual practice. The worldly person keeps trying to fill the mind—and never succeeds. He never will; that is not the mind’s nature. Consciousness can be fulfilled; it is already fulfilled—that is its nature. Consciousness can blossom; it is already a flower—that is its nature. Mind is inert, mechanical. It can neither blossom nor be fulfilled. Yet the mind keeps trying to be filled. Even after efforts over many lifetimes, the mind is not filled; still hope does not die.

The lamp of the mind burns on the oil of hope. The mind keeps saying: it has not happened yet—no worry, a little more effort is needed; it will happen tomorrow. You have not attained yet—don’t panic; be patient; it will come tomorrow. Don’t be impatient; keep content.

Mulla Nasruddin told me, “I’ve distilled the essence of a lifetime’s experience into three principles.” I asked, “Which are they?” He said, “If you distill the three further, only one remains.” I said, “Say it.”

He said, “First principle: People go to war. They take great trouble to kill each other. Huge labor, wealth, and power are spent on killing. There’s no need to go at all; just have a little patience—nature kills everyone by itself. Why take pains for what nature will do anyway? Just a little patience: nature will kill them all. Why drop an atom bomb on Hiroshima? Everyone would have died in time; only a bit of waiting was needed.

“I asked, ‘And the second?’

“He said, ‘Second: When fruit ripens on a tree, people throw stones, beat with sticks, climb up; sometimes they break their own limbs trying to pluck it. Have a little patience; the fruit will ripen and fall to the ground by itself.’

“I asked, ‘The third?’

“He said, ‘People chase women and waste their lives. Have a little patience—the women will chase them.’

“And he said the essence of all three is one: have a little patience.”

You may think that the mark of a religious person is “a little patience.” No. “A little patience” is the mind’s trick. The truly religious person has neither patience nor impatience; he is not patience. He does not cultivate patience as the opposite of impatience. There, patience has gone and impatience has gone; now there is silence, with no rivals confronting each other. The duality is gone.

But the worldly man cultivates patience, and patience is the oil for the mind’s lamp; it keeps the mind lit. The mind says, “A little more time. The fruit is about to ripen—just a little more time. Success will run after you—just hold on a bit longer; don’t be hasty.”

Thus, sustained by hope, you keep hanging on. The worldly man lives by the mind; the religious man—the so‑called religious man—also lives by the mind. The journey may be reversed; it makes no difference. The basic foundation remains the same.

Let us understand clearly what the worldly man is doing. He is trying to fill the mind. But his attention is on the mind. Like the villager, he thinks: I am the king. The logic seems clear: everyone is bowing low. And the natural tendency is to assume the bowing is to me. The worldly man is busy filling the mind.

And what is the so‑called religious man doing? For neither in the worldly person does the rain of that bliss appear—the bliss Kabir says pours down from the sky like nectar—nor in your so‑called renunciate. The bliss that makes Meera dance so that the whole of life becomes a dance; the bliss from which Krishna’s flute sounds and the notes of ecstasy arise—no, such a moment of bliss is seen neither in the worldly person nor in your so‑called sannyasin; both seem sad, tired, defeated.

The worldly man is trying to fill the mind; what is the sannyasin doing? He is trying to refine the mind, purify it. Remember: neither can the mind be filled nor can it be refined or purified; the mind’s nature is insatiable. Likewise, its nature is impure; it cannot be made pure. How will you purify poison? And if you do, it will become even more poisonous. Purifying poison will mean: more poison. Poisons do not turn into nectar by purification; by purifying, their nature shines more starkly.

So it is a strange thing: the worldly man does not fully experience the mind’s nature, its poison; the renunciate does—because he purifies it. And purifying it, he discovers how terribly poisonous the mind is. There wasn’t this much poison even in the world; there, a thousand other things were mixed in—poison wasn’t sold pure. But as the mind is clarified, it becomes more poisonous. Hence, if renunciates have written fiercely against mind, it is no wonder: they knew the mind in its purity.

However pure the mind becomes, ego will increase, not diminish—that is the poison. The mind’s poison is ego. And this ego can pass through processes that appear like humility.

I have heard: one day Mulla Nasruddin ran to the police station, breathless. “Don’t delay—come quickly with me. My wife is about to die.” The station officer stood up. “What happened?” Mulla said, “We were on the seashore. The tide is rising, the storm is fierce, and my wife is caught in the quicksand. Save her! If you delay, it’ll be too late.” The officer asked, “How far is she sunk into the sand?” Mulla said, “Up to the ankles.” The officer, who had been standing, sat down. “I suspected as much. If she’s only up to the ankles, she’ll get out on her own. No need to worry or take anyone.” Nasruddin said, “She won’t get out; don’t delay, I tell you—because she’s doing a headstand.”

If you’re in a headstand and sunk to the ankles—the verdict is sealed.

That’s the difference between the truly religious and the so‑called religious. The so‑called religious is the opposite of the worldly—he is doing a headstand. You are stuck up to your ankles; he is also stuck up to his ankles. But note: you may still save yourself; for him it is hard—he is upside down.

Who is truly religious? The one who has left duality. Who is neither for the mind nor against the mind. Who is neither trying to fill the mind nor to break it. Who is not eager to fulfill the mind’s impure desires, nor eager to fulfill the mind’s pure desires; who is not running after wealth—and not even after God. Who has stopped running. For every run is of the mind.

And the mind is so skillful, so cunning, its arithmetic so complex, that no sooner do you drop one side than it instantly presents you the opposite net. You were running madly after wealth; when you begin to tire, it whispers: You won’t get it from wealth, it comes from renunciation. Before you can escape its claws, it thrusts forward the opposite claw. It even makes sense to you, for you have lived by logic: if it wasn’t found in this direction, perhaps it is in the opposite—let’s try that too.

But renunciation is indulgence standing on its head. The indulgers are entangled; the renouncers more so. It is the same sand—only now they are doing a headstand. On one side you chased women, men; before you tire, the mind gives you a new taste: Bliss lies in celibacy; only the celibate attains joy—has the libertine ever attained joy?

A new net begins. The mind will not let you slip away; it kindles desire for the opposite—that is its trick. And as long as you wander in opposites, you will forget your previous experience, for your memory is almost nil. You do not even have the capacity for remembrance—if you had, you would have awakened long ago.

If I ask you to remain aware even for a minute, you cannot. If I tell you to stand mindfully for a minute, you can’t; a thousand things lure you. You are like small children who chase every butterfly, pick up every pebble; every sound excites them; they are swept in all directions. Before you tire, the mind will offer you new traps—be careful.

And there is only one care to take. Let me give you this sutra; it is eternal, the essence of all religion: If you did not find through indulgence, you will never find through its opposite. If you did not find through lust, you will never find through celibacy. If you did not find in wealth, you will never find in poverty. If you did not find by running through the world, you will not find by running toward God.

Not through opposites—but through the absence of both.

Understand this a little. Neither the run of indulgence nor the run of renunciation; the absence of both. Neither this run nor that run; come to rest in the middle. Neither by filling the mind nor by purifying it—no; neither will give it to you.

Now, let’s try to understand this small episode. It concerns the so‑called religious man—how much effort he makes, how much yoga, meditation, chanting, worship, prayer he does—and still no fruit. He stands where you stand. As sad, as enervated, as dull—as if the current of life has dried up—like you, like him.

The great irony is that in the worldly person a little flash of life is still visible; in the person you call a sannyasin, not at all. You are dead; he is more dead than you. But you interpret his deadness as attainment—that’s another matter. I see people fooling themselves. Your sannyasin is a corpse—no prana in his life, no thrill anywhere—you take that to mean he is accomplished.

Siddhi is not like death; it is like super‑life. Siddhi is not a diseased condition; it is ultimate health. Siddhi is not exhaustion; it is not a breakdown. Siddhi is not a ruin; it is supreme enjoyment. Siddhi is a great festival. Every fiber of life thrilled, every particle rejoicing, every moment a grand celebration. Siddhi is a supreme dance—no music greater than that, no samadhi greater than that.

Until you meet a sannyasin who dances, who sings—be cautious. If there is no dance in his gait, and within him a flute is not playing night and day—the unstruck flute—that is the sign. But the sannyasins you know are withered, dust‑covered; their roots long since snapped. One thing is true: they are your opposites. That’s why you think, “We didn’t attain; surely they have.”

The opposite fascinates, because the mind is excited by opposites. The opposite does not kill the mind; it is the mind’s new journey. Freedom from mind comes only through the absence of duality.

Now to the story.

Ma‑tsu was engaged in practice …

Zen has a deep insight: it is precisely because you lack understanding that you feel compelled to practice. This will sound upside down. We think the understanding people take up practice.

What does practice mean? It too is effort, a run, a striving. You compensate for the lack of understanding with practice. If understanding is there, what need of practice? You are sitting with a cup of poison in your hand. If you understand that it is poison, do you need to practice to throw it away? Must you observe great disciplines, take postures, do meditation? What would you have to do? If you understand it is poison—finished. Do you need effort to throw it away? Effort shows that understanding has not happened. Effort means you are substituting effort for understanding. But effort can never become understanding. You have to strive.

Why? Because inside you still feel it is not poison; and it is that feeling you struggle against. Someone says it is poison; to you it still appears nectar. What he says seems very rational and appeals to your intellect. Your intellect understands; “you” have not understood. Your intellect grasps that it must be poison, for you are in pain; you say, “I will practice; I will drop it; I will take time.”

Practice means: it will take time; you will have to labor. And for as long as you take time, for that long the cup of poison remains in your hand—and for that long you will quench your thirst with it. The longer the practice, the longer you remain the old; and the longer you remain the old, the deeper the old roots go.

Therefore Zen says: understanding is an instantaneous revolution, a simultaneous revolution. The moment it dawns, the matter is finished. Will you then practice? Will you say, “Now let me go and practice”?

Buddha said—and the entire Zen tradition is strung on that sutra—Buddha said: If a house is on fire and you see it is on fire, will you ask for time? “Let me think a little, meditate a little, practice a little, study the scriptures, ask the masters the way out”? Or will you leap out on the spot? If you see the house is on fire …

If I see it, that is different. If I say, “The house is on fire,” and you look around and see no flames, you will say, “I will think, consider, understand; when I understand, I will surely come out.” But you do not see the fire. To see the fire is revolution. Knowledge is revolution. Understanding is sufficient; what practice is needed?

People say to me, “You go on speaking—what will come of it?” If you are listening rightly, nothing else remains to be done. If you are listening rightly and the tuning happens, understanding bears fruit; not a grain remains to be done. Let the light of understanding arise within; let there be the insight into where the mind’s mistake lies—the matter is finished. If the house is on fire, you must still jump out; here even that is not needed—understanding dawns and the grip drops.

Because understanding is scarce, I have to make you practice. Practice is a device to ripen your understanding. Entangled in practice, perhaps slowly understanding will come.

And here is your difficulty: if I tell you there is nothing to do, you will run away. You will say, “What will happen from just listening? Give us something to do.” Your mind wants to do—without doing, the mind dies. Your mind demands a method to do something—anything, even silly—so it can remain engaged. When there is nothing to do, it’s difficult.

People come to me; I tell them, “Just sit silently. Do nothing. You’ve done enough mischief by doing. Now don’t.” They say, “Give us some support at least. Give us a Divine Name to remember. Give us a rosary to turn. Give us a mantra. How will we sit without a prop?”

The day you can sit without a prop, that day you will be out of the mind—because the mind cannot live without support. Mind needs a prop twenty‑four hours a day. It cannot live unsupported. It needs something to chew. The mind asks for a mantra.

In Shiva’s sutras there is a unique statement: “Mind itself is mantra.” Therefore all mantras feed the mind; no mantra will take you out of the mind. Words are the mind’s nature; all words will fill the mind. Understanding is not a word, not a doctrine; it is a seeing—a wakefulness, an awareness. Often it has happened that just by listening silently, people have attained supreme knowing.

Mahavira said that four kinds of people attain liberation; he called them the four tirthas—the four fords across which one goes to moksha. Two of them are quite surprising, and the Jain monk has entirely forgotten that Mahavira called them tirthas too. Mahavira said: my four tirthas are the listener (shrāvaka) and the listening woman (shrāvikā), and the monk (sādhu) and the nun (sādhvī).

Understand these words. Mahavira says: shrāvaka and shrāvikā, sādhu and sādhvī—these are the four tirthas. Some reach moksha by listening. Some reach by practicing—the sādhu and the sādhvī. And the monks continually think they are higher than the listeners—there lies the error.

I tell you today: there is a fundamental mistake. He who cannot reach by listening has to practice; he is not higher. His understanding is weak. He who can reach by listening alone—that one is higher; his understanding is sufficient. Nothing has to be added—no effort, fasts, disciplines—nothing. He understood—and it was finished. He who reaches by listening is supreme. He who has to do something is second rate.

But the irony: the listeners touch the feet of the monks. For neither are the listeners true listeners, nor the monks true monks. Who will you call higher—the one who arrives by listening, or the one who arrives by doing? Doing implies leaning on the body and mind; listening and understanding imply no crutch—pure insight suffices.

Buddha said: the best horse moves at the shadow of the whip; the whip itself is not needed. The whip is for mules, not for horses. The shadow suffices. Understanding is the whip’s shadow; practice is the whip.

Ma‑tsu was immersed in practice …

Hearing the master was not enough; living with the master was not enough. Though near the burning flame, his own wick did not catch—the second‑rate type needed something mechanical. He needed props. He was absorbed in sadhana.

In a solitary hut within the master’s monastery, he practiced day and night to discipline the mind.

He recognized neither day nor night; twenty‑four hours he was at it; one obsession—practice. He wanted truth.

He would not even notice those who came to see him.

For a practitioner cannot waste time; nor can he attend to everyone. Understand this—it is subtle. These stories are subtle; if you miss their delicacy, you miss their meaning. The meaning is not on the surface; it is underneath. On the surface it seems a small incident.

One thing: the ego wants others to pay attention to me while I pay attention to no one. Then the ego invents a thousand ways for others to attend to me while I need not attend to anyone. One piles up wealth, builds a mansion, so that others will notice; when I pass, people bow. And the real delight is when you don’t even have to acknowledge their bows. That those who bow don’t even need to be recognized—then it’s perfect. Ego wants the whole world at my feet while I sit unconcerned. When you have to attend to another, it hurts; when others attend to you, it pleases. Then you become a saint and sit with closed eyes—still waiting for others’ attention.

Ma‑tsu chose a solitary hut. It makes no difference. You can go to the forest and still sit with closed eyes, waiting for the world to hear that you are utterly alone, that you have renounced all. You will sit there, but your gaze will be fixed on the world—to be noticed. It doesn’t matter where you sit.

Ramakrishna used to say: the kite flies high in the sky, but its eyes remain on the carcass below. If a dead mouse lies there, the eyes are on it; though it circles high, it bides its time to swoop. So don’t assume height by seeing it in the sky; its gaze is on the dead mouse below.

So you may sit in solitude; it doesn’t matter—your eyes are on the crowd. And it may be that when the crowd comes you don’t even lift your gaze—still your eyes are on the crowd. It may be that when people come you don’t look—but even then, your eyes are on them, because within you are savoring the juice: “I am so absorbed I cannot attend to you.” But this too is ego.

Even when people went to see Ma‑tsu, he paid no attention to them.

His fame must have been great. People said, “A supreme practitioner—already a siddha. Go; he doesn’t even lift his eyes, he doesn’t look at anyone.” But inside he must have been stiff with pride.

One day his master went to his hut.

When the master saw all this and had been observing, it became necessary to go—because Ma‑tsu was ill. This is the disease: not attending to others; seeking attention for oneself. And what was Ma‑tsu doing twenty‑four hours? Trying to discipline the mind.

Will you become accomplished by disciplining the mind? Discipline it and you will certainly gain powers—parapsychological abilities. You will read another’s mind; perhaps produce invisible talismans, ash from your hand; touch the sick and heal them—these are possible. There is no great obstacle. If one disciplines the mind—just as in the world a man who runs day and night …

The worldly is also a practitioner—he is running. The man who earns money thinks of money twenty‑four hours a day. His practice is not less than anyone’s. He who repeats “Rama” may sometimes forget; he who repeats “money” never forgets. Waking or sleeping, standing or sitting, he thinks of money—unceasing practice. Naturally, he earns it. He who practices position earns position. Whatever you chase—if not today, then tomorrow—you will get it.

There lies the misfortune: here, runners get things—so running gathers momentum. Then those who discipline the mind with closed eyes also gain powers; they become masters of subtler siddhis. Worldly siddhis are gross; mental siddhis subtle—but both are siddhis nonetheless. And both are outward; they will not make you accomplished.

You are accomplished only when neither worldly siddhis nor mental siddhis attract you—but when you rest, absorbed in your own nature. When you become one with your own being. When you have found the supreme truth hidden within—not a siddhi.

This will sound strange: as long as you are mad for siddhis, you will not be a siddha; you have not arrived. The day you are mad for nothing, desire nothing—just are … a moment where your being is enough, where no demand arises, where there is no tomorrow to hanker for, no past to remember, no longing for the not‑yet—where the moment is complete, aptakāma—fulfilled—then you are accomplished.

Siddha does not mean a man with many powers; it means one in whom all desire for powers has withered, for whom all powers are childish toys.

The master sensed: Ma‑tsu is sick—not ordinarily, but chronically. He is sick twenty‑four hours. He is disciplining the mind, and soon the mind will be conquered—then it will be harder. For when powers come into the hand, letting go becomes more difficult. The master had to go.

That is why monasteries were useful. Alone, what are you doing? It is hard to know. No one is there who sees from above; no one near you with further vision. Your sight is narrow. Whatever you do, you may endanger yourself. It may be that at the very threshold where the door to truth could open, you sell cheaply and come home with little powers.

The master went to his hut; Ma‑tsu did not even pay attention to him.

Ma‑tsu wasn’t a petty practitioner; who comes and goes is of no concern. Even if the master came—no concern. The ego must have been heavy. In fact, with the master’s coming, Ma‑tsu must have thought: Now I’ve made it. Not only common people—my master himself had to come. He had likely been waiting many days for this—that one day even the master must come. If not today, then tomorrow—the whole world will have to come. When siddhi is in my hand, the master will come and bow. Ma‑tsu must have been pleased.

Illnesses grip deeply; their roots go far. A disciple secretly longs for the master to come. He rationalizes that it is respect for the master—but inside he is feeding his ego. He paid no attention even to the master. He wanted to show the master too: I am no small practitioner; I have cut attention from outside; I dwell only within; day and night my practice continues.

The man truly within will attend even to a bird’s song. The sound of the stream—he attends. The wind through the trees—he attends. Because all footsteps are the Divine’s.

Understand this. Attention does not mean fastening onto one object and excluding all else. Attention means awakening—so that you are wakeful and nothing of the vast play around you is missed.

That is the difference between concentration and meditation. In concentration you fix on one thing and close to all else; in meditation, you open to everything. Concentration is like shutting all the doors of your house and peering through a single hole in the wall. Meditation is opening all doors and windows—and removing the walls. You stand under the open sky. Meditation is your awakened state.

Then whatever happens around you—a bird sings, a dog barks, a child cries, someone laughs, the wind sounds, clouds thunder, rain falls—you hear it all. And hearing it all creates no disturbance.

Disturbance afflicts the one who practices concentration. He is the one in trouble. A single concentrator in the house is a big problem. The child cannot cry or play; the wife cannot speak loudly; the dishes cannot clatter—you are trying to kill the world. Will your concentration exist only when the world is dead? Does it depend on circumstances? At the slightest interruption the concentrator cries: “I am disturbed!”

Such “meditators” often become angry. Everything irritates them. “Why laugh? Why cry? Why make noise?”—An angry meditator? We have created Durvāsas from such concentrators—their anger knows no end. Their whole meditation seems anger. Whenever you practice concentration, you will find anger rising—because concentration is a struggle. From struggle, anger is born. Concentration is a kind of force. The mind wants to be free; you tether it, force it to one point.

There are three states: First, the flickering mind—running here and there—the ordinary worldly man. Opposite to this is concentration—the so‑called religious man. He says, “We won’t let it wander; we will fix it at one place, whatever happens.” Different from both is the truly religious person: he says, “It is the mind that wanders and the mind that concentrates—and I am not the mind.” Hence no concern for wandering or for concentration; he drops both. There is the absence of both.

In that absence there is a wakefulness in which there is the flow of movement like restlessness and the steadiness of concentration—but it is a unique state. A peace like concentration and a dynamism like restlessness; a peace that is not dead but alive. As there is no inner resistance, nothing becomes a disturbance. A child cries; the sound echoes in an empty house and dissolves. You become that empty house.

Kabir said: “A guest in an empty house.” Then the world comes into your house—but you are an empty house. Whoever comes, comes; whoever goes, goes; there is neither resistance nor invitation—no prohibition, no call. The worldly man invites; the so‑called religious man hangs a sign at the door: “Do not enter.” The truly religious man—“a guest in an empty house”—becomes the empty house. Only then does everything become still and yet alive. The greatest paradox happens: you are as alive as a small child, as alive as the ultimate life—and as peaceful as deep death. Life and death meet; the stillness of concentration and the bubbling flow of restlessness are together. Where flow and stillness are together, you have gone beyond mind—for mind is duality; when you are beyond both, mind ceases.

Ma‑tsu did not attend to the master. But the master sat there the whole day.

Why did he sit? Not only that, he kept rubbing a brick on a stone!

If someone merely scratched a pebble near you, you’d be uneasy. He sat in front of him rubbing a whole brick on a stone.

There were several reasons. First, he wanted to see: how long can you sustain your ego’s discipline? How long will your resistance last? Because understand: resistance exhausts. Whenever you force something, you cannot do it long; there is a limit. Only what is natural can be forever. Force can only be brief; you will tire.

So remember: if anything tires you, you are forcing it. If love tires you, you are forcing it. If you get bored with your wife, you are faking something. Otherwise how can love tire you? Love freshens, unburdens, removes fatigue. But husbands and wives tire and bore each other. Friends talk a little and then begin to feel irritated. Everything in this world bores you—why?

Because you force everything; you make everything a tension. You don’t do things naturally. You don’t do only as much as arises from within—you overdo. You say more love than is there; now you will be in trouble. You say more friendship than is there. How long will you sustain it? Resistance will tire; force will harass.

This master was extraordinary. He kept grinding the brick. He was tiring this “meditator,” for a truly meditative person you can’t tire; but a concentrator you can exhaust. Inside Ma‑tsu must have been boiling: “Enough! This is too much.” If it were anyone else, his head would have broken—but this was the master. At first he thought, “He’s testing me.” Slowly anger grew; he began to boil: “Enough! There is a limit. This man has gone mad.”

All day the master sat there rubbing the brick on the stone.

That is the condition of all masters; before disciples they keep grinding brick on stone—or stone on brick.

At last Ma‑tsu could bear it no more. He asked, “What are you doing?”

“At last he could bear it no more”—in truth, he couldn’t bear it from the first moment. But ego stretches, stretches as long as it can.

Mulla Nasruddin once filed for divorce. The magistrate was surprised. “How old are you, Nasruddin?” “Ninety.” “And how long have you been married?” “Seventy years.” The magistrate said, “Divorce now? Why?” Nasruddin said, “Enough is enough. No more. I can’t bear it. I’ve endured plenty. I haven’t the strength to stretch it one grain further.”

At last he could not bear it; he asked, “What are you doing?” The master said, “I want to make a mirror out of this brick.” Ma‑tsu said, “A mirror out of a brick? Are you insane? Even if you grind it all your life, it won’t become a mirror.” Hearing this, the master laughed and said, “Ma‑tsu, then what are you doing? If a brick cannot become a mirror by grinding, can the mind become a mirror by grinding?”

Grinding the mind is what your practice is. What do you do—chanting Rama, turning a rosary—what? You are grinding the mind. Rubbing a brick on a stone. There will be much noise. Others may think—austerities day and night. The ego will enjoy: “I am doing something.” But what are you doing?

I tell you: by grinding a brick properly, perhaps a mirror could be made—for what you call a mirror is only transformed sand. I go a step beyond Ma‑tsu’s master and tell you: that might be possible—but however much you grind the mind, it will not become a mirror.

And until you become a mirror, how will truth be reflected? Grinding the mind makes it more subtle—and the subtler it gets, the more it yields siddhis; infinite powers begin to arise, and each power inflates your ego.

Hence the ego of renunciates is heavier than that of worldlings. The stiffness of “holy men” exceeds that of “sinners.” What would a sinner strut about—what does he have? The “saint” has something—reasons to strut. And with reasons, dropping strut is hard.

Patanjali wrote a whole chapter—the Vibhuti Pada—in his Yoga Sutras, on what siddhis can arise if one keeps rubbing the mind. He did not write it so you might grind the mind and acquire those siddhis, but as a warning: such powers may arise—beware of them, for if you get entangled, you will miss the Divine.

They are the last temptation, the final station where you can go astray; beyond this there is no danger. And as you become subtler, the calling grows stronger. Your mind and ego will say, “Just try it a little; what’s the harm? Sick people can be healed—it’s service.” Beware. The mind’s arguments are wondrous. “It’s service; no harm; it’s religious.” “If ash appears in your palm, if talismans manifest, hundreds will gain faith—and kindling faith is good, benevolent.” Don’t get into these things; look within and see that the reasons the mind gives are excuses. The mind constructs ego within.

People come to me. As soon as there is a little movement in meditation, the trouble begins. “I did this—and this happened …”

A young man came. Brave indeed—he experimented in meditation with courage. He had gone on a journey, riding a bus. There was nothing to do, so he repeated the mantra he was practicing. He used to repeat it whenever he remembered—day and night. A man sat opposite. Suddenly, as he was repeating, it occurred to him: what if this man falls? The bus was climbing a mountain and jolting. The thought arose: what if he falls? As soon as the thought arose, the man thudded to the floor. He was startled: Could my thinking have made him fall? Or was it coincidence?

He tried an experiment on another man. As soon as he thought, “Let him not fall,” the second man toppled. He panicked. “Now it can’t be coincidence,” he felt. Still he thought, “Let me test once more.” He chose a third, firmly seated, unlikely to fall. He thought—and the man fell.

He got off mid‑journey and ran to me: “What do I do? If a man can fall by thought, other things are possible. A sick man—I could say, ‘Be healed.’ That would be service; no harm; others will benefit.”

I asked, “When those three fell, what happened inside you? Tell me.” He said, “I felt that I’m gaining a siddhi; the path is near; the goal closer.” I said, “That’s the real point. Forget service and curing others. As long as you are, nothing you do can be service. The day you are not—then service happens.

“As long as the ‘I’ is there, how can there be service? The ‘I’ can only exploit; it cannot serve. In the name of support it will suck.”

Thus, as one practices and approaches the last moments, subtle powers awaken—vibhutis arise. But vibhuti is not siddhi, not the goal—not even a way‑station. Pass by with indifference. That is why Patanjali wrote the Vibhuti Pada—an entire chapter—as caution.

Ma‑tsu too was nearing powers, so the master had to go. He was near the point where keys would come into his hands, and then letting them go would be hard. Hence the master said: Neither will a brick become a mirror by grinding, nor will the mind become a mirror; stop this grinding.

This is difficult. First the master says, “Practice,” and then a moment comes when he says, “Now drop practice.” If practice is not dropped in time, you will be shackled by practice.

The physician first gives medicine to remove the disease; then, when the time comes, he says, “Now stop the medicine; the disease is gone.” Otherwise the medicine may take the disease’s place—and prove more dangerous than the original. You are not only wounded by the thorns on the path; you are also wounded by the thorns with which you tried to extract the first thorn. If, having removed the thorn, you leave the new thorn in the wound—“what a helpful thorn it was!”—that thorn is just as dangerous. Thorns are all alike.

So the master has to ensure your first thorn comes out and the second does not lodge in its place. Before that happens he must shock you. Ma‑tsu was near the dangerous spot. A little longer and he would be hard to bring back. Thus the master is needed at the start of practice—and again just before the completion of practice. Before the disease departs and the medicine enslaves, the master must make you drop the medicine too. He will snatch everything from you—your world and your practice. He will leave you utterly alone—with nothing to hold.

Therefore Ma‑tsu’s master said, “Look: a brick won’t become a mirror by grinding; the mind won’t become a mirror by grinding. Stop this grinding. You have already dropped the world; now drop this practice as well.”

The story ends here. What did Ma‑tsu do? He must have listened to his master—for Ma‑tsu himself became a great master. He attained knowing; he must have listened.

Sometimes the master will feel like an enemy. You like him when he takes your disease; you dislike him when he takes your medicine. You like him when he takes your anxieties; you dislike him when he takes your peace. Understand this. If, in place of anxiety, you clutch peace, how long can you keep it? Soon peace will become a new anxiety; you will carry it like a fragile glass, fearful it might break—a burden.

First he will take your sorrow; then he will take your happiness—because only taking sorrow won’t do; seeds of sorrow lie hidden in happiness, ready to sprout. The master will take everything from you—your happiness and your sorrow. He will leave you empty. Once you are left alone and know your inner glory—where there is neither happiness nor sorrow, neither peace nor non‑peace, neither world nor liberation, neither matter nor God—where you are alone in your own suchness …

If even for a moment that glimpse happens, the master is no longer needed. You yourself are the master. The master’s whole endeavor is to take from you, layer by layer. You will be perplexed: yesterday the master himself gave the practice—and today he takes it away. You will quarrel: “If you were going to take it away, why did you give it?” It was needed—to take away something grosser. You had not learned to keep your hands empty. Gradually, the gross will be taken and something subtler given; finally, even the subtle will be taken.

It happened with Rinzai and his master. Rinzai practiced deeply; he attained the void. The scriptures call the void the supreme attainment; beyond it there is nothing. What could be beyond nothing? Everything had been lost. He danced, ecstatic, went to the master, placed his head at his feet: “The void has happened.” The master said, “Drop the void as well; otherwise the void is enough seed—another whole world will arise. Drop the void.”

What does this mean? You held money in your fist—then dropped money and grabbed meditation; the fist is still clenched. You dropped meditation and seized emptiness—the fist is still clenched. The whole endeavor is to open the fist—stop grasping. What you grasp is not important; the grasping is the entanglement. Non‑clinging: grasp nothing. Let the hand be utterly empty. Rinzai’s master said, “Go—drop this void; when even the void is gone, return.” Years passed before the void dropped. When Rinzai returned, he stood at the door. Now everything was different. The first time he had come he was blissful; now there was neither sorrow nor joy, neither dejection nor ecstasy—neither this nor that. No mood, no state—Rinzai was utterly alone, empty‑handed, standing outside.

They say the master himself came out. “Rinzai, now it is right—now the thing has happened. Have you brought anything today?” Rinzai said, “There is nothing left to bring. I remain. I have brought nothing—so I stand outside. Why enter? If you ask, ‘What have you brought?’—what will I say? I have brought nothing; I have come utterly alone.” The master said, “Enough—that alone is worth bringing.”

Like peeling layers of an onion, the master keeps removing. One day only the void remains. By old habit, we clutch even the void. The master takes that too. You remain alone—that is supreme blessedness.

And the mind will not let you be alone, for its habit is to clutch at something. Hence you do not gain freedom by grinding the mind; freedom is to be free of the mind. Do not purify the mind; however pure, it will remain mind—poison, purified, remains poison—and becomes more dangerous.

Go beyond the mind—transcend. If it can happen through understanding, it is supreme joy. If it is clear that nothing need be done—do not cheat yourself. Some say, “Since nothing needs to be done, we’ll just do as before—drink and gamble.” That is an excuse. If “nothing to be done” truly dawns, you will be transformed—the new will be born; the old will die.

If you feel your understanding is not that deep—be honest. Then some practice will be necessary. Not that practice will give you understanding; practice will only break your old habits. The day old habit breaks, understanding becomes easy. Techniques of meditation do not take you to God; they only remove your obstacles. You are already at God. They only break your barriers. If you can see, even now beyond the barriers you are the Divine; if not, then some barriers must be broken.

Dust has settled on the glass—remove it. But let not dusting become your way of life; let meditation not become your lifestyle. Meditate until the obstacles drop. The day obstacles are gone, meditation too is an obstacle. Drop meditation as you dropped the others.

That moment had come in Ma‑tsu’s life: only meditation was left as an obstacle; hence the master had to go, so that he would drop even that.

And the master’s saying—“A brick won’t become a mirror by grinding; the mind won’t become a mirror by grinding”—was enough. As the master dropped the brick and left, Ma‑tsu must have dropped the mind and left. Hence the story says no more, for what follows cannot be said. History tells us Ma‑tsu became a great knower. Many became his disciples; many found the Divine and samadhi at his door. So Ma‑tsu must have listened.

If only you could truly listen, nothing needs to be done. If your ears are not yet capable of listening, then something must be done—only so the ears are made capable. Then you can listen.

Remember one thing from this tale: all means eventually become obstacles. The very stairs by which one climbs—one often gets entangled in them. The path that leads to the goal, if you become caught in it, becomes the hindrance to reaching the goal. Be ready to drop even the path. Be courageous enough to throw away the method too. Today you strive to leave the world; tomorrow you will have to leave meditation and yoga too—remember this. Do not become attached to them—otherwise they will become your new world. Where there is attachment, there is mind; where mind is, there is world.

Transcendence of mind is liberation.

Enough for today.