Diya Tale Andhera #20

Darkness under the lamp—this is the last talk in this series.
The darkness is because of you. The darkness hides right under you. Not even that it hides by itself—you have hidden it. You are also protecting it. You even talk of dispelling it, yet you don’t. Because you are tied to a big self-interest in that darkness. In that darkness you have hidden not only your soul; you have also hidden your dishonesty, your hypocrisy, your deceits. And unless you are ready to expose your deceit, your dishonesty, your pretenses, your very soul will not be revealed.
Darkness is one. Why do you fear breaking it? The fear is that your idols will shatter. The fear is that the web of lies woven around you will unravel. You want to know the soul—without tearing the web of lies! That won’t do. Knowing the soul becomes possible only when you stop building the ego on the other shore.
And has not the time come to tear apart the entire web of lies and recognize yourself? You have suffered enough… how much longer to wait? Religion is born on the day you are tired of your lies. As yet, you are not tired. If you are not tired, then all your seeking is futile. It hasn’t even begun.
There was a man, Sheikh Abdullah. He had twelve sons. He named them all so that their names ended in “Allah.” One was Rahmatullah, another Hidayatullah—like that. Then the thirteenth child was born. He was in great difficulty. He had exhausted all the names that end in “Allah.” So he went to Mulla Nasruddin. By fortune I was present at that auspicious hour. He said to Nasruddin, “Big Brother! My thirteenth son is born. Suggest a name that ends in ‘Allah.’ I am tired searching—every name is used up.”
Without hesitation Nasruddin looked up at the sky and said, “Name him: Bas Kar Allah!”—meaning, “Enough now, Allah!”
When such an hour arrives in your life that you can say, “Enough now, Allah,” that is the beginning of religion. You are not yet tired. You still want to run some lies even with God. Your prayer too is still a part of the world. Your worship still stands before wealth, status, fame. Even when you go to the temple, you go to beg, not to give.
And at the door of the Divine only the one arrives who has gone to give, not to beg. There is no place there for beggars. How will you meet the Supreme Emperor as a beggar? You will have to be a little like Him. Become, in some measure, emperor-like; in that very measure you become God-like. Prayers that beg do not reach Him. Only prayers that give—the giving of oneself—reach Him.
There is darkness under your lamp because you have not yet recognized that you are the light. You only know that you are an earthen lamp. And so long as you are tied to the earthen lamp, darkness will remain. The day you remain as pure flame, drop the earthen, keep the conscious; the day you let go of the clay lamp and preserve the inner flame, on that day there will be light all around. On that day, there will be no darkness anywhere.
And when there is light within you, there is also light outside you. Because wherever you go, you carry your light. Wherever you walk, your flame illumines all around.
For now, wherever you go, you carry your darkness. Whose life you enter, that life also becomes troubled. Right now you are misfortune. Whomever you join, you put them in difficulty too—because their life will grow dense with your darkness. You will double their darkness. At present, all your relationships, your friends, your loved ones—because of you they too will enter hell; they were going anyway on their own.
Hence, an accident happens every day on this earth. You want to benefit one another, but nothing happens except harm. You may want to give love to another; you give it in the name of love, but what reaches is hatred. You may want to pour compassion, but the heart capable of compassion is not there. Compassion can be only when all darkness inside you has been dispelled. You cannot be compassionate; at most, in the name of compassion you can be condescending. And condescension is an insult. It insults the other. Condescension is tied to ego. Compassion is the love of an egoless heart. The compassionate one does not even know that he has been compassionate; but the condescending one knows loudly and heavily that he has condescended. He knows it many times more than the act itself.
Therefore, the very one you condescend to will become your enemy. The one you “love,” you will find he is eager to take revenge. This accident happens because your darkness, wherever you go, increases the darkness of the other.
You need light in your life. And light is present. It is only a matter of breaking relationship with the clay lamp. It is only a matter of knowing that I am not this earthen body; I am a conscious soul. Just a slight shift, a small change of gear. Your eyes have become fixed on the lamp. And you have grown so afraid, because you think that if the lamp goes, if the oil in the lamp is gone, the flame will go out. There lies your delusion.
This flame within you does not go out. It was burning even when there was no body. Before you came into your mother’s womb, this flame was flowing. In the previous life when you died, the clay lamp fell away, the oil was gone. The oil in that lamp ran out; that is why the lamp was dropped. This flame became free of that body. It took a new womb, seized a new lamp, connected with new oil. The lamp was very small. It could not be seen with the naked eye. Even that tiny lamp lit it. Then the lamp grew—the child was born, became young; now you are nearing old age; again the lamp will break, for the oil will be exhausted. The flame will search again for a new home, a new womb.
This flame is you—on an endless journey through births. A journey with no end. It has used up many lamps. Who knows in how many lamps it has resided, in how many houses it has been a guest. Those houses are all gone; it still is. The whole quest of religion is to recognize that element within you which does not perish, which is immortal.
As soon as that recognition dawns, your attachment to the lamp drops. You no longer cling to the mortal. You revel in the immortal. And as soon as you become one with the flame, the darkness beneath you disappears. So long as you are one with the lamp, the lamp will produce darkness. The bigger the lamp, the bigger the darkness beneath. And if you have so identified with the lamp that the flame is altogether forgotten, then there will be only darkness.
The wise say, go within—there is supreme light. You close your eyes and find nothing but darkness. Are these Buddhas, these Mahaviras, these Krishnas, these Christs deluded, or are they deceiving people? They say there is supreme light within. But whenever you close your eyes, you find darkness. Outside, you can see a little light—the sun’s, electricity’s. But within there is neither electricity nor sun—there is dense darkness.
This darkness is not because Buddha and Mahavira lie or want to deceive anyone. This darkness is because your lamp has become so big, and the flame is so lost, and your attention never goes to the flame—that’s one.
Second: you have become so habituated to outside light—your eyes are so filled with outer illumination—that the subtle inner light does not appear. You are accustomed to the gross. You are accustomed to the inert.
And the inner light is very gentle, dim. It has no assault. It is very non-violent; there is no urgency, no fire in it. It is like the light at brahma-muhurta—the hour when the night has passed but the sun has not yet risen. That is why Hindus chose brahma-muhurta for meditation; the outer light at that time has a little kinship with the inner light.
The sun has not risen; because when the sun rises there is heat, urgency, intensity. The sun has not risen; the night is gone. Hindus call this time sandhya—twilight. Hence Hindus call their prayer sandhya as well. Or in the evening when the sun has set and the night has not yet come; there is a middle period, a juncture. In that in-between light—zero intensity, no fire, only luminosity. A cool light—that is exactly the light within you.
But you have become so used to the outer. Think: after a long hot walk in summer under the blazing sun, when you enter home, it feels utterly dark. The eyes had become so accustomed to the outer sun. Then you rest a little, relax; slowly, slowly, the eyes begin to see the inner light. Slowly the darkness melts; a light appears in the room.
Similarly, when you first close your eyes, you will find only darkness. And it will feel very dense. Because for lifetimes you have only journeyed outward. You close your eyes for a moment, find darkness, open them and go back out again. You say, these Buddhas and Mahaviras are not trustworthy—inside there is only darkness.
It will take time. Let the eyes consent a little. Let them adjust a little. That is why meditation takes time. And patience is necessary. As you begin to see the inner twilight, where there is no fire, only light, an aura; as that appears, your link with the lamp will sever, your link with the light will be made. The gear within will shift, and once you become one with the flame, there is no darkness beneath you. Then not only are you filled with light, your light falls outward too. Whoever comes near you receives the gift of your light.
Now let us try to understand this small Zen story. It is very precious.
Master Tosotsu constructed three barriers. And he would have his monks pass through them.
The master’s work is only this much—to set up barriers and take you across. Barriers have to be set up, because you are not simple. Otherwise, it would be enough to say, “Go within.” But that won’t be heard. Even to go within, you must be made to travel. You are so addicted to traveling that even to come home you will walk a little; only then can you arrive.
It’s like this: if I tell you that you are already sitting at home, you won’t trust it. You are sitting at home. Where you have to go, you already are. There is nowhere else to go. But you are so addicted to travel that you say, “Show some path. How do I reach myself?” You remind me of a story.
A man got drunk. Somehow he groped his way home. He stood at his own door, but he did not trust that it was his home. He beat his chest and shouted, “I am lost! Somebody take me home.” His mother opened the door—an old woman. She said, “Son, what are you saying? This is your home.”
He looked closely and said, “Mother, I have a mother just like you. She must be waiting at the door. She is old, must be worried. Don’t waste time talking. Show me the way. Please be kind and tell me the road.” He caught the old woman’s feet and pleaded, “Have mercy and show me the way.” The neighborhood gathered. All said, “This is your home,” but he wouldn’t listen. He was fixated on the idea that he had lost his way.
You too are fixated on the thought that you are lost. And your intoxication strengthens that thought. Ultimately he would not listen. A man yoked his bullock cart and came. “Sit, I’ll take you,” he said. “Here’s the real guru!” cried the drunk. “No one else was found to take me. You have been so gracious.” His mother said, “Fool! Don’t get in his cart. If you go, you’ll go far from home—because you are already here.” He said, “Old woman, be quiet. My mother must be waiting.” He sat in the cart. The cart driver took several circles around the house, then brought him back to the door. The man said, “Thank you.”
No matter how much one explains that you have not strayed at all, you are not ready to accept. You must be made to travel a little. Seated on a bullock cart, made to circle your own home; then you will believe. You are crazy about traveling. Your logic is: how can we arrive without moving?
And there is some reason for this logic in life. Whenever you moved, only then did you arrive somewhere. For wealth you had to move; for position, a long journey; for fame, much wandering. You knocked on doors; only then did you manage to earn a little fame. And will the Supreme Treasure, God, be attained without moving? The man who says so must be mad. You will look for a guru who stands with a yoked cart, who says, “Come, sit. I will take you.” And the more circles he gives you, the more your trust will grow that the goal is near—because the journey is long.
Where you are is the goal. You haven’t moved from there even for a moment. You cannot move. “Nature” means that which cannot be lost. That which you can lose is not your nature. How will you lose yourself? Wherever you go, you remain with yourself. Sit in a brothel or go to the Himalayas; even in the brothel you are as close to yourself as on the Himalayas—because you are within you. You will leave everything—house, door, mansion—but how will you leave yourself? For lifetimes you have been leaving everything and traveling, but you are always with you. Where is there to run from yourself? What is the method to flee yourself?
This won’t be easily understood. You will say, “Maybe, but still show some path. How do I reach myself?” That is why the master erects obstacles. He creates barriers. He raises difficulties. He says, “Cross these; then you will arrive.”
All of Yoga is such barrier. It says, do headstands, twist and contort yourself; then the point will sink in that this is right. The harder the austerity imposed on you, the more confidence you feel. And all those circles are like being taken around in the bullock cart. Therefore a simple master will not appeal to you. He will say, “There is nowhere to go. You have already arrived.” You cannot trust this: I and arrived? You have condemned yourself so much, been so opposed to yourself, considered yourself so defiled and depraved—such a sinner and arrived? You will say, “This holy man is himself lost. I and arrived? Impossible.”
In your own eyes you have no standing, no respect. You have never looked at yourself with reverence. You are filled with self-condemnation. And there is reason. The reason is that you have circulated so many lies about yourself. You have constructed so much hypocrisy about yourself. And you think that hypocrisy is who you are—that is the trouble. Hence the condemnation. You have stolen so much. If I tell you, “You have never stolen,” how will you believe me? You have murdered so much that if I say, “You have never killed,” how will you believe me?
That is what Krishna told Arjuna: “Do not fear. Enter the war. You are not the doer; hence sin will not cling to you.” How could Arjuna accept it? He says, “Sin will cling to me. I will kill so many—my dear ones, relatives, elders, teachers, companions. No, if I kill them, I will incur sin.” Krishna says, “You cannot kill. Action is not in your control. How can you act? You are only an instrument. The doer is That.”
But you have committed so many sins. Arjuna fears the sins of the future; his fear is understandable. You have the sins of the past; therefore you cannot accept that you are divine. You will have to be seated in the cart and taken around a lot.
Understand this well: you have lost trust in yourself. This is very deep and must be remembered. You have lost trust in yourself. And for one who has lost self-trust, great difficulty arises. Because without trust in oneself, nothing is possible. Self-confidence is gone. You have no faith in yourself.
Mulla Nasruddin went to the tavern daily, but before drinking he followed a ritual. The tavern owner’s curiosity could not be contained. Every day, Mulla would take a frog out of his pocket and place it on the table. He would drink and drink, then pick up the frog, put it back in his pocket, and leave. One day, the owner asked, “Nasruddin, explain the secret. What is this business of taking out a frog and putting it back?” Nasruddin said, “I put the frog out and then I start drinking. When I begin to see two frogs instead of one, then I know something must be done.” The owner asked, “Then what do you do?” Mulla said, “Then I pick up both of them and put them back in my pocket and go home.”
The heavier your stupor, the less things appear as they are. And this man even knows there is only one frog, yet he says he puts both back in his pocket—because when you see two, what can you do? Self-trust collapses; confidence breaks.
The greatest result of what you have done to yourself through births—the most suicidal of all—is that you have lost reverence for yourself. Every moment you rely on lies and dishonesty.
There was a theft at Nasruddin’s home. The thief was caught the next day. Nasruddin went to the police station, took permission, went inside. He held the thief’s feet and sat down. The thief was alarmed. “What is it?” he asked. Nasruddin said, “Brother, teach me the trick! How did you enter my house? What a wonder you are! If only I could enter likewise and my wife wouldn’t find out—just teach me this secret.”
If you are learning anything in life, it is deception. All your skill, cleverness, smartness, is built upon deceiving others. But remember, when you deceive the other so much, you lose reverence for yourself. And what you get by deceiving is nothing. What you lose by losing self-reverence is everything. You sell yourself cheap. You have sold yourself.
So if I tell you that you are divine, you will say, “It may be a doctrine, written in scriptures—but it doesn’t ring true.” It doesn’t ring true not because you are not divine, but because so much time has passed in hiding this divinity. You have done so many things and woven a net around you. That is your karmic web.
Therefore the master must erect a new karmic net to tear your old karmic net—like removing a thorn with a thorn. The second thorn has no intrinsic value; it too is a thorn. After removing the first, don’t keep the second in the wound, thinking, “It was so kind; it freed me from the first thorn.” Many do exactly that. Once the thorn removes the thorn, throw both away. To be thornless is to be in samadhi.
This Master Tosotsu constructed three barriers. He would say to each seeker: there are three obstacles. Cross these and you have reached the goal.
No barrier is truly necessary to reach the goal. But for you, three hundred barriers may have to be erected before you can arrive. That is the maze I must create. I must set up barriers: jump them, go beyond. By jumping you won’t go anywhere else—you will arrive where you already are. But the jumping is necessary. In the jumping perhaps your intoxication will drop. In circling in the bullock cart perhaps you will come to your senses, and feel: “So much journey, surely the goal must be near now.”
The man returned home. He fell at his mother’s feet and said, “It was terrible. I wandered far. In that house there was a woman exactly like you. She told me to stay, saying it was my home. Had I stayed, it would have been very troublesome—I would never have reached here. And the foolish neighborhood! I told them I had lost my way, and they wouldn’t listen, kept saying it was my home. The whole neighborhood seemed to be conspiring against me. They wanted to deceive me. But I am a man—I didn’t listen to a single one—even though I was drunk, still they couldn’t fool me. By chance, someone came with a cart—this man is like a true master—he brought me home; otherwise, I could not have returned.”
The first barrier: the study of Zen. The purpose of studying Zen is to see one’s true nature. Now, what is your true nature?
So the master says the first milestone to cross is the study of Zen. This does not mean studying Zen scriptures; it means studying your nature—swadhyaya, the study of oneself. And this has two parts. First: you have to enter and dismantle the delusions you have created about yourself—and in which you yourself are lost….
Mulla Nasruddin was passing a road. He was alone. Some street boys surrounded him; they wanted some fun. To rid himself of them, Nasruddin said, “Do you know where I am going? There is a feast at the royal palace today, and all are invited—no conditions. Whoever wishes can come.” He had barely said this when the boys ran toward the palace. Seeing them run, Mulla thought, “It just might be true—so many people!” He too ran. “What harm to go!” he thought.
First, you want to deceive others; in doing so, you deceive yourself. When others believe, you too come to believe. Belief is contagious. That is why the lie you tell for long becomes so ingrained that you no longer remember whether it is lie or truth.
A man committed murder. The case went to court. It dragged on. There were many witnesses, many lawyers; the murdered man was wealthy, the murderer too was influential. After three years, as often happens, nothing was clear. Witnesses contradicted each other. Files piled up, judgment was far. The magistrate was exasperated. He said, “It seems nothing will be resolved. I ask you directly,” he told the accused, “tell the truth and we will decide. There seems no other way. The more we searched, the more we were lost.”
The man said, “If that was so, you should have asked earlier. I myself am now confused. Initially, I was sure I had murdered. But after three years of proceedings, lawyers’ arguments, I too now doubt it. You are late. I cannot say with certainty that I did it. Three years ago I had the idea—perhaps that too was a delusion.”
This happens in every life. Slowly, slowly, lies repeated take root. When others trust them, and you see trust in their eyes, your eyes also fill with trust.
When one undertakes self-study, the first thing is to enter the web of lies that you have erected. That’s the difficulty. Once you cross this morass, then there is a clear lake.
But the bog is big. Courage is needed to pass through it—because it will hurt. When you find that what you believed true about yourself is all false; when searching you find lies behind everything; when you find no true picture anywhere; when, tracing yourself, you discover that “I am a long lie—a pile of lies, a hypocrisy—my smile is not true, the shine in my eye is not true, my love is not true—nothing is true”; when you find all your inner relations, family, society are in deception; when beneath everything there is no foundation—everything stands baseless—you will be terrified.
One who passes through this terror is an ascetic. It is natural to feel pain breaking your own untruths. A great distress will come. Dust of lifetimes will rise. If you panic and turn back—because you may feel things were better earlier—at least you lived with a kind of settled comfort—you will abandon it. Because your comfort is false. Your consolation is false. That is why man fears going within. And this is the austerity.
The master sets up the first barrier: swadhyaya—stand naked before yourself. Do not panic. And this is why a master is needed, because you will panic. Your life-breath will sweat. Every hair will tremble, and fear will arise—“Everything is going.” Your entire image collapses. You will feel, “I have nothing left in my hands. All is being lost. All is becoming void.”
Certainly, halfway it will become void. If you cross that halfway, in the remaining half the Whole will descend. But your becoming void is essential; only then the Whole can descend. Your lies must fall; only then can truth be touched. This courage is necessary.
It sounds very pleasing to hear: you are Brahman, the soul, pure consciousness. Hearing will do nothing. First, you must know that no one is as false as you. And you must find it in places where you usually don’t imagine you lie.
You come home; a small child stands at the door. You smile and pat his back. You never think that neither are you smiling nor is there love in your pat. You never think, “Why would I lie to my child? In the shop—fine—but why to my child? I love him.”
But look carefully and you will see neither did the hand pat nor was there a smile. It is only a part of the daily play you enact.
Children recognize it. They know when a pat carries love and when the hand is empty. The sound is different, the vibration is different. When the hand is empty, the child knows—nothing rings in the hand, no delight, no thrill; the hand is dead. Nothing flows to the child; the hand may even slightly drain the child’s joy. And when you flash a false smile, the child sees it is on your lips but not within. He is not satisfied. He knows you are a lie. Slowly he learns the same lie.
A little girl, barely twelve, was walking a beach in a mini bikini—the tiniest that covered nothing. A policeman saw her and was angry. He said, “Girl, if your mother knew, what would she say?” The girl said, “She would say plenty—this bikini is hers.”
Mothers, daughters; fathers, sons—parts of the same world. The same spread of lies. A great shaking will happen when you start seeing yourself. Then your entire personality will become transparent. You will panic like the Pope did who refused to look through Galileo’s telescope.
Galileo said the earth goes around the sun. He said the moon and stars are not as scriptures describe; they are far different; there are no gods dwelling there—those spheres are empty. The Pope was angry: “These are wrong; the scriptures say otherwise.” Galileo brought his telescope and said, “Please look and see yourself.” The Pope said, “Do not try to deceive me. There must be some trick in this device. And when I have my own eyes, why should I look through this?”
The Pope was afraid that if he looked, perhaps what Galileo said would be right. We too fear to peer within. We are afraid of self-study. If you watch yourself even twenty-four hours, you will be astonished to see what you are doing and why. Why so much lie, so much hypocrisy? Why these masks? What will you gain? And you are lost in all this—then you roam around asking, “Who am I?” How will you know?
I know of a man—a great philosopher; but almost all philosophers are like this. He had a great problem: at night he would take off his clothes, but in the morning while dressing he forgot what to wear where—should the pajamas go below or above, the shirt under or over, left, right? Should the vest be inside or outside? Socks on which foot, gloves on which hand—everything got mixed. So he often slept wearing all his clothes, shoes and all.
His friends said, “This is too much—you don’t even sleep well.” He said, “That’s the trouble; but if I remove everything, I am restless all night thinking of the morning fuss.” They said, “Why don’t you label everything? ‘Right shoe,’ ‘Left shoe’…” He liked it. “First vest, then shirt, then coat; tie like this.”
One night he wrote labels on everything with great care and slept naked, very happy, without fear.
In the morning everything was in order—each item labeled, perfect. Suddenly he thought, “I forgot one thing—where am I? I forgot that! For whom are these meant?”
At the end of your life, you too will find the same. You assembled everything, labeled everything, prepared all equipment—but where are you?
First barrier: study yourself. Studying scriptures won’t help. You are the real scripture.
The first stage will be hard. In this stage the master’s support is needed—to keep up your courage: “Don’t worry, the goal is fast approaching.” Courage is needed here.
Scientists performed an experiment to see whether courage bestowed by another truly works. They took five frogs and dropped them into boiling water. When they were just about to die, thrashing, last breaths faltering, they took them out.
Then they took those five experienced frogs and five new ones; dropped all ten into boiling water. The five inexperienced died quickly. The five who had the impression there is a possibility of rescue survived. The old experience helped them: “Someone will rescue.” They fought to the last breath. The first five had no such trust, no rescuer; they drowned.
Without a master, the disciple often gets lost in the bog. Better not to enter. Better not to get into messes. Then the world is better. Going towards oneself is dangerous. Alone you will return deranged. Even if you do return, you will not be as you are now. Because you will have seen all your lies. Legs will tremble; the building will shake; it will be like an earthquake; everything scattered. Even if you return, you will be in a deranged state. Better to go on quietly in the world. At least you are somewhere. You believe something is okay—even if it is a lie, a dream. But if you go inside alone, even the dream is exposed; and if you panic and return before knowing truth, you will be in great difficulty.
Psychologists say that ninety percent of those in asylums are people who got a little glimpse of truth. You will be surprised to hear: in the West, many wonder if those shut in madhouses are truly all mad—or are many of them the ones whose lies got uprooted by a glimpse of truth?
Think: if you decide to speak truth twenty-four hours and stop lying, the whole world will think you’ve gone mad. In the morning on the road, a man comes and your mind says, “What a wretch to see first thing!” Yet when you meet, you bow and say, “What a blessing to see you—auspicious sight; today will be good.” If only you said the truth, “Why show your Saturnine face in the morning? The day is ruined now. At least don’t come out in the morning.”
If for twenty-four hours you resolve to speak only truth, you will be called mad. Your family will tie you and lock you away. If you lie, you are fine; if you speak truth, you’re mad. Because this is a society of lies. Waking up here is hard.
Hence, a master is required who takes you beyond lies, and stays with you until you know truth. Because this lie you now take as truth—this you are adjusted to—will break, and you will not yet have the new experience. This paper boat may be a paper boat, but it is a boat after all. If you lose it before the real boat, if this shore is gone and the other shore is not yet found, you will be midstream. The other shore exists, but you must go to it. Leaving this shore is not free from danger.
An ordinary person attempting alone will go deranged; with a master, he will be liberated. “Liberated” and “deranged” are two states apart from you. You can fall into either. Therefore, each step must be careful. You need someone who has gone, who is ahead, who has seen the other shore, who knows the way—who can at least give you confidence: “Don’t be afraid. Just a little more!”
Buddha was approaching a village. A farmer asked, “How far to the village?” He said, “Close—only two miles.” Two miles passed—no village. They asked another farmer. He said, “Only two miles.” Two more miles—still no village. Ananda grew angry: “This region is full of liars. We have walked four miles for two.” The third man said, “You’re just about there—two miles.”
Buddha laughed. Ananda fumed. Buddha said, “Understand. These people are very wise. They have made us walk four miles without tiring. One thing is certain: the village is coming closer; we are not going away from it. At least we are where we were—two miles each time. Many walk and go farther from the village.” Buddha said, “At least we have not gone farther. Even if we haven’t gone forward, it’s only two miles. These villagers are compassionate. With their help we’ll reach.”
The Divine is near and far. So near that nothing can be nearer. So far that nothing can be farther. When you arrive, you will find It utterly near. Until then, nothing is farther. And the master’s compassion will keep saying: “Now you are almost there; just a little distance. A little courage! Two more steps! Extend your hands—reach!” The shore is near and far. The master does not lie. It depends on many things whether you reach the shore. The most important is that someone you trust keeps saying it is near. For trust is crucial. Without trust, even if he says “near,” it won’t help. You will know it is far. And if you don’t trust him, his saying “near” will make you more certain it is far.
Without trust in the master, the master is useless. Therefore, go to the one in whom you have trust. Stay away from one in whom you do not. Ultimately your trust connects you to the master, not his knowledge. How can you know his knowledge? You can only know whether you have trust. If your trust rests in someone, even if he be wrong, you will arrive—because trust takes you across. And even if the man is right—you stand near Buddha—but without trust, nothing will happen.
Many were near Buddha and did not arrive. Buddha’s cousin, Devadatta, never arrived. Being the cousin was the trouble—he always felt, “As you are, so am I. Where are you a great knower? You are my brother.” He even took initiation from Buddha, yet he wanted Buddha’s prestige for himself, which was impossible—like one lamp with no darkness beneath it and another full of darkness—born in the same house, what difference does it make?
Devadatta gathered a group. Strangely, he got as many as five hundred monks from among Buddha’s—those dissatisfied with Buddha. They became Devadatta’s disciples. Devadatta announced that he had become a Buddha, a Tathagata. Someone asked Buddha, “Is it not astonishing—your five hundred disciples went to that fool?”
Buddha said, “It would surprise me if five hundred went; even five thousand could go. The question is not me; it is trust. Only those with trust in me should remain; otherwise, wherever they go, they will not find the way without trust. If those five hundred have trust in Devadatta, they too will reach.” The man asked, “But Devadatta is himself ignorant.” Buddha said, “That is not the central point.”
It is astonishing: sometimes a disciple has arrived even with an ignorant master; and many times, despite a wise master, the disciple did not arrive. Trust brings you across. The one in whom you have trust—that is your master. Trust is so great a phenomenon that it ensures arrival. Distrust is equally great—you will cling to the bank itself; you will never place your foot in the stream.
The first barrier, Master Tosotsu said, is the study of Zen. The purpose is to see your true nature. What is your true nature?
Tosotsu first tells people: study your nature. Close your eyes and keep seeing what is within. Peel layer by layer, recognize. Then he asks, “What is your true nature?”
Naturally, you will search and bring answers—and every answer will be wrong. Because the true nature is emptiness. You cannot bring the true nature as an answer. One day you can bring it as your state. One day you will come to the master in utter emptiness, and he will understand what your true nature is. So long as you bring any answer—maybe you say, “I am the soul, not the body”—the master will say, “Run away. You have read scriptures; you have not read yourself.” If you say, “I am consciousness, sat-chit-ananda; this body is mortal; this mind and thoughts—I am not these,” the master will say, “This too is thought—go back.” Because when you come in emptiness…
Have you noticed? When a pot is empty, it makes no sound. When it is full, it makes no sound. When it is half-full, there is much noise. The voice of your mind rises because the pot is half-full. Therefore there are so many thoughts and waves. Either fill it completely, or empty it completely. In both states the mind will be silent.
Zen’s approach is to empty it completely. Vedanta’s approach is to fill it completely. But the result is the same—no sound from the pot. The day the sound stops, when no answer arises, know that the answer is there. When you come empty—like an empty pot—the master will not even ask, “What is your true nature?” He asks only so long as you keep bringing something. The day you come like this, you have known your true nature.
The second barrier: When one realizes his true nature, he is free from birth and death. Now, when you have hidden the light from your own eyes and remain as a corpse, how will you set yourself free?
When the true nature is known, you also know that you neither die nor are born. You never were born, you never will die. You cannot be born, you cannot die. These events happen on the surface, not at your center. You remain untouched. So the master says, second: now you have become like a corpse—because your link with the body is gone. You have known that which is disembodied. You have recognized nature. The body is but a shell, clothing—dead. Like a scarecrow the farmer puts in the field: an empty pot on a stick, draped with a shirt. The day ego leaves you, you become a field-man—inside no one remains. The body becomes like a corpse.
The master sets the second barrier: now that you have become like a corpse, like a scarecrow with no one inside, how will you liberate yourself? Because liberation requires doing—who will do, when the doer is no more?
This question is very important, but only after the first is truly resolved. If the disciple begins to think, “How will I be liberated?” it means his emptiness was cultivated. It was not real. You can also cultivate emptiness. With effort you can suppress thoughts. With effort you can even renounce the ego. But that all happens in the gross. In the subtle, suppression remains. To break that suppression, there is the second barrier.
If you think, “Yes, this is the key question! Empty I am, true nature found—now who will be liberated? The body lies dead—where is the place for action?” If you think like this, it is clear the first happening did not happen—it was arranged. Through years of effort one can become like empty; but that emptiness is effort-born, hence not true. To drop that effort, the second question exists. If emptiness has truly happened, you will laugh and say, “Who needs liberation now? That from which liberation was sought is gone. Who remains to be liberated?”
Zen’s famous dictum is: “It is not the ‘I’ that is to be liberated; it is liberation from ‘I’.” Let me repeat: Do not liberate the ‘I’; be liberated from the ‘I’.
But your concept of liberation is such that at least your ‘I’ will remain. In moksha there will be no body—but you will be, at least I will be. That is what you call your soul. Fine—grant that body and mind go, but I?
The Buddhist insight is profound. Buddha says: so long as you are, there is bondage; so long as you are, there is world; so long as you are, there is non-liberation. Therefore, there you too will not remain. There will be no ‘I’. Liberation from ‘I’ is nirvana.
Hence Buddha’s idea vanished from this land—because here the notion was: all else will drop, but I will remain in moksha. Buddha says, if you remain, that is the disease. You will recreate all maladies; the seed remains.
When a tree is about to die, it gathers all its life-essence into the seed. The tree dies; the seed falls into the soil; from it sprouts a new shoot; the tree stands again. What is the tree doing in the seed? It concentrates its essence. When time comes, that essence manifests.
Ego is your seed. Every time you die, your life-tree squeezes all experience into the ego. That ego takes a new womb. Given a new chance, the tree flowers again. Buddha says, unless you become seedless, there is no solution.
Therefore the second barrier: the master asks, “Now you have become like a corpse—tell me, how will you liberate yourself?” If you start thinking, you reveal that the first event was false—well rehearsed, skillfully done—even deluded the master. The second is a touchstone to test the first. If there was truly success in the first, you will say, “Who needs liberation now? The one who longed for liberation is gone. The very seed of longing has disappeared. Now there is neither bondage nor liberation.”
Your liberation too is a form of bondage. Your moksha is another face of samsara. In your moksha you are seeking what you did not get in the world. It is an extension of your desires. It is not real moksha. It is a reflection of your world. What you did not get here, you demand there. Moksha is your mind’s expansion.
And then the third barrier: If you have freed yourself from birth and death, you should know—where are you?
It may happen that the seeker manages the second too by preparation. Suppose I have explained the story, the formula; you might rehearse it and come. You might pass the first by trick—through the back door. Not truly passed, but managed. You may even manage the second: “Who is there to be liberated? No one remains.” That too can be intellectual. Then comes the third: You have freed yourself from birth and death; now you should know—where are you?
Now your body has dissolved into the four elements—where are you?
Understand the distinction. Everywhere except among Buddhists, meditators ask, “Who am I?” That question is not as deep as the Buddhist question: “Where am I?” The difference is immense. When you ask, “Who am I?” you have assumed that you are. Only the question remains—who? But “I am” is already accepted. What is accepted, you will prove. What you assumed without inquiry, after some days you will say: “I am the soul, I am Brahman.” You will find some way.
The third barrier: at the last step a man will be caught. If you say, “I am not—who is there to be liberated?” the master asks, “Then tell me—if you are not, where are you? You are speaking, answering—where are you? In which place are you right now? You must be somewhere! You are not the body, nor the ego, nor the mind—where are you?”
The mind will try to find an answer: “Here, in the heart region I am hiding.” Or, “I have gone to the Brahma loka.” You will say something. You will begin to think, “Where am I? I must answer.” One who has been freed of the ‘I’ will not answer this third. Because ‘where’ itself is wrong.
Understand this: ‘where’ is always outside. ‘Where’ relates to space, to location. Inside there is no place—no east, south, west, above, below. This is subtle. Outside there is space, field. So all maps are of the outside. There we can say where a thing is. Even your body can be indicated where it is. You are sitting here; a map can be drawn, lines across; your body can be located relative to walls. But where are you? So long as you think you are the body, there is no problem. But now you say you are not the body—the problem begins. So long as you think you are the ego, you can indicate within the skull—“here.” Some chakra where you feel yourself.
If I say, “Close your eyes and seek where you are,” the emotionally inclined will feel, “I am near the heart.” That is why when you are full of feeling, you place a hand on your chest. In all cultures, if someone falls in love, he places a hand on his chest—because at that moment one experiences, “I am here”—the heart beats. It is the place of feeling—not of you. The rational person, not emotionally inclined, will always experience himself somewhere in the skull. If you observe carefully with eyes closed, you may even find the exact spot—“here I am.” If your left hand works more than the right, you will feel yourself in a different region of the skull—and vice versa—because the brain hemispheres cross.
If you are right-handed, as most are, you will feel yourself somewhere in the left side of the skull. If left-handed, then somewhere in the right. If you have practiced asana, meditation, tranquility, you will feel yourself between the two—that is called the third eye. Neither left nor right—you are in the middle. When one is full of lust, if he observes, he will find himself near the genitals. Your state of feeling tells you the point—“I am here.”
But for the one whose feeling states have ceased, whose thoughts have ceased, whose ego has ceased—there is the third barrier. The master asks, “Where are you?”
What will the answer be? Such a person cannot experience himself anywhere inside as “I am here.” Outside, of course, there is no question. For such a person, space is gone and time is gone. For space, identification with body is needed. For time, identification with mind is needed.
Time is mind; space is body. When both fall silent—where are you?
Buddha was asked near his death, “Where will you be when the body is gone?” Buddha said, “It was gone long ago.” Still the man said, “For us it will seem gone now. Soon we will burn your body to ash. Where will you be?” Buddha said, “I have long been nowhere.” He said, “Like blowing out a lamp—if I ask you where the flame has gone, you will say into the infinite. Where is its place? Nowhere.”
Two answers are possible and true—if they come from your life, not your thought; from your experience. One: if you have followed the Vedantic path, if you have walked with Shankara, if your master was like Shankara—and there are only two kinds of masters: like Shankara or like Buddha; affirmative or negative; seekers of the Full or of the Void—two possibilities, positive or negative—if Vedantic, your realization will be: “I am everywhere.” This is union with Brahman. “I am everywhere; in every particle; stone, mountain, sky, moon and stars—everywhere. All is filled with me. Aham Brahmasmi.” That is Vedanta’s answer. But it also means you are nowhere. If someone tries to find you in one place, he won’t. Buddha’s answer: “I am nowhere—like a flame blown out, lost into the void.” Where is it?
Ramatirtha told a small story. A great atheist wrote on his wall: “God is nowhere.” Then he had a child. The child began to learn letters. He could read big letters, not small. One day he read the wall—“No where” he split into two words with his child’s reading, and read: “God is now here.” The atheist was astonished. He had kept that writing so everyone would see “God is nowhere.” He had never thought his own son would read the opposite: “God is now here.” Nowhere and everywhere—both mean the same.
If you go to look for God somewhere, you won’t find Him. You cannot point with a finger—fingers point only to forms. Hence the wise show Him with a closed fist. A finger can point to a thing, a fragment—a pointing would mean “here he is”—but what about the rest of space? He is everywhere. So either say “everywhere,” or say “nowhere.” But this statement must not come from intellect.
Thus the master erected three barriers. If the first is passed, he asks the second—to test the first. If the second is passed, he asks the third—to test the second.
And let me tell you something more: do not think barriers end with these three. Every master makes his own barriers. So you cannot cheat. Now you know these three—Tosotsu is finished—you could deceive him. But every master makes his own barriers, and for each disciple he makes different barriers. So trickery won’t work.
In an asylum, two lunatics seemed nearly cured. They were called for the annual test. One went in; the other sat outside. The one outside said, “Whatever the answers are, tell me when you come out.” Ordinary people are suspicious and want to know answers from others—how much more a lunatic? Somehow he has managed to come to the day of exam. If he passes, he goes out; otherwise back to prison.
The first went in. The doctor asked, “If your eyes were taken out, what would happen?” The man said, “If my eyes were taken out? I would stop seeing.” He came out and told the other, “Remember, the answer is: ‘I would stop seeing.’” The second went in. The doctor asked, “If your ears were cut off, what would happen?” He said, “That’s simple: ‘I would stop seeing.’”
Don’t learn answers, or you will meet the fate of the second. The master sets new barriers, and for each disciple, different ones. So there is no way to cheat. Only if you are spontaneous can you pass. Often, when you learn answers, you are no longer spontaneous. This second lunatic might have passed without the learned answer—because he would think for himself. But he had a prepared answer—why bother thinking?
Never memorize answers. No other thing safeguards ignorance more than answers. Only madmen memorize scriptures. If you have memorized the Gita, forget it. If the Quran is by heart, let it go. Avoid scriptures. Fixed answers will not let you enter the Divine’s gate. You will be thrown back into the world. Your own answer must come—from your very life—authentic, resonant with your whole being, tasting of you. Which means you must truly pass through the three resistances; only then will you go across. People try to be clever even in religion.
It’s not only schoolchildren who cheat—the elders cheat too in the great school of life. They think they will copy what’s in another’s notebook and pass. Perhaps such cheating works in worldly schools, because those schools belong to this deceitful world. But with a master, trickery won’t work. His one art is to be outside of trickery; his one effort is to take you out of trickery.
There is darkness beneath the lamp; look at it well. It is not because of you; it is because of the lamp. You are the flame. Break your link with the earthen lamp; become one with the conscious flame; the inner darkness will vanish. And when the inner darkness goes, the outer goes too. Then you live and walk in light. That supreme experience of light is the final goal of spirituality. You are nearest to it and farthest from it. If your endeavor is intense, it is very near. If your effort is total, it is now and here—God is now here. If your effort is sluggish, deceitful, lukewarm—then “God is nowhere,” then He is nowhere.
Let your urgency, your longing, your thirst be such that nothing of you remains within—let your whole being become the search—this very moment it will be revealed. Nearest of the near; farthest of the far! It seems contradictory. The contradiction is because of you. You have not yet truly desired Him.
Raise your hands to the sky and say, “Enough now, Allah!” Stop—enough suffering. By enduring, you have become so used to suffering that you hardly recognize it as suffering. Your sensibility has gone numb. You have wandered long in hell—but you are so accustomed that you don’t trust that heaven could be.
A master simply means one who awakens the trust you have lost—and who takes you through that path of agony with his companionship, where alone you could not go. Then, as the moment of distress passes, the moment of light comes—and the master is no longer needed. The true master introduces you to the master within.
That is all for today.