Gahre Pani Paith #1

It is like having a key in your hand: if we try to understand the key directly, or to understand the key by the key itself, no one could even imagine—by investigating that key—that some great treasure might be obtained through it. The key contains no information that would reveal the hidden treasure. The key is utterly self-contained. We can break and smash the key and get iron or metal in our hands, but no news of the treasure that could be had through it.

Whenever some key in life becomes such that we no longer sense the treasure it opens, then we are carrying a burden, nothing else. And in life there are many such keys that open the doors of certain treasures—that could open them even today. But we know neither the treasures nor the locks that they open. When we know neither the locks nor the treasures, then what remains in our hand we can no longer even call a key. It is a key only so long as it opens a lock.

When nothing opens with it anymore, yet because once treasures were opened with it, the heart still hesitates to throw it away; a faint fragrance remains in the human race’s unconscious. Even if a thousand years ago the key opened some lock, the human unconscious retains the memory that once locks opened and treasures were obtained through it; for that memory alone we go on carrying the burden of the key. Now no treasure opens, no lock opens. Still, however much someone may explain that this key is useless, we cannot muster the courage to throw it away. Some corner of the mind still nurtures the hope that someday some lock may open.

There are temples. There is not a single people on earth that has not built something like a temple—whether they call it a mosque, a church, a gurdwara, it does not matter much. There is not a single people on earth that has not created something like a temple. And today it is possible for us to learn from each other; once there was a time we did not even know other peoples existed. So the temple is not something raised by a few fanciful minds from the outside; it is something born from human consciousness itself. However far, however solitary, in mountains or by lakes, wherever humans have lived, they have certainly created something like a temple. Something is arising from human consciousness. It is not imitation; not made by seeing each other. Hence temples of many kinds arose, yet temples arose. There are great differences between a mosque and a temple—their arrangements and designs differ much—but their longing does not differ, their aspiration does not differ.

So first, anything that arises wherever human beings are, however unaware of one another, surely carries some seed within human consciousness—this is worth noting. Second, even though thousands of years pass and we forget the locks and the treasures, still we go on carrying something under a completely unknown fascination; upon it fall a thousand blows, the intellect tries to demolish it from all sides, the cleverness of the age denies it from every angle—and yet the human mind continues to hold it. Despite all this, we must remember a second thing: in the human unconscious somewhere, even if it is not known today, there is a faint, echoing tune that says a lock used to open once.

It is in the unconscious because none of us is newly born. All of us have been born many times. There was no age in which we were not. There was no moment when we were not. What on that day was our consciousness, what we consciously knew then, is now buried under thousands of layers as the unconscious. If on that day we knew the temple’s secret and saw some door open through it, then even today that memory lies buried somewhere in a corner of our unconscious. The intellect may deny it a hundred times, but the intellect cannot go as deep as that memory. Therefore, despite all blows, and despite seeming utterly useless in every way, there are some things that persist; they do not go away. They take new forms, but continue. This is possible only if, in our journey of infinite births, we have known certain things an infinite number of times, though today we have forgotten. And each of these was indeed used as an outer device, but they also have inner meanings and intent.

First, consider the universal conception of building a temple—only the human being builds temples. Animals also build homes, birds build nests, but they do not build temples. If we draw a distinguishing line between humans and animals, we would have to write there: the creature that builds temples. No other builds temples. To make a dwelling for oneself is entirely natural; every creature builds itself a place to live. Tiny insects, birds, animals do it. But to make a dwelling for God—this is a universal human trait: to make a place for That as well!

Without a deep realization of the Divine, a temple cannot be created. The deep realization may later be lost and the temple may remain, but it cannot be brought into being without realization. If you built a guest room in your house, guests must have come; if guests never came, you would not build a guest room. Though it can happen that guests no longer come now, yet the guest room stands.

So the idea of a dwelling for the Divine arose in those moments when God was not merely a matter of imagination, but—beyond imagination—was a matter of the experience of many. And for the process of the Divine’s descent—for its coming down—a special dwelling, a special place, where the Divine could descend, was felt to be necessary at every corner of the earth.

Every descent, every reception, every becoming-receptive requires a certain tuning. Even now radio waves are passing by us, but we cannot catch them without a radio. If a time comes—and it could—a great war disrupts all technology, and a radio set remains in your house, you will not wish to throw it away. But now there are no stations, nothing can be received, and no repairman can be found. Even so, ten or five generations later the radio might still be kept in your house. And if someone asks its use, it will be difficult to tell.

You could at least say that your father was insistent on preserving it; his father was insistent too. We remember there were people in our family insistent on saving it; they kept it safe. We do not know its use. Today it has no use at all.

And even if we dismantle the radio by every method, it will be very difficult to discover from that that once music used to play through it, that voices used to come out of it. Directly breaking open the radio will tell us nothing. It was only a receiver, a place where something occurred; it occurred elsewhere but could be caught there.

Temples were receivers—receptive instruments. The Divine is everywhere. You too are present wherever you are; God too is present everywhere. But in some special arrangement you become attuned; your tuning, your rhythm matches. Temples were used as receptors. There, the entire arrangement was such that we could receive the divine feeling, the divine existence, godliness. That we might open and receive—that was the temple’s entire arrangement. Different people made that arrangement in different ways. And it makes no difference if different radio makers make sets of different shapes; deep down the purpose is one.

For example, in this land temples were built. There are three or four distinct types from which all others arose. Temples here were shaped like the sky; the temple’s dome has the form of the sky. The purpose is that if, beneath the open sky, I utter Om, my utterance will be lost; my power is slight, the sky is vast in all directions. My utterance cannot rain back on me; it will be lost in the infinite. So that my call may return to me, the temple’s dome was constructed. It is a small replica of the sky, a true hemisphere, as the sky touches the earth all around—a small sky was created. Beneath it the mantra I utter will not be lost straight into the sky; the rounded dome will send it back. The more perfectly round the dome, the more effortlessly it returns—the more effortlessly. And the more echoes will be produced. If the dome is made with exactness. And then stones were found that were exceptionally capable of returning sounds.

For example, there is a Buddhist chaitya at Ajanta. The stones fitted there return sound with the very same intensity, with the very same resonant stroke, as a tabla. As you strike a tabla, so if you strike that stone you get that much sound. Now, very subtle mantras cannot be returned by an ordinary dome; for them those stones were used.

What is the purpose? When you utter Om—and under every dome Om has been uttered; it was built precisely for the utterance of Om—when with great density and intensity you chant Om, and the temple’s dome throws your entire utterance back at you, a circle is formed, a vortex is formed. Of utterance, of sound, of returning sound—a circle is formed. The dome returns your resonant sound to you and causes a circle. The joy of that circle is wondrous.

If you utter Om beneath the open sky, the circle will not form and you will never know the taste of that joy. Only when the circle forms do you become not merely the caller but also the receiver. And with that returning sound the sense of the Divine begins to enter. The sound you make is human; but as it returns, it comes back having absorbed new momentum and new energies.

This temple, this dome, was used to create sound-circles through mantra. And if, in complete stillness and solitude, you sit and utter and the circle forms, then as soon as the circle forms, thoughts cease. The circle forms here, and there, thoughts stop.

As I have often said, in the intercourse of man and woman a circle of energy forms. And only when the circle forms does that moment of union hint at samadhi. If you look at statues of Buddha and Mahavira seated in padmasana or siddhasana, they too are different ways of creating a circle. When both legs are folded and both hands rest upon them, the whole body begins to function as a circle. The body’s electricity no longer escapes anywhere; it circulates in a complete circuit. And as soon as the circuit is formed, thoughts fall to zero. In the language of electricity: the uproar of thoughts within you is because your energy does not form a circuit. The moment the circuit forms, energy begins to collect and become calm.

Thus, through the dome of the temple, there is a marvelous process of forming circles, and with that came inner meanings.

At the temple’s gate we have hung a bell—only for this, only for this. When you utter Om, you may do it very softly, it may not even occur to you; the loud sound of the bell will instantly remind you of the circle—of that resonant sound—circle upon circle, as when a stone is thrown into water and ripple upon ripple rises.

In Tibetan temples they do not keep a bell; they keep a vessel made of all metals, like a pot, and a wooden rod to turn inside. They rotate it seven times within and strike it hard. After seven rotations and a strike, the complete sound of “Mani Padme Hum” emerges—the complete mantra! The entire vessel cries out, Mani Padme Hum! And not once—seven times. You have taken seven rounds and struck; now withdraw your hand, and you will hear seven times—Om Mani Padme Hum, gradually fading—Om Mani Padme Hum, Om Mani Padme Hum—and seven circles will form.

Exactly so, within the temple you too must strike inside yourself like a vessel—Om Mani Padme Hum! The temple will also repeat. Every pore of your body will receive and throw it back. In a little while neither you will remain nor the temple—only circles of electricity will remain. And when only circles of electricity remain...

And remember, sound is the subtlest form of electricity. Take note of this. For now science says—what science says is—that sound is a form of electricity; everything is a form of electricity; sound is a form of electricity. But the Indian seer’s grasp is a little different: he says electricity too is a form of sound. Sound is the base, not electricity. Hence shabda-brahman—the Word as the Absolute. Electricity is only a form of sound. Now the convergence has come very near. Science has begun to say that sound is a form of electricity. A slight difference remains: which is primary? Science still says electricity is primary. But India’s insight says sound is primary, and electricity is the density of sound. Science says sound is a kind of electricity.

There is a great likelihood that very soon science will be compelled to discover shabda-brahman. This arose from the experience of sounds generated beneath the temple dome. Because when the dense sound of Om was made, the practitioner within soon knew that the temple was gone, I too was gone, and only electricity remained. This is not a conclusion drawn in a laboratory. Those who said this had no laboratory; they had only one laboratory—their temple. What they came to know there was this: we begin with sound, but in the end only electricity remains. The dome of the temple was constructed for the experience of this sound.

When Westerners first saw Indian temples, they found them unhygienic. Naturally, there cannot be many windows and doors; perhaps only one, and that too very small, lest it become something that breaks the circles of sound produced within. So they felt the temples were dark, dirty, closed, with no flow of air. The church is clean; it has windows and doors—big windows, big doors. Light goes in, air goes in—hygienic.

This is what I said: when the key is forgotten, difficulties arise. No one in India—no one at all—could say why our temples have no windows, no doors. We too felt, “True, they are unhygienic.” And no one could say that the healthiest people of this land have lived in these temples; disease did not enter within them. The one sitting in worship and prayer in the temple was among the healthiest of people. And the temple is utterly unhygienic!

It also began to be experienced that the impact of Om’s sound purifies in an unparalleled way. There are particular sounds whose impacts bring purity; particular sounds whose impacts bring impurity. There are particular sounds that will never allow diseases to enter; particular sounds that will invite diseases. But the entire science of sound was lost. Those who said “Shabda is Brahman” said the highest thing that could be said about sound. The highest that could be said! There was no experience higher than Brahman, and they knew nothing deeper than sound with which to speak.

All the ragas and raginis, the entire music of the East, are expansions of the perceptions of shabda-brahman. All ragas, all raginis were born in temples. All dance first arose in temples, then spread elsewhere. Because only in the temple was there the seeker who experienced sound. He saw distinctions among sounds—so many that they cannot be counted.

As recently as forty years ago there was a sadhu in Kashi—Vishuddhananda. Through the special impacts of sound alone a person could be brought to death—through sound alone. Vishuddhananda demonstrated hundreds of experiments, sitting within his closed temple dome that was utterly unhygienic. And when for the first time he performed an experiment before three English doctors: the three went inside with a bird. Vishuddhananda made some sounds; the bird fluttered and died. The three examined it—dead. Then Vishuddhananda made other sounds; the bird fluttered again and came back to life! Then for the first time suspicion arose that the impacts of sound can have effects!

We already accept the effects of other impacts—because science says so. We say that if special rays fall upon your body there will be special results; if a special medicine is introduced into your body there will be special results; if special colors, special results. But why not special sounds?

Even now some laboratories in the West are deeply engaged in what relationship sound may have with life. Two or three laboratories have yielded profound results. It has become completely clear that the effects of particular sounds can bring milk to the breast of a mother from whom milk is not flowing. A plant that flowers in six months can flower in two if special sound is generated near it. A cow can give twice as much milk if special sound is produced.

So today, in all the dairies of Russia, no cow is milked without sound. And very soon no fruit, no vegetable will be grown without sound. Because it has been proven in the laboratory; now it is a matter of broad application. If fruit, vegetables, cows, and milk are affected by sound, there is no reason man should not be.

Health and disease depend upon particular wave-forms of sound. Hence there was a very deep hygienic arrangement that was not tied to air alone. There was no notion that merely getting air would bring health. Otherwise it is impossible that across five thousand years of experience this would not have occurred to anyone. The Indian sadhu sits in closed caves where neither light nor air enters; sits in closed temples with small doors through which one must bend to enter; in some temples one must crawl in. Yet even so, there was never any bad effect upon health. In thousands of years of experience, it never appeared that these had adverse effects on health.

But when for the first time suspicion arose, we enlarged our temple doors and put in windows. We modernized them, without knowing that, modernized, they become ordinary houses. They lose that receptivity for which they are the key.

So, first, the temple’s architecture has a profound relation to sound. Its architecture—its entire design—is a science of sound. From which angle the blow of sound should be made has been calculated. Which sound should be made standing and which sitting—that too is calculated. Which lying down—that too. Because the impacts change if you stand; they change if you sit. Which sounds together yield one result; which separately yield another.

Hence the curious fact that when Vedic literature began to be translated into Western languages, naturally the Western emphasis in language is lexical, not phonetic. If a word is written, then in the Vedic view, the act of writing and reading that word is not as valuable as is the necessity that within it the particular sound and the measures of that sound be embodied. Sanskrit’s emphasis is phonetic, not linguistic. Not on the word, but on the sound.

Therefore for thousands of years there was an insistence not to write the precious scriptures. Because the moment you write them, the emphasis changes. Let them be given by speaking to another, not by writing. Because once written, they turn into words, and the fine sensitivities of sound die; they have no place left.

Now if we write “Ram,” then readers can read it in fifty ways. One may stress the “ra” a little less, another the “aa” a little more, another the “m” a little less. How he will stress depends on the reader. After writing, the phonetic emphasis is over; then it must be decoded again.

Therefore for thousands of years the insistence was that no scripture be written. The sole reason was that its phonetic system not be lost. Let it be given directly, person to person, by hearing. Hence we call scripture shruti—what is received by hearing was scripture. What is obtained by reading we never called scripture. Because the entire scientific process—how the impacts of sound would be, where the sound would wane, where it would intensify—would encounter difficulty when put in writing. And difficulty did arise. The day these scriptures were committed to writing, their original inner arrangement was fractured. Then there was no longer any need for you to go and receive by hearing from someone; you could read the book, available in the market. And with that, sound had no place.

It is also a curious thing that these scriptures never laid emphasis on meaning. Their emphasis was not on meaning. Emphasis on meaning began to come to us later when we wrote them down. Because, if something written is meaningless, we will appear mad; we will be compelled to give it meaning. Even now there are utterances in the Vedas to which meanings have not been able to be assigned—and the very utterances to which meanings could not be assigned are the real ones, because they are purely phonetic; they had no meaning.

For example, Om Mani Padme Hum—a Tibetan mantra. Here the question is not of meaning. Even with Om, the question is not of meaning. There is no meaning here. There is a phonetic blow, and there are its results. A phonetic blow with effects. When a practitioner repeats Om Mani Padme Hum again and again, blows begin to fall upon various chakras of the body and those chakras begin to become active. What is its meaning is not the question. The question is: what is its utility, its use? Keep it in mind that the old scriptures do not emphasize meaning; they emphasize utility—what is its applicability, its use?
Someone asked Buddha, “What is truth?” Buddha said, “That which can be used.” A definition of truth—what can be brought into use! Science will define truth the same way—pragmatically. It won’t say truth is what you can logically prove; that’s not the question. Truth is what can be used—use it and show that it works.
You say hydrogen and oxygen combine to form water. I don’t care whether that statement is true or false—just make water and it is true; if you can’t, it is false. Whether hydrogen and oxygen make water is not a matter of logical validity. If they do, show it by doing it; if they don’t, it will be proven false. Science has only now adopted the same definition of truth that religion grasped five thousand years ago: truth is what can be brought into use, what you can employ.

So OM has no meaning; it has utility. The temple has no meaning; it has utility. And bringing something into use is an art. The trouble with all arts is this: they can only be transmitted while alive, from the living to the living.

I was reading that some fifteen hundred years ago in China there was an emperor who was excessively fond of meat—so much so that he had cows and bulls slaughtered before him. His butcher had been coming every morning for fifteen years to slaughter animals in his presence.

One day the emperor asked, “This cleaver you use—I’ve never seen you replace it. Fifteen years! Doesn’t its edge ever dull?” The butcher replied, “Its edge does not dull. Edges dull only when the butcher lacks skill; when he doesn’t know exactly where the cleaver passes clean through, where the joints are so it doesn’t catch between bones. This is my hereditary art. Not only does the edge not dull, it actually gets honed by daily use.”

The emperor said, “Can you teach me this art?” The butcher said, “Very difficult. I didn’t learn it the usual way. Since I became aware as a child, I stood by my father. I imbibed it; I didn’t learn it. I drank it in. I would bring my father the cleaver, carry away cut pieces—day after day. If you are willing to do that—stand by me, bring, carry, sit and watch—perhaps you can drink it in. Otherwise, I cannot teach it.”

Science can be taught; art cannot be taught. Science we can teach, we can read and write. Art must be imbibed.

All these mantras do not “mean” something; they have an artistic use. So we had children imbibe them. They learned the art of the temple. They never even knew what they had learned! They learned the art of going to the temple, the art of sitting in the temple, the art of using the temple. Whenever life fell into trouble, they would run to the temple and return peaceful. They practically couldn’t miss; every morning they went. Because what the temple gave could hardly be found anywhere else. But it caught hold of them from such early childhood that it was never “taught”—they absorbed it, drank it in. Wherever there is art, there teaching is difficult.

All the arrangement of sound between these temples—their entire coordination—was an experimental setup. And unless the mantra’s exact sonic form is held in mind... This is why it was insisted that a mantra be given by a guru. You may have known the word forever—it may be something like “Ram, Ram”—and you might be shocked: “They say you won’t get a mantra without a guru, but ‘Ram, Ram’ the whole world knows, and the guru whispered ‘Ram, Ram’ in my ear—how mad!” No, the emphasis is on the phonetic form of Ram, which the world does not know. And Ram itself has many variants.

We’ve all heard the story of Valmiki, but the tale has become childish. We think he was ignorant, illiterate, a rustic—he forgot that the guru had told him to chant “Ram, Ram,” so he began chanting “mara, mara,” and achieved enlightenment. When the keys are lost, such confusion arises. The truth is that this is part of one form of the Ram mantra: when repeating “Ram, Ram,” the moment “mara, mara” begins to arise from within, the circle is formed. While saying “Ram, Ram,” when the state reverses and “mara, mara” begins to come, then it is phonetically correct. And when “mara, mara” arises, a strange event occurs: you are no more—you have died. And the moment you die is the moment your japa is complete; it is the moment of experience—when you are not.

And interestingly, if this process is done correctly, you will begin with Ram; very soon there will come a moment when “mara, mara” spontaneously replaces Ram, and even if you want to say Ram you won’t be able to—your whole personality will say “mara.” In that moment, your death happens—this is the first stage of meditation. When your death is complete, suddenly “mara, mara” will transform again into “Ram,” and the sound of Ram will arise from within. Only then will you have the vision of Ram; not before. The transition through “mara” in the middle is essential.

So there are three parts. You begin with Ram; in “mara” you are effaced; and with Ram it completes. Until the “mara, mara” process grips you in between, the real Ram of the third stage will not happen. If you keep saying Ram, Ram and “mara, mara” never arises, you have missed the phonetic emphasis. The sonic stress: if you say “r” forcefully and “m” softly, only then will “mara” form later; otherwise it won’t. Put all power on “r” and let “m” relax; “m” will become like a hollow, “r” like a peak—“r” will become a high summit and “m” a valley. In this condition—Ram—making “m” small as you go, very soon you will find the reversal: “m” becomes the summit, “r” the valley, and “mara” begins.

Like waves—after every crest a trough, after every trough a crest. Sounds too have waves; ascents and descents.

If the arrangement of sound is not known, you may say Ram, Ram endlessly; no result. Those who spread the story that Valmiki was ignorant, uneducated, rustic—those things may be true. But it is not true that therefore he said “mara, mara.” So far as this formula goes, he was fully alert; he knew the mathematics. He knew exactly how to say Ram so that it becomes “mara.” Only when it becomes “mara” do you pass through transition and then Ram arises. That Ram won’t be spoken by you—you have died. Ram will be born within; it becomes ajapa—the chant that happens by itself.

Because of phonetic emphasis—shruti. And the one who knows must give it. The same words can be in books, known to all, yet their mathematics will differ. And the whole game is in the mathematics—the intervals of ascent and descent of sound.

There was an entire science of mantra, and the temple was its laboratory. That was its inner value for the seeker. And within temples more people attained the divine than outside—though knowing that God is outside too. Today it isn’t happening even in the temples. But in the past, more realized within temples than outside. Those like Mahavira, who experimented outside, had to discover other instruments for what the temple accomplished—and those are more complex.

Mahavira had to master postures for years to create the inner circle without the temple’s support. A long process, possible only for someone as resolute as Mahavira; for others, exceedingly difficult. Buddha too did not use the temple. But very soon after Mahavira’s death, and after Buddha’s death, temples began to be built—because what temples could give to the common person, Buddha and Mahavira could not. What they prescribed could not be done by the ordinary.

Today, if we fully understand this science, even better instruments than temples can be devised. Some work is already underway. Because now we know more about electricity. There are experiments—dangerous too—but used rightly, we can create a scientific arrangement of what the temple did. The circuit the temple created can be created otherwise. Tomorrow you could carry a small device in your pocket that creates an electrical circuit within you. You could record the requisite sounds in the device to create a vortex of sound within.

Some work is happening. Astonishing work. Seven or eight scientists in America are engaged in a remarkable project: all our experiences of pleasure and pain are nothing but experiences of electrical flow in certain centers of the body.

If someone pricks your whole body with a needle, you won’t feel it everywhere. There are dead spots on your back—you can prick and the person will say, “No.” And there are places you prick slightly and it hurts a lot. Similarly, in the brain there are innumerable sensory glands—by the hundreds of thousands. Each has its experience. When you say, “I feel pleasure,” electricity is flowing in a particular gland.

Suppose you sit by your beloved, hand in hand, and say, “I feel pleasure.” As far as the scientist is concerned, he will point to where in your skull electricity is flowing. Your mind has associated this woman with pleasure; due to that association, current flows from a specific point. But in two or three months it won’t give pleasure—overuse desensitizes the point.

If you prick the same place repeatedly, today the pain is strong; tomorrow, less; keep pricking and a callus forms; it bears the prick; no pain. Those who play the sitar have their fingers cut and sore at first; later they become insensitive—pull the strings as you like, the finger doesn’t feel.

So your love grows thin after three months not because there’s something inherently weak about it, but because the point from which pleasure flowed has become habituated. Let the woman be away for two or ten years, and she may again give pleasure.

In their initial experiments, they worked on animals. There is one with mice that even frightened them. They exposed the mouse’s brain while it was in mating—to observe electrical flow at orgasm. They identified the point from which electricity flows and implanted an electrode, closed the skull, and connected the wire to a machine supplying the same current and ratio as at ejaculation. A button was placed in front and the mouse was taught to press it. As soon as it pressed, it felt the same delight as in mating.

You will be astonished: for twenty-four hours the mouse did nothing else. Six thousand times in an hour it pressed the button. No eating or drinking. Until they cut the electrode, it did not eat, drink, sleep, or look aside—just pressed, continuously; it collapsed from exhaustion still pressing.

The scientist said: the mouse tasted more of the essence of sex than any mouse ever has—though it did not actually mate; only the current flowed. He claimed that very soon sex will become a very ordinary pleasure. The day we provide people with an electrode, it will be hard to find someone willing to opt for sex. So much energy expended for so little. We can give a pocket-sized device powered by a small battery; whenever he wishes, he presses the button—a thrill spreads, the same as in sex—no essential difference.

This is dangerous too. Once we know the entire brain’s map, the part that doubts can be cut out; the part that gets angry—disconnected; its wiring severed so your body’s electricity cannot reach it—you won’t be able to be angry. The rebellious part—disconnect its wires. Governments could misuse this.

But in the direction of giving man wellbeing, there are great uses. They don’t know it, but I say: with that arrangement, we can give man the temple as well—perhaps simpler than a temple. In the temple, for hours, months, years, you create sonic impacts so that sound returns and strikes your brain to create certain states; those states can be created more simply. So to me the temple was a highly scientific process that, through sound, evoked within you a pleasant, peaceful, blissful, love-filled mood—and in the presence of that mood, your whole outlook on life changes.

There are dangers. Science tends to become technological; little consciousness is needed. It may be that temple-like states are induced by electrical means, but the character-transformation of consciousness may not occur. The heights, the metamorphosis may not happen. What comes by pressing a button cannot bring fundamental transformation. Those are devices. Therefore I do not believe the need for temples will end.

And you ask whether they can still be brought into use in these changed times? They can. But the old priest sitting in the temple cannot make people understand their use. He has the key, but not the system behind it. If the whole vision and philosophy of the temple is restored, it can work even today. We can build better temples than before, because we have better tools. We can use materials that magnify sound a thousandfold. We can make such sensitive walls that you say OM once and the walls repeat OM a hundred thousand times. Today we have better instruments—once the key is understood. Then we needed doors; now we can do without doors; we can seal it completely.

We have better equipment; we can build better temples. Those who built the old ones lived in huts with no tools; within the limits of mud and mortar they did the possible—and did the marvelous. We have marvelous instruments, yet we do nothing.

That is the inner content of the temple. It has an outer content too. The outer use. This is about the seeker who goes inside, dives into the arrangement. But even the passerby was affected. Not now. Now even the one who goes inside isn’t affected. It worked when those who entered truly did something within. When twenty-five, a hundred seekers each day conducted a special sonic circulation, the temple became charged. Then it didn’t only throw sound within; it began to throw very subtle sounds without too. It became alive. A “living temple” meant exactly that. A “living idol” too meant this: one that could touch even someone who did not come to be touched; that could answer, could do something.

A temple was called living if, as you unknowingly passed by, suddenly you felt the air had changed, the atmosphere different. You might not even know there is a temple nearby—walking in the dark, drawing near the temple, within you something changes; your thought-stream breaks; you begin to think differently. You were thinking of murder and are suddenly filled with compassion.

But this can only be if the temple is charged—every particle, every brick, door and lintel is possessed. The bell hung at the entrance is used in a wonderful way to charge it. Whoever enters rings it—announcing their arrival. But go ring a bell consciously, not lazily, not with a sleepy mind. The moment you ring it, a discontinuity is created in your thought; the bell’s sound creates inner disarray; you are given a moment to be new. And the bell’s sound and OM have an inner kinship. The bell charges the temple all day. OM charges it.

Everything used in the temple—ghee lamps, burning fragrance, sandalwood, flowers—and each deity had particular favorite flowers. Not because a deity prefers, but because each temple had its own sound-circulation arrangement. Which fragrance harmonizes with which sound—this was considered carefully. Only those flowers were brought inside that harmonized with the sound produced; only those fragrances. Others were not to be brought.

In the mosque, loban (benzoin) is burned; in the temple, incense and dhoop. These relate to sound. The dense pronunciation of “Allah” has a harmony with loban. These harmonies were discovered by deep inner search; they cannot be thought out from above. Let me tell you how they were discovered. Sit at home in a room where loban has never been burned, close it, and chant “Allahu”—not just “Allah,” but Allahu, with emphasis on “Hu.” Slowly “Allah” drops and “Hu” remains by itself. The day only “Hu” remains, you will suddenly find the fragrance of loban filling the room. It arises from within you. Loban is merely the parallel fragrance later found in the marketplace. The “Hu” evokes a scent from within; later, with difficulty, something in the market was found to match it—to burn in the mosque—so it becomes a double support: when it arises within, it arises; we produce it without.

With OM, no one ever remembers loban by mistake. Its impact is on a different center; that fragrance cannot arise from that.

Our body has regions for fragrance; our moods relate to scent. The Jains say a Tirthankara’s body cannot emit stench; it emits fragrance—of a very particular kind—and by that scent a Tirthankara is recognized. In Mahavira’s time, eight people claimed to be Tirthankaras; their scent did not support them. They were not less than Mahavira in stature—but they were not of the mantra-stream from which that fragrance arises; their claims failed.

People claimed the same about Buddha; he was not less than Mahavira. But he did not belong to that mantra tradition. So the fragrance Mahavira’s body could emit, Buddha’s could not. The decision came from fragrance. As soon as you approached Mahavira, a particular scent began to arise. There were those still alive who said, “This is exactly the fragrance that came from Parshvanath’s body.” Not long had passed since Parshvanath. This was a mnemonic arrangement: whenever a Tirthankara is born, this will be the fragrance. Only after the final process of a particular mantra can one be a Tirthankara, and then this scent must arise as evidence—not as a claim. Mahavira made no claim; yet he became a Tirthankara. Makkhali Goshal claimed a lot; he did not.

It may surprise you that Tirthankaras were determined by smell. Not an easy matter—it required deep testing; words could not suffice; the whole person must give off a scent that the inner flower has bloomed.

Each mantra has its own fragrance. Those who chanted OM have known its scent. Each mantra has its inner light. Based on that inner light, the amount of light in the temple was arranged—no more. Those who sit in temples today with electric bulbs are insensibly mad; it has nothing to do with it. The temple should have exactly the degree of light that arises in the inner sky—soft, non-aggressive. Hence ghee was chosen; gentle, non-injurious to the eye.

This won’t occur to you suddenly because we have never practiced resting the gaze on light. Light a kerosene lamp and rest your eyes on it for an hour; then light a ghee lamp and rest your eyes for an hour. After an hour on kerosene your eyes will burn and ache; after an hour on ghee your vision will grow and your eyes become serene and unctuous.

These were inner experiences of thousands, given outward parallels. Outside we cannot find the exact lamp that can be within, but we can find the nearest approximate. We cannot find outside the exact fragrance that will arise within from mantra, but we can find its nearest counterpart.

Sandalwood became beloved in temples. The tilak of sandal is applied exactly where we apply it—the ajna chakra. There are mantras by which an inner sandal-scent begins to arise; its source is always the ajna chakra. When that experience comes, it feels as if coolness flows from the ajna, spreading around. The parallel symbol was to grind sandal and apply it to the ajna. When inner coolness arises there, it feels as if a piece of ice were placed—though note, cool (sheetal) and cold are different, as between kerosene and ghee lamps. Ice is cold, not cool; after a while it creates heat—excess; but sandal is cool, not cold—moist, deep coolness. Touch the forehead with ice: it touches only the surface; with sandal, soon you feel the coolness penetrating beneath the skin—necessary, because the chakra lies beneath. Those who experienced the ajna’s movement and coolness discovered sandal. Its fragrance is like the inner scent.

All these instruments are parallels. When a temple is filled with them, it becomes possessed. Hence no one should enter without bathing. For a moment we want to break his old internal alignment. Do not enter without ringing the bell; do not go in wearing stale clothes. In truth, the arrangement for the temple’s garments was silk—do not enter in any clothing. Silk is wonderful for generating and preserving the body’s electricity; and however long you wear it, it does not readily take on staleness, remaining fresh in a subtle sense.

A temple run with this whole arrangement becomes charged, possessed. Anyone passing by enters its field.

It is said of Mahavira that wherever he walked, within such-and-such a radius violence could not occur—that was his charged field. The field moved with him—he was a walking temple. Within that radius, whatever was happening changed; the noosphere formed. Teilhard de Chardin coined a new term: noosphere instead of atmosphere—the mental sheath. Within a mind-field, certain events do not happen.

Therefore, if anything wrong happened in an ancient master’s ashram, the disciples were not punished; the master punished himself. Meaning: the field failed. No point blaming the disciple; the master will repent, do penance, fast, self-purify.

Gandhi misunderstood this deeply. That self-purification is not tormenting oneself to coerce another. The master does not do it to change the culprit directly; he changes the surrounding field. If the field changes, the man will change. It is not about his conscience; it is about changing the air around—a magnetic field every such person carries.

So temples... Individuals like Mahavira are walking temples; you cannot seat them in one place forever. We needed something more stable—the village’s center—around which life could change; where we could keep pouring and receiving; where, without knowing, something keeps happening: you pass by and something happens; anyone passes and something happens. The temple’s magnetic field—this was the outer experiment.

In the life of Moses it is said: he went up the mountain and saw a divine fire—a bush aflame, fire all around, yet flowers blooming and leaves green within. Seeking God, Moses rushed forward, and a voice cried from the bush, “Fool, leave your shoes beyond the boundary!” There was no boundary—open wilderness. He looked, “Where is the boundary?” He experienced: “Here it is—up to where Moses is Moses; a step further, and something changes.” He left his shoes and sought forgiveness: “Pardon me; I entered holy ground with shoes.” That is the magnetic field.

The temple has a circle—an enchanted domain—with a very living use for the village. And it bore fruit. For thousands of years, the innocence and purity of Indian village life owed less to the villagers than to the charged temple. The poorest village was wretched without a temple. However poor, a temple it must have; without it, all was disordered. For millennia villages kept a purity whose invisible sources were vast. To break the East’s culture, the biggest act was to break the temple’s charged form. Break that and the soul-source of the entire culture scatters.

Hence the temple is under severe suspicion. And the educated, who have no experience of its living form and have only learned words and logic in schools, who have only intellect and no heart’s door—seeing nothing at the temple—say, “There’s nothing.” Thus its meaning has been eroding.

India can never again be India until its temple becomes living again—never. All its alchemy was in the temple, from where it took everything. Whether sick, he ran to the temple; in sorrow, to the temple; in joy, to thank at the temple. If joy came, he offered prasad; if trouble came, he prayed. Everything was the temple. All hopes and aspirations clustered around it. However poor he remained, he adorned the temple with gold and jewels.

When we sit and think, it seems madness: people are starving—pull down the temple; build a hospital, a school; house refugees there; make some use of it. Because we don’t know the temple’s use, it seems useless—empty. Why gold and jewels when people starve?

But the starving themselves adorned the temple with gems and gold—for reasons. Whatever they had that was best, they offered to the temple, because whatever they had known as best, they had known through the temple. They had nothing to give in return—gold and jewels were no answer either—but having received, what else could they offer? For millions of years nothing runs without reason. Outside the temple these were the invisible ripples ever radiating. There were conscious effects too, very straightforward.

Man is in constant forgetfulness. The great is forgotten; the petty is remembered. God must be remembered; lust remembers itself. It is easy to fall into a pit; hard to climb a mountain. So they built the temple at the village center, so that passing ten times a day, it kindled another aspiration. Note: very few of us have a natural inner aspiration. Most of our aspirations arise by seeing things.

If there were no airplanes, you’d have no desire to fly. It arises in a rare one like the Wright brothers—he invents. But you—your desire arises by seeing the airplane.

So God needs some sort of form somewhere—something we can see—something that can enter the minds of the blind who cannot yearn for the formless. For those who can, there is no question. Those who could, in many ways hurt the temple; they said, “It’s useless, remove it.”

I myself have often said, “Remove it.” But slowly it dawned on me: if the temple is removed, will those who could not be stirred by form be stirred by the formless? Often there is difficulty. If Mahavira speaks from his stature, he will say, “Remove it,” because he needed no temple. But if you remember others, you must restrain this. For you, the temple remains a source of aspiration.

There is another doorway in life—not just shop and home; not just wealth and woman—another door that is neither market nor lust; no wealth there, no fame, no gratification. There is another place—another dimension. The temple reminds you daily. And there are moments when you tire of the market and of home—then the temple’s door is open. In such moments you slip in; it is always ready.

Where the temple falls, great difficulty arises—there is no alternative. Tired of home—you have a hotel, a restaurant. Tired of the market—where will you go? No other dimension. You revolve in the same circle.

The temple is a different dimension—where there is no world of transaction. Those who turned the temple into a marketplace destroyed it. The temple is not for bargaining; it is for rest, a pause—where, tired from all sides, you can quietly hide your head.

And there is no condition: “Come only if you have so much wealth, knowledge, status, such clothes.” No condition. As you are, the temple accepts you. There is a place where, as you are, you are accepted.

In your life, moments will come when you are weary of what is called life; in those moments the door of prayer is open. If that door opens even once within, it will remain open in the shop and in the house. It should be constantly near, reachable whenever you wish. The moments we call “vast” are very brief—perhaps for a moment only. It is not necessary to go on pilgrimage or to find Mahavira or Buddha. Since the moment is so brief, there should be a place very near where you can enter. Memory has astonishing effects. And children—each of us was a child, and whoever will be, will be a child.

Scientists say a child learns almost all that is foundational by seven; thereafter there is expansion but little new added. If we do not add the temple into the child’s life by seven, you won’t add it later. It will be very difficult—and however much you try, it won’t go deep; it will remain superficial.

So the day the child is born—temple. We wanted the first memory to be of the temple; that he grows up by it, recognizes it, the temple becomes part of his inner being; that when he enters life there is a place within for the temple. Ultimately that place is his resting place at life’s end. After all the running, that corner becomes his last home. We must prepare it early; if not, later it is very difficult. What could have been simple becomes impossible.

Let that place be built. Those living outside keep receiving reflections of the temple; they sink deep into the unconscious—beyond thought and consideration—become part of them. Therefore everywhere on earth, whatever the forms, the temple was indispensable to any civilization.

The world we are building now no longer deems the temple indispensable. Other things are—school, hospital, library. But these are entirely worldly; they connect to nothing beyond. Always, there must remain an indication towards what transcends life. When our eyes open in the morning, the temple bell should be heard; at night as we sleep, a hymn from the temple.

There is a story from Mahavira’s life. A thief, on his deathbed, told his son when asked for his last teaching: “Just one—never even stand near that man called Mahavira. If he speaks in your village, run to the next. If he passes on the road, hide in an alley. If you happen to be where his voice can be heard, at once shut your ears and eyes and run. Keep away from this man.”

The son asked, “Why fear him so much?” The father said, “Believe me. Our trade is in constant danger near such men; we cannot live. Avoid them.”

A delightful tale follows. All his life the son avoided him; he ran. One day, by mistake, he passed through a mango grove where Mahavira was sitting; he was not speaking as the thief approached. Then suddenly Mahavira began to speak; half a sentence reached the thief’s ear. He clapped his hands over his ears and ran; but half a sentence had already gone in. He was caught ten or fifteen days later—state and police were after him. A master thief, hereditary—there was no proof though it was obvious, known to all. So they decided to extract confession: they drugged him deep, kept him unconscious for two or three days. When he awoke, in the haze he looked around—apsaras standing. He asked, “Where am I?” They said, “You are dead; we are preparing to take you to heaven or hell. We only carry you; we waited for you to awaken to ask you: if you confess your sins, you can go to heaven; if not, to hell. Speak the truth; that merit is enough.”

His mind inclined to confess—why miss heaven? And if dead, what fear? But then he remembered Mahavira’s half sentence. At that moment Mahavira had been speaking about devas and spirits—about those who carry you after death. In that half-sentence Mahavira had said, “Those who carry you after death have backward feet.” He looked at their feet; they were straight. He became alert: “Something is wrong.” He said nothing. “I have done no sins; take me to hell if you like. If I’ve done no sins, how will you take me to hell?”

The plan failed. He ran to Mahavira, fell at his feet: “Complete the sentence; the half saved me. Now let me hear the whole. I was running—half I heard, running. It saved my life; otherwise I would have been hanged. Now speak it all; else I will be hanged someday. I have come to your refuge.”

Mahavira often said: even a half sentence, heard while running, can be useful.

So too with the temple: even a passerby—running by, for no reason—may hear a sound or catch a fragrance arising from it; even that can be of use.