Diya Tale Andhera #19

Raidas sang: “As you say Hari to be, he is not so; he is as he is.” However you say it, it is not the truth. It is only somewhat so.
Truth lies between saying and not saying. You have to read it between the lines. There is no way to state it straight. Words are too small and truth is vast. Words are narrow and truth is beginningless and endless. And words are man-made; truth is unmade. What we convey in words can be workable facts of the marketplace. But the source from which we are born, and the original well in which we will dissolve again—no word of ours can capture it.
Still, man tries. And in that trying, if the inner has tasted truth, a slight glimmer enters the word. If one has not known truth within, then it is empty verbiage—like a parrot’s repetition.
The pundit is a kind of parrot. He repeats others’ words. What we have not known ourselves—there is no way to communicate it. What we have known ourselves—even that is so difficult to communicate. But you cannot fool the knower. If you repeat borrowed words, your eyes, your face, your very being will betray you—it is false. Those words will look pasted on you from the outside. They will not be the voice of your life-breath.
And if you have known, your hint will carry. There is no difference in words between the scholar and the wise—there is a difference in their being.
Krishna spoke the Gita. You can memorize and repeat the same words. And what scarcity is there of Arjunas? You will find them anywhere—but still all will be a deception. Neither Arjuna’s inquiry will be true, nor Krishna’s expression—only a drama.
Repeat Krishna’s very words—yes, the words are the same, but you are not Krishna; therefore the meaning changes. In the dictionary the meanings won’t change; in the lexicon of being, they will. If no one knows, then your words and Krishna’s will sound the same to the ear. But if someone knows, then the truth that shimmers in Krishna’s words, their tone, will not come through in yours.
You can repeat words; how will you repeat being? Without becoming Krishna, it is impossible to speak Krishna’s words. And yet, without becoming Krishna, there is a burning urge to speak Krishna’s words. At least fools can be deceived. Where are the wise, that there should be any fear?
All this is in that little story. Let us try to understand each word closely.
The true master Joshu went to where a monk was meditating. He asked the monk, “What is, is what?”
This is a deep question of the Zen tradition:
“What is—that—what is it?”
Zen does not use the word God. Because that word has become false. So many lips have repeated it, and so many wrong people have used it, that the word has become soiled. Just as clothes become dirty by too much wearing, words too become dirty by excessive repetition. And if wrong people keep repeating a word, their vibration seeps into it.
Zen does not use the words God or soul. Zen wants to avoid all words heavy with tradition, on which the dust of the past has thickened. Therefore, in place of God, Zen asks, “That which is—what is it?” The question is the same—What is God? What is existence?—but “What is, what is it?” is a purer question.
The moment we say “God,” some picture begins to arise. The mind shapes a form. From childhood we have been taught forms. Someone is a devotee of Krishna, someone of Rama, someone of Buddha. Say “God,” and in the mind of Krishna’s devotee Krishna stands playing the flute. Say “God,” and in the mind of Rama’s devotee Rama stands with bow and arrow. Form appears. These words have become linked with forms. The association is deep; breaking it is difficult. Say “Rama,” and for Dasharatha’s Rama not to arise in the mind is very hard.
So Zen says, do not use form-implying, qualified words. “That which is”—from this, no form arises. Existence is formless, limitless. And so vast that, upon hearing the word, your mind cannot project anything. “Existence” is a bare word. Hence Zen asks, “What is, what is it?” In the language of devotion this would be, “What is God?”
Joshu is a true master—among the few in Japan who reached great heights. A mendicant was meditating.
Even in meditation there are big differences. When the uncomprehending man meditates, he becomes more tense. When the understanding man meditates, he becomes empty of tension. In fact, it is not even right to say the understanding person “does” meditation, because meditation is a state of non-doing. He does nothing; he simply sits.
Once a fakir was a guest at Joshu’s monastery. He got up at three in the night and began praying with great racket. The whole monastery’s sleep was ruined. Joshu had a small boy who did little chores—brought water, carried cloth, and so on. The boy said, “There are five hundred sannyasins here, and you are here—but never has anyone prayed the way this new guest is praying!”
The boy was impressed by the noise. At three in the night that fakir raised such a din that the whole monastery woke up.
Joshu said, “Those who don’t know how to swim flail their hands and feet a lot. One who knows floats silently upon the water—no sound. Foolish one! Don’t think this man knows prayer. He doesn’t, hence the commotion.”
When the wise man meditates, there is no commotion—neither outside nor inside. He arranges no big ritual, no worship protocol. He does not array flowers, garlands, incense, lamps. That is children’s play, a useless preface the wise drop. He neither does anything outside nor anything inside; in the state of non-doing he abides. As when the swimmer stops swimming, he begins to float; wherever the current takes him, there he goes—he flows with the water. Such is meditation.
Joshu saw a mendicant meditating. From the very way he was “doing” meditation it must have been evident he was wasting effort. Ask a little child to sit in a corner with eyes closed, quiet for a minute—then watch closely. You will find a strange mix: outwardly very quiet, inwardly rigid and tense, suppressing himself. Eyes squeezed shut, not simply closed. Lips pressed. Lest restlessness burst out, he holds himself in. He is in a boiling state, like a kettle on flame, steam about to whistle. Even a minute will feel very long.
It happened once: a man was on trial for murder. There was no eyewitness. It was clear almost to certainty that he had done it, but none had seen. Those with whom he had been sitting just a moment before the murder said he had only gone out for three minutes and returned within three minutes—how could he kill so quickly?
The magistrate, too, found it plausible: only three minutes. Some twenty people in the house, all said, “We were chatting; he stepped out for three minutes, then came back. He was not out of our sight longer than that.”
The opposing lawyer stood and said, “Let us do one thing: everyone close your eyes and be silent for three minutes. I have a watch; I’ll say when time is up.”
Three minutes felt so long! And who gathers in a courtroom? The wrong sort. No one there knows silence. If they had ever sat in silence, they wouldn’t need to come to court.
Three minutes must have felt like three years. You know this too—someone dies and they ask you to stand in silence for one minute. That one minute feels so long that you are more distressed by standing silently than by the death itself. Seconds drag. Three minutes! When three minutes were finally over, the lawyer said to the magistrate, “Now consider—what can’t be done in three minutes?” The magistrate said, “He could have committed the murder. Three minutes is a long time.”
When you sit quietly, each second becomes very long. Why? Because inside the unrest is bubbling; it grows dense. The denser it gets, the more time seems stretched; the more difficult it feels.
Sit a small child for one minute and you will see how the wrong man meditates. He knows nothing of dissolving tension. At most he can repress it. The wrong person’s meditation is repression. Has anyone ever become peaceful through repression? Repression increases turmoil; what is pushed down becomes poison spreading through every fiber.
This monk sitting in meditation was certainly repressing—trying somehow to make himself quiet. But has anyone ever become peaceful by trying? Peace is the outcome of understanding: that all trying is unrest, every effort leads into agitation. When you leave yourself effort-free—effortless—as a swimmer stops swimming and lets the river carry him, when you flow like that in existence, only then does meditation bear fruit. Meditation is total surrender.
Seeing him thus, Joshu asked, “What is, is what?”
The monk raised his fist.
This is an old Zen answer. The fist symbolizes the undivided. Open the hand: five fingers, the five elements—symbol of division. Everything in the world is made of the five elements. Clench the five into one—Parabrahman. From the One the five arise; the One pervades the five. Where it is gathered into one, there is existence, there is God. So the fist is an ancient Zen symbol—of wholeness, integration, being gathered.
This man wanted to give the old answer, but his fist said something else. Because the fist also symbolizes anger. His fist must have clenched in the manner that says, “I’ll hit you—you’ve disturbed my meditation.” One who sits to meditate often treats the whole world as an enemy—because the whole world is disturbing his meditation.
Have you ever tried to meditate? The whole world seems to interfere. Birds make noise, cars honk, children shout, someone cries, your wife drops a pot—uproar everywhere. The moment you sit to meditate, it seems the whole world is your foe.
Surely some mistake is being made—because in meditation people come to know that the whole world is their friend. And you feel the whole world is your enemy? Then there is a mistake in your meditation. Rather than thinking the world suddenly became noisy just now, it is more accurate to think you are doing something wrong. You were a participant in the noise until a moment ago; you didn’t notice it. Now you are stiffly opposed.
If a man swims against the current, he feels the whole river is against him. But what has the river to do with him? It goes its way whether you are there or not. Flow with it or fight it—it flows the same. But because you resist, you feel the river fights you. You are fighting the river; why would the river fight you?
If you sit in meditation and it seems everything is a hindrance, know that you are trying to go against the current. You are trying to be peaceful by force. No one ever became peaceful by force. It is by force that unrest comes. Peace is natural ease. To call it “practice” is not even right; it is a naturalness.
This man must have been stiff, fighting inside, riding on his own chest.
When Joshu asked, “What is God? What is existence? What is that which is?” he must have felt anger—“Is this a time to ask questions? I’m meditating and you get philosophical! I’m trying somehow to go within and you pull me out.”
But opening his eyes, he must have seen Joshu standing there. Here is the crux. Joshu was a celebrated man. His fame was great; thousands were his disciples. Inside he felt anger; his fist clenched in anger. But seeing Joshu, the monk offered the traditional answer.
But changing your answer does not change the truth. You cannot deceive Joshu. The fist that signifies the undivided is only true when you are undivided within. It is only a pointer. But inside you are boiling with anger, fragmented; you are burning with unrest, broken, scattered. What will clenching the fingers do? Your fist is false. The fist wanted to say something else—that the One is, the undivided, the nondual, like this fist. But what you want to say is not the point; what you are will overflow your saying and be revealed.
If this man had attacked Joshu in anger, that would have been more authentic—truer. Instead, he lied. You know such lies. Many times you clench a fist in anger, then suddenly remember and pat the child instead. You feel you deceived the child with a pat—but the child understands the pat hid anger.
Often you try to change the sign. An abuse reaches your lips and you smile. Remember, your smile will still reveal the abuse; you cannot hide the inside. Your smile will become poisonous; its taste will be that of the abuse.
Many times you go to say something and switch at the last moment. But the switch won’t remain hidden—only among the blind. Anyone who can see a little will catch it.
And a true master is like a thermometer of being. Joshu stood there. This man tried to deceive. Had it been anyone else, he would have attacked—“You ruined my meditation!” And religious people are very vicious if their meditation is spoiled—because they are doing a great work, as if they are benefiting the whole world and you obstructed!
Let one person in a home become “religious,” and the whole house becomes hell. Lest their meditation be disturbed, their worship spoiled, lest anyone touch them and make them impure! After bath their food must be prepared; they create disturbances everywhere. People relish creating trouble for others—even in the name of religion. It is a clever trick: if you torment others in irreligion, people will object. Do it in the name of religion and they consent—“They are peaceful; we are at fault.” But mark this: it is not a religious person who creates disturbance. The religious man becomes utterly harmless—almost as if he is not.
This man clenched a fist, but he did not know that those who have used the fist as a sign had emptiness in the fist, not anger; no ego, but egolessness. Their fist was not a learned answer; it was their experience. Going deeper within, they had seen that the fivefold division—of senses, five senses; of elements—remains at the surface. The deeper you enter, division dissolves; the undivided opens. At the very center there is One. The fist closes.
Existence is like a flower blossoming at the circumference; at the center it is closed, like a bud—the fist. The fist is the sign of the closed bud. But this man was at the surface. His every mannerism, every hair was saying anger, unrest. And the fist wanted to say something else. That will not work. Joshu cannot be deceived.
Seeing this, Joshu said, “Ships cannot anchor where the water is very shallow.” And he left.
He said only this much: You are shallow. Where the water is shallow, great ships cannot stay. You are shallow due to anger, shallow due to unrest, shallow due to tension. Clenching a fist won’t help. Where the fist truly clenches, you are not yet. You are on the surface, on the circumference. Giving fine signals won’t do. Your signals will report the opposite of your being. Say what you like—what will come out is what you are. However you primp and pose, you cannot falsify yourself—certainly not before someone like Joshu. Yes, you might deceive those who live in falsity. Even that is hard.
A curious fact: however much you try, people know your truth fairly well—ordinary people too! Whatever you claim about yourself, no one really believes. Ninety percent of your truth is known even to ordinary folks. However many temples you visit, people know the cat goes on pilgrimage after eating a hundred mice. In the end, all cats become hajjis. People know your temple-going is penitence for sins you have done and continue to do. If sins could be washed in rivers, how easy things would be! People know your mantras, japa, puja are on the surface, while inside calculations of money, every penny, are going on. People know your lies quite well—ordinary people. Deceiving is difficult because your truth shows through here and there, however much you cover.
Everyone’s condition is like a poor man with a short blanket—cover the head, the feet are uncovered; cover the feet, the head is uncovered. Somewhere or other the truth shows. Truth is such a big event—how will untruth cover it? It is a miracle that you try to cover truth with falsehood. Falsehood means “that which is not.” With what is not, you try to cover what is! How will you? If others do not state your truth aloud, it is because of their own interests—not that you have succeeded in covering yourself. People know you very well, but it serves their interest to accept your lie. It is a mutual arrangement: you accept our lies, we will accept yours. You don’t expose us; we won’t expose you.
Hence the proverb: those who live in glass houses should not throw stones at others. Such sayings arise from long experience. If you yourself live in falsehood, do not expose another’s falsehood—or what of yours?
Thus we all keep covering each other. Psychologists say if everyone told what they know about others, not two people could remain friends on earth.
If you told what you know about your wife, and she told what she knows about you; if your friend told what he knows about you—then all friendships, all loves, all relationships would break.
The web of falsehood is vast. Because everyone’s interest is invested in it, we all maintain each other’s lies. I keep yours; you keep mine. You see my falsehood; I see yours. If ordinary people can see, will Joshu not see—one who has dropped all his own falsity? His eyes are clear; your whole lie is visible to him.
This man raised his fist full of anger. His fist revealed anger—shallowness. Anger is merely the proof of shallowness—remember this. The deeper you go, the harder anger becomes. By anger you harm no one else; you only make yourself shallow.
Remember, in shallow water great ships cannot anchor. And you hope that one day even God’s ship will dock at your shore! Joshu’s would not; it cannot—the depth is lacking. At your shore only smugglers’ dinghies can land—small boats of contraband; the ship of the divine cannot. There is only so much space, so much water. Little boats of falsehood will use your harbor; the vast ship of truth can moor only when you have created a depth capable of bearing the vast. Anger is the proof of shallowness.
I have heard: in ancient China there was a rule—traces of it still remain. It arose in Confucius’ time.
In 1910 an American traveler went to China. As he left the station, outside he saw two men in a fierce quarrel. But the fight was only verbal; about two hundred people had gathered, watching as if it were a great sport. He stood too. Soon, he thought, a storm would break—why were they not striking? With such rage, shouting, almost pouncing—why no blows? He asked a Chinese, “I don’t understand. Long now—why no fight?”
The Chinese said, “There is a rule here: whoever strikes first has lost. The matter ends there. The moment either one attacks, the crowd disperses—finished. Whoever gets angry first proves shallowness. So both are trying to provoke the other into temptation, into fury, to strike first—then it’s over. The one who refrains wins.”
Confucius had laid this foundation: to get angry means the man has already lost. He needs no further defeating. In truth, only a defeated man gets angry.
The deeper you are, the harder anger is; the deeper you are, the less defeat is possible. Depth is victory; shallowness is defeat.
Joshu said, “Ships cannot stay where the water is shallow.”
And he said everything. Because the whole question is: Where are you?
There are two ways of being. One is to live on the circumference—where you meet others—your relationships. A husband’s circumference is the wife; a father’s is the son; a friend’s is the friend, the enemy, the neighbor. Your circumference is the boundary of your interrelations—like the fence around your house. Beyond that begins the neighbor’s lot. Your boundary is also your neighbor’s boundary.
There are two ways to exist. One is to live at the circumference, where others’ limits meet you. Such a man will be shallow. Anyone can anger him; anyone can please him. He will be a slave to circumstances. Let someone praise him and he is happy; let someone criticize and he is sad. He lives on the circumference, where others stand. There the whole society is—praise and blame, flattery and abuse—all that goes on.
The other way is to live at the center. At the center you are alone. Between you and society there is as much distance as between your circumference and your center—and that gulf is infinite. Understand it this way: the circumference is the world; the center is God. On the circumference you are a householder; at the center you are a sannyasin. When you stand at the center, the distance from the world is such that if someone abuses you, it seems addressed to someone else—as if it happened in a dream. The distance is so great that it doesn’t even register as yours. And before the abuse can traverse that distance, it dissolves on the way.
But you stand at the very rim: there the abuse is hurled and it hits your chest at once. It depends on where you stand—do neighbors impact you? Someone says a little and your chest swells; someone says a little and it punctures, your chest collapses. So dependent on others—how will you be peaceful? Others are many, endless. You may placate one abuser, there are countless more—millions around you—and you cannot run away from them. Even if you go to the jungle, nothing will change.
I have heard: a man, harried by the day-and-night clatter of wife, children, shop, customers—no peace—fled to the forest. He sat under a tree at ease. A crow dropped its excrement on him. He got angry, picked up a stone to hurl at it. Then he realized: I came here for peace—and this crow is here too. You may flee your wife; where will you flee from crows?
He grew very dejected: There’s no point in the world. He went to the riverbank to gather wood, built his own pyre. While he was arranging the wood, news reached the nearby village; people came and said, “Brother, take it a little farther. If you burn here, the smell will reach the village.” The man said, “You won’t let me live and you won’t let me die. No freedom to live, no freedom to die.”
On the circumference, you neither live nor die. You only drag yourself between the two. That is your condition.
There was a Jewish sage—a village rabbi. A poor man came and asked, “What shall I do? Great trouble—can’t earn a livelihood. Trying to make ends meet is ruining me. No trade in hand.” The sage said, “Do one thing.” Jews have a special garment they wear when dying. “Open a small shop. In one part, sell food—bread, vegetables, flour, pulses, rice. In another, sell the things needed at death: wood, and the clothing Jews wear to die in—the funeral shroud.” The man asked, “Why do you suggest this?” The rabbi said, “Because even if the world stops all other work, these two will continue. Your shop will never close. If people live, they must eat; and if they live, they must die. They will have to come to you in both cases.”
The man went off, sold his property, opened the shop. Two or three months later he returned more despondent than before. The rabbi asked, “What is it? Business not running?” He said, “A great mistake. In this village neither does anyone live nor does anyone die—people merely drag on. The shop doesn’t move.”
You too are dragging—neither living nor dying. Between the two—a miserable state. If you live, that too has a joy; if you die, that too has a finality—let something complete! But on the circumference there is neither life nor death—only conflict. Because the circumference is where you meet others; and as long as you are meeting others, you will not meet yourself. The day you meet yourself, you will have to move off the circumference.
All religions emphasize ahimsa, non-anger, non-greed, desirelessness, non-possession. Why? Because greed holds you at the rim. The greedy man will sit at the door; he cannot go within, because the objects of greed are outside.
The angry man stands at the door—who knows when he’ll need to attack, or who might attack! The possessive man remains at the rim; possessions are there. You cannot carry possessions inside; they must be kept on the circumference. Bank balance remains out; there is no space within for it. The violent cannot go in. The lustful cannot go in, for lust is directed to the other—so he stays at the rim. Religions stress nonviolence, nonpossessiveness, desirelessness, non-stealing, non-greed—because if you want to go in, you must leave the circumference. To leave the rim you must drop greed, drop anger, drop possessiveness. As these fall away, you go inward. The day you stand at your center, your depth is such that even God’s ship can anchor there—your depth becomes infinite.
At the rim you are utterly shallow. Yet you ask for the infinite while standing at the boundary—that is your misfortune. You ask for the limitless while perched on the limit. Prepare for the limitless, and the limitless will moor itself at your door. Not only are you seeking God—God is seeking you. A clap won’t sound with one hand; search cannot happen with one hand alone. The other hand is groping for you too. But the difficulty is great: where you are, there is no place for truth to enter—no depth.
Joshu said, “Ships cannot stay where the water is very shallow,” and left.

A few days later Joshu returned to that monk and asked the same question. The monk gave the traditional answer again.
Joshu said, “Well given, well taken, well killed, well saved,” and bowed to the monk.

After quite some time, Joshu visited the monk again. He asked the same question, and the monk gave the same reply. There was not the slightest difference in the reply—but all the difference in the world. The same fist rose, but the man was no longer the same. The one who clenched it had changed. Now the fist held no anger; it held nonduality. Now there was no irritation in it, but love. Now there was a harmony between the fist and the inner center. The man was no longer on the rim but at the center.
Joshu’s saying—that ships cannot stay where water is shallow—had worked. The man must have understood: leave the circumference. Even my meditation was happening on the rim; meditation cannot happen there. He must have dived. Slowly he must have dropped anger, dropped the world of disturbance, slowly become absorbed within. He stopped fighting and began to flow.
Joshu came and asked the same question—the only question there is: What is this existence? What is all this spread around? What am I? However we phrase it, the question is one: What is, what is it? The monk raised the fist again, but now there was great peace in it, bliss in it; a thrill, a dance, and a fragrance of the beyond; in this fist was the ultimate.
Joshu said—what he said is wondrous—“Well given, well taken, well killed, well saved.”
A complex saying—and utterly simple.
Well given, well taken, well killed, well saved.
He said everything. It is like Kabir’s upside-down verse—sounds baffling, but slip within and the key is in your hand.
“Well given, well taken.”
It means: he gave himself wholly, held nothing back—and attained the divine wholly. Only one who gives himself can receive Him. On the circumference we are busy saving ourselves, afraid we might be annihilated. At the center, the very question of saving drops; the joy of giving arises. On the rim, the more you give, the less you become; the more you snatch, the more you grow. At the center, the more you snatch, the less you become; the more you give, the more you grow. The rules reverse. At the center, gift is the rule; at the circumference, theft and exploitation. At the center is love; at the rim are anger, violence, greed, attachment. At the center is God—you can distribute Him endlessly; He will not exhaust. The more you give, the more you have; He increases.
Jesus said: Whoever saves himself will lose himself; whoever is ready to lose will be saved. Joshu says the same: “Well given, well taken.” Give all; receive all. “Well killed, well saved.” Die utterly—and be saved utterly.
For entering the ultimate truth no other offering will do. With flowers and leaves whom are you deceiving? And even those, people don’t buy in the market—they pluck from others’ gardens. If you have a garden, you know: religious people are out early, plucking flowers. You can’t even protest—they’re for worship! You offer flowers and leaves, plucked from others?
It won’t work. You yourself must become the offering. You must place yourself on the altar. Another’s sacrifice won’t do; it must be your own. Only one who is ready to give himself can receive Him. Less will not do. You may offer wealth, everything—it won’t bring the essence; God cannot be bought with money—neither by hoarding nor by donating it. There is only one way: drop yourself. Perhaps it is precisely your grip on yourself that is the barrier. Let go—and He is there!
Joshu said something astounding: “Well killed, well saved.” Completely finished—utterly effaced. The first time you came, the fist held you; now the fist holds emptiness. “Well killed, well saved.” And fully saved.
We try to save ourselves and are being erased. Some have erased themselves and are saved. Losing is the path to attaining Him. Without dying, no new birth. Bury the old in the grave; above that very grave the new sprouts. From your ashes the flame of God will rise.
Your ego—“I am something”—so long as you clutch it, you will remain shallow. The ship is great; it needs depth. Have you seen anything more shallow than ego? Even shallow water is deeper than ego. Ego has no depth; it sticks to your skin.
Therefore it is so easy to hurt ego. A slight sarcastic smile and the ego boils—so shallow! Someone doesn’t look at you and ego is hurt—“What’s this? He sees me every day; today he didn’t! I passed and he didn’t bow?” Nothing is shallower than ego; nothing deeper than the divine. Ego is shallow; the soul is deep.
If you stand on ego, guarding yourself, dinghies can land at your shore. The insignificant will come in those dinghies; the significant cannot.
Hence Joshu said, “Well given, well taken, well killed, well saved.”
In this one sentence the whole path is contained. Give yourself, and what you seek will be yours. It is already given; only as long as your hands are full of yourself do you miss it. Erase yourself and you will find truth. Other than you, there is no enemy; other than you, there is no friend. As long as you hold yourself, you are your enemy; the day you let yourself go, you become your friend.
Saying this, Joshu bowed to the monk. The ship has docked. Today the monk’s shore is deep. Joshu had to bow. And this is the same man at whose shore Joshu had said, “There is no place for us here.”
There are two ways of being. The man is the same. If you are a beggar, it is because you stand on the circumference. Become a sovereign by turning toward the center. All meditative processes are devices to move you from rim to center. But on the way many things must be lost—the first of which is yourself.
Grasp this well, for this is the key that turns. If there is ego, anger arises; if there is ego, attachment arises; if there is ego, greed arises. If there is no ego, how will you be angry? Someone abuses: you hear; it does not reach you. If there is no wound of ego, whom will the abuse hurt?
Ego is the root sin; all other sins are its shadows. For whom do you crave? For whom do you accumulate? For whom do you seek position, the throne? The amusing thing is that people try to drop greed, to drop anger, to drop attachment—without understanding that these cannot be dropped directly. It is as if someone tried to drop his shadow. As long as ego is, none of these can go. You can fool yourself: “I have dropped greed.” But greed will appear in new forms; the shadow’s color changes, the shadow stays—even if not visible, it remains, because the shadow is tied to you.
If you drop greed while preserving ego, then in your non-greed ego will stand up. Look at the renunciate—puffed up by renunciation: “I have left everything.” Look at the “humble” who say, “I am humble”; humility itself becomes their ego. Tell him, “In our village there is someone even humbler than you,” and he is hurt exactly as another is hurt if you say, “There is someone greater than you.” There is competition even in humility. But competition belongs only to ego. How can humility compete? Even in bowing, you will have a strategy; it won’t be pure. Ego stands behind, watching: “Did people see that I bowed? How humble I am! Who is humbler than I?”
No—do not fight anger, greed, attachment directly. That is why I keep saying: you have only one fight—ego. And there is only one way to kill ego—meditation. Because as you become meditative, ego begins to fade. Ego can survive only in unawareness. The more unconscious you are, the stronger the ego. The more you are filled with awareness, the less ego. The day you are fully aware, the ego drops. If you want to erase ego, awaken. Live more consciously. Cultivate awareness in every posture—sitting, standing. Walking, keep the inner flame on—don’t lose it. Don’t live in sleep. Don’t let a stupefied life run on. Whatever you do, do it knowingly.
You will be amazed: have you ever been fully aware while angry? You cannot be. The moment you awaken, the chain of anger breaks. If, right in the middle of lust, you become aware, lust stops. Lust needs unconsciousness.
The deeper awareness goes, the more sins evaporate. Unconsciousness is the mother of ego; consciousness brings egolessness. And the day egolessness arrives, that day Joshu can come to your door and say to you too: “Well given, well taken, well killed, well saved.”
Where you stand now, even to understand this is difficult—because it is the exact opposite of you. You may grasp it intellectually, but it won’t help much. Intellect can only carry words; it cannot carry experience. The center of experience is the heart. And the heart is at your center, while intellect is your circumference.
It is a curious thing: you are born with the heart; intellect is given by society. Intellect comes from schooling, conditioning; the heart comes with birth. Everyone is born with heart. Intellect comes by training and arrangement; society gives you intellect. Hence there are universities for the mind; there can be none for the heart—none are needed. But due to the training of intellect, slowly you start living only in the head. You forget that deeper within lies the treasure.
It is as if someone took up residence in the portico of his house, forgetting that the real rooms are inside. The portico was only an entryway. You have made it the house. Similarly, you have made the skull your home—it is the porch. Intellect is a guard between you and the world; within, you are. Loosen the mind a little—relax it—so you can slip inside.
The day you taste even a little of the center, that day Joshu’s words will make sense to you: “Well given, well taken, well killed, well saved.”
You will know then: you have gone—and yet you remain. What went was the trivial; what remains is the glorious. What you were till yesterday has died—that was rubbish. What remains is gold.
To gain this gold you must pass through a fire almost like death. Death refines you. When the ego dies, your soul appears like pure gold.
That’s all for today.