Diya Tale Andhera #8

Only in the voice of an enlightened person can there be a single tone. One who has awakened, in whom no fragment of the sleeping mind remains, who is filled with total awareness, whose unconsciousness has been dissolved—only in his voice can a single note be heard.

Your voice will inevitably have two notes. They are unavoidable, because within you there are two levels of mind. Psychologists call the upper layer the conscious mind; the lower, deeper layer—sleeping, submerged in darkness—they call the unconscious. And the two are opposed to each other.

That’s why your smile hides inner sorrow. And even your tears carry the presence of their opposite. Until these two minds die into one, your voice will be double—filled with conflict and duality.

If you observe a little, you will find this within yourself. And until you find it within yourself, this story will not be understood. Some things can only be understood through experience.

I have heard: on a deserted American road two travelers stopped. They had to stop because a large sign stood ahead: “The Road is Closed.” But right by the sign they could see fresh car tracks. So they ignored the sign and followed the tracks. Three miles on, the road had collapsed, the bridge had fallen, and they had no choice but to return. One said to the other, “Why didn’t we trust the sign?” When they came back, they noticed the other side of the sign, which read, “Now do you believe the road is closed?”

Your life is much like that. Everything is written on signboards. Those signboards are the scriptures. But you will not listen to them until your own experience tells you they are true. There is no way to know truth other than experience.

So now, when you are absorbed in praising someone, glance within and see—does condemnation lurk there? And when you express joy at another’s joy, close your eyes for a moment and watch—does some pain lurk within? Is there jealousy? You will certainly find it.

And when you express sorrow at another’s grief, and your eyes brim with tears, and you speak words of consolation, even then pay attention. You will find that inwardly you are laughing, you are pleased. It is so painful to admit, it wounds the ego so much: “I—and capable of this?”

Someone has died, and you go to their home to offer sympathy. You cannot even imagine that a secret gladness might be hiding within you. But I tell you, it is there. And for fear that it might be there, you don’t look back inside. If you observe a little, you will see it.

Even in another’s death there are gains. First, the other died—you did not. You could have died too. The accident befell another; it did not befall you. Others need consolation; you do not. But the ego suffers deeply to know that the opposite may be hidden within. When you bow at someone’s feet and express reverence, watch—does irreverence lurk there? I see it in you every day. You don’t see it because you don’t look back. And until you see it, how will you be free of it?

Knowledge brings freedom.

No matter how painful, you must know the truth within you. For only truth will set you free. However much you hide, nothing is solved by hiding. Hiding only increases the disease. Hiding enlarges the wound. Hiding spreads the pus of the ulcer throughout the body. Hiding does not destroy the poison. By hiding it you feed it, you nurse it.

But the ego feels hurt thinking, “In another’s sorrow—and I joyful? Never!”

Let’s try to understand this, and you will catch it. Only through experience will you dig through your inner layers. In this sense, each person must become a surgeon unto themselves. Sadhana is a deep operation. Another can only assist; you yourself must do it. Others can enter your body, but there is no way for another to enter your mind. Only you can go into that inner chamber. You must cut and separate, discard what is useless. You must free yourself from rot; end the petty and the opposed. But first you must know it. Whatever is to be removed must first be rightly recognized.

There is a famous tale by Kahlil Gibran. A mother and daughter loved each other very much—as mothers and daughters do. But if you observe, there is also a deep jealousy between mother and daughter. The mother loves the daughter—and also envies her. The mother is growing old, the daughter is becoming young. Somewhere deep inside the mother feels as if the daughter has stolen her youth. We always hold someone else responsible—that is our ordinary arithmetic. As the daughter blossoms, when guests come to the house—friends, loved ones—everyone’s eyes turn toward the daughter. The mother slips into the shadows. Then the daughter becomes a rival. That is why the mother becomes so eager to marry off the young daughter—though she says, “It’s time to build her home,” on the surface. Underneath, she wants to be rid of her. The sooner the better. The daughter’s presence points to the mother’s aging. Her presence shows she is no longer important—secondary, in the dark. The mother cannot bear it. If the father appears a bit too affectionate toward the daughter, it becomes very difficult for the mother. The jealousy is deep.

Those two—mother and daughter—loved each other as all do. They took great care of each other. Remember a rule of life: whenever you care too much, that “too much” is compensatory. Somewhere inside, a guilt is hiding. When you overdo care for someone, it means you are trying to hide something, to cover something. Otherwise, the extra is never needed.

Suppose a husband has done something wrong and returns home—held another woman’s hand, whispered words of love. That day he will be excessively loving toward his wife. Wives notice: “You weren’t this loving yesterday or the day before—what’s going on today?” He will be extra loving because he has committed a transgression. He wants to compensate, to fill that guilt. He cannot forgive himself. The only way: “I wronged this wife by being affectionate to another woman—let me pay off this wife with love; balance the account.”

Whenever we care “too much” for another, a disease is hiding there, a conflict is hiding there. Otherwise, excess is never needed.

A healthy person remains in the middle—the unhealthy rushes to extremes. Mother and daughter were extremely concerned for each other. They clung and gripped each other. One night—both had the habit of sleepwalking—they rose at midnight and went into the garden. When the mother saw the girl—she was asleep, dreaming, moving in her sleep—she said, “Because of you! You have devoured my life. Because of you my youth was ruined. Today I am old, a ruin—because of you. Had you not been born, this misfortune would not have befallen me.”

And the daughter said, “The truth is exactly the opposite. It’s not because of me that you’re old—everyone grows old. The truth is, because of you I cannot find a lover. You are a hindrance everywhere in my life. You are the enemy of my happiness. You are poison. If only you would die, I would be free—because you are my prison.”

Suddenly a cock crowed and both awoke. The daughter put her hand on the mother’s feet and said, “It’s cold; you’ll fall ill. Come inside.” And the mother said, “Don’t walk in the garden in the dark at night. No one can be trusted. Life is unreliable. Everyone is an enemy to everyone. Come inside, daughter. Lock the door.” And arm in arm, full of great affection, they returned to bed and lay down together on the same bed, overflowing with love, and fell asleep.

The story is symbolic. One is the conscious mind, which you use awake and aware. The other is the unconscious mind, which reveals itself in sleep. The father you honor awake, you kill in your sleep. The woman you call sister awake, you lust after in your sleep.

Why is your sleep the opposite of your waking? Awake you fast; asleep you feast. Your waking mind and your sleeping mind—both are yours—why such opposition? Such contradiction?

Because your waking mind is a lie produced by society, culture, and civilization. Within you—you are... A child is born. He is simply what he is. Then society begins to teach what is wrong and what is right. Up to then the child was both together—he knew neither wrong nor right. Everything was natural. Then society says, “These things are wrong; those things are right,” and bends the child—punishment, reward, greed, fear—bends him to do right and drop wrong.

Both are natural. Dropping is not really possible. So the child pushes the “wrong” down inside and brings the “right” up. The wrong, pressed and pressed, becomes part of the unconscious. Layer upon layer forms. It is thrown into the dark. Like someone who throws all his trash, useless things, outworn goods into a cellar room—junk piles up there. What is good, beautiful, useful is kept in the drawing room. The drawing room is your conscious mind. Your unconscious is your junkyard.

But there is great energy in that junk—because it, too, is natural. More natural than the conscious mind. That is why you should not judge a man by his drawing room. The drawing room is a deception—made for the world outside. It is not his real home. No one lives in a drawing room; one only welcomes the world there. It is a face we create for others. The real man is not there. Forget the drawing room. If you want to see the real house, look at everything except the drawing room.

Your conscious mind is your decorated portrait, made for others to see. It is not your authenticity. But it is a compulsion—every child must do it. Otherwise society won’t let him live.

A father says, “I am your father—respect me.” The child may feel no respect—because respect does not arise merely from being someone’s father. Fatherhood and sonship have no necessary link to reverence. A father must be worthy of respect; only then does respect happen. A mother says, “Love me, for I am your mother.” Love is not the product of logic. It is not that “because I am your mother, therefore love me.” What has “because” to do with love? If the mother is lovable, love will happen.

But very few in this world are lovable—almost none. In all of history you can count on fingers those who are worthy of honor and love—toward whom your reverence would be spontaneous. Otherwise, reverence must be forced; love must be imposed. The mother says, “Love me.” The father says, “Honor me. Because I am father, because I am mother.” The child cannot figure out how to love on demand.

Leave the child aside. Have you learned, after a long life, what you should do if you “have to” love? Love happens; it cannot be done. If you do it, it will be false—pretence, surface, acting, theater.

Reverence cannot be done; it happens. You do not “revere” a master; a master is one toward whom reverence happens. If you have to “do” reverence, the thing is spoiled, false. If, on going near someone, bowing happens by itself, even if you try to stop it and cannot...

It happened that Buddha attained enlightenment. Before that, five ascetics stayed with him. They were austere, fasting, standing in the sun—hatha yogis. They respected Buddha greatly because he, too, was a great hatha yogi. For months he lived on a single grain of rice a day. His body had become just bones. A statue from that time survives in which you can count the ribs. His belly had shrunk and stuck to his spine. Only skin remained. The five honored him.

Then Buddha saw the futility. By drying up the body, nothing is gained. If truth could be attained by drying up the body, it would be too easy—people would have attained long ago. Drying the body is no great art—only a little cruelty, violence toward oneself, and that’s all. Buddha tried hard and saw: this is useless; I am only assaulting and killing myself. One day he came out of the Niranjana River after bathing; he was so weak he could not get out, he fell. He thought, “I cannot cross this little river—how will I cross the ocean of becoming? I have become too weak. No, this won’t do.” That day he took food.

The five ascetics were angry. “Gautam has fallen,” they said. They had been with him because he was even harsher to himself than they were. “He is corrupt now. We will leave him.” They left for Kashi (Varanasi).

That very night Buddha became enlightened. Then he thought, “Those five may be angry, but for years they served me; they are old companions. It is my duty to tell them first what has happened.” He went to Sarnath, where the five were sitting beneath a tree. Seeing Gautam approaching, they said, “There comes the fallen Gautam—who slipped from sadhana, who left yoga for indulgence, who traded fasting for food, who wasted lifetimes of austerity, destroyed all merit, a worldly man—look, he comes. We will not honor him. We will not rise to greet him. We will turn our backs. This is the right way to treat the fallen.”

They sat with their backs to him. Gautam came near. As he approached, they became restless; it was hard to keep their backs turned. One of them glanced back; then one stood and bowed at Buddha’s feet—and all five bowed.

Buddha said, “Why did you change your decision? I saw you had turned your backs. I understood you wished to insult me, not honor me. All right. But why have you so quickly changed?”

They said, “What can we do? You have come as someone else. You don’t seem of this earth. Reverence is arising of itself—like rivers flow to the ocean, our souls flow to you. You have cast some spell.”

A master is not someone you “revere.” A master is one toward whom reverence flows like rivers. But here is the difficulty. This very difficulty creates the conflict between conscious and unconscious.

Not every mother is worthy to be a mother. Giving birth is one thing—animals do it too. Not every father is worthy of being a father. What art does it take to produce a child? Nature uses you; that’s all. But to be a father must be earned; to be a mother must be earned. If the mother has truly earned motherhood, love will arise. If the father has earned worthiness, the child will bow at his feet—but he will not have to say, “Because I am your father.”

We force the child to lie. He has no love, and must show love.

And he must show it—because the child is weak. If he is to survive, he must learn this lie. We place the child in a great dilemma: If you want to survive, become false. If you remain true, you will not survive. And the child is helpless. How will he survive without his parents? Who will feed him? Who will protect him?

No newborn is as helpless as a human infant. Animals are more truthful partly for this reason. The animal child is not helpless; at birth it can stand, within days it runs, within a couple of weeks it is free. But a human child is very helpless. It takes nearly twenty-five years to stand firmly on one’s own feet. It’s such a long time—and in that time he must depend.

Support is not free. Even the mother does not give it free; the father does not give it free. No one gives it free—you must pay. Give love, give respect, give obedience; follow their rules, traditions, their religion; praise them. Whatever you feel within, act a lie. This lying becomes necessary for the child to survive.

So the child survives—but loses his soul. A split is created: something on the surface, something else inside. You live in this split, and the split creates such tension that if you were to see both sides clearly you would go mad.

So you have devised a trick: you sit only in the conscious; you don’t touch the unconscious much. You don’t let it come to the fore. You keep it hidden.

Only the enlightened one—who has realized knowledge, who has broken the boundaries between his conscious and unconscious, who has dropped the lies society taught, who has embraced the spontaneity of life, who has become as natural as clouds in the sky, as streams, as flowers, whose hypocrisy has dissolved—only his voice has no split. There are not two notes in his voice.

Every voice of yours is double. Two speakers speak in you. See it: someone attains success in life; you go to garland him. But are your garlands hiding envy? “These flowers could have been around my neck, and they are around someone else’s.” You put the garland—a social courtesy.

Someone has been defeated, broken by life. You go to honor him, to console him: “Such things happen, don’t be afraid. You will stand again. Winning and losing are part of life. Don’t lose heart.” But inside you are pleased: “At least one competitor is out of the way. My path is clearer.”

Now let us try to understand the parable.

Near Zen master Bankei’s monastery lived a blind man.

And it is meaningful that the story chooses a blind man. A blind man has no eyes—only ears. For him, recognizing tone is easier than for those with sight. That is why the blind can become fine musicians; their speech becomes mellifluous.

Eighty percent of a man’s energy flows through the eyes—eighty percent! The remaining twenty percent is shared by the other four senses. Man is almost “eyes.” The other senses are nearly dry. The sense of smell is almost gone; horses and dogs smell better than you. Police need dogs to track criminals. The human sense of smell is nearly extinct. Hearing is used a little.

Touch too has become feeble. You touch, but your touch neither delights nor has flavor—you derive no joy from touch. That sense has become weak.

Taste is nearly dead; hence so many spices in food. Not because you have keen taste—but because you have none. Unless chili is added your tongue won’t wake. The stronger the spice, the clearer the sign that subtle taste has died. Otherwise chili and spices serve no purpose. Where taste is dead, strong stimulation is needed. Hence so many perfumes and fragrances—because the natural fragrance of life does not reach us; we need intense, almost violent stimuli.

A blind man has no eyes—where will the eighty percent of energy go? It pours through the ears. You are “eyes,” a blind man becomes “ears.” His memory is built through hearing. He remembers each person’s way of speaking—tone and rhythm. He even remembers the sound of your step. The sighted never think of it.

You are sitting here in numbers—you could never tell one person’s footfall from another’s. You remember faces and recognize by them. But a blind man, when you come near, recognizes you by your footfall. Everyone’s footfall is unique—like a face. The blind become exquisitely subtle in sound. That is why the story chooses a blind man. His whole life flows through the ear. He hears the subtlest. All his knowledge comes by sound—leaves rustle, wind blows, flowers open—the opening has a sound. He knows everything through that. His world is joined by the ear.

When Bankei died, the blind man said to a friend, “Because I am blind and cannot read a person’s face, I must judge his character by his voice.”

From a face you can tell: if you go to Buddha, you can tell by his face. Peer into his eyes—you’ll know they are like a silent lake, like the blue sky. The outline of his face will tell you something has become still within. All tensions have dissolved. His posture, his standing, his sitting, his form will tell you he has become different from you. He is gathered; you are fragmented. In you many currents flow; in him there is one unbroken flame. You are a crowd; he is a person.

But you will see this from his face. That’s why we made statues. If the world were full of blind people, we would not make statues—we might create music to reveal what a Buddha is. The blind cannot make or recognize statues. If the whole world were blind, we would compose special music for Buddhas; temples would play it so one could know: “Buddha was like this music.”

Helen Keller was blind, deaf, and mute. Except for touch, she had no sensory door. So all her life-energy flowed into her hands. Her fingers did the work of eyes and ears. No fingers on earth were as sensitive—because her fingers had to do everything. She remembered people by touch. Ten, twenty years later, touching a hand she would immediately recall, “You are the one.” She would feel a face and decide by touch.

Touching Nehru’s face she said, “This face is beautiful—very beautiful. It is exactly like a Greek marble statue. It has the same feel.” If you look carefully you will see Nehru’s face did have the same sculptural cut of Greek marble figures. He was a very handsome person. But Helen Keller, by touch, says it. You might not recall Greek statues even seeing him—but for her, whose all is touch...

The blind man said, since I cannot see what kind of face a person has—whether peaceful or restless, tense or silent, pure or dirty like trash rotting by the roadside—I have only one means: to listen. I must decide everything from his voice.

“And generally when I hear someone congratulating another for happiness or success, I also hear the covert sound of jealousy.”

On the surface he praises, but beneath his praise another note flows, in which I hear envy. He says one thing, wants to say something else. Clearly he praises, yet a hidden voice follows—that seems more real. The man himself does not know it.

Consider it like this: the same act can symbolize many things. Sometimes you smile; sometimes the smile expresses joy; sometimes it expresses sarcasm. The lips are the same; their pull is the same; measured from outside, the smile is the same. But sometimes you smile out of happiness; sometimes out of derision; sometimes filled with ego; sometimes like a child—innocent, stainless. Sometimes your smile is heartfelt—you can hear the far-off resonance of the heart in it. Sometimes it is pasted on the lips like lipstick—only on the surface, with no sound of the heart.

So too your voice has layer upon layer. Observe your own voice; you will find this blind man is right. But no one pays attention to their voice. People do not attend to anything—what they are saying, why they are saying it, what they truly wanted to say inside—no one cares.

I stayed at Mulla Nasrudin’s house. His wife said, “Listen, Nasrudin took out a ten-thousand-rupee life insurance policy yesterday.” She said it in such a way that I felt Nasrudin had done something wrong. I asked, “What’s wrong? It’s good—and for your benefit—that he took insurance.” She said, “Huh! You don’t understand him. He didn’t do it thinking of dying; he wants to torment me. He won’t die, and I will keep longing, ‘If only he would die, I’d get ten thousand!’ You don’t understand him.”

It’s difficult with people—what they do, why they do it; why others interpret it as they do; why others hear something else—hard indeed.

Nasrudin was ill—at death’s door. His wife said, “I am filled with worry. I am afraid—what will happen if I become a widow?” Nasrudin said, “Don’t panic. As long as I am alive, no one born of a mother can make you a widow. While I live, what are you afraid of? It’s not even a question!”

But Nasrudin is confident about his life—as all are. No one believes, “I will die.” The whole world dies—always the other dies. I never die. I always carry others to the cremation ground. I am always alive. When another dies it convinces you—you will not die. A deep joy arises inside: “Again another has died.” It proves that always others die, not me. Certainly you haven’t died yet; in your experience it has not happened. Nor will it ever happen—because when you die, you will not be, so what experience? Always it is the other who dies. Every death announces: you are immortal.

You go to express condolence; you’ve gone often. Recall—was there not a hidden note of gladness in your condolences?

And remember, whenever you offer condolence, the other does not like it—because you are becoming higher, he lower. When you give alms, the other does not like it; whoever you gave to will never forgive you—no one wants to receive alms; it is painful. He too wished the situation were reversed—that he could give to you.

No one wants to take consolation—because consolation makes one small, and the giver becomes rich. He gives nothing tangible—only words—but becomes rich. The one who consoles thinks, “May God grant a day when I can console them in the same way!”

Keep one thing in mind: in another’s joy it is easy to catch your envy. In another’s sorrow it is harder to catch your happiness—because you cannot accept that you could be so low as to derive satisfaction from another’s pain or death. But if you are envious of another’s joy, then in his sorrow you will certainly feel a secret joy. It is inevitable—a part of the same logic. When someone builds a grand house you feel envy. If someone could rejoice wholeheartedly in another’s happiness, he would be a saint. Only such a saint can wholeheartedly grieve over another’s sorrow. Such a saint celebrating your joy is extraordinary; consoling you in your sorrow is extraordinary.

The blind man said, “Generally, whenever I hear someone congratulating another for happiness or success, I hear the covert note of envy. And when someone expresses grief over another’s misfortune, I hear within him a satisfaction—as if the one who grieves is actually happy that some sort of achievement has come to his own world. But in my entire experience, in Bankei’s voice there was always truth. When he expressed joy, I heard nothing but joy. And when he expressed sorrow, I heard pure sorrow.”

This is the hallmark of the enlightened: within him there is one note. Whatever the circumstance, he does not harbor two. The world may change—everyone may be happy or miserable, war or peace, life or death—but within the enlightened one there is a single tone. He is a one-stringed instrument; the flavor within does not change.

And the second thing: he is always total. If he weeps, every pore will weep.

This needs some reflection, because we think an enlightened person would never weep. We can’t imagine Mahavira weeping. Why would the enlightened weep? They have no attachment, no clinging—why weep? But I tell you, that notion is wrong. The sign of the enlightened is wholeness. When he weeps, he weeps wholly—every hair will be wet with tears. Within him you will find only weeping and nothing else. And when he laughs, he laughs wholly. His laughter comes from every corner of his being. One mark of the enlightened: he is always entire and whole. There is no duality in his behavior.

But why would he weep? We think we weep because we are attached. Why would the enlightened weep? He can weep—and he has wept. His tears are precious; yours are worthless, falling for trifles. The enlightened one’s tears are priceless—no diamonds can match them—because they fall out of compassion.

Jesus said that when enlightenment happens, the first hour is very unsettling. Suddenly the enlightened sees everyone wandering, falling into ditches, creating their own suffering with their own hands, crafting their own hells. He sees this madness. He also sees that in a single instant they could be liberated; in a single instant joy could flower. And he sees the madmen all around. He weeps for them. You weep for yourself; he has no reason to weep for himself—he weeps for you. You laugh for yourself; he has no reason to laugh for himself—he laughs for you.

You have never laughed for another, nor wept for another. If you wept for another, behind the weeping your own laughter was hiding. If you rejoiced for another, behind the rejoicing your own sobbing was hiding.

The enlightened one no longer lives for himself; the ego is gone. Neither laughter nor tears are “his.” He is like an empty sky. In that emptiness, everyone’s echoes are heard. When a sad man reaches him, the enlightened reflects his sadness like a mirror—he too becomes sad; the man’s sorrow touches and catches him. When someone joyful reaches him, he becomes joyful. He is a mirror showing you your face. And here lies a great difficulty.

Therefore, the judgments you carry away from an enlightened one are often judgments about yourself. You see in him what you bring with you. You cannot see the enlightened one—he is a mirror—a pure mirror. So pure that you cannot see the mirror, only your reflection. Impure mirrors are visible; a perfectly pure mirror is not.

And the enlightened one’s mirror has no frame, no border. It is infinite, spread in all directions. When you stand before him, you see only your own image. Thus, if the devil goes, he will think, “This man is a devil”; a saint will think, “He is a saint.” The bad will see the bad, the good will see the good. Both will see their own images and go away preaching. To see the enlightened, you must erase your own image completely; otherwise you return having seen only yourself. You hear only your own sound.

Hence the diverse notions about Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, and Christ are the pictures of those who saw themselves in them. Jesus’ followers saw “the only begotten son of God.” His enemies saw a vagabond, a rebel, dangerous. Lovers of Buddha saw the highest possibility of life—the supreme peak; opponents saw a corrupter who would mislead people.

How can such opposite views be possible? One may differ slightly—but so diametrically? One sees the savior of the world; another sees the destroyer of the world. One sees life; another sees death. This should be impossible—but it happens because we see our own image.

The enlightened weeps when you weep; he echoes you. He laughs when you laugh; he echoes you. He moves in step with you—wholly. He does not hold himself back even a little.

The blind man said that in all his experience only Bankei’s voice held truth. Truth means: oneness. Two, and there is falsehood. Three, and great falsehood. The greater the number within, the greater the crowd, the wider the net of lies. One is a symbol of the divine; two, of the world. Then numbers expand—and the greater the expansion of numbers, the further we move from the One.

“When he expressed joy, I heard nothing but joy. When he expressed sorrow, there was nothing but pure sorrow.”

This happens because the process of awakening is one and the same: whatever you do, do it totally.

One day Bankei was digging a pit in his garden. A stranger came and asked, “Where is the Master?” He didn’t know that the one digging was Bankei himself—and he couldn’t have guessed. Because when Bankei dug, he became only the digger. He dug with such totality that you could never recognize, “This is the Master.” He had become wholly the digger. He said, “Go inside; you will find the Master within.”

The man went in and waited. An hour later Bankei entered. His gait was different, his manner different, his face changed; his whole bearing was different. He sat in his place and said, “Now speak: Bankei is here. What do you want of the Master?”

The man felt uneasy. “If I am not mistaken, you seem to be the same person who was digging. And yet something is different. I can’t be sure—what’s going on? Were you digging outside?” Bankei said, “Yes. Then I was the digger; now I am the Master. Tell me, why have you come?” The man asked, “Why didn’t you say then that you were the Master?”

Bankei said, “At that time there was no one in me except the digger. Teaching was not possible then. I do not maintain such duality. When I dig, I only dig. Then I forget everything else. The whole world disappears. Only the act of digging remains.”

Such action is yoga: you are so totally joined to the act that nothing is left outside. You dissolve completely. You become the energy by which digging happens. There is the pit, there is energy, there is digging—but no one else. Such singleness, such absorption!

So when Bankei eats, he becomes the eater—as if the whole body has become stomach. When he looks at flowers, he becomes eyes—as if all life-energy has become seeing, undivided. When he listens, he becomes ears. When he walks, he becomes feet. Each act is complete. Total. He is whole in it.

Try a taste of this and you will be filled with great bliss. A thrill will descend in you you have never known—as if lightning flashes in the dark. While walking, become only the walker; then thoughts cannot run, because that would be two tasks—just walk.

That is why sometimes running is useful. While walking, thoughts can still drift; while running, they cannot. Get up at the pre-dawn hour and run fast for a mile or two. While running, keep only one intent: let only the running remain. Running consumes energy; then thoughts will stop. Only running remains. Hence the joy of running.

Children run, jump, play. You keep silencing them—“Sit quietly!” You don’t know what joy they are tasting. You stop them for petty reasons: “We’re doing the accounts—don’t make noise.” Your accounts are worth two pennies. Better you drop the accounts and run with them—you might taste greater joy. But you have forgotten. Run fast; then all mental process drops. Only running remains. Later slow down; then walk—only walking remains. Swim—let only swimming remain.

Increase this way slowly. Whatever you do, be wholly absorbed in it. Leave no remainder. What remains is the ego. What collects as remainder is the disease. You must be rid of it, drown it. Sing—and become the song. Dance—and become the dance.

That is why I emphasize the dervish dance so much. When you whirl fast, thought cannot continue. The faster you whirl, the more thought stops, because all energy is absorbed in the turning. If you become only the dance, with no one left behind, suddenly the clouds part—there is the sun.

And when this happens in every act, you will come to Bankei’s state. Then if you weep, you simply weep—so perfectly that afterward a deep quiet descends on you, like the silence after a storm. When you laugh, you only laugh—no “one who laughs” remains within, only laughter. The doer disappears; only doing remains. This is the essence of yoga: let there be action, but no actor. Let karma remain, but no karta. Then a single tone arises in your life.

When that pitch settles and the note is true, only then will you know joy.

Sometimes in sex a glimpse comes. Why? Because the act is full of urgency—the whole body is involved. A moment comes when the mind is drowned; thought falls silent; the doer is not—only doing remains. For one or two seconds, you are no longer the doer; the act happens. The whole body throbs, but you are not moving it. Even if you want to stop, you cannot. The ego is lost; control is gone. In that instant, the clouds part; you glimpse the sun. In that instant, thorns vanish and flowers bloom.

But this need not be through sex. It can happen by running, by dancing. And once you understand, it can happen by simply sitting: just sitting remains, no sitter. Once you grasp the key, it can happen lying down: only lying remains, no one who lies. Any act will do—let there be no doer, only doing. There begins enlightenment. There the first lamp is lit. And when the first is lit, others light in turn. The first is the difficulty; the first step is half the journey. Take the first, and the second must follow—because once you know the door opens with this key, you won’t stop till the key turns fully and the door opens wide.

The blind man recognized truly. Treat yourself as that blind man would. Try to hear in your own voice where the two tones are. You will be astonished—they are everywhere. Whatever you are doing, there is conflict everywhere. You are never whole. And then you say there is no joy, no peace. How can there be? Peace belongs to the whole. The fragmented can only be in unrest. And the devices you use fragment you further instead of making you whole. You tie new knots to your old. Perhaps you think, “Too few entanglements—if I had more, there would be peace.”

You run one shop—its troubles are there. You open a second, a third. One factory—then another. This much money—now you try to double it. “Perhaps with a little expansion, worries will drop.” Expansion will not reduce worry. Only wholeness dissolves worry. Then it makes no difference whether expansion is small or large. Whether you have one shop or a thousand—if you are whole, neither one nor a thousand will worry you. And if you are fragmented, whether you have one, a thousand, or none at all—you will worry. It makes no difference. The true journey is between inner fragmentation and wholeness.

Said the blind man, “In all my experience, in Bankei’s voice there was always truth.”

And truth is where there is one tone. There is authenticity.

“When he expressed joy, I heard nothing but joy. When he expressed sorrow, I heard only sorrow.”

Bankei, when he walks, only walks—no one is holding him back. You walk and want to stop. You speak and want to be silent. You eat and want to fast. You are always split. You are never whole in anything.

Why? What fear? There must be a deep fear for this to happen. The fear is: wherever you become whole, there arises the fear of being lost—“I will be lost.” And this fear is true: as an ego, you will certainly be lost.

That is why people are frightened even of sex. Those you take as “celibates,” among them perhaps one out of a hundred is truly celibate. The ninety-nine are simply frightened of sex—because there the control is lost. Only there is control lost; everywhere else you can maintain it. In sex, how will you? Control goes—and if control goes, ego goes. The ego lives by control. The more control, the stronger the ego; the more control drops, the more the ego wavers.

People are against sex—not for religion, but because sex breaks their ego. They favor restraint—not because they know the taste of restraint, but because restraint strengthens ego. The more you control—no salt, no ghee, no water at night, one meal a day, only two garments, no comforts, sleeping on stones—the more your ego inflates: “I have mastered so many things. Just a little while now, and I will master God as well.” This control strengthens ego and takes you far from God.

Control must be dropped—only then will the ego die. And the moment ego dies, you are divine. Therefore wherever you fear loss of control, from those very places you flee. I do not tell you to flee; I do not tell you to avoid. I say: let what happens in sex begin to happen in every act of your life. The taste of sex will drop away; true brahmacharya will descend. But not the brahmacharya of control—true celibacy, because all twenty-four hours have become communion. You eat—there is communion, because you are so absorbed. You bathe—there is communion, because you are so absorbed. You look at a flower—there is communion, because you become only eyes. You listen to music—there is communion. Communion means: wherever you become one in wholeness, the throb of samadhi begins.

My path is not of control, because my path is of egolessness. Lose yourself. The day you are lost from all sides, when nothing of you remains—on that day you will have drunk that wine which belongs to the divine. Kabir said, “Such a downdraft struck” —and having drunk that wine, such a sleep descended as never breaks. That sleep is awakening. It never breaks because it is not momentary.

Bodily sex will break—there will be a glimpse and then it is gone. The glimpse will hurt and demand repetition; you will spin in a vicious circle. The pleasure of food stays for a moment—until hunger is sated—then? You are the same again. All worldly experiences are momentary. Only one experience is eternal: the divine.

And that experience comes to the one who is ready to lose—who says, “I am ready to leap, like a drop into the ocean.” He finds that experience. Then there is communion from all sides—rising, sitting, each breath filled with the joy of communion.

Then sex drops away of its own accord—because there is no need for it. When the great bliss is found, small pleasures fall away—they are not “renounced”; they fall. When you are invited to the divine feast, the small snacks vanish; you don’t even notice when they are gone. You don’t need to count or renounce them.

I say: attain the great feast, so that small pleasures do not catch you. If you try to control them, you become smaller. Nothing is more petty than ego; nothing is more vast than Brahman. The stronger the ego, the narrower you become. That journey is not of religion but irreligion—ultimately it leads to hell. To be completely encircled by ego is hell—there only ego remains. To have ego vanish completely is heaven—there everything remains, except ego.

These are the two ends. Each must decide and step out of his own experience. You will not believe me—no matter how I say, “The road is closed.” Wheel-tracks on all sides, many go on without listening—you too will go. Go—no harm. But do not hesitate to return. Do not say, “How can I go back now?” Ego! “Having come this far, I will camp here even if it is wrong; I won’t return.” Come back. On the other side of the signboard it says, “Now do you believe?”

Go into the world; experience. All those roads go some distance and then break. The destination is not there—you will have to return. And the only process of returning is: do not be double; begin to be one. “Grasp the One—everything else is done.” Cultivate oneness within.

For this there is no need to sit separately in postures, no need for pranayama, no need to escape to forests and mountains. Whatever you are doing—cultivate it there. Sit in your shop—be only the shopkeeper, as if that is yoga, worship. At home, be wholly a householder, as if that is sadhana. In the temple, drown there.

Learn to dive. Learn to leap from every shore. All shores are his. No need for pilgrimage. People think the Ganges, Kashi, Prayag—then a pure bath. Utter folly. The Ganges is the same—everywhere the same. There is no need to go to a tirtha; wherever you enter becomes a tirtha. The Ganges flows all around you because life itself is that Ganges. Enter it, drown, lose yourself. Then you will taste what the Upanishads called Brahman. They said, “He is rasa, the very nectar.” The only wine, drinking which one never sobers. One dissolves in it forever. But you will have to prepare. And that preparation...

Remember this story. You have to awaken Bankei within. Like the blind man, begin to examine your voice. With every utterance, notice—is it double? If it is double, drop the doubleness. If it won’t drop, better remain silent. If you cannot be truly sorrowful in another’s sorrow, do not pretend. If you cannot be happy in another’s joy, do not say you are happy. Do not abandon authenticity. Remain true.

Soon you will find a oneness arising. Then you will be able to rejoice in another’s joy—laugh and dance in his celebration; and in another’s pain you will be able to be sorrowful—weep, too. Then whatever you do will be complete. And a complete act—a total act—is what yoga is.

That is all for today.