Es Dhammo Sanantano #91

There can be an answer to how truth can be found; a method can be indicated. But as to what truth is, there is no way to tell it. Truth has to be known by oneself; another cannot tell it. And what is told by another will not be truth. Not that the other has not known—truth can be known, but it cannot be made known.

The question is important. But do not expect an answer. You will have to find it. You will not get the answer from me. From my side there can be pointers: walk like this, live like this, and one day truth will be found. But what truth will be, what it will be like, what taste will arise when it is found—you will know only when that taste arises.

We are clever people; we proceed by calculation. We first ask, “What is truth? If we know it clearly, then we’ll begin the search.” That is why very few people seek truth.

To seek truth means to go into the unknown, to descend into darkness, to befriend the unfamiliar and the unacquainted. No one can even give you a guarantee that truth exists. If you are adamant, if you are skilled and adept in argument, no one can prove that truth is. If there is trust in you, acceptance, then you can move with the understanding that truth is. How will you accept it? Because till today no one has said what truth is.
Pontius Pilate—the Roman governor at whose command Jesus was crucified—asked Jesus, just before the crucifixion, after pronouncing the sentence: “I too have a question, a personal one. What is truth?” And Jesus, who had spoken all his life and had always answered whenever asked, is said to have stood silent. He looked into Pilate’s eyes and remained quiet. He said nothing. He went to the cross without speaking. Why did he not speak? There is a reason for the silence. The question that was asked cannot be answered in words.
Lao Tzu has said: whatever can be said is not the truth. Truth cannot be spoken. And whatever can be said becomes untrue by the very act of saying it.

In Japan there was a great Zen mystic—Ling Shu. The emperor invited him to give a discourse. He came—after all, it was the emperor’s invitation. The emperor stood and prayed, “What is truth?”

Ling Shu stepped onto the platform, struck the table loudly; a hush fell. Everyone sat up in keen attention; spines straightened. The emperor too sat down, thinking Ling Shu must be about to say something momentous. Ling Shu did not break the silence. After a moment he said, “The discourse is over,” stepped down, and left.

The emperor said to his ministers, “What kind of discourse was that? For years we waited for Ling Shu—now he is coming, now he is descending from the mountains; we tired of watching the road. And he comes, bangs a table, and says, ‘The discourse is over’! He did not utter a single word.”

In that silence Ling Shu said something. Only in that silence can it be said—just as Jesus gazed into Pilate’s eyes and said nothing. Ling Shu was even more compassionate: he struck the table so that anyone dozing or asleep would wake up. Then there was a moment of silence.

One morning Buddha came holding a lotus flower, and that day he did not speak—though he spoke daily. Disciples, monks, listeners sat waiting. The waiting grew heavy, because Buddha just kept gazing at the lotus and said nothing. Half an hour passed, an hour passed; people began to be uneasy: what is happening? This had never happened.

Then one disciple, Mahakashyapa, began to laugh—burst into laughter. No one had ever seen him laugh; till then he was unremarked, unknown. His laughter rang through the silence. Buddha lifted his eyes, called Mahakashyapa near, gave him the flower, and said to the assembly, “What I could say by saying, I have said to you; and what cannot be said, that I give to Mahakashyapa.” That was the gift of truth.

Centuries have passed—twenty-five hundred years—and Buddhist thinkers and meditators have pondered and contemplated: What did Buddha give to Mahakashyapa? What did Mahakashyapa receive? Why did he laugh? Until then he had not laughed; before that he finds no mention in the scriptures, and after that too, there is little mention. Mahakashyapa laughed seeing the state of people’s minds: they were waiting for words, and that day Buddha was bestowing in silence.

The Ling Shu I told you about lay on his deathbed. Disciples had gathered. A thousand times they had tried to learn what truth is, what religion is, what buddhahood is, what nirvana is—and Ling Shu would always smile and fall silent. They thought perhaps at the time of dying he might speak, perhaps as he departed he would give a key. So the disciples asked, “We have come to ask one question only. Before you take leave, please answer.” Ling Shu asked, “What is the question?” The very same knot was in their minds: all said, “One only; the same for all of us—what is truth?” Ling Shu closed his eyes. Silence.

That was always the way. Even at the moment of death he did not give up his habit. It was his lifelong discipline. Ask about truth and he would fall silent. Ask anything else and he would speak at length; but the moment you came close to truth, as if his tongue were paralyzed. He left in silence; his eyes, once closed, never opened again.

After his nirvana the disciples wished to build a memorial. They wanted to write his life upon it. But what to write! His life was a long saga of silence. Not that he never spoke—he spoke daily. But to what people asked he did not speak; he spoke of something else. People would ask, “What is health?” and Ling Shu would speak about which medicine removes disease.

Ling Shu’s grasp was very scientific. You are ill; ask for medicine—what use asking about health? While you are ill you cannot even experience health. However much one pounds his head to explain, it will not reach you. Medicine can be explained; seek medicine. Do not ask about truth. Take the medicine; when the disease falls away, what remains is health—that is truth.

The day you become silent, whatever is present within you, that is truth. The day you become thought-free—no wave of thought—the smokeless flame that then burns within you, that is truth. The day all craving leaves your life, the light and radiance that dawns within desirelessness, that is truth. The day you know “I am not the body,” the day you know “I am not the mind,” what you then know—that is you, that is truth.

But how can anyone say it! Ling Shu spoke many things, but the true note of his life was silence.

When the disciples built the memorial, they wished to inscribe something in brief that would point to Ling Shu’s entire life. They could think of nothing. They racked their brains, but the man had remained silent on the essential, and on the inessential he seemed to have spoken. We asked something, he said something else. What shall we write about him? Should we write what he said? It does not fit, for that was not the true note of his life. How can we write what he did not say? Yet that was his true note.

So they went to another master to ask what to write. Ling Shu’s tomb was ready—of lovely marble. They needed words on the tomb that would indicate, point for centuries. The master they asked was Yun Men. Yun Men mostly spoke in a single word. Just as Ling Shu would be silent, Yun Men, when asked, would often answer with one word. Understand if you can; if not, so be it. When the disciples asked Yun Men, he was silent for a while, and then he shouted loudly, “Sage! Master! Just write that.”

And on Ling Shu’s tomb it is still written—The Master. Nothing else. Yun Men said a strange thing: “The Master.” Because he never spoke what truth is, therefore a true master. He certainly showed the path to reach truth, but he never told what truth is—therefore a true master. A false master is one who tells you what truth is but never tells you how to reach it. And whoever does not tell you how to reach, his definitions of truth are worth two pennies—dream-cobwebs.

Your question is important: What is truth? But ask it from another direction: How is truth attained? Be practical. Come down to the ground; do not fly in the sky. Start from where you are. A blind man asks, “What is light?” A blind man should ask, “How can my eyes be cured?” A deaf man asks, “What is sound?” A deaf man should ask, “How can my ears be healed?”

Do not ask about truth; ask only this: How can our eyes be healed? A film has formed over the eyes—of craving, of thought, of distortion—gathered over lifetimes. Because of it nothing is seen as it is; hence the question arises, “What is truth?” The blind man asks, “What is light?” From above, the question may not seem wrong, but is it the right question? Will you explain light to a blind man? Do you think a blind man will understand? You will sing praises of light, speak of its colors and wondrous experiences, compose songs, hum tunes?

All will be futile, for the blind man will not understand a word. The danger is that he may understand something as something else. The greatest danger in asking a wrong question is precisely this: that something may be grasped as something else.

Ramakrishna used to tell: There was a blind man. His friends gave him a feast. Kheer was made. For the first time the blind man tasted kheer. He was poor; he loved it and asked for more. Then he began to ask, “Tell me something about this kheer.” A so-called wise man sitting nearby said, “Kheer is absolutely white; its color is white.” The blind man said, “Don’t joke with me. You know I am blind, blind from birth. White—what does white mean?” But the pundit tried to explain white: “Have you seen egrets? As white as egrets.” The blind man said, “To solve one riddle you offer another. Egrets—what are egrets? Never seen.”

But a pundit is a pundit. He was determined to make him understand. He said, “You haven’t seen egrets! Then here, this is my hand—run your hand over it; like this is a crane’s neck.” He bent his hand like a crane’s neck and had the blind man feel it. The blind man was delighted: “Thank you, thank you. Now I understand what kheer is—kheer is like a crooked hand. Now I have understood; when someone explains, I understand, but people don’t explain! They just dodge!” Then the pundit realized this was not explanation; it was harm—the man had understood something else entirely.

Those who know truth will never tell it, because you will understand something else.

Once people brought a blind man to Buddha. He was very stubborn and said, “There is no such thing as light. And it is not that I have closed my mind; I am very open-minded. But there is no light; people are lost in false talk and fantasies. If there is light, I want to touch it. Naturally, a blind man sees by touch—by groping. So he says, ‘If there is light, bring it; I will touch it. If I can touch it, I will accept it.’”

How will you let him touch light? But if you cannot make him touch it, does that prove there is no light? The blind man’s point has force—his faculty of knowing is touch. He says, “All right, if you cannot let me touch it, then ring it so I can hear it; my ears are fine. If not that, put light in my mouth so I can taste it; my tongue is fine. If not that, bring it to my nostrils so I can smell it; my sense of smell is fine. Give me some proof—something within the range of my capacity and comprehension.”

But light cannot be smelled—light has no odor. Light cannot be touched—for it has no form, no body, no substance. Light cannot be tasted—for it has no flavor. Light cannot be struck—for it has no sound.

So the blind man laughed and said, “Why do you prattle nonsense? There is no light. And I alone am not blind—you are all blind. The only difference is, I am an honest blind man; you are dishonest blind men. You speak of a light that does not exist, and I refuse to accept it.”

This is exactly what the atheist says to the theist: “I am honest; you are not. You speak of a God who is not; how can I believe?” This is what the non-meditator says to the meditator: “What bliss are you talking about? It is not! If it is, put it before me; spread it on the table so I can test it.” This is what Marx said.

Marx said, “Unless God can be tested in the laboratory, he will not be accepted. When we put God in a test tube, pour acid on him and apply a thousand procedures, then we will accept.”

What fits into your test tube will be God? What lies down on your table so you can cut him limb from limb, analyze him, and declare what he is—that will be God?

The atheist says: the difference between you and me is only this—not that God exists or not—but that I am honest. I speak only of what I can see; you speak of what you cannot see. You make needless conjectures about the invisible.

That is what the blind man said to Buddha. Buddha said, “I understand you; I have not the slightest quarrel with your point.” But to those who had brought the blind man he said, “Your approach is wrong. Do not try to explain to him. I know a great physician who can cure eyes; take him to that physician.”

In six months of treatment the film over the eyes was cut away. He was not inherently blind—no one is inherently blind; there is only a film. The film over his eyes was removed. He came dancing, fell at Buddha’s feet. He said, “Now I know there is light, and forgive me—the disputes I raised were futile. Forgive me. I was blind—just blind—and I clung to my blindness. My disputation was not right. There is light. And now I know that even if I want someone to touch, taste, hear, or smell light, I will not be able to make him do so—and still, light is.”

Light is known only when the eyes open. Light is the experience of the eye; truth is of your inner sight. Light is the experience of the outer eye; truth is of the inner eye. When the inner eyes open, truth is known.

So do not ask, “What is truth?” Ask, “How do the inner eyes open?” That is what is being spoken of every day—by a thousand methods and devices: how to open the inner eyes.

Meditation is the medicine that opens the inner eyes. Enter meditation; do not get entangled in futile talk about truth. Otherwise you will become a philosopher—an theist, an atheist, a debater, a logician, a pundit—but you will never become a knower. None has ever become a knower without meditation.

It needs to be understood. The life-urge becomes very dense at the time of death—naturally so. When life begins to slip from our hands, we want to clutch it more tightly. When life is in your hand, there is no need to hold on. You don’t cling to what is with you; you clutch at what is leaving. What is already yours—whether you hold it or not—who worries about that? But the day you feel it is leaving you, that day you grab at it, that day you go mad. In the moment of death the life-urge becomes very deep, ultimate, extreme.
Perhaps one has not drunk much of life’s juice one’s whole life, perhaps one has even lived like a saint—but the real identity is revealed in the moment of dying. The moment of dying is the touchstone. At the time of death it becomes clear whether this person had a life-urge or not. One who, at the time of death, merges into death without clutching at life, with a cheerful heart, without crying even a little, without shouting or fussing, with natural ease, and without a single complaint—understand that person has been freed from the life-urge.
But the life-urge is tested only when death arrives. In old age a person becomes more eager for life, because the legs begin to tremble and death comes nearer. Now, if he does not hold on to life, it will be gone. The bird is ready to fly away any time! So a person shuts all doors and windows—“let me live a little longer.” Earlier, life was squandered without a thought.
Ask people—through life they have no device even to pass the time! People say they are killing time. Someone plays cards, someone drinks alcohol, someone gambles, someone sits in a hotel, someone in a club. Ask them, “What are you doing?” They say, “Killing time.” As if there is too much time, so they are cutting it down—what else to do!
The same person will scream at the time of death: “If only I had twenty-four hours more; if only I could see the full moon one more night; one more night to love; one more night among my loved ones; let the sun rise once more; let me see one more spring; let me see flowers bloom once more; let me hear the birds sing once more”—he grabs at it! Now everything is going; now he doesn’t know what to do—earlier he was killing time!
You think you are killing time; you are mistaken—time is killing you. How will you cut time? With what saw can you cut time? Time is so subtle no saw can cut it. The saw of time cuts you. When you play cards and say you are killing time, time laughs. Time is cutting you; time is bringing your death closer. The day death stands at the door, you will be in trouble.
There is a Sufi story. A woodcutter turned seventy; his life passed carrying wood. Many times he thought, “Why don’t I just die!” Many times he prayed to God, “Lord, why don’t you send my death—what is the point of this life! Every day cutting wood, every day selling wood—I am exhausted! Somehow I manage a livelihood, yet I never quite fill my stomach. One meal is a lot. Sometimes the fasting is for both meals. Sometimes the rains last many days; I cannot go to cut wood. Then I am old too—sometimes I fall ill—and what do I earn from cutting wood anyway!”
One day he was returning, tired and worn, coughing and hacking, carrying his bundle. And suddenly he felt: this is utterly futile—why am I still carrying this life! He threw the bundle down, folded his hands to the sky and said, “Death, you come to all and you don’t come to me! O messenger of death, have you forgotten me? Take me away now!”
By coincidence—as rarely happens but that day it did—the messenger of death was passing nearby, on his way to fetch someone. He thought, “This old man is calling so plaintively and from the heart,” so the messenger came. He placed his hand on the old man’s shoulder and said, “Brother, what do you want?” The old man saw death standing before him—his life-force trembled! Many times he had called death in life—calling has its own charm so long as it doesn’t arrive. Now death stood there and his breath shook; he forgot all about dying and such. He said, “Nothing else, nothing else—the bundle fell down. I saw no one here to lift it, so I called you. Please just lift it onto my head—and my salutations; no need to come otherwise! All my life I have been saying I don’t want to die. Just have this bundle put back on my head.”
The very bundle that troubled him—he had the messenger of death hoist it back on his head. You should have seen that old man’s thrill as he walked home that day! He had become young again—very happy, very happy to have escaped death.
At the moment of death the life-urge grows intense.
Brother Ishwar asks, “My mother has been practicing Jain sadhana for fifty years.”
You must also consider for what that fifty-year Jain sadhana was undertaken. It too could have been for the life-urge. It must have been; only then did the life-urge grow intense at the time of death. Why do people do religious practice? So that they may obtain a bigger life, a better life—the life of heaven. But that is still the life-urge.
Your so‑called munis and your so‑called sadhus, renunciates and mahatmas—if you peer into them carefully—you will find they are greedier than you. You get by somehow with the fleeting; they demand the eternal. They say, “We are not satisfied with the transitory; only the eternal will satisfy us.” “What is there in these houses of mud and stone! We want houses in heaven—of gold and silver. What is there in the attachments of this world! We want heaven, Vaikuntha; we want heavenly pleasures; we want the wish-fulfilling tree under which we may sit and all our desires be satisfied.”
Your scriptures are full of life-urges. Your prayers are full of life-urges. Open the Vedas and the Quran—you will find the same: man is asking here, and man is asking there. And what do your munis, sadhus, renunciates teach you? They tell you not to waste time here; invest this time properly, and a very pleasant life can be had—in the other world.
So Brother Ishwar says, “My mother has been doing Jain sadhana regularly for fifty years.”
Even in that sadhana there must have been the desire to gain a better life. That sadhana is not one that frees from the life-urge; it is a sadhana that installs the life-urge on a ‘higher’ plane. I call that person a seeker who tries to understand the futility of the life-urge.
Understand the difference. One person is bored with this life and so asks for another life—but what difference does it make? Bored here, and asks for life there—no difference at all. At the time of death the touchstone will appear. At the time of death everything will be clear.
So the fifty years of Jain sadhana have now reached their final test. Now the mother has grown old, lying in bed; she cannot get up, cannot sit; now death is near—and you will find she is clutching fiercely at life. Perhaps more fiercely than an ordinary person. Because the fifty years ‘wasted’ in sadhana will also take their revenge. The fifty years of vows and fasts will take their revenge. For fifty years she never really enjoyed anything; when it was time to dance, she went to the temple; when it was time to relish, she read scriptures. Those fifty years that were missed—now death stands before her; now death makes her tremble; now there is no confidence that beyond death there is anything. Now doubt arises. Doubt will arise. Death touches the last corner of life and shakes everything; all devotions and beliefs that were on the surface are uprooted; the inner doubt comes up. Now there is fear: “Have I squandered life in vain?”
There was a very great sadhu, Mahatma Bhagwandin. I was present at his death. I was astonished. I was not of any age then, and he was on his deathbed. I went to him—I felt a connection with him. Just before dying, a severe bout of coughing attacked him. He had asthma; he was skin and bones. As soon as the coughing subsided, he opened his eyes—the last light; I could see in his eyes the final lamp, flickering, about to go out. He wished to say something, so I slid close to him. I said, “If you want to say something, please say it; if there is anything to be done, any word, please speak.” He said, “I only want to say that my life has gone in vain. The practices I did, the austerities I performed—all went to waste. There is no soul, and there is no God.” Saying this, he died. He died very sad. He died very troubled. He was a Jain. He was very renowned—Mahatma Gandhi conferred on him the title ‘Mahatma’—Mahatma Bhagwandin. Gandhi never called anyone a Mahatma except Bhagwandin.
What happened here! My difficulty is that I have no witness, because I was alone there. But his image has never left my mind. He spoke his life’s agony in one line. He had tormented himself all his life, in every way—now that torment took its revenge. Death stood before him; everything was in disarray; the house he had built collapsed. He gave me his last statement. This is his testament. But this testament is not about him personally; it is about the process of self-torment he pursued all his life.
Brother Ishwar’s mother will be in exactly the same state. It is because of the life-urge that we do all these practices. And the real sadhana is only one: understanding. Try to understand; there is nothing to do. No fasting, no emaciating the body, no self-torture, no standing naked, no enduring sun and heat—these are all futile, without substance. Stop this wickedness toward yourself. Try only this much: what is this life? And what is this intense craving for life within me? Look into it. Do not create a new desire for heaven, because under a new name the old desire will run. First understand rightly the old desire itself: what is desire? When you see desire directly, desire falls away. In seeing desire it becomes clear that it contains nothing but the seeds of suffering. Desire drops—and the name of that state is moksha.
Now grasp the difference. Moksha has no desire. After desire has fallen, the free state of consciousness is called moksha. No one can desire nirvana. Whatever you desire becomes samsara. Desire itself is the creator of the world.
So Ishwar-bhai’s mother must have been desiring—as is happening everywhere in this so‑called religious country—people are desiring. They are making big plans. They even keep an internal account—“Look, we did not enjoy much pleasure; we will be compensated plenty; we will get a good reward.” People punish themselves and then await the return: “In our account book, so much merit has been recorded.” Eagerly, impatiently they wait for the gates of God to open—when will they reach God’s house? Call it heaven, call it moksha—whatever name you like—when will they reach there so they can lay out their ledger: so many vows, so many fasts, so many mantras, so much chanting of the Navkar—so much, so much—lay out the entire list: “Now give us our due.”
This is a new desire. The liquor is old; only the bottle is new. Changing the bottle will do nothing. Earlier you asked for the world; now you ask for heaven. Earlier you wanted pleasure here; now you want it there. But nothing has changed—no revolution in the mind. Revolution happens only in one way: understand the nature of desire. Desire alone brings sorrow—desire alone. Let me repeat: desire alone brings sorrow—even the desire for moksha brings sorrow. The very nature of desire is to bring sorrow. Therefore, by understanding desire, become free of desire. Moksha has no longing. Desirelessness is the door to moksha.
But this difficulty is not only for Ishwar-bhai’s mother; it is the difficulty of millions in this country, the so‑called religious. Then, at the time of death, obstacles arise. Then the whole life demands payback, revenge. At the time of death hands and feet begin to tremble—“Now death has come.” No joy was attained; this joy is going; this world is going—and the other world now inspires no confidence. For that confidence, too, strength is needed—death begins to break that as well. A young man can believe.
A young man was brought to me—in Delhi. The people who hosted me were fond of him. He said, “I am practicing brahmacharya. Somehow let ten more years pass”—he was thirty-five then—“if ten more years pass, I’ll be free. Once I cross forty-five!” I said, “Listen: after forty-five the real trouble begins. If your so‑called brahmacharis fall, they fall after forty-five.” He said, “How can that be! My guru says there is passion in youth—let the passion pass; endure a little longer—once youth’s surge is gone, then desire will lose its strength.” I said, “I understand that—but the energy you are using to suppress sexual desire is also the energy of youth. When you lose youth’s strength, the suppressor will be weakened too. After forty-five you will know. When the suppressor weakens, the desires that you have repressed for twenty, twenty-five, thirty years will explode, like a compressed spring flying open. Repressed things grow strong.”
He did not listen. Ten years later he came back and said, “You were right—you fixed the date as if my fate were written at forty-five. That is exactly what is happening. Now I am weak; now it feels there are only a few days left; what if this world is all there is—and I missed here too, and who knows whether there is anything there!”
How do you know the other world! So neither of home nor of the ghat—now desire has grown very strong, and he said, “Now I cannot suppress it. Then I could—you were right—I had strength, energy.”
The energy with which you suppressed desire is the energy of desire itself—you mounted it on top of desire. Now desire within has also begun to slacken, so the energy has slackened too. And when the energy slackens, the desire you repressed for twenty, twenty-five, thirty years will take revenge—like a spring.
So that is what has happened with Ishwar-bhai’s mother—fifty years of Jain sadhana! Now death stands at the door; now moksha is not visible; now the capacity to dream is not there. Only death is visible. The life that is gone is visible—wasted without ever being enjoyed—kept in the pride that “the fleeting is not to be enjoyed.” Never ate properly, never dressed properly, never tasted colors and music properly—passed all this in that hope. And here stands death—and beyond death nothing is certain now. Who will now give certainty, who will give assurance! So the life-urge will surge very strongly.
My process is fundamentally different. That is why I say to you: do not run from desire; do not suppress desire; live desire—live it in totality. Do not miss the opportunity of this life. In this opportunity go as deep as you can. Keep just one thing in mind: remain aware, and keep watching whether anything is attained however deep you go into life.
I do not tell you to fast; I say, taste your food as much as you can—but after tasting, again and again wake up and see: what did I gain? A bubble rose on the water and vanished. Descend into sexual desire as much as you will—but each time make desire your meditation; as you enter, watch what you are getting. And I am not telling you to repeat, “There is nothing in it.” Beware—if you say that, you have begun repression. I am not telling you to repeat, “What is there here—there is nothing to be had!” I am not saying that at all. I am saying: look carefully—are you getting anything? Who knows—you might! If you do, fine. What is there to fear?
But no one has ever gotten anything here. Therefore, if you look carefully, you will discover it yourself—everything is ash. This experience of ash, this sense that all of life is ash—this will itself tell you, “There is nothing in this life.” Then when death comes, why would you be afraid? What is there to fear? If the life in which there was nothing begins to leave, what is there to clutch at?
We clutch because we have not looked rightly into what life is.
I have heard a Rajasthani folktale. A boy would eat only yogurt—yogurt and nothing else. Everyone tried to reason with him; all failed. He was taken to sadhus and renunciates; he would not agree. The more they counseled, the more his relish for yogurt increased—which is quite natural.
Prohibit, and relish increases. Tell someone, “Do not peek through this door,” then it becomes difficult; then one must peek. After all, a human is human—curiosity arises. If you want to show something to people, hide it—but hide it in such a way that they know you are hiding it—then they will come. You have seen this: when a film needs all the children to come, they write, “Only for adults.” Then all come! Younger boys will paste a two-anna moustache and appear. If it is for adults, it is necessary to go—there must be something. Prohibition is only where something is happening. Advertisers write, “Do not read,” across the ad; “Please do not read this.” Then you cannot pass without reading. How will you pass!
The more the sadhus and gurus explained that yogurt is very bad—quoting big references from Ayurveda on its harms—the more his taste for yogurt grew. Finally he was taken to an old man—perhaps old like me! What did he say? He said, “Son, never stop eating yogurt. It has great virtues. It is the medicine of a hundred thousand medicines.”
The boy was startled: “So many days have passed, no one ever said this—everyone we went to was against yogurt. Is this old man in his senses!” He too believed it was harmful, because he suffered the consequences—colds and coughs gripped him, fever came; though young he had become pale; yogurt was killing him. But the more people explained, the more stubborn he became; his ego stiffened.
He listened to the old man with surprise and said, “What are you saying, Maharaj! Yogurt has great virtues!” The old man said, “A hundred thousand medicines! Consider it a panacea. Never forget it, never miss it. Whatever the world says—stick to it.” The boy said, “Then tell me what its virtues are,” because he had heard many demerits; he had never met anyone who would tell a virtue.
So the old man said, “Which virtues? Virtues and virtues. For example, first: one who eats yogurt is never robbed.” The youth was startled: “What a virtue—that a yogurt-eater is never robbed!” “Second: a yogurt-eater never drowns in water.” He thought, “Is the old man mad—what connection between yogurt and drowning!” “Third: a yogurt-eater is never bitten by a dog.” The boy said, “Are you in your senses? What are you saying? In which scripture is this written; where in Ayurveda?” The old man said, “Listen. Fourth: a yogurt-eater never grows old.” The youth said, “I have heard many wise men, but you are of a different kind altogether! Please explain in detail.”
The old man said, “Listen—everything is perfectly clear. A yogurt-eater coughs all night—how can thieves get into his house? So a yogurt-eater is never robbed. A yogurt-eater is so troubled by colds that he is afraid to go near water—how will he drown? A yogurt-eater becomes so weak he walks with a stick—how will a dog bite him? And a yogurt-eater dies in youth—how will he grow old? Son, eat plenty of yogurt!”
They say that from that very day the youth left off yogurt.
I tell you the same: eat plenty of yogurt. Then you will not be robbed, no dog will bite you, you will not drown in water, and you will never grow old.
There is only one way to be free of desire: know the pains of desire exactly. And there is only one path to know the pains of desire: enter desire with awareness. That is why I say to you: do not fight desire, do not flee—wake up. The day the futility of desire becomes clear, that very day this whole life becomes futile. Then, when death comes to the door, you will be able to thank death—what is there to complain of! Death is freeing you from all the commotion that was going on. Death is not taking anything from you—because you had nothing in your hand. Then you will embrace death; you will welcome it. And for one who has become capable of welcoming death, death becomes the door to moksha.

First, because the search for the world never gets completed. And until your search of the world is complete, how can the search for God begin? Your mahatmas do not let you complete your exploration of the world; they keep you stuck. They do not allow you to descend into your own life, into your own experience. They pluck you unripe from the tree; you never ripen.

The search for God can begin only when the world is seen as utterly futile—absolutely futile—and this realization goes deep. When you come to know there is nothing here in this world, only then will you set out to seek another dimension. As long as your mind is entangled here, as long as you feel, “Perhaps there is something, I haven’t fully searched yet; I haven’t seen it all; many corners remain unexplored, many lanes unfamiliar,” how will you search for God?

The fundamental meaning of the search for God is simply this: the futility of the world has been proven—proven by your own experience. Then you may call it God, or moksha, or nirvana, or truth—whatever name you like. But before that, the search does not start.

There are few seekers of God in the world also because in God’s name there is much fraud; in God’s name unripe people are initiated into religion. In God’s name people’s greed is incited. Greed is not dissolved; it is stoked.

Your scriptures mostly keep telling you: renounce and you will gain much. But when someone renounces in order to gain, he does not renounce at all. If you give up one rupee to get a thousand, what have you given up? You have made a profitable bargain—dropped a rupee and arranged to get a thousand. Your attachments remain the same; you do not change a whit. Your God also becomes false along with you—because you are false, your God becomes false. You are not yet true. You have not examined and tested rightly this opportunity of life that has been given to you.

So first I say: examine it rightly; this opportunity is precious, don’t waste it. Don’t waste it in trivialities. Don’t waste it on the chatter of any Tom, Dick, or Harry. This is your life—experience it.

If anger arises in you, then experience anger, so that the suffering of anger becomes clear—so clear that by that very clarity it becomes difficult to be angry. If there is lust, then go into lust—but go so deeply that through a living experience you come to the key insight that there is nothing of substance in it. If you are in the race for wealth, no harm—run; there is no hurry. If you become a mahatma without having run the race for wealth, then even as a mahatma you will go on running the same race for wealth. Nothing will change. If you have a taste for politics, then contest an election, plunge into that turmoil—go ahead and be mad. If you turn back in the middle without going, thinking, “What is there in it? The wise say politics is empty”—you accepted a borrowed statement that the wise say politics is nothing, and you did not go—then you will become a mahatma, but your life will be that of a politician. You will sit on a dais cross-legged, but the politician will remain within you.

Transformations in life come from experience. They come from inner change, not outer change. In the name of religion people have made many outer changes.

I have heard a Russian tale. A crow was flying very fast. A cuckoo saw him and asked, “Uncle, where are you going?” “I am going east,” said the crow. “It has become impossible for me to live here.” The cuckoo asked, “Why?” The crow said, “Everyone objects to my singing here. I haven’t even begun to sing and people start protesting, ‘Stop it! Stop that nonsense! Stop the caw-caw!’ There is no freedom to sing here; everyone objects to my song.” The cuckoo asked, “But merely going away will not solve your problem. What will happen by going east?” The crow asked in surprise, “Why?” “Because unless you change your voice, the people of the east too will object to your singing. They too will dislike your song just the same. Nothing will change. Your voice, your throat must change.”

By changing circumstances nothing happens; the state of mind must change. A man was a householder; though his mind was not yet free of family, he took sannyas; now, as a sannyasin, he will establish a new household. A man had sons and daughters; if he leaves them, he will become just as attached to disciples and female disciples; there will be no difference.

I have a friend who has a great hobby of building houses. Not only his own house; he also builds houses for friends; there too he would stand holding an umbrella. Whether sun or rain, he would stand—he takes great delight in building houses. And very skillful—builds cheaply, builds well. And because it is his hobby, he doesn’t take any money.

Then he became a sannyasin. Eight or ten years he remained a sannyasin. Once I was passing through his place and thought I should go see him. I thought he would be there with his umbrella, standing! I was very surprised: when I reached, he was indeed standing with his umbrella—this time building an ashram. I asked him, “What has changed? There you built your house and friends’ houses; here you are building an ashram. The umbrella is the same; under the umbrella, in the sun, you are the same, standing. Where is the difference? For the house you had so much concern; now you have just as much concern for the ashram. Where has the worry gone?”

The cuckoo was right: “Uncle, nothing will happen by going east. People there too will raise just as much objection to your caw-caw.”

In the name of religion we make superficial changes, while the inner mind remains the same. That inner mind again and again brings back its old webs. He is a “mahatma,” but the politics goes on in full swing. Among “mahatmas” great politics goes on—though it runs in the name of religion. The poison is of politics; over it a thin sweetness of religion is glazed, that’s all. And this is an even more dangerous politics.

Seekers of God are few in the world because false seekers of God are too many. And it is very convenient to be a false seeker—nothing needs to change, and one gets the taste of having changed; one doesn’t have to become religious, and one gets the flavor and the ego of being religious.

Unripe people have been plucked from the trees—unripe fruits; they were not ripe, they did not get a chance to ripen. I say to you, remain an atheist if atheism still feels natural to you. There is no need to be a theist yet; then your time has not come—what is the hurry? You are still unripe; ripen. The day atheism falls by your own understanding and an attitude of acceptance rises in life, that very day become a theist; not before.

Otherwise a false theist becomes worse than a true atheist. A true atheist is at least an atheist; at least he is true. At least what is inside him is what is outside. Most people are atheists within and theists without. They go to the temple, they bow their heads; they even go to the mosque and offer namaz; and inside, there is neither prayer nor bowing nor worship arising. Inside they know—“Where is God and all that?” But fine, it is formal; there is benefit in doing it—people see that one is religious, the shop runs well. One has to marry off a daughter, get a son a job—if people come to know one is an atheist, the boy may not get a job, the girl’s marriage becomes difficult.

People come to me. They say, “What you say makes complete sense, but right now we have to marry off our daughter, we have to get our son employed—let us wait a bit! What you say is exactly right, but first let us finish these things; otherwise trouble will arise, inconvenience will stand up. What you say seems right to us; and what we believe has begun to seem wrong. But we will not drop it now; we will carry on the formalities for the time being.” Such people are religious only formally, for show. This is a kind of sociality; it has nothing to do with religion.

Then there are difficulties on the search for God. It is not easy. It is a mountain climb. It is not like descending into a valley. If you roll a stone down from a peak, then you have nothing else to do; once you push it, it will roll by itself into the valley. But if you have to take the stone up the mountain, pushing will not do; you have to drag it. You will get tired, drenched in sweat; it is complex, arduous, trackless, dangerous. And the higher you go, the more difficult it becomes. The burden grows heavier. One who reaches the last height needs great daring. The search for God is not the work of cowards. And often cowards are theists. Therefore the search for God does not happen.

The search for God is the work of the audacious. Mind you, I am not even saying “brave”—the audacious. Because much will have to be staked; to attain, one has to lose. Much will have to be put at risk. This will not happen with comfort and ease. Only those who have the courage to wager their whole life like a gambler. And the obstacle is that the path is difficult and the goal is not certain—where it will be, whether it will be at all, whether it will be in the east or the west. Who knows who is speaking rightly—Buddha, or Mahavira, or Krishna, or Christ—there are a thousand options. And the goal is far away, hidden in mist; and the path is very rugged. You can see four steps ahead, then the path sinks into darkness.

Therefore, those who have fully understood the futility of life, and who know that even if God were not, he would still be worth seeking—because merely sitting here in life, there is no substance in it—life here has already become futile; now get up and set out. Now it can be staked. There is nothing to lose; if you find, good; if you don’t, nothing is lost. There was nothing to lose anyway; you had seen life—had read through all its pages.

Then great tests come on the search for truth.

I was reading a small incident. There was a Christian saint, an extraordinary woman—Teresa. Very few women in the world have reached such heights—some Mira, some Sahajo, some Daya, some Lalla—very few. Teresa is one of them. Once Teresa was crossing a stream. By mistake her foot slipped, and she was almost drowned in the flood-swollen water. She hurt her foot, it was sprained, the skin was scraped by a rock; possibly even a bone was broken. She had grown old too. Somehow she reached the bank, and lifting her head she said to God, looking toward the sky, “O Lord, is this the way you deal with me? Is this how you treat me? Is this any way—to drop an old woman like this in the middle of a stream!”

She had left everything to God. And those who have left everything can also speak to him with such an open heart: “Is this any way? Is this your manner, is this your behavior?” And in response she heard a heavenly voice: “Sometimes I treat my friends like this.” God’s voice resounded: “Yes, sometimes this is how I treat my friends.”

With enemies God is very compassionate, ready to forgive. With friends he is very hard. There is a reason. He tempers his friends. For friends there are examinations. Why temper the enemies? They are already astray; he has compassion on them. He tempers his friends—the nearer they come to arriving, as the home comes near, the tightening increases; he tests them, he tries them. So the divine voice said: “Sometimes this is how I treat my friends.” Teresa said, “Then listen—then no wonder you have so few of them!”

You ask, “Why are there so few seekers of God?” This is why: God tests a lot. But only a woman with the courage of Teresa can speak like this. “Then know,” she said, “this is why you sit alone; you don’t find companions—because whoever comes, you start tormenting them! Now to make an old woman slip like this, to drop her like this, to break a bone—is this any way? A man would have at least some sense of courtesy—you don’t even keep that in mind!” But these words were said in great love. The point is important. The important point is that Teresa said: this is why your friends are so few. Now I have understood why the number of your friends is small. It is a touchstone.

If in a thousand even one becomes a seeker of God, that is much. If in a hundred thousand even one arrives, that is much. Out of thousands, one or two set out; out of hundreds of thousands, one or two reach.

Become one among the thousands. Accept the challenge. Become one among the hundred thousand. Because only with that unique experience does life become fulfilled, satisfied. Without God there is no fulfillment; without truth there is no contentment.

It is because you are not dull-witted. The dull-witted, merely on hearing, think they have heard. The dull-witted, merely on hearing, think they have understood. The dull-witted seize upon the word and imagine they have attained the truth. The dull-witted become pundits, become learned just by listening. They gather the trash and litter of words and think, “It’s all done.” No—it is because you are not dull-witted.
You remember the Mahabharata story, don’t you? Dronacharya was giving lessons to his students. All the students memorized the lesson; only Yudhishthira did not. He said, “I haven’t remembered it yet.” One day he was excused, the next day too, and then Drona began to worry; things were going upside down. Drona had thought Yudhishthira the most intelligent. Even the others—Duryodhana memorized it, Bhima memorized it—those in whom there was no sign of intelligence at all, who really ought to be dull-witted—otherwise how could they be Bhima!—they too memorized it; only Yudhishthira kept lagging behind.

At last Drona asked, “What is the matter? Why don’t you remember?” Yudhishthira said, “I don’t ‘remember’ it because until it is lived, what meaning is there in remembering? The first lesson was: one should speak the truth. That was the first lesson in the book. Books of those times! They must have been amazing people—the first lesson: speak the truth. I too have ‘remembered’ that one should speak the truth, but what is the point of remembering it until it is absorbed into my life? If it remains only in my memory, what use is it until it becomes my very awareness? It will take time. Forgive me; I am very slow-witted.”

It was not Yudhishthira who was dull-witted. The others had merely memorized that “one should speak the truth”—they learned it like a mantra, recited it, and the matter was finished. Perhaps it took Yudhishthira his whole life to complete that small first lesson. And the delight is that when the first lesson is complete, the last is complete too! That’s why I say they were truly amazing people. The first lesson was such that it was also the last lesson.

And what lesson could be greater than truth? The matter ends there. Here the first step itself becomes the last step. The day Yudhishthira remembered the first lesson—in Yudhishthira’s way, so that it was digested into every fiber of his being—what remained to be done that day? All the scriptures were fulfilled. All assurances were realized. The journey was complete.

Good that it feels so. It is not that you have not listened—you have; Maitreya’s ears are perfectly fine, he listens attentively—but what can come of mere listening? If this awareness remains, then one day true listening will happen. If this awareness is lost and, just because you have heard, you conclude that you have listened, then there will never be any possibility of awakening.

"And I have not been able to absorb a single one of your teachings."
These teachings are of the kind that transform life. It is not even a matter of accepting or not accepting them. These are matters of life and death. They will seep in slowly, very gently. And until they have seeped in, do not get entangled in hollow talk. Do not think, "I have understood, I have practiced; now everything is clear, now I am qualified to explain it to others."

There are some here who have turned into scholars. Listening to me every day, how could they escape becoming scholars? They have memorized everything and have begun explaining it to others. It has not yet dawned within themselves, and yet the conceit of knowledge arises. Dull-witted are those in whom the conceit of knowledge is born.

You said rightly, "Even what you told me in our very first meeting years ago still remains only to be understood."
For the one who is determinedly eager to "understand," even the first thing is difficult to grasp. The first lesson itself is hard. And when the first lesson is complete, the whole scripture is complete.

"Why is it so? Why am I so dull-witted?"
This very question arises so that you are not dull-witted. The dull-witted never think, "I am dull-witted." Have you ever heard a madman say, "I am mad"? The madman insists, "Who says I am mad?" He is ready to fight. "Me—mad? The whole world must be mad." The dull-minded call the whole world dull-minded, except themselves. Only the wise accept themselves as dull-minded; this is a sign of wisdom.

This is the first stage of knowing; this is the first ray. Guard this ray. With the help of this very ray, one day the journey into the infinite happens.

I used to think only Sheela was a Das Maluka. Are there others too! In fact, there must be many; Sheela must have a large family.

But pay attention: if you are truly lazy, even laziness can become a path. The point to watch is—are you really lazy?

This happened in Japan. An emperor was very lazy. Naturally he thought, “I am an emperor, I am lazy, nothing obstructs me; but those who are poor and lazy must be in great difficulty.” He thought, “If I weren’t an emperor, what trouble I would be in! I don’t earn, I can’t earn—I don’t even get up from my bed. Often I simply lie there with my eyes closed. I eat and then sleep; then get up, eat again, and sleep again.” So he thought, “I am an emperor, fine—but surely there must be other lazy people in this land; what must those poor fellows go through! They must be forced to work.” He decided that since a lazy man has by chance become emperor, other lazy people should also receive facilities from the state. Naturally. He called his ministers and said, “Go find them; whoever is lazy should be given state support.”

A proclamation was made across Japan: all the lazy will be given state patronage. People started lining up. Not one or two—thousands came. The ministers grew alarmed: “If we support so many, the treasury will be emptied. If we give state patronage to these people, in a few days the king himself will be destitute. This is dangerous.” They told the emperor, “This is a big problem. We cannot support so many; it seems everyone is coming. Who would miss such a chance! If merely saying ‘I am lazy’ brings state support, who will refrain? Even the industrious are showing up.” The emperor said, “Find some way.” The ministers said, “We’ll devise one; we need your permission.”

For the thousands who had come, they had thatched huts built on the palace grounds and told them, “All of you stay here. There will be a test. Whoever is proven lazy by the test will receive state support.” And at midnight they had the huts set on fire. The thatch flared up. People ran out in panic. Only four did not run. Those four pulled their blankets over their heads and went back to sleep. People shouted, “Run! There’s a fire!” They said, “Go away; don’t spoil our sleep!”

The ministers chose those four as the lazy ones. The rest were driven out: “Off you go! What sort of laziness is this—seeing fire and bolting! These are the lazy ones. They just pulled the blanket over themselves and said, ‘Don’t make a fuss. Don’t ruin our sleep in the middle of the night. If the fire has started, let it burn. If someone wants us out, drag us out.’” They had to be dragged out; others could be escorted, but these slept on.

Sheela is certainly lazy. She must still be sleeping. She sleeps most of the time; when I speak, she sleeps. But I have given her permission: she can sleep. Fine—sleep on; even sleeping, the waves will still reach you. Some breeze will reach you, some fragrance of mine will find you—sleeping or not!

So first, keep this in mind: if you are truly lazy, there is a path through laziness. But if you are not truly lazy, there is no path there for you. The path opens from what you truly are, because only truth leads to truth. Remember this. If you are an industrious person, then laziness will not be your way. You will have to choose a path of action.

The path of action means: you can offer your action itself to the Divine; by doing, you can dedicate. Without doing, you will drift from God. You will be satisfied only in doing, and that very joy is what you will offer. If you force an industrious person to sit idle in a corner, to graft laziness on him, he will grow restless and miserable.

You’ve seen it—if you force small children to sit quietly in a corner because father is doing worship or mother is praying, “Sit still!”—even if the child sits, he squirms, wants to run outside, to make some mischief, to do something; he becomes sad.

This world is so joyless for a fundamental reason: we make children sit in schools for five or six hours a day. We dry up the very sap of their life. And we don’t let them out of the university until that sap is gone. Twenty, twenty-five years—a third of life. By twenty-five a person comes out with an M.A.—a third of life! A time when life should have been a festival, a dance, a song, a time for running, jumping, swimming—we sit them down in schools. Schools are just like prisons!

Haven’t you noticed—prisons are painted red, and so are schools. They are prisons. Students sit for six, seven hours, and the teacher stands with a stick, won’t let them move: “Concentrate! Don’t get up!” Twenty-five years! You kill the life-energy. Then corpses come out; the society fills up with these dead people. And these dead people send their children to the same, because having become dead, they can no longer spare anyone; they will make others dead too.

Until there are new kinds of schools, there cannot be joy in the world. The system is bad; it is diseased. When you seat a small child by force, he is tormented; his joy is taken away.

So it is with the industrious person. And the majority of people are industrious—perhaps ninety percent. For ninety percent, the path of laziness won’t fit. But for the ten percent, the path of action won’t fit. And my point is: no one needs to fit into another’s path.

Listen to this little story—

A Sufi dervish fell into the Tigris. A man on the bank saw he could not swim. He asked, “Shall I call someone to save you and bring you ashore?” The dervish said, “No.” The man asked, “Then do you want to drown?” The dervish said, “No.” The man asked, “Then what do you want?” The dervish replied, “What God wants. What is the point of my own wanting!”

This man must have been supremely lazy—what Ashtavakra calls the crest-jewel of laziness. He says, “What use is my wanting! If He wants to save, He will save; if He wants to take me, He will take me. Let His will come, let His will be done. Why should my will come or be done! What is there to do!” He is not even swimming; he has fallen into the river and waits—whatever God does!

Understand this seeker’s vision, his feeling. It is marvelous. He says, “If He wants to save me, He will save me. And if He does not want to save me, then how will I be saved even by my own saving! Why needlessly interfere? As He wills. May His will be fulfilled.”

This is the mood of actionlessness. Ashtavakra holds it highest; he calls it the supreme state. He says, “The doer is God.” When we become doers, only ego is born. But Ashtavakra’s teaching is for the few who can become non-doers.

Now understand the difference between Krishna’s Gita and Ashtavakra’s Gita. Krishna’s Gita is for the action-oriented. It is the exact opposite of Ashtavakra’s. Krishna says: act, but do not be attached to action; have no desire for fruit—but act. Arjuna wanted to run away. Had he met Ashtavakra, Ashtavakra would have said, “Absolutely right, dear—run quickly! Become supremely lazy. What is there to do? Doing is His affair; why should we interfere?” But Arjuna wanted to flee, and Krishna pulled him back and said, “Do not run!” He stopped him.

And Krishna did right, because Arjuna was fundamentally a man of action—a Kshatriya. He had been prepared for action; that was his devotion, his skill, his way of life. Ashtavakra’s talk would not have fit him. Even if Ashtavakra let him go and he sat in the forest, he still could not sit. He would pick up a bow, hunt, chop wood, stir up something—he could not sit. He had no possibility of sitting still: he was a Kshatriya; struggle and resolve were his qualities.

So Krishna said exactly what suited his swadharma: svadharme nidhanam shreyah, paradharmo bhayavah. “Better to die in one’s own dharma; another’s dharma is fraught with fear, Arjuna.” These things you are saying—of renunciation, surrender, giving it all up—this is not your dharma; it is not your style of life. I know you—from childhood, from your innermost. I see the boiling within you, the storm; you can become a gale. Only as a gale will you be joyous. And only in joy can you thank God. The warrior is in your blood, seated in your very marrow. Only as a warrior will you lay your head at the feet of the Lord. Only thus will you fulfill your destiny. If you run or evade this, you will fall into another’s dharma.

Remember, by swadharma and paradharma I don’t mean Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain. In those days there were no Muslims in India, so that isn’t the question; nor Christians, Jews, or Parsis. When Krishna says swadharma and paradharma, his meaning is clear: what suits your nature is swadharma; what is contrary to your nature is paradharma.

Surely, if you are lazy—if you feel no interest in doing, no juice in mere doing—examine yourself. You will know. When do the beautiful moments of your life come—when you are doing something, or when you are not doing anything? When do the peak moments arrive? When you sit with eyes closed?

A young man came to me from America. He wanted to do silent meditation. I looked at him and said, “No, that is not for you; that would be another’s dharma.” I told him, “Do one thing: run for an hour every morning. Running is your meditation.” He said, “What are you saying! I’ve been doing that for eight years; I delight in running. Sometimes, while running, moments come when I am neither body nor mind. Reading your books and listening to you, I felt I should go deeper—that’s why I came. And you say: run!” I said, “For you, that is right.”

Some attain meditation through dance; some by sitting silent like a statue. Meditation is related neither to stillness nor to dance; it is related to the suitability of your nature. When your nature and your act are in tune—there is harmony—immediately silence descends. A raga sounds within you; a song is born.

The young man said, “This happens to me. When I run—in the morning air, with sunlight on the seashore—sometimes, after a mile or two or three, hours come when I know neither body nor mind. Only running remains; the runner disappears. Then I experience peak moments—wondrous peace, wondrous bliss—an inner festival!”

Now if you seat this young man in Vipassana or Anapanasati, it won’t suit him; he’ll go crazy. And there are others, like Ashtavakra; if you tell them to run, it’s not possible.

Know your own nature.

Certainly there is a path through laziness. But then laziness must become surrender. Laziness must be transformed. Laziness must become the dissolution of your ego. Then you say: “Lord, now Your will!”

Buddha’s path is not the path of laziness; it is the path of effort. That’s why Buddha uses the word shramana—one of labor. It is the path of labor; through labor one attains samadhi. Through tireless effort one attains. You will have to run a lot; then the goal arrives. Buddha too was a Kshatriya—so it is natural.

If you are lazy, then listen to the Brahmins, not the Kshatriyas. The Kshatriya says: by effort. The Brahmin says: by grace. The Brahmin says, “Why all this effort! His compassion is enough. Just sit quietly and let it rain upon you. It is raining. Open your doors; Brahman is already showering. You will be filled; nothing more is needed.” The fundamental note of Brahmin culture is prasad—grace, the Lord’s favor. And the shramana culture—Jain and Buddhist—its fundamental note is effort, labor. One must do. In Jain and Buddhist culture there is no place for God; nor is there any need. Through one’s own labor it happens; there is no need of His grace. And in Brahmin culture there is basically no place for effort; it is received only by His grace. So make yourself fit for grace.

Now, what will you do to become fit for grace? A small child is born: what merit can he cultivate so that his mother is gracious to him? What can he do? The one before God is as a small child. The baby begins to cry; the mother feeds him milk. Brahmin culture says: learn to weep. Let tears flow, so that God starts flowing toward you—just as a mother goes to her child.

Then weep, let the tears flow, then sit in silence, then let whatever happens, happen—and then say, “Thy will.” Whatever is! Remember: if something good happens, don’t say, “I did it!” And if something bad happens, say, “What can be done? God did it.” Then whatever happens—good or bad—know that He has done it.

Haven’t you seen Teresa! She must have been lazy—lazy to the crown! She fell and said, “What are You making me do? What are You showing me! Have a little consideration—I’ve grown old; is this Your way!” This is a great offering of love—the petition of one who has renounced everything.

Jesus is hanging on the cross, and in the last moments he cries out, “What are You doing? Have You forsaken me? Have You abandoned me? What are You showing me?” And then, a moment later, he becomes silent and says, “No—let Thy will be done! Do not listen to me. What I say—what worth is it! What You do alone has worth.”

Turn laziness into surrender. If there is labor, action, turn it into resolve. If there is labor, become a yogi. If the urge for labor does not arise, if there is no relish in labor, then become a devotee. The gate is open for everyone.

But first recognize rightly—who are you? Gauge your own dharma well. One who moves having rightly discerned his own swadharma never goes astray.

Better to die in one’s own dharma; another’s dharma is fraught with fear.

That’s all for today.