Geeta Darshan #11

Understanding is enough—but understanding does not become available merely by hearing or reading. Even understanding needs a ground; its seed also needs soil. A seed carries the entire potential to become a tree, but if you don’t put it in the earth, it will never become a tree.

Meditation is the soil for understanding. Understanding is sufficient; it will bring revolution to life. But without meditation, the seed of understanding will not crack open.

And if understanding were born in you without meditation, then what would be the point of listening to Krishnamurti or to me? People have been listening to me for years; people have been listening to Krishnamurti for forty years. Even now they go to listen. Understanding still has not arisen.

If someone has been listening to Krishnamurti for forty years, why does he need to go and listen now—if understanding has already arisen? And Krishnamurti has been saying the same one thing for forty years: “Bring about understanding.” It has not arisen even after forty years of listening; it will not arise even after four thousand.

Neither listening nor reading can produce understanding. Understanding can arise only in the soil of meditation. Yes, listening can turn you toward meditation. Reading can turn you toward meditation. And if you listen with your whole being, listening itself can become meditation. If you read with your whole being, reading itself can become meditation. But meditation is essential.

Understand the meaning of meditation. Meditation is a state of the mind in which there is no ripple, no wave. Only in a wave-less consciousness is understanding born.

This wave-less consciousness can arise in many ways. For some, it may arise through prayer; for some, through worship; for some, through dance or kirtan; for some, through listening; for some, through seeing; for some, through mere sitting; for some, through yogic processes; for others, through tantric processes.

Wave-less mind can arise in many ways, and the way it arises for you need not be the same for another. You will have to discover how a wave-less mind arises in you.

The name of wave-less mind is meditation. The name of a wave-tossed mind is “mind.” In that mind, full of turmoil and commotion, no understanding can take birth. There is such an earthquake going on that no seed can remain steady; there is no opportunity for sprouting. Hence the emphasis on meditation.

And if you think Krishnamurti does not emphasize meditation, then you have not understood. He does not use the word “meditation” because he feels it has been much corrupted. But no word is inherently corrupted, and choosing new words makes no difference.

Krishnamurti says: When you listen to me, just listen. That is meditation. In performing any action, if only the action is done and nothing is thought about it, meditation happens. While walking, if you only walk and allow nothing to run in the mind, meditation happens. While eating, if you only eat and allow no thought about food to arise, eating becomes meditation. If you can turn your twenty-four hours into meditation, that is wonderful.

But people are very dishonest. To avoid sitting for an hour they say, “Why not meditate for all twenty-four hours?” And they are not going to meditate for twenty-four hours. To avoid sitting for an hour, they postpone it to the slogan of “twenty-four hours.”

If you can meditate for twenty-four hours, who would tell you to do it for just an hour! By all means, do it for twenty-four hours. But you are not doing it. If you were, you would not have to come to me to ask.

What need is there to come to me? It is because there is no meditation that you have to go somewhere, to listen, to try to understand. If meditation is there, the plant will bloom within you. Others will begin to come to you; you will not need to go anywhere. When your own understanding arises, what is there to understand from anyone else?

But the human mind is such that if I say, “Sit for an hour,” it replies, “Why is there any need to sit for an hour? Can’t we meditate for twenty-four hours?” By all means do it, but at least begin with an hour. Even one hour of meditation is difficult; twenty-four hours is exceedingly difficult. When you sit to meditate, you will find that if even for a single moment meditation happens, it is a great event—because the mind goes on moving.

So it is reasonable to take one hour out of the twenty-four exclusively for meditation and experience it. On the day you feel that in that hour something has begun to ripen, something has begun to happen, then spread it over the twenty-four hours. Ultimately it has to be spread over the whole of life, because until life becomes entirely meditative, there will be no revolution. But you must begin somewhere.

And the result of one hour of meditation carries into the twenty-four hours—just as one hour of morning exercise affects the health of the whole day. And you don’t say, “Why not exercise for the entire twenty-four hours!” If you can, fine. A person laboring for twenty-four hours has no need of a separate hour of exercise. But one who is not exercising—if he even exercises for an hour, it affects his whole day.

Setting aside one hour for meditation is useful because in that time you can dedicate yourself to it wholly. Once the art is mastered, you can use it for the full twenty-four hours. Meditation is an art. Then whatever you do, you can do it meditatively. And then there is no need to meditate separately.

But until such a happening has occurred, do not try to invent clever shortcuts by listening to Krishnamurti or anyone else. We are so clever at contriving tricks that we instantly extract the point that serves our convenience.

Krishnamurti says there is no need for a guru. Around him gather exactly those people who find their ego pained by bowing before any guru. They feel delighted: “If Krishnamurti says so, it must be right—there is no need for a guru.”

But if you don’t need a guru, why do you go to Krishnamurti? What is the point? Does anything change merely by saying, “No guru is needed”? As long as you go to learn from someone, you need a guru. And the amusing thing is that even this notion—that you don’t need a guru—did not arise from your own intelligence; someone taught you that too! You learned it from a guru!

People come to me and say, “Krishnamurti says this, Krishnamurti says that. He says there is no need for a guru.” That too is not your own intelligence; you learned it from some guru! Even to learn this simple thing—that a guru is not needed—you had to go to someone. For God you don’t want to go to any guru! The obstacle lies elsewhere. “No guru is needed” pleases your mind because then you need not bend anywhere; you need not bow anywhere.

You have extracted the bit that suits you. People come to me; from what I say, they pick out the parts that serve their purpose and let them avoid changing. They come saying, “You said exactly right: what need is there to go to forests and mountains? Realization can happen right here. Exactly right.”

Then I ask, “If it can happen right here, tell me when it will. And if it can happen here, what are you doing here to make it happen?” They have extracted the convenient part: that there is no need to go anywhere. But where you are, you have already been for fifty years. If realization were to happen there, it would have happened. But you have pulled out the point that suits you.

Meditation is difficult. Thinking, reflecting, listening—there is no difficulty in these. Meditation is very difficult. Meditation means becoming absolutely empty for a few moments; all busyness ends; the mind does nothing.

This not-doing is very difficult, because the mind wants to do something—doing is the mind’s nature. And if you force it into non-doing, the mind will fall asleep. The mind knows two things: either activity or sleep. Either let it work, or it will go into sleep. Meditation is the third state: there is no activity and there is no sleep. Then meditation fructifies.

The most difficult event that can happen in human life is meditation. And you say, “Why not do it for twenty-four hours!” By all means do it. But if an hour is difficult, how will you spread it over twenty-four hours?

There is one way: if you maintain the witnessing attitude, it can spread through the twenty-four hours. But witnessing is not easy. For one who meditates even for an hour, witnessing becomes easier. For one who does not meditate even for an hour, witnessing will be very difficult.

It is extremely difficult to keep the idea, “I am the watcher.” Try it! Put a clock in front of you and focus on the second hand that is sweeping around. Hold just this awareness: I am the watcher; I am only seeing.

You will be surprised—you cannot maintain this awareness for even a full second. Within a second you will forget many times and other things will intrude. Twenty-four hours is far away; you cannot remain only a witness even for one entire second. In between, you will read the clock’s brand name, you will notice the time, you will see the date. Outside, some voice will be heard; the telephone will ring—“Whose call might it be?” If nothing is outside, then inside some memory will arise, some word will appear. So many things will happen.

Do not deceive yourself. Take an hour from the twenty-four and dedicate it only to meditation. Yes, when the fragrance begins to settle in that hour, then spread it over the twenty-four hours. When in that hour the lamp is lit, then carry it with you all day. Then there is no need to sit separately.

The day the need to sit separately ends, know that meditation has been attained. Sitting separately is the practice phase, the primary stage, the time of learning. Hence the knowers have said: when doing meditation becomes useless, know that meditation is complete.

But don’t understand this prematurely—that since the enlightened say that when doing meditation becomes useless then meditation is complete, therefore why do it at all! For you, then, no journey will ever be possible.

It is good if you spread it over twenty-four hours. But I know you cannot do that. What you can do is to take a little time out, carve out a corner of life, and dedicate it to meditation alone. And when the art is in your hands, when you have grasped the thread, when you understand what quality, what flavor is called meditation, then keep remembering that quality through the day; while getting up and sitting down, keep holding it.

Like someone who has found a precious diamond. He does all his work all day long, but again and again he puts his hand into his pocket to feel whether the diamond is there—has it been lost? He does everything—talks, chats, walks along the road—but his attention remains on the diamond.

Kabir has said that village women, returning from the river with water pots on their heads, do not touch the pots with their hands; they balance them on their heads. Chatting, gossiping, singing, they return. Kabir says that though outwardly they give no apparent attention to the pot, inwardly their subtle attention remains on it. The song goes on, the conversation goes on, the laughter goes on, they cross the road—yet inwardly a fine attention remains fixed on the pot and they keep it steady.

The day the knack is remembered like this, then whatever you do, your inner work of meditation will continue. But you will not be able to do this today.

Krishnamurti’s basic mistake is that he trusts you too much. He thinks you can do it today. It did not happen for him today either. This is a journey of many lives. Nor did it happen for him without gurus. In truth, in this century no one has had such great gurus as Krishnamurti had; and never has so much effort been invested by masters into a single disciple as was invested in him.

Twenty-five years of his life were spent at the feet of remarkable masters, in their company, at their feet. He learned everything from them. But it is a complex matter: how did the very person who learned everything from gurus become so opposed to gurus? And the one who understood through many meditative processes—why did he begin to say there is no need for meditation?

Behind this lies a psychological tangle. The tangle is this: if you have chosen the guru, then it is all right. But if the gurus have chosen you and worked on you, then an inner contradiction is born.

Krishnamurti did not choose; he was chosen. And some gurus worked tirelessly with him so that he might attain realization.

It is an amusing thing that if you are dragged to heaven by force, you will turn against heaven. And if by your own will you go to hell, you will go singing and whistling. By his own will, a man can even sing on the way to hell. And if taken to heaven by force, he will turn against heaven and never forgive those who pushed him there.

Krishnamurti’s awakening was, in a way, a compulsion. It was the decision of others. Had Krishnamurti gone in his own way, it might have taken him three or four lifetimes. But with great effort, urgency, and intensity, some people made tireless efforts to awaken him.

Just as when you are fast asleep and someone tries to wake you by force, great anger arises. Even if the one who wakes you has an auspicious intention—say the house is on fire and it is necessary to wake you—still, when you are in deep sleep and seeing a pleasant dream, the one who wakes you seems an enemy.

Krishnamurti was awakened out of incomplete sleep. Those who awakened him worked very hard. But Krishnamurti has not yet been able to forgive them. Something remained stuck there. So forty years have passed; all his gurus have died, but the opposition to gurus continues.

His own experience is: guard yourself against gurus. Therefore he says: guard yourself against gurus—because what was done to him was done forcibly. Guard yourself against techniques—lest any method become conditioning and imprinting—because all methods were applied to him. Therefore he says now: only understand. But understanding too is a method. He says: only deepen awareness. But deepening awareness is also a method.

In the realm of the spirit, whatever you do is a method. And if you deny the guru, still there will be a guru. Because if you could attain on your own without guru and without method, you would already have attained.

Krishnamurti has his own obstruction and pain. That obstruction and pain encircle him like a dark shadow; it does not leave his discourse.

Someone may ask: if he has attained enlightenment, why does this not drop? This too is a bit complex.

When someone attains enlightenment, the moment of attainment is the very moment when the mind ends—when the mind drops, and one is enlightened. But after enlightenment, if he has to speak to people, he has to use that very dropped mind. Without mind there can be no communication, no expression.

When I speak to you, I must use the mind. When I sit silent within myself, I have no need of mind. In my own nature, I have no need of mind. But when I have to speak to you, I must use it.

So the day Krishnamurti’s mind dropped, whatever the last state of that mind was—its final mood of opposition to gurus and methods—remained with that mind. Whenever Krishnamurti uses the mind to speak to you, that same mind—which was retired from service forty years ago—has to be brought into use. There is no other mind with him. Naturally he uses that mind. Therefore, even what he does not want to say, what he ought not say, gets said. It comes along with that mind.

Imagine you have an old car that you have put away. You no longer use it; you walk. But for forty years the car has been standing in your house. Sometimes you need to go fast and walking won’t do; you bring out your old car—and with rattles and bangs that keep the whole neighborhood awake, you drive off.

Almost like this is the mind. The day it is dropped, its state at that moment remains. Whenever it is used again, it must be used in that same state. There is no further growth in it. It lies within like an old machine; the person’s consciousness becomes separate from it. That same mind has to be used. That mind speaks the language in which it ended; it remains halted there.

Krishnamurti has been in another world for forty years. But the mind lies where it was left. That old car—that old Ford—still stands there. Whenever he uses it, that event becomes fresh again. For that mind, the event is as fresh as ever.

The gurus pushed him awake by force. That mind is still filled with resistance. He is against meditation and against gurus. But if you understand properly, that opposition is only of the mind; it is only on the surface.

If someone is truly opposed to gurus, he will not teach anyone—because what would teaching mean?

Krishnamurti may say as much as he likes that he is not teaching anything, but if he is not teaching, what is he doing? He may say, “I do not wish to give you anything,” yet he makes great effort to give something. And if the listeners do not understand, he becomes quite upset. There is tireless effort to make you understand; a great insistence—“Understand!” And he keeps saying, “I have nothing to explain; I have nothing to tell you; I have no path to give you.” But then what? What is he doing?

Perhaps you think this itself is the path—not giving a path; this itself is the teaching—not giving a method; this itself is the guruship—freeing you from gurus. But all of this is the same. There is no difference.

So Krishnamurti has a complexity—his mind is laden with certain oppositions. It lies there. Whenever he uses it, all those oppositions become alert.

But you be careful. Take care of yourself. If you can meditate for twenty-four hours, do it. And if you cannot, then do not stop doing an hour simply because Krishnamurti says that an hour of meditation is of no use.

If you can reach the ocean of meditation, wonderful. If not, then at least make use of a small lake. Until the ocean is found, keep using the lake. Until then, even a single drop of water in your palm is necessary. That drop will keep you alive; it will keep giving you the taste of the ocean; it will give you support, companionship, and strength to move toward the ocean.

Regarding spirituality, nothing could be more mistaken. Neither self-confidence will work there, nor will perseverance. Let us understand this a little.

What does self-confidence mean? Trust in oneself. Trust in oneself is a shadow of the ego. In spirituality everything becomes easier if, instead of trusting yourself, you leave all trust to God. In spirituality it is good to regard yourself as utterly helpless. There, bravado won’t work—“I trust myself.” You won’t reach by swimming; there you must surrender yourself to the river’s current and say, “You know best.”

The more this inner stiffness—“I will do it, I will show it”—the greater the obstruction in spirituality. I am not speaking of other areas. If it is wealth you seek, then self-confidence is absolutely necessary. There, if you say, “I leave it to God,” you will be robbed.

To gain anything in the world, the ego is necessary. Remember, the world is a journey of the ego. There, don’t trust the other; trust yourself. There you must, in every way, take yourself as the center—only then can you move in the world. It is a domain of upheaval; there the ego is essential.

Spirituality is the exact opposite journey of the world. What is supportive in the world becomes the opponent in spirituality. What is a ladder in the world turns into a stumbling stone on the spiritual path. It is precisely reversed. Hence, those who succeed in the world are ego-centered people—those a little mad, utterly convinced that no power in the world can stop them. They work like madmen—and they succeed.

What is the obstacle to success there? Only that greater madmen should not be in competition with them. There is no other obstacle. If even bigger madmen, even more egoistic, compete with them, they will defeat them. There, the only way to win is: with how much insane intensity of ego do you throw yourself into it!

In spirituality your ego is not even a little helpful; it is a hindrance. There, only the one who walks by dropping the ego—by whatever measure—will succeed.

Jesus has said: Blessed are those who stand last in this world, for in the kingdom of God they have the possibility of being first.

Who is “last”? One in whom there is no taste for ego. No wish to be first.

Therefore our entire education is non-spiritual, because it teaches you to be first. All our conditioning gives birth to the ego. Our whole race stands upon each person needing a strong ego. Hence, we later find great obstacles in moving toward spirituality—because there the very same is the barrier. There is only one helpful thing: that you disappear completely.

Self-confidence is out of the question there. Let not even the thought remain that “I am.” Let even my being not remain. Let me become an empty nothing. Let me enter as if I am a nobody—helpless, without support, without any props. I can do nothing; nothing can be done.

The moment a person becomes so without props, so unsupported, so helpless that he feels, “I am like a void,” in that very instant God happens within him—because space has been emptied. The house that was filled with ego is now empty; now the great guest can descend.

Right now you are so full of yourself that there isn’t even a pinhole of space within you for God to enter. So there, no self-confidence will help.

This does not mean I am saying that self-distrust will help. Remember, to say self-confidence won’t help does not mean that if you start distrusting yourself it will help. No. Distrust too is ego! You remain the center all the same. One says, “I have confidence in myself.” Another says, “I have no confidence in myself.” But the “self” remains present in both. One says, “I am weak,” one says, “I am strong,” but both say, “I am.” The weak can become strong tomorrow; the strong can become weak tomorrow. There is no qualitative difference between them; they are two forms of the same thing.

Helpless means: I am not at all. I am not even weak. The question of being strong does not arise. I am not even weak—because weakness too is a form of strength. I am not. One who effaces himself in this way moves in spirituality.

And there, perseverance is not the issue. In the world, perseverance is the issue. There you need a downright mad persistence, an insane insistence upon running. There you must stake your life—come what may, I will have this. Only when one runs in this manner in the world does he manage to snatch a few things.

In spirituality there is no question of perseverance. In spirituality there is no movement; therefore no perseverance is needed.

Understand it like this: To gain something in the world, you have to run. To gain something in spirituality, you have to stand still. In the world, you must grab and snatch. In spirituality, you must open your fist; nothing to snatch, nothing to hold. In the world, you must quarrel with others. In spirituality, there is no “other” at all with whom to quarrel.

In the world, perseverance is needed. Perseverance means: do not let your attention go to many directions. When we harness a horse to a carriage, we tie leather blinders at both sides of its eyes so it does not see around, it sees only ahead. If it sees all around, it will be hindered. Grass here will attract it. A young mare there will attract it. A powerful stallion neighing will provoke it to fight. Twenty-five things will arise. Attention will scatter.

So we make the horse almost blind—ninety-nine percent blind. Only one side of its vision is left open: forward. That much of the road it sees.

This is the meaning of perseverance: become like a horse in harness. See nothing. Only one thing. That is what we call perseverance—attention goes nowhere else, only to one object. Then all your energy converges there.

A politician is a man of perseverance. He sees only Delhi—and nothing else. He sees only Parliament House—and nothing else. Delhi is all that lives in his mind. He is like a horse harnessed to a carriage: nothing else is visible—only Delhi!

And as he approaches Delhi, his eyes grow even narrower. Then he sees the cabinet. If he enters the cabinet, then he sees only the prime minister’s chair—and nothing else.

This is a technique of gradually becoming blind. The more blind he becomes, the more his power flows into a narrow channel. He becomes that much more successful. To reach Delhi, a kind of blindness is necessary—only then can success come.

A man in search of wealth drops all other concerns. He cares for neither love nor wife nor children nor religion. Nothing interests him but money. He sees money in everything. Waking, sleeping, his dreams are full of money. Then he succeeds. He is a man of perseverance.

We call mad people “men of perseverance.” Those who are mad toward one thing achieve something. Those who run in many directions will certainly achieve nothing. In the world, the one who looks everywhere achieves nothing. Before he decides what to get, life has slipped from his hands.

But this is not so in spirituality. Spirituality is not perseverance. Spirituality is freedom from all perseverance.

Understand it like this. There are three kinds of people. One, who looks everywhere: I want to run here and there; perhaps I will be a doctor; also a lawyer; also a writer; also a politician—whatever is possible, I want to be everything. In this running to be everything, he becomes nothing—or whatever he becomes is a mess. He becomes a hotchpotch. No personality ripens. He becomes a junkyard where all sorts of things are piled up.

The second type says: I want to be only one thing. He stakes everything and heads in one direction, with total concentration. He is a man of perseverance—a madman. He will get that one thing.

The third type neither wants the one nor the many. He does not want to acquire at all. This third is the spiritual man. He says, “All acquiring is futile. To get the one is futile; to get the many is futile. Through many lives I have searched for many things and found nothing. Now I will not search. Now I will see without seeking. Now I will stop in searchlessness. I will not run anymore. I will go nowhere. I will neither look all around nor at one thing. I will close my eyes and look where the within is—what I am. I will look nowhere.” Now all directions have become meaningless.

In that moment—when no desire remains, no perseverance remains, no goal remains, no object to attain remains, no end is seen outside, no destination remains outside—when a person’s consciousness in every way stands still and all its flowing stops, then a new door opens: the inner one. When the consciousness stops going outwards, it goes inwards. And when all outward running stops, it returns to itself, descends into itself, and becomes still in itself.

Therefore spirituality is not perseverance. Spirituality is not success, not an ego-trip. So do not use in spirituality the formulas that work in the world. Many people do—and they fail in spirituality.

What is the formula of success in the world is the formula of failure in spirituality. And what is the formula of success in spirituality is the formula of failure in the world. There are people making both kinds of mistakes. And not a few—very many.

For example, in this country we discovered certain keys for success in spirituality. We tried to use those very keys in the world. Therefore the East failed in the worldly domain—became poor, humble, destitute, starving, begging. We tried to use spiritual keys in worldly affairs—that turned into foolishness. Hence today we stand on the earth like beggars.

In the West, people have begun to try in spirituality those very things which bring success in the world. They cannot bring success there. The West has failed in spirituality.

Therefore a very amusing scene is unfolding. The Eastern mind stands with hands outstretched toward the West—give money, give medicine, give food, give clothes. And people in the West stand with hands outstretched toward the East—give soul, give meditation, give mantra, give tantra. It is very amusing that both are in the state of beggars. And so we face great difficulty.

If young men and women from the West come to India seeking, we are very surprised: “What are you coming here for? We are dying of hunger here. We sit with hope turned toward you. What are you coming here for? Are you crazy?”

And when the youth of our country go West to learn technology, to learn their science, and become overwhelmed and devoted in those directions, the West too grows anxious: “We are coming to you to search for something we hope you have. And you are coming here! What is the matter?”

The matter is a fundamental mistake. The key to success in spirituality does not open the world’s lock. The key that opens the world’s lock does not open spirituality’s lock. No master key has yet been found—and cannot be—that opens both locks at once.

If both locks are to be opened, two keys will be needed. Their processes are different. In the world, ego is the base—ambition, struggle. In spirituality, egolessness—becoming empty of ambition—a deep humility: no running, no madness, no journey. Keep this in mind.

So when, frightened by the world, you turn toward spirituality, do not carry the world’s methods into it. Leave them behind with the world. They will not work there. On that journey they are of no use. Drop them. They will become a burden.

In spiritual learning, nothing you learned in the world will be of use. Only one thing: that the world is futile. If you have learned at least that much, you can turn around. But in this futility, all worldly experience, all means, all knowledge—everything becomes futile.

The only use of the world for spirituality is that it brings you to the experiential understanding that it is utterly futile; then you can enter the inner world.

One last question.

This needs a little understanding.

First, understand the difference between pain and suffering. If a thorn pricks your foot, two things happen. One is pain. Pain means you experience that there is hurt in the foot. I know there is hurt in the foot. You are the knower. The pain happens in the foot; you are the seer of it. You are the witness.

This does not mean that if you are a witness and someone pricks your foot you will feel no pain. Do not fall into that illusion. There will be pain, because the prick of a thorn is an event. But there will be no suffering. Keep this distinction in mind.

Suffering happens when I become one with the pain. When I say, “A thorn is pricking me,” then suffering happens. When I say, “A thorn is pricking the foot—and I am seeing it,” then there is only pain.

That is why, even when Jesus was crucified, he had pain. He had no suffering.

Pain will be there; pain is an event. Otherwise the meaning would be absurd—if someone cuts my foot, would I not even know my foot has been cut? If someone cuts my foot, I will know it. That is an event. And the strain and disturbance in the nerves of the foot will be felt as discomfort. But if I take it that “I am being cut” in the cutting of the foot, then suffering arises. Suffering is identification with pain—becoming one with it.

Therefore the enlightened one will not have suffering; pain will be there. And here is the interesting thing: the enlightened one will feel more pain than you do. You get so absorbed in suffering that you never fully register the pain. The enlightened one has no suffering, so there is no absorption. He remains alert and keeps seeing. His sensitivity is very deep—deeper than yours—because his mind is like a mirror; everything is clearly seen.

You do not get to see the pain; before you can, you are already drowned in suffering. Your whole consciousness fills with the smoke of suffering, and so you cannot perceive pain precisely. You start crying, wailing, shouting—and in that you lose yourself.

But the enlightened one neither cries nor wails nor shouts; no smoke arises within. His mind simply knows what is happening. He will know pain in its totality.

You never know pain in its fullness, because the shadow of suffering covers it. Perhaps that is why we have found it easy to drown in suffering—it is a device to avoid pain.

Suppose someone in your home dies—your wife dies. If you do not cry, if you sit in witnessing, you will experience the pain in its entirety. It will be felt in every hair, every fiber, every cell. Because the death of the wife is not merely the wife dying; some indispensable part of you dies with her.

If you and your wife have lived together for forty years, you have become one in many ways. Your bodies have known many kinds of unity that have pervaded each other. When the wife is dying, not only is her body dying; what of her had entered and contributed to your body will disintegrate, be destroyed, and go. There will be great pain—pain in every fiber and nerve.

But when you beat your chest, cry out, and say, “My wife has died,” and people console you and you don’t understand them—in all this you are escaping pain. It is a trick. In that weeping and wailing, the intensity that would have pierced your chest like a spear does not pierce. You spend time in crying; by then the pain dissipates.

That is why people are very shrewd. When someone dies, others keep coming and making the bereaved cry again and again. It works; it should be done. Someone comes to sit with you, and you start crying again. After two or three days the situation becomes such that you have no tears left, and if someone comes to sit, you cry anyway!

Within fifteen days or a month, people tire you out by making you cry so much that you begin to feel, “The death did not hurt me as much as your coming does. Now please stop.” Only when that moment arrives do people stop coming.

Meanwhile, within that month the great event of pain that happened is not seen by you. In the stupor of crying you dissipate everything.

If you sit in witnessing, you will feel, “Not only is the wife dying; I too am dying.” Whenever someone dear dies, you too die—because your body had become connected with theirs in innumerable ways. You had become one. Some limb of yours is being torn; your hands and feet are being cut off. You will feel the full pain.

Then great clarity will arise. You will see that it is not the wife’s death that is painful; it is the breaking of attachment to the wife that hurts. The question is not the wife’s dying. Because I am also dying! I was linked with her; now a part of me will break forever and remain empty—perhaps never to be filled again. That causes sorrow, that causes pain.

But to avoid pain we have invented many ways of becoming unconscious. The deepest of these is to cover ourselves with the pain—to identify with it and become inwardly agitated. In that agitation the outer pain passes by and we endure it.

To the enlightened one, pain is utterly clear. Because he does not enter suffering of any kind. No cloud of pain surrounds and drowns him. Pain is crystal clear.

Understand it this way: if you are full of thoughts and a house on the street catches fire and there is a commotion, you may not even notice. But if you are sitting in deep meditation, utterly quiet, even a needle falling can be heard—yes, even a needle falling can be heard.

As one attains deeper meditation, even the slightest thing in the body is noticed. There will be pain—but no suffering. Suffering arises only when one links oneself to the pain. When you do not link yourself to the pain, suffering does not arise.

So be careful: some who walk the spiritual path do the opposite—they try to avoid pain itself. If you want pain not to be felt, there is another method: gradually make the body dull. Do not awaken consciousness; do not kindle the witness; dull the body.

If you go to Kashi you will find people sleeping on beds of thorns. You will be amazed: “How enlightened they must be! What supreme knowing, that they lie on thorns and feel no suffering!”

No one needs to lie on thorns after attaining enlightenment. But one can practice lying on thorns. After practice, there is no pain because the body becomes dull. If you prick the same spot every day with a needle, today it hurts; tomorrow less; the day after, even less. Keep practicing: after a month or two you can prick and feel nothing. You have not become enlightened; you have just made the body dull in two months. In that dullness pain is no longer felt.

Remember, the absence of suffering is a revolutionary event. The absence of pain is the experiment of turning the body into a corpse.

You can make the body corpse-like if you wish. There are many methods to dull the body, to reduce sensitivity. When sensitivity declines, pain does not occur. When there is no pain, there is no reason for suffering—for suffering requires pain first. But you have closed the door to pain; now there is no reason for suffering. Yet you have not changed at all. Your consciousness has not changed. If pain is inflicted in a new way, you will suffer—because no witness has arisen within.

This is a deceit in the name of spirituality: turning the body dull. True spirituality is making consciousness more and more conscious. But the more conscious you become, the more of a witness, the less you will escape pain. In truth, you will begin to notice many new pains you never knew before—because earlier you were dull. Now you are more sensitive; you will perceive more pains.

But the pains will be apart from you; you will be apart from them. There will be a distance between the two. You will remain the seer, not the sufferer. Let the witness arise, and the enjoyer-sufferer disappears.

So do not think that when an arrow pierced Krishna’s foot he felt no pain. He felt more than you would—because it is very hard to find a man as sensitive as Krishna. He was not a dull person; otherwise such flute-music and such songs could not have arisen from his lips. He was very delicate, highly sensitive, full of rasa.

From whose lips those melodies on the flute blossomed, whose bodily grace and beauty drew and enamored so many—do not imagine that when an arrow pierced his foot he felt no pain. He felt it fully—more than you would. But there was no suffering at all. He would keep seeing it as if an arrow had pierced someone else’s foot; he would observe this too in the same way. Nothing would be disturbed within. That which was still within would remain still. Consciousness would remain as it is. The arrow would affect the body; the body would report it, the mind’s nerves would vibrate, the mind would receive the message, but consciousness would remain unattached, unentangled, immaculate, virgin.

Our failure to understand this has created much mischief. We consider dull people to be spiritual. But there is neither skill nor virtue in producing dullness. Hence very unintelligent people are often worshiped as if they are spiritual—just because they perform some feat of dullness.

I passed through a village. A man had been standing for ten years. No other quality—just standing. He had become “Khadeshri Baba”—the Standing Saint! People were placing their heads at his feet. Such a great thing: he has been standing for ten years! At night he sleeps supported by sticks under his armpits. His legs have become elephantine; the blood has pooled in them. People think spirituality has happened.

I said, “Turn Khadeshri Baba into ‘Baitheshri Baba’—the Sitting Saint—just once and see!” Now he cannot even sit. The legs have become rigid. Even if you wanted to seat him, there is no way. This is the body’s deformity and ugliness. What has it to do with spirituality? And there is nothing else in this man.

I asked him, “Anything else? Let us accept the standing business—what else?” He said, “Is this little? This is a great event: a man standing for ten years!”

The dullness of legs is not spirituality. Legs can be made dull—what is the obstacle? It is neither a virtue nor worthy of respect. But when we honor such things, dullness spreads—and we end up worshiping dullness.

Sensitivity is worthy of reverence—but sensitivity alone is not enough. If sensitivity is joined with the witnessing attitude, that is the revolutionary event by which one becomes capable of knowing life’s ultimate truth.