Geeta Darshan #5

A few things are important to understand here.

First: power in itself is impartial and neutral. Power is neither auspicious nor inauspicious. It can be used in a wholesome way; it can be used in an unwholesome way.

A lamp can bring light into darkness, and it can also be used to set someone’s house on fire. With poison we can take someone’s life, and for a dying person that same poison can become medicine.

All power—material or immaterial—is neutral and impartial. What results come depends on how we use it.

A pure heart is not a prerequisite for having power. Power can become available even if the heart is impure. Power does not lay down the condition that only a pure heart will access it. And often it happens that an impure heart gets to power first—because the very craving for power is itself an impurity.

A pure heart does not hanker for power; it longs for peace. An impure heart longs for power, not for peace. When power comes to a pure heart it is prasad—grace, compassion from the divine. It was neither asked for, nor sought; it comes of its own accord.

When power comes to an impure heart it is the fulfillment of its craving. It is not the Lord’s grace. It has been wanted, pursued, and attained. The desire for power arises within us because we want to do something; without power we will not be able to do.

A pure heart does not want to do anything; it has no need for power. An impure heart wants to do much: to fulfill desires, to feed ambitions, to keep pace with the mad race of the mind. For that race it needs support, it needs fuel—hence the demand for power.

And power comes not from purity or impurity, but from effort, endeavor, sadhana. If a person concentrates his mind, he can concentrate it on wholesome thoughts or on unwholesome thoughts.

On this Mahavira’s insight is very deep. Mahavira divided meditation into two forms: dharma-dhyana and adharma-dhyana—wholesome meditation and unwholesome meditation. No one else in human history has made this distinction. It is a very precious distinction. We tend to think all meditation is religious, but Mahavira separates it into two: adharma-dhyana and dharma-dhyana.

Thus meditation, in itself, is not religious. Only when it is joined to a purified heart is it religious; when joined to an impure heart it becomes irreligious.

You too will have experienced this. Perhaps you have not tasted religious meditation, but you have surely experienced irreligious meditation.

When you are angry, the mind becomes concentrated. When you are filled with lust, the mind becomes concentrated. Try to focus the mind on God and it wanders here and there. But let the image of a beautiful woman enter the mind and it no longer wanders; it stops there. Fix your attention on an image of God and it takes great effort, and still it won’t stay. Put a picture of a naked woman before you and the mind stops at once; it goes nowhere else. Even if there is noise all around, the mind does not get distracted.

Mahavira calls this adharma-dhyana—unwholesome meditation. It is still meditation, because meditation means the mind comes to a halt. Where it stops is another question.

When you are angry, the mind stops. That is why you feel your power increases in anger. Ordinarily you may not have that much strength, but when you are angry you feel many times more energy. In anger people have moved stones they could not even budge in a normal state. In anger people have thrown down opponents twice as strong as themselves, whom in ordinary times they would run away from.

In anger, the mind concentrates; energy is available. In sexual desire, the mind concentrates; energy is available. Concentration is power. Where you concentrate is the point—the concentration itself need not be on something wholesome to generate power.

People like Rasputin cultivate great concentration. But if the heart is impure, the ultimate result of that concentration is unwholesome. How did Rasputin use his powers?

The Tsar of Russia had only one son. Both the Tsar and the Tsarina were deeply anxious for him—he had been sickly since childhood. Someone informed them that Rasputin might be able to help. Rasputin placed his hand on the boy’s head, and for the first time the boy felt truly well.

But from then on the entire royal family fell into Rasputin’s slavery. If Rasputin left for even two days, the boy would become ill again. Rasputin had to come to the palace daily. Soon it became clear that if Rasputin was not present, the boy would die. Treatment turned into illness; earlier some physicians could help a little, but now no one’s treatment worked. Rasputin’s regular presence became necessary.

And using that boy as leverage, Rasputin exploited the Tsar and Tsarina as much as he could. Whatever he wanted, he got done. Even appointing the prime minister—whomever Rasputin indicated would become prime minister, because the boy’s life lay in his hands. This is easy for one who has cultivated great concentration. The child was hypnotized. That hypnotic state of the boy became the basis of exploitation.

Jesus, too, healed people. Jesus also placed his hand on people and their illnesses left them. Rasputin had the same kind of power Jesus had. Rasputin could remove illness—but he could also hold illness hostage; Jesus could not do that. Rasputin could exploit illness; Jesus could not.

If the heart is pure, then that same power becomes only healing. If the heart is impure, that same power can become exploitation.

Our difficulty is in understanding how an impure heart can be concentrated. There is no obstacle. Concentration is a skill—the art of stopping the mind at one point. If in the world even bad people have power, it is because they, too, have concentration.

Hitler had tremendous concentration. To drive an intelligent nation like Germany into such madness is not within the capacity of an ordinary person. Whatever Hitler said, the German nation accepted. There was a spell in his eyes, force in his speech; his mere presence created hypnosis.

After Germany’s defeat, statements before the international court were given by very intelligent people—professors, university vice chancellors—and they said, “We cannot even think now how we did all that! As if some force was making us do it.”

In this world the bad man has power; the good man has power. Power is one. The bad man’s inner instrument—his heart—is faulty; the same power runs his bad instrument.

Electricity is running. It runs a light bulb, it runs a fan. If the fan is faulty, the same current runs through it, but it rattles and clatters. If the fan is very faulty, it can break and fall and even kill someone. The fault is not the electricity’s.

Man is an instrument. All power is God’s, whether in a bad man or a good man. The source of power is one. The same source is in Rama and in Ravana. There is no separate source for Ravana to draw power from; Ravana draws from the same vast source as Rama.

There is no difference in the source of power; the difference is in the heart. One has a pure heart; one has an impure heart. Through an impure heart that power becomes destructive; through a pure heart it becomes creative, life-giving. From purity, life flows; from impurity, death flows. From purity, light is made; from impurity, darkness.

But the source of power is one. There cannot be two sources. However bad a man may be, the Divine within him is the same.

That is why those true masters who have actually guided hundreds in practice have invariably arranged so that the heart be purified—either purified alongside the sadhana, or purified before it—so that before the event of power happens, the heart is pure. Otherwise, instead of benefit there is the risk of harm.

Consider: if you were to receive power right now, what would you do? If you got a power by which you could grant life or death at will, what would be the very first thought that would arise?

Perhaps you’d think to make your friends immortal—but first the thought would come to destroy your enemies. The heart will provide thoughts according to what it is.

If you got the power to become invisible, would you think of going around unseen to press people’s feet and serve them? I don’t think that thought would arise. The moment invisibility is imagined, the mind will think whose wife to whisk away, whose safe to open, how to enter where previously you could not.

Just imagine: if you were to get the power of invisibility, what would you do? Sit tonight and write it down on a piece of paper. Even though the power has not yet come—only the idea—the mind will start weaving dreams of what to do.

And power can come even to the impure. That is why the sources of power have been kept hidden. Secrecy: the fundamental reason for so much secrecy around yoga, tantra, and religion is exactly this—because the sources of power can fall into wrong hands, into dangerous hands. And whenever any science—inner or outer—reaches heights, dangers begin.

In the West there is now a debate that new scientific discoveries should be kept secret, not made public, because science has reached the threshold of danger. Discoveries can fall into the hands of bad people—and they are falling, for all discovery eventually comes into the hands of politicians.

Einstein, who helped in the development of atomic power, had never imagined that in Hiroshima and Nagasaki a hundred thousand people each would be burnt to ashes by his discovery.

Before he died, someone asked Einstein, “If you were to be born again, what would you do?” He replied, “I would prefer to be a plumber rather than a scientist, because as a scientist I have seen what has happened through me—without my knowing, against my wish—and I weep for it.”

Scientists search for power, and it lands in the hands of politicians—and the politician is purely an impure man, because his very race is toward power, his effort is ambition, how to dominate others.

So in his last letters Einstein wrote to his friends: in the future we must become alert; what we discover should remain secret.

This thought is now occurring in the West. But the Hindus arrived at this understanding three thousand years ago.

Many in the West wonder why the Hindus, who thought so deeply, did not make many scientific discoveries. In China, three thousand years ago, they understood that science is dangerous. Gunpowder was discovered in China, but they did not make bombs; they made sparklers and fireworks. It is the same gunpowder, but they turned it into a children’s game, nothing more.

It is obvious that one who can make fireworks knows that with this one can kill a person—indeed every year, even fireworks cause deaths; on Diwali in this country countless children die, are maimed, eyes are lost, hands are burnt.

So three thousand years ago China had the art of making fireworks. A bomb is only a big firecracker. But China did not allow that art to go in that direction; they made it a plaything. As soon as gunpowder reached Europe, they immediately made bombs. The invention of gunpowder was in the East; bombs were made in the West.

The Hindus and the Chinese had inklings of many scientific principles three thousand years ago, and they kept them absolutely secret. Those formulas were not to be used.

Not only in relation to science but also to religion, the Hindus, Tibetans, Chinese—the whole East—got hold of certain deep formulas. And it also became clear that if these formulas fell into the wrong hands, there would be danger. So they were kept extremely secret. Only when a master deemed a disciple worthy would he whisper them into his ear—utmost secrecy—and only then, when convinced the disciple would not misuse the power.

Therefore what is truly important is not written in the scriptures. Only incomplete things are written there. No wrong person can do anything significant through scripture, because the key points are left out. As if everything has been described, but the key is not in the book. There is a full description of the palace and of every room, but where the lock is, no scripture says. And as for the key, there is no trace in any scripture. The key is always passed personally from master to disciple.

What we have called mantra and initiation—diksha—is precisely this art of handing over, in secrecy, the key by one who knows, to one who will not misuse it, and who will guard it until a worthy person appears. And if no worthy person appears, the Hindus decided it is better to let the key be lost; no harm. When worthy people come, the key can be rediscovered. But do not give the key to the wrong person—that is a great danger. Once the key falls into wrong hands, even the possibility of good people arising is destroyed.

So let knowledge be lost if it must, but do not give it to the unworthy. The Hindu arrangement of brahmin, kshatriya, vaishya, and shudra carried this concern. The key was not to be given to anyone but the brahmin; it was not to be allowed to reach the shudra.

By shudra is not meant the one born in a shudra family. The Hindu reckoning is unique: every person is born a shudra. Shudrahood is everyone’s birth-condition. That is why we call a brahmin dvija—twice-born. He must be born again, in the presence of the master.

The birth given by parents produces only a shudra; a brahmin is not born that way. One who considers himself a brahmin merely by birth knows nothing.

A brahmin is born in the company of the guru—his second birth, twice-born. After this second birth he is qualified to receive from the master what is secret, what cannot be given to the ordinary; that becomes his inheritance.

For many centuries the Hindus strove to keep their scriptures unwritten—held only in memory—because the moment something is written it becomes common, public; it escapes your control; it becomes impossible to keep it guarded.

And even when scriptures were written, the essential points were omitted. Hence, however much you read the scriptures, the truth will not be attained. In the end, after all scripture, you will have to go to a master.

Scriptures can only lead you to a guru—nothing more. They will awaken thirst and restlessness in you, concern about where the key is. Then you set out in search of a master who may hold the key.

Spiritual science is even more dangerous—because you have no idea what it can do. If someone succeeds even a little in cultivating concentration, he can influence the minds of others without their knowing. Try small experiments and you will get the idea.

On the road, walk behind someone at a distance of three or four steps. Fix both your eyes steadily on the nape—the back of his head. You will not be able to hold it even for a second before the person turns and looks back. You did nothing—only the eyes.

Where the spine ends and the brain begins is a very sensitive spot. The faintest impact of your gaze creates a sensation there; the head is compelled to turn and look.

If by experimenting on a few people you grasp that this is possible, then through that sensitive point any thought can be planted in someone.

Very often it happens—without your knowing—many thoughts enter you. Many times you go near someone and your thoughts change instantly—becoming better or worse.

With saints you will often experience that merely by being near them a breeze of change passes through your mind. A bad person also lives in a certain mood; that is his concentration. Go near him and the blows begin.

Whenever you go into a crowd and return, you will experience that the mind is tired, depressed—as if you have come back having lost something. A crowd is an uproar; there are many kinds of minds, many kinds of concentrations, all attacking you at once.

For centuries seekers have sought solitude. Know that solitude is not for forests and mountains; it is to escape you. He is not going in search of a forest or a mountain—he is moving away from people, saving himself from others. The quest is negative: what can mountains give? Nothing. But people can take much away.

Mountains have no minds; near mountains you can be at ease. They will give you neither good nor bad; whatever is within you will be. But among people you cannot be at ease, for their thoughts are constantly flowing into you—even if they do not speak, even if they do not intend it. Their rubbish flows into you; your rubbish flows into them.

So whenever you go into a crowd, you return filled with garbage. An inner confusion, an inner crowd arises.

If you gain even a little concentration, you can change another’s thoughts. This is a great power. There is no need to argue, to debate—only to keep throwing one thought steadily toward someone; his thoughts will begin to change.

And if you want to make someone do something unwholesome, there is no obstacle. You don’t have to put your hand in his pocket to steal his notes. You can simply suggest he take them out and drop them on the road; he himself, under the pretext of taking out his handkerchief, will drop the notes along with it. He will think they fell by mistake.

One can enter the depths of life by the bridge of concentration—toward the wholesome or toward the unwholesome. That is why the art of concentration is not written in any scripture. And whatever is written, you may practice for years and still not become concentrated.

Many people come to me and say, “We have been practicing concentration for years, but nothing happens!” They are practicing from books. It will never happen that way. In a few days they will get tired, throw away the book, and abandon concentration.

Someone will reveal the art of concentration to you only when it is found that your heart is so purified that you cannot harm anyone. You don’t give a sword into a child’s hands—and one who does is not a benefactor.

Rasputin, or Durvasa—such people are powerful. They have indomitable energy, but no purity of heart.

How do people like Rasputin find the formulas? Rasputin wandered. Just as Gurdjieff wandered for twenty years among Sufi fakirs, lamas, in Iran, Tibet, India, Egypt, searching for methods, so did Rasputin. Today morality is so weak that even those you ordinarily call sadhus can be bought; small things leak out.

Rasputin roamed in search of where formulas might be found—and surely bought some somewhere. He worked tirelessly. After years of labor he found certain ways—small keys fell into his hands—and he used them.

Even today some people have small formulas. For various reasons, formulas have reached wrong people—sometimes out of attachment, sometimes by mistake. Sometimes a father dies and, out of attachment, passes what he knows to his son even if the son is unworthy. Sometimes a master dies and, in the hope that one day the disciple will become worthy, passes it on. Sometimes formulas are stolen. Not only money can be stolen; formulas can be stolen too.

In India this happened for a long time. The Buddhists had some formulas the Hindus did not. Hindus became Buddhist monks and stayed for years under Buddhist masters to acquire them. Some formulas were with the Hindus that the Jains or Buddhists did not have; so Jains and Buddhists became Hindus for years under Hindu masters to obtain them. As soon as they had them, they passed them into their own traditions.

For thousands of years the search has gone on—with right and wrong people both engaged.

Rasputin too found formulas. And he himself was powerful, because formulas alone do not do anything. Even if I give you a key, you might be so weak that you will just hold it in your hand and never bring it to the lock. Or you won’t trust that it can open anything. Or you will mistake it for something else. Or you will keep applying it where there is no lock.

But Rasputin made tireless effort, and he attained something. Then he worked on it, and he developed a unique capacity for evil. In this century Rasputin became the symbol of the worst kind of man—but very powerful.

Keep in mind: purity of heart is utterly indispensable.

That is why Buddha first asked his disciples to cultivate the four Brahmaviharas. Until these four are established—until through these one begins to abide in Brahman—no yogic practice is to be undertaken. So compassion first; loving-kindness first; sympathetic joy first; and equanimity first.

These four: karuna (compassion), maitri (loving-kindness/friendliness), mudita (gladness, joy), and upeksha (equanimity). One whose compassion is deep will not be able to harm anyone. One who abides in friendliness will have no enemies. Mudita means joy, cheerfulness—one who is joyous does not want to make anyone miserable; only a miserable person wants others to be miserable.

So whenever you want to make someone suffer, know that you are suffering. A blissful person does not want to make anyone unhappy. A joyous person wishes that all become joyous; he wants to share and spread joy. We share only what we have.

Therefore Buddha made mudita essential: until you become joyous, you are dangerous. A miserable person is a danger. He does not want anyone to be happier than himself; only by comparison, if others are more miserable, does he feel a little relief.

And fourth, Buddha said, upeksha—equanimity, indifference. When equanimity becomes so established that life or death feel the same; pleasure or pain the same; loss or gain, success or failure—not a concern remains—only after these four Brahmaviharas are established should a seeker enter yoga.

Patanjali too set forth the yamas and niyamas first. Before the final three steps of dharana, dhyana, and samadhi, there are five stages that transform the heart. Unless the heart is transformed by those preliminary steps, Patanjali is not willing to allow the final three.

Right now many keys from the East are reaching the West. Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, for example, took a method of meditation to the West—but he discarded the yamas and niyamas, leaving only mantra-yoga. It produces results, but it is dangerous—playing with fire. People are quickly attracted because there are no rules, no discipline: just sit for twenty minutes and repeat a mantra—enough. Whether you are a thief or a cheat or even a murderer—it doesn’t matter; just chant a mantra for twenty minutes.

Mantra-japa brings peace because it fills the mind with music. But remember: it is not appropriate for a murderer to find peace. What is a murderer’s pain? That he has committed murder. This is his suffering; this crime weighs on him. If he attains peace, he will commit another murder. For him, restlessness is appropriate; it is the natural consequence of his act. If he remains restless, suffers pain, perhaps he will refrain from murder.

It is not appropriate for a thief to find peace; his heartbeat should stay fast. The moment he attains peace he will steal again—what else will he do? It is not appropriate for a bad man to find peace. It is like giving good health to a bad man—what will he do with it?

There is a beautiful story in Jesus’ life. Jesus was passing through a village. He saw a man running after a prostitute. Jesus stopped him because his face seemed familiar. Jesus said, “If I am not mistaken, when I first came here you were blind, and by my touch your sight returned. And now what are you doing with these eyes—running after a prostitute?”

The man said, “Lord, I was blind; you gave me eyes. What else are eyes for? Eyes are for seeing forms. And if I had come to you asking for eyes, it was for this—to see forms.”

Jesus had not thought what one might do with the eyes he gave. Not everyone can use eyes in the same way; how they are used depends on the person. Eyes are only instruments.

So if through mantra a cheat attains peace, he will become more skillful in cheating. It is dangerous. If someone running after wealth gains peace from mantra, his race for wealth will become more skillful—what else?

When people ask Maharishi, he says, “Exactly—wherever you are going, whatever you are doing, meditation will bring success.”

Success will certainly come—but first ask where you are going and what you are doing. Not every success is success. To fail in a bad endeavor is better than to succeed in it. Success, in itself, has no value.

This is what will happen in the West, because no one is willing for yamas and niyamas. People want instant meditation like instant coffee—five minutes’ work and even that without changing anything. You can chant your mantra in an airplane, in a car, on a train. Nothing in you needs to change; it is only a trick to be used.

That trick will bring inner quiet, but that quiet cannot become self-knowledge. More often it will become self-destruction, because your current personality is dangerous; it will use that quiet.

Therefore if Patanjali, Buddha, Mahavira have placed certain indispensable steps before meditation, it is not without reason: to prevent power from reaching the wrong person. And if a wrong person wants power, he must first pass through the process of becoming right; only when there is no possibility of misuse—for himself or others—should the key come into his hand.

The question is not only that you can harm others; you can harm yourself. The wrong person will harm himself too.

The truth is: without harming yourself first, you cannot harm another; there is no way. Before I can set you on fire, I will have to burn myself. Before I can make you drink poison, I must drink it first. Whatever I do to others, I must first do to myself.

Abhyasa and vairagya are very different things. Vairagya is a feeling, a mood; abhyasa is an effort, an intentional endeavor. You do experience vairagya many times, but only as a faint, passing glimpse. If you don’t turn that glimpse into practice, it will be lost. Abhyasa means that whatever glimpse of vairagya you have received should not remain just a flash; it should become a deep engraving within you.

For example, you used to run after wealth. And suppose you got it. Once wealth is attained, a melancholy will arise in the mind, because you will see how much you had expected—and nothing much was fulfilled. How many dreams were cherished—and they turned to dust. Money is in your hand; how much bliss you had imagined would come—and it did not!

So whoever attains wealth will find a shadow following him in which vairagya is experienced. He will feel wealth is futile. But if he does not make it into practice, the glimpse will be lost. Then the mind will argue that bliss hasn’t come because the money is not enough; more is needed. Ten thousand, a hundred thousand, a million.

One day even a million may come; there’s no great obstacle. Then again dispassion will arise; again it will seem that all rainbows have faded, the mirage has not been grasped, and the hands are empty. And so much life has gone to waste! Because money is never obtained for nothing; you have to buy it with life. Sell yourself, and money comes. The more you erase yourself, the more the pile of gold grows.

The soul keeps being squandered while the heap of gold rises. Then sorrow grips you, dispassion dawns—but only as a glimpse. The mind will again insist, “Come on, where in the world has anyone found happiness with just a million! The same mind that at a hundred thousand said, ‘A million will do it’; the same that at ten thousand said, ‘A hundred thousand will do it’; the same that at ten rupees said, ‘Ten thousand will do it.’”

Unless one makes a thorough study of the events of one’s life, seizes these flashes of dispassion, and then practices them—abhyasa means repetition, constant remembrance, continuously striking that insight within—and whenever the mind tries its old deception, bringing the memory of dispassion into place—then a transformation happens: vairagya is no longer a line drawn on water; it becomes a groove carved on stone. Upon that very vairagya the mind will come to its end; otherwise it will not. You will have to collect dispassion drop by drop; that gathering is called abhyasa.

It is a very amusing thing that dispassion comes to everyone; the difficult task is to find someone to whom it never comes. After every sexual act comes dispassion. After every sexual act, a longing for brahmacharya arises. After every overeating, the significance of fasting appears. After every outburst of anger, repentance arises. After every misdeed, the resolve not to repeat it appears. But it stays only for a moment. The mind is powerful because its practice is of birth upon birth.

So there are two kinds of practice in the world: the practice of the mind, and the practice of dispassion. You practice the mind thoroughly. Vairagya is the opposite of mind—its antidote. Whenever the mind starts raising a fresh illusion, you must raise the memory of dispassion: “I’ve heard this before, I’ve done this before; this is my experience—what was the result?”

A constant contemplation of consequences is the remembrance of past experience; it is the gathering of past flashes. When someone goes on cultivating this, slowly a new power opposite to the mind is created. It becomes a control upon the mind; it becomes a witness to the mind; it becomes an ally in breaking the mind’s mad race. Many times the mind will catch you again and again. But if you have even a small store of vairagya, remembrance will return and you will be able to stop.

Abhyasa only means this much: whatever natural glimpses of dispassion arise in life, collect them, preserve them, build their strength. And there are methods for practice.

You taste death many times, but we have arranged things so that its blow does not strike us.

Someone says, “So-and-so died.” If he is not very close to us we say, “That’s unfortunate,” and the matter ends. Nothing more arises in the mind. If someone very near dies, the thought lingers a day or two. If someone extremely near dies—wife, husband, child, father—then for a few days we feel a wound. We have made these arrangements.

They are like buffers on a train—between two carriages are buffers so the shock is absorbed and the passengers don’t feel it. A car has springs so when a pothole comes, the springs take the jolt and the passenger within is not shaken.

We have put buffers all around us. When a blow comes, the buffer absorbs it. A Muslim dies, and for a Hindu there’s a buffer: “Well, he was a Muslim; what harm if he died! He should have died earlier. He was a bad man. No use of his being around.” A Hindu dies, and for a Muslim there’s a buffer. A Negro dies, the American doesn’t care. An American dies, the Negro is pleased. We have created buffers like this. If an enemy dies, all right.

After all these buffers, only a handful remain close to us whose death wounds us a little. Otherwise every death wounds us—who dies is irrelevant; death happens, and its shock reaches us and dispassion arises. But we have invented tricks.

Even for those nearest to us we have buffers. If even the wife dies, we say, “We shall meet soon, in heaven. It’s only a matter of days. And the soul is immortal; she hasn’t really died—only the body was dropped.” We find some route or other.

If a son dies, we say, “God calls His dear ones early.” This is a buffer. We soothe ourselves, console ourselves: “All right—he must have been dear to God, so He took him.” Of course your son must be dear to God! Only the bad people live long; the good die early. Or, “It must be some karma because of which sorrow is being suffered.”

We dodge death; we bring in other issues. “It is the fruit of karma; therefore it must be borne.” Death is pushed aside; a diversion is created. Now we start thinking about karma. The boy, death—moved aside. In a few days all will be forgotten; we shall return to our business.

In this way we have erected buffers around everything, and dispassion fails to arise.

Abhyasa means breaking the buffers. And from every opening where a sunbeam can enter, where a ray of vairagya can enter, letting it in—being open on all sides.

Buddha used to tell his monks: go to the cremation ground. The first meditation at the cremation ground. Stay there for three months. The monks would say, “Why go to the cremation ground? We can meditate here!” Buddha would say, “It won’t happen here. Sit there day and night. Pyres will burn; people will come and go; meditate there.”

Whoever sat for three months in the cremation ground, all his buffers regarding death would break. Then he would no longer see who has died; he would see death itself. “Who” loses relevance.

And sitting there twenty-four hours a day, it is impossible that in three months you do not come to understand: this body will burn today or tomorrow. It is impossible that dreams don’t start coming that you are being placed on the pyre. It is impossible that death does not become so vivid that the juice of life drains away.

Thus death becomes a practice in the cremation ground. From abhyasa, vairagya arises, thickens. The ties of our attachment to life become attenuated and slack.

Had X-ray existed in Buddha’s time, he would have said, “Keep an X-ray of your wife with you. Whenever you remember your wife, look at the X-ray, and you will understand how beautiful the body really is.”

People keep photographs. Not a good idea. Keep an X-ray copy—that is truly helpful. And whenever the mind gets carried away, look at it again and again.

The X-ray becomes a practice. It gives birth to vairagya; it thickens. Then slowly, even when you look at your wife, you will have X-ray eyes; behind the lovely skin the bones will start appearing. When you hold her to your chest, you will feel the skeletal frame touching you.

These buffers have to be broken and dispassion must be born. And it needs continuous practice, because the mind’s old practice is strong. You have made it strong.