Unattached in understanding everywhere, self-mastered, free from craving।
By renunciation he attains the supreme perfection of actionlessness।। 49।।
Learn from me how, having gained perfection, he reaches Brahman।
In brief, O Kaunteya, the supreme steadfastness of knowledge।। 50।।
Endowed with a purified intellect, with firmness mastering the self,
Abandoning the sense-objects—sound and the rest—casting off attraction and aversion।। 51।।
Frequenting solitude, light of diet, with speech, body, and mind restrained।
Ever intent on the yoga of meditation, firmly taking refuge in dispassion।। 52।।
Casting off ego, power, pride, desire, anger, and possessiveness,
Free of “mine,” serene—he becomes fit for Brahmanhood।। 53।।
Geeta Darshan #14
Available in:
Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Sutra (Original)
असक्तबुद्धिः सर्वत्र जितात्मा विगतस्पृहः।
नैष्कर्म्यसिद्धिं परमां संन्यासेनाधिगच्छति।। 49।।
सिद्धिं प्राप्तो यथा ब्रह्म तथाप्नोति निबोध मे।
समासेनैव कौन्तेय निष्ठा ज्ञानस्य या परा।। 50।।
बुद्ध्या विशुद्धया युक्तो धृत्यात्मानं नियम्य च।
शब्दादीन्विषयांस्त्यक्त्वा रागद्वेषौ व्युदस्य च।। 51।।
विविक्तसेवी लघ्वाशी यतवाक्कायमानसः।
ध्यानयोगपरो नित्यं वैराग्यं समुपाश्रितः।। 52।।
अहंकारं बलं दर्पं कामं क्रोधं परिग्रहम्।
विमुच्य निर्ममः शान्तो ब्रह्मभूयाय कल्पते।। 53।।
नैष्कर्म्यसिद्धिं परमां संन्यासेनाधिगच्छति।। 49।।
सिद्धिं प्राप्तो यथा ब्रह्म तथाप्नोति निबोध मे।
समासेनैव कौन्तेय निष्ठा ज्ञानस्य या परा।। 50।।
बुद्ध्या विशुद्धया युक्तो धृत्यात्मानं नियम्य च।
शब्दादीन्विषयांस्त्यक्त्वा रागद्वेषौ व्युदस्य च।। 51।।
विविक्तसेवी लघ्वाशी यतवाक्कायमानसः।
ध्यानयोगपरो नित्यं वैराग्यं समुपाश्रितः।। 52।।
अहंकारं बलं दर्पं कामं क्रोधं परिग्रहम्।
विमुच्य निर्ममः शान्तो ब्रह्मभूयाय कल्पते।। 53।।
Transliteration:
asaktabuddhiḥ sarvatra jitātmā vigataspṛhaḥ|
naiṣkarmyasiddhiṃ paramāṃ saṃnyāsenādhigacchati|| 49||
siddhiṃ prāpto yathā brahma tathāpnoti nibodha me|
samāsenaiva kaunteya niṣṭhā jñānasya yā parā|| 50||
buddhyā viśuddhayā yukto dhṛtyātmānaṃ niyamya ca|
śabdādīnviṣayāṃstyaktvā rāgadveṣau vyudasya ca|| 51||
viviktasevī laghvāśī yatavākkāyamānasaḥ|
dhyānayogaparo nityaṃ vairāgyaṃ samupāśritaḥ|| 52||
ahaṃkāraṃ balaṃ darpaṃ kāmaṃ krodhaṃ parigraham|
vimucya nirmamaḥ śānto brahmabhūyāya kalpate|| 53||
asaktabuddhiḥ sarvatra jitātmā vigataspṛhaḥ|
naiṣkarmyasiddhiṃ paramāṃ saṃnyāsenādhigacchati|| 49||
siddhiṃ prāpto yathā brahma tathāpnoti nibodha me|
samāsenaiva kaunteya niṣṭhā jñānasya yā parā|| 50||
buddhyā viśuddhayā yukto dhṛtyātmānaṃ niyamya ca|
śabdādīnviṣayāṃstyaktvā rāgadveṣau vyudasya ca|| 51||
viviktasevī laghvāśī yatavākkāyamānasaḥ|
dhyānayogaparo nityaṃ vairāgyaṃ samupāśritaḥ|| 52||
ahaṃkāraṃ balaṃ darpaṃ kāmaṃ krodhaṃ parigraham|
vimucya nirmamaḥ śānto brahmabhūyāya kalpate|| 53||
Translation (Meaning)
Questions in this Discourse
First question:
Osho, you say: live life as if it were acting. In that case, what more than acting would spiritual practice, religion, and the search for liberation be?
Osho, you say: live life as if it were acting. In that case, what more than acting would spiritual practice, religion, and the search for liberation be?
There is nothing more than acting. The very desire for something beyond acting is the cause of misery. Whatever you want beyond acting is a mirage.
Whatever can be done in the world—whether in the marketplace or in the temple, in the race for wealth or in the race for religion—so long as it lies within the boundary of doing, it is acting. And one who understands that all doing is merely acting, in him the sense of doership drops.
When all is acting, how can the doer survive? When the doer is not, only the witness remains. The doer is lost, and only the seer abides. That is the pinnacle of Brahma-knowledge: where only the seeing remains.
Hence the knowers of Brahman have called the whole world maya—illusion. Shankaracharya even called God a part of maya, because the search to attain God, the desire to attain God, makes God into an object of craving.
That is why Buddha said: do not desire liberation; if you desire it, you will miss. Because whatever becomes the object of desire is not liberation; it becomes the world.
Whatever we can desire becomes worldly precisely because of our desire. Desire is the thread of delusion, the mother of dreams. If you have desired religion, that too is a dream. If you have taken sannyas, that too is a dream. If you have undertaken spiritual practices, that too is a dream.
Wherever your doer survives, wherever you are, truth cannot be. The ego can only relate with untruth, not with truth. Darkness can only meet darkness.
When I say everything is acting, it is what Krishna is saying. He is telling Arjuna only this: do not be the doer. Do not think of yourself as the one who acts. You are merely an instrument, a conduit. Let the Divine do what He wishes through you. If He wishes you to act, act; if He does not, then don’t. But you, do not come in between. If He wants war, then fight; if He does not, that is His will. Do not become the decider. The moment you become the decider, the moment ego enters, everything becomes false. Keep yourself aside; let Him do what is to be done. Become only the medium, the instrument.
Then life becomes acting; you are no longer the doer. God writes the play; you only repeat the lines.
What is the difference between acting and life? Acting means what is pre‑decided. The story of Rama is already written. You play Rama. There is nothing to do; everything is prepared—every word is ready. You only have to say what has already been decided. You are not to add anything of your own. You are not to bring yourself in. If you can skillfully do exactly what has been asked, that is acting.
In life the confusion comes because you imagine that you are doing. The stage is vast, you cannot see it. The play is written in very invisible ink, you cannot read it. The hands that hold your puppet‑strings are so vast that your small eyes cannot see them. The threads by which you are bound and made to dance are not within your grasp. But if you try to understand a little, the threads will begin to come into your hands.
Have you ever done anything on your own? You fell in love with someone. Did you do love? Suddenly you found that love had happened—as if someone tugged a string and the puppet began to dance. You began to sing songs of love. You became ready to live and die. You said, “If I do not get this woman, I will not survive.”
A moment earlier this woman was not there; you were surviving very well. Her absence created no obstacle. A moment ago you had not even seen her; all was going fine. Suddenly she appeared—you did nothing—and something else moved within you. Some thread of passion was pulled. Now you say, “Without her I cannot live.”
But even that is not you speaking. Without her you will still be found living. Even that is being spoken through you. Tomorrow this woman may die; you will weep and wail. Or perhaps you will not even weep? You will—weeping will happen through you; tears will flow from your wound.
Then the wound will heal. Then you will run after another woman. Again you will say, “Without you I cannot live.” You will say to every woman, “Without you life has no meaning. You alone are the meaning of my life”—and you will say it without even knowing that it is being said through you.
Understand: it is as if someone wrote a drama and prepared the characters—by hypnotizing them. The one who had to become Rama was hypnotized into a trance, and in that trance the entire role of Rama was taught to him. Then he wakes up, comes to his senses, and now plays the part—but he takes himself to be Rama.
Nature has hypnotized you. That hypnotic power we call maya—the magic of nature. You are living pulled by it. You appear to do much; in truth you do nothing. The strings are pulled by someone else. The threads are invisible, hidden. The puppets are in front; the strings are behind, in the background.
What you call desires are nothing but threads. Under their sway you keep acting. You were not even born by your own doing—who gave you birth? You are not living by your own doing—if today the breath stops, what will you do? One day it will stop. You will not even be able to lodge a complaint, because if the breath stops, who will complain?
Birth happens, life happens, love happens. Thousands upon thousands of events happen. Death happens. And everything vanishes like lines drawn upon water.
How many people have lived before you on this earth! Where you sit now, on every inch of soil at least thirty bodies lie buried. Billions have lived just like you. They too were deluded that they were living, that they were doers! They lived with great arrogance, and from that pride they suffered much pain and misery.
Among them a few were wise. Someone became a Buddha, someone a Krishna, who looked back and saw the strings: “I do nothing; it happens.” At once they declared that all this is acting.
This does not mean that you should run away. Where will you run from acting? That is why Krishna says: stand your ground; the One who holds the strings knows. Do not carry the burden on your head. If He wants you to fight, fight. And Krishna says: those whom you, Arjuna, think you are to kill, He has already slain. Only your push is needed. He has already drawn their life‑breath. They are already dead, corpses standing. You will be only the instrument. And if you will not be the instrument, someone else will. So do not unnecessarily bring yourself in.
If the whole of life begins to appear as acting, where will you remain? Only in witnessing. That alone is not acting. That mere seeing is not acting; it is truth. Because even to see the false, a true seer is needed. Understand this a little.
At night you saw a dream. The dream was false. In the morning you found it was all worthless, without substance; nothing had happened. Waves arose and subsided in the mind; ripples came and went. In the morning you find nothing happened—there were only thoughts.
But can you say that the one who saw the dream was as false as the dream? You cannot. For if the seer were also false, then nothing could be seen—not even the dream.
Even to see the false, at least a true seer is needed. The false cannot see the false, for then both would be non‑existent.
It may happen that a rope lies on the path and, out of error, you see a snake. The mistake is certain. But if no one passes along that path, how could the mistake happen that the rope be seen as a snake? Who would see it? If the one passing on the path were as false as the falsity of the snake in the rope, there would be no seer at all.
Even to see the false, some truth is needed. Therefore those who have searched life very deeply—not wandering on the surface of action, but diving into the depths, descending layer by layer into being—have found: everything may be false, but the inner witness cannot be false.
All delusions may be, but the inner existence is not a delusion. For delusions to be, its truth is necessary. That alone is not acting.
And if you take life to be real, not acting, the witness will be lost—you will forget it. You will become the doer, which is not true. If you take life as acting, not ultimate reality, the doer will be lost, and in the ashes of the doer the inner ember of witnessing will begin to glow.
To know the witness is the culmination of Brahma‑knowledge. And to call life acting is only a method to discover that witness. Because wherever you understand “this is acting,” your grip loosens. As long as you believe “this is real,” you keep your fist clenched. When you see “this is not real,” you do not clench the fist.
Therefore there is something very unique in Krishna’s vision of life. He does not even tell you to run away. He says, the world is so unreal—what is there to run from?
Now, where a rope appears like a snake, to kill it is certainly wrong: what will you kill? There is no snake there to kill. And if someone on the road says, “Where are you going? There is no substance there, only a rope lying there; there is no snake—whom will you kill? Better to run away; renounce this maya,” then that man too is deluded. Because what will you abandon that cannot be killed? How will you run from what cannot be killed? We fight only with that which has reality; we also run only from that which has reality.
Hence Krishna says: wake up where you are; running will do nothing. The moment you awaken, you will find it is all a dream.
This does not mean that by your knowing it to be a dream, the dream will stop. It does not mean that by your knowing it is a dream, the war will disappear for Arjuna—no.
At night you sit to watch a film. Watching, you forget; you do not even remember that what you are seeing is only a play of light and shadow. The screen is empty. What appears is utterly false. You know this, yet again and again you forget. When certain scenes come, you are possessed.
Someone is murdering someone; pain arises in your heart. Someone is harassing a woman; you sit up straight, eager to rescue. Two cars race along cliff edges; there is danger; you do not remain lounging in your chair—you sit bolt upright, as if you were in the car, as if your own life were at risk. You tremble; your heart pounds. Someone dies; you begin to cry.
It is good that the cinema hall is dark. People take out their handkerchiefs, wipe their tears, and put them back. Tears do come; you laugh, you fear, you rejoice. All these things happen. And you know very well it is only a screen; on the screen nothing is happening, only light and shadow. Yet still you forget.
If you could remember completely for all three hours that it is false, even then the play of light and shadow will continue on the screen; your knowing will not erase the show. Your knowing will erase your emotional entanglement. You will no longer cry or laugh. Or if you do cry, it will be acting—for others, not for you. If you laugh, it will be for others, because others have not yet awakened. Why needlessly hurt them?
Someone’s relative has died; you may go and even shed a few tears. But inside you know it is all light and shadow. No one ever truly dies, nor is anyone ever truly killed. Does anyone die because the body dies? This is only a screen. That which is, is forever.
But this is your direct experience. For the one whose husband has died, whose wife has died, whose son has died, there is as yet no such understanding. He still takes the rope to be a snake. For his sake you may even weep a little. You may let fall a couple of tears. But within you nothing happens. You remain unperturbed. Tears do not fall inside; they leave no wound, no stain.
Someone laughs; you may also laugh. But you know there is nothing now truly to laugh at, and nothing now truly to weep about. The world goes on. For you it has become a dream, but that does not make it disappear. Trees will bloom, birds will sing, people will fall in love, deaths will occur, births will occur, bands will play, weddings will be celebrated, the shehnai will sound, someone will die and the chant “Ram naam satya hai” will be recited—this all will continue.
For you it has ended. For you it ending means only this: you are no longer possessed by it. For you all has become acting. But everything continues.
Where is there to run? What use is running? Because if you run, you again become the doer. That is why Krishna insists: do not run—otherwise running too is doership.
And running also means that you have taken that from which you fled as real. The rope was taken as a snake; you ran. One fool took a stick to kill it; another turned his back and fled. But the wise neither runs nor goes to kill; he only looks.
Seeing is called darshan. He only sees; he only becomes a witness. Then nothing touches him; he passes through the river and his feet do not get wet. Then Kabir is right: you return the sheet of life just as you received it, spotless—without a single stain.
So keep the formula of acting in mind. The whole Gita of Krishna is contained in it. Life is acting—then your witness will arise. And certainly, do not make the mistake of thinking, “Our life is spiritual; therefore this is not acting.” This too is acting—spiritual acting. Someone wears blue or green; you have put on ochre. This is spiritual acting—the final acting. Beyond this lies the ultimate. Know even this to be acting.
Do not take sannyas too seriously; otherwise you will be entangled. Take it lightly; take it knowingly. Sannyas only announces that now, for us, everything is acting—but sannyas itself is included in that “everything.” It is a notice that we have folded up our shop. We have no more taste in acting.
Your ochre color announces this: let people understand that the play no longer enchants you. Even if you stand upon the stage, it is only because there is nowhere else to go. You have handed over doership to the Divine. You are no longer the doer.
Sannyas cannot be taken; if it is “taken,” you become the doer again. Sannyas happens; it is the flower of understanding. As you understand, it happens. One day it happens: suddenly you find the world gone and sannyas has arrived. It is God’s grace, His gift to you, as everything was a gift. This is the final gift. It is the sign of the maturity of your life—that you have awakened.
Spiritual games are also games. Someone worships in a temple, someone repeats the name of Rama, someone wraps himself in the blanket of Rama’s name, someone goes on a pilgrimage. If anywhere within these the sense of doership remains, you are missing, you are going wrong. If there is no sense of doership, everything is beautiful.
The essence is only this: the sense of doership is the ugliest event in this world. And non‑doership is its beauty.
It will be difficult. For religious teachers tell you: leave the world, hold on to religion. They say the world is maya; religion is not maya. They say the shop is maya; the temple is not!
It is amusing. The temple stands in the same marketplace as the shop. Those who have run the shops have built the temples. The ones who run the shops are the trustees of the temple too. They earn in the shop, and from that the temple runs. The priest is the servant of the shopkeepers. The gold and silver that are valuable in the market are valuable in the temple as well. The coins that circulate in the market, those same coins circulate in the temple.
The temple is not outside the marketplace. I am not saying it should be. It cannot be. But the temple too should know that it is within the market.
Whatever can be done in this world is all worldliness. What cannot be done—the ray that arises from your non‑doership—that ray alone takes you beyond the world.
Doership is the world; ego is the world. To become non‑doer, to become an instrument, to become an actor—that is moksha, that is liberation.
Whatever can be done in the world—whether in the marketplace or in the temple, in the race for wealth or in the race for religion—so long as it lies within the boundary of doing, it is acting. And one who understands that all doing is merely acting, in him the sense of doership drops.
When all is acting, how can the doer survive? When the doer is not, only the witness remains. The doer is lost, and only the seer abides. That is the pinnacle of Brahma-knowledge: where only the seeing remains.
Hence the knowers of Brahman have called the whole world maya—illusion. Shankaracharya even called God a part of maya, because the search to attain God, the desire to attain God, makes God into an object of craving.
That is why Buddha said: do not desire liberation; if you desire it, you will miss. Because whatever becomes the object of desire is not liberation; it becomes the world.
Whatever we can desire becomes worldly precisely because of our desire. Desire is the thread of delusion, the mother of dreams. If you have desired religion, that too is a dream. If you have taken sannyas, that too is a dream. If you have undertaken spiritual practices, that too is a dream.
Wherever your doer survives, wherever you are, truth cannot be. The ego can only relate with untruth, not with truth. Darkness can only meet darkness.
When I say everything is acting, it is what Krishna is saying. He is telling Arjuna only this: do not be the doer. Do not think of yourself as the one who acts. You are merely an instrument, a conduit. Let the Divine do what He wishes through you. If He wishes you to act, act; if He does not, then don’t. But you, do not come in between. If He wants war, then fight; if He does not, that is His will. Do not become the decider. The moment you become the decider, the moment ego enters, everything becomes false. Keep yourself aside; let Him do what is to be done. Become only the medium, the instrument.
Then life becomes acting; you are no longer the doer. God writes the play; you only repeat the lines.
What is the difference between acting and life? Acting means what is pre‑decided. The story of Rama is already written. You play Rama. There is nothing to do; everything is prepared—every word is ready. You only have to say what has already been decided. You are not to add anything of your own. You are not to bring yourself in. If you can skillfully do exactly what has been asked, that is acting.
In life the confusion comes because you imagine that you are doing. The stage is vast, you cannot see it. The play is written in very invisible ink, you cannot read it. The hands that hold your puppet‑strings are so vast that your small eyes cannot see them. The threads by which you are bound and made to dance are not within your grasp. But if you try to understand a little, the threads will begin to come into your hands.
Have you ever done anything on your own? You fell in love with someone. Did you do love? Suddenly you found that love had happened—as if someone tugged a string and the puppet began to dance. You began to sing songs of love. You became ready to live and die. You said, “If I do not get this woman, I will not survive.”
A moment earlier this woman was not there; you were surviving very well. Her absence created no obstacle. A moment ago you had not even seen her; all was going fine. Suddenly she appeared—you did nothing—and something else moved within you. Some thread of passion was pulled. Now you say, “Without her I cannot live.”
But even that is not you speaking. Without her you will still be found living. Even that is being spoken through you. Tomorrow this woman may die; you will weep and wail. Or perhaps you will not even weep? You will—weeping will happen through you; tears will flow from your wound.
Then the wound will heal. Then you will run after another woman. Again you will say, “Without you I cannot live.” You will say to every woman, “Without you life has no meaning. You alone are the meaning of my life”—and you will say it without even knowing that it is being said through you.
Understand: it is as if someone wrote a drama and prepared the characters—by hypnotizing them. The one who had to become Rama was hypnotized into a trance, and in that trance the entire role of Rama was taught to him. Then he wakes up, comes to his senses, and now plays the part—but he takes himself to be Rama.
Nature has hypnotized you. That hypnotic power we call maya—the magic of nature. You are living pulled by it. You appear to do much; in truth you do nothing. The strings are pulled by someone else. The threads are invisible, hidden. The puppets are in front; the strings are behind, in the background.
What you call desires are nothing but threads. Under their sway you keep acting. You were not even born by your own doing—who gave you birth? You are not living by your own doing—if today the breath stops, what will you do? One day it will stop. You will not even be able to lodge a complaint, because if the breath stops, who will complain?
Birth happens, life happens, love happens. Thousands upon thousands of events happen. Death happens. And everything vanishes like lines drawn upon water.
How many people have lived before you on this earth! Where you sit now, on every inch of soil at least thirty bodies lie buried. Billions have lived just like you. They too were deluded that they were living, that they were doers! They lived with great arrogance, and from that pride they suffered much pain and misery.
Among them a few were wise. Someone became a Buddha, someone a Krishna, who looked back and saw the strings: “I do nothing; it happens.” At once they declared that all this is acting.
This does not mean that you should run away. Where will you run from acting? That is why Krishna says: stand your ground; the One who holds the strings knows. Do not carry the burden on your head. If He wants you to fight, fight. And Krishna says: those whom you, Arjuna, think you are to kill, He has already slain. Only your push is needed. He has already drawn their life‑breath. They are already dead, corpses standing. You will be only the instrument. And if you will not be the instrument, someone else will. So do not unnecessarily bring yourself in.
If the whole of life begins to appear as acting, where will you remain? Only in witnessing. That alone is not acting. That mere seeing is not acting; it is truth. Because even to see the false, a true seer is needed. Understand this a little.
At night you saw a dream. The dream was false. In the morning you found it was all worthless, without substance; nothing had happened. Waves arose and subsided in the mind; ripples came and went. In the morning you find nothing happened—there were only thoughts.
But can you say that the one who saw the dream was as false as the dream? You cannot. For if the seer were also false, then nothing could be seen—not even the dream.
Even to see the false, at least a true seer is needed. The false cannot see the false, for then both would be non‑existent.
It may happen that a rope lies on the path and, out of error, you see a snake. The mistake is certain. But if no one passes along that path, how could the mistake happen that the rope be seen as a snake? Who would see it? If the one passing on the path were as false as the falsity of the snake in the rope, there would be no seer at all.
Even to see the false, some truth is needed. Therefore those who have searched life very deeply—not wandering on the surface of action, but diving into the depths, descending layer by layer into being—have found: everything may be false, but the inner witness cannot be false.
All delusions may be, but the inner existence is not a delusion. For delusions to be, its truth is necessary. That alone is not acting.
And if you take life to be real, not acting, the witness will be lost—you will forget it. You will become the doer, which is not true. If you take life as acting, not ultimate reality, the doer will be lost, and in the ashes of the doer the inner ember of witnessing will begin to glow.
To know the witness is the culmination of Brahma‑knowledge. And to call life acting is only a method to discover that witness. Because wherever you understand “this is acting,” your grip loosens. As long as you believe “this is real,” you keep your fist clenched. When you see “this is not real,” you do not clench the fist.
Therefore there is something very unique in Krishna’s vision of life. He does not even tell you to run away. He says, the world is so unreal—what is there to run from?
Now, where a rope appears like a snake, to kill it is certainly wrong: what will you kill? There is no snake there to kill. And if someone on the road says, “Where are you going? There is no substance there, only a rope lying there; there is no snake—whom will you kill? Better to run away; renounce this maya,” then that man too is deluded. Because what will you abandon that cannot be killed? How will you run from what cannot be killed? We fight only with that which has reality; we also run only from that which has reality.
Hence Krishna says: wake up where you are; running will do nothing. The moment you awaken, you will find it is all a dream.
This does not mean that by your knowing it to be a dream, the dream will stop. It does not mean that by your knowing it is a dream, the war will disappear for Arjuna—no.
At night you sit to watch a film. Watching, you forget; you do not even remember that what you are seeing is only a play of light and shadow. The screen is empty. What appears is utterly false. You know this, yet again and again you forget. When certain scenes come, you are possessed.
Someone is murdering someone; pain arises in your heart. Someone is harassing a woman; you sit up straight, eager to rescue. Two cars race along cliff edges; there is danger; you do not remain lounging in your chair—you sit bolt upright, as if you were in the car, as if your own life were at risk. You tremble; your heart pounds. Someone dies; you begin to cry.
It is good that the cinema hall is dark. People take out their handkerchiefs, wipe their tears, and put them back. Tears do come; you laugh, you fear, you rejoice. All these things happen. And you know very well it is only a screen; on the screen nothing is happening, only light and shadow. Yet still you forget.
If you could remember completely for all three hours that it is false, even then the play of light and shadow will continue on the screen; your knowing will not erase the show. Your knowing will erase your emotional entanglement. You will no longer cry or laugh. Or if you do cry, it will be acting—for others, not for you. If you laugh, it will be for others, because others have not yet awakened. Why needlessly hurt them?
Someone’s relative has died; you may go and even shed a few tears. But inside you know it is all light and shadow. No one ever truly dies, nor is anyone ever truly killed. Does anyone die because the body dies? This is only a screen. That which is, is forever.
But this is your direct experience. For the one whose husband has died, whose wife has died, whose son has died, there is as yet no such understanding. He still takes the rope to be a snake. For his sake you may even weep a little. You may let fall a couple of tears. But within you nothing happens. You remain unperturbed. Tears do not fall inside; they leave no wound, no stain.
Someone laughs; you may also laugh. But you know there is nothing now truly to laugh at, and nothing now truly to weep about. The world goes on. For you it has become a dream, but that does not make it disappear. Trees will bloom, birds will sing, people will fall in love, deaths will occur, births will occur, bands will play, weddings will be celebrated, the shehnai will sound, someone will die and the chant “Ram naam satya hai” will be recited—this all will continue.
For you it has ended. For you it ending means only this: you are no longer possessed by it. For you all has become acting. But everything continues.
Where is there to run? What use is running? Because if you run, you again become the doer. That is why Krishna insists: do not run—otherwise running too is doership.
And running also means that you have taken that from which you fled as real. The rope was taken as a snake; you ran. One fool took a stick to kill it; another turned his back and fled. But the wise neither runs nor goes to kill; he only looks.
Seeing is called darshan. He only sees; he only becomes a witness. Then nothing touches him; he passes through the river and his feet do not get wet. Then Kabir is right: you return the sheet of life just as you received it, spotless—without a single stain.
So keep the formula of acting in mind. The whole Gita of Krishna is contained in it. Life is acting—then your witness will arise. And certainly, do not make the mistake of thinking, “Our life is spiritual; therefore this is not acting.” This too is acting—spiritual acting. Someone wears blue or green; you have put on ochre. This is spiritual acting—the final acting. Beyond this lies the ultimate. Know even this to be acting.
Do not take sannyas too seriously; otherwise you will be entangled. Take it lightly; take it knowingly. Sannyas only announces that now, for us, everything is acting—but sannyas itself is included in that “everything.” It is a notice that we have folded up our shop. We have no more taste in acting.
Your ochre color announces this: let people understand that the play no longer enchants you. Even if you stand upon the stage, it is only because there is nowhere else to go. You have handed over doership to the Divine. You are no longer the doer.
Sannyas cannot be taken; if it is “taken,” you become the doer again. Sannyas happens; it is the flower of understanding. As you understand, it happens. One day it happens: suddenly you find the world gone and sannyas has arrived. It is God’s grace, His gift to you, as everything was a gift. This is the final gift. It is the sign of the maturity of your life—that you have awakened.
Spiritual games are also games. Someone worships in a temple, someone repeats the name of Rama, someone wraps himself in the blanket of Rama’s name, someone goes on a pilgrimage. If anywhere within these the sense of doership remains, you are missing, you are going wrong. If there is no sense of doership, everything is beautiful.
The essence is only this: the sense of doership is the ugliest event in this world. And non‑doership is its beauty.
It will be difficult. For religious teachers tell you: leave the world, hold on to religion. They say the world is maya; religion is not maya. They say the shop is maya; the temple is not!
It is amusing. The temple stands in the same marketplace as the shop. Those who have run the shops have built the temples. The ones who run the shops are the trustees of the temple too. They earn in the shop, and from that the temple runs. The priest is the servant of the shopkeepers. The gold and silver that are valuable in the market are valuable in the temple as well. The coins that circulate in the market, those same coins circulate in the temple.
The temple is not outside the marketplace. I am not saying it should be. It cannot be. But the temple too should know that it is within the market.
Whatever can be done in this world is all worldliness. What cannot be done—the ray that arises from your non‑doership—that ray alone takes you beyond the world.
Doership is the world; ego is the world. To become non‑doer, to become an instrument, to become an actor—that is moksha, that is liberation.
Second question: Osho, if life is a storyline in which each person’s role is fixed and one only has to enact it as ordained, isn’t that fatalism?
The word has been spoiled; with too much use it’s become debased. Otherwise “destiny” is a very lovely word. Destiny means things happen; they are not “done.” Destiny means the plot is decided—don’t worry needlessly. Destiny means what has to happen will happen; what had to happen has happened; what has to be will go on happening. Don’t carry the burden on your head. You are not responsible.
Think of it like this: a Ramleela is being performed; the leela, the play, is on. Rama knows perfectly well that Sita will be abducted. There’s no need to stay awake nights, worrying. It’s all fixed. It’s a script. Sita will be abducted, Rama will wander from forest to forest, asking every tree, “Where is my Sita?” And he will ask with great feeling. Then the curtain will fall, and backstage they’ll laugh and chat. Ravana will be sitting there too. They’ll drink tea and go home.
Behind the grand curtain of this life, Rama and Ravana meet; enemies and friends all come together. All the differences are only on the screen in front.
“Destiny” was a very sweet word, but it got spoiled. In human hands, all coins get worn, become stale, get rubbed down. After long use, words lose their sweetness.
Destiny does not mean you sit passively doing nothing. But that’s the meaning it has come to carry. Destiny does not mean sloth. Destiny means the sense of non-doership. There is a great difference between the two.
But man is clever, crafty; he extracts what suits his convenience. From destiny he didn’t draw the sense of non-doership; he drew laziness. He said, “Then what is there to do? If everything is happening on its own, what is there to do? It will go on happening.” And so he sat down—sluggish, indolent.
From this sloth and laziness, tamas increased; there was no arising of sattva. He sank into idleness, fell into darkness; he did not rise into light. And he found a handy excuse: “It’s all destiny.”
All of India has fallen into this tamas in just this way: “It’s destiny; what is there to do? Whatever is to be, will be. What can our doing change?”
But those who coined the word had a very different purpose. Their purpose was to attain the sense of non-doership. You are not the doer; the Divine is. Do what He has you do. Don’t sit idle. Don’t run away. Keep moving in life and say, “Whatever You have me do, I will do. As You will.” Therefore, if something good happens, we will not be elated; if something bad happens, we will not be miserable. Because none of it is our doing; it is all Your will. You know. The final accounting is with You. You sow the seed; You reap the harvest; we are only the caretakers in between. Nothing is ours. We have nothing to get or give. The whole spread is Yours. For a while You have seated us at the shop, so we are sitting at the counter. When You ask us to get up, we will get up. The shop is not ours. It will remain right here.
If such a feeling arises, there will be no inertia; action will become intense, pure, luminous. And when the doer is removed from behind action, action itself becomes worship, becomes yoga, becomes sadhana. Then action refines you; it doesn’t rot you. Then action takes you through fire and turns you into gold.
The meaning of destiny was: leave it to the Divine, and do whatever He has you do. We, instead, took it to mean: “Since He is doing it, why should we do anything? We’ve left it to Him; we’re sitting. Now we won’t do. If the shop is Yours, You run it; we’re off.”
Either the shop is ours and we’re ready to run it; or the shop is Yours—then You take care, we’re gone. If the shop is ours and we run it, anxiety will seize us. If it’s not ours, we won’t run it!
If action is lost from life, brilliance is lost. Just as when a spring stops flowing, it becomes foul; when a tree stops growing, it rots. Wherever there is blockage, there decay sets in.
If action is lost from life, your spring no longer flows. Consciousness does not flow, does not journey. You will begin to rot; you will become a pond, a stagnant puddle. There will be only mud.
Either we become lazy, or we become the doer. And the point is to be in between. Do not be lazy; do not become the doer. Whoever has grasped this has caught hold of the blade’s edge. For him, the path is found.
Avoid the doer; do not run away from action. Then you have understood the essence of Krishna. Then the word “destiny” becomes lovely again—full of dignity, full of glory. Then you can sit in the little boat of this small word and cross the entire ocean of becoming.
But if you play tricks, the very boat that carries one across—if you turn it upside down—by that same boat you will drown. The boat that floats can also sink you.
You have turned the word “destiny” upside down in your life. You want to travel in an overturned boat! It keeps going under.
Think of it like this: a Ramleela is being performed; the leela, the play, is on. Rama knows perfectly well that Sita will be abducted. There’s no need to stay awake nights, worrying. It’s all fixed. It’s a script. Sita will be abducted, Rama will wander from forest to forest, asking every tree, “Where is my Sita?” And he will ask with great feeling. Then the curtain will fall, and backstage they’ll laugh and chat. Ravana will be sitting there too. They’ll drink tea and go home.
Behind the grand curtain of this life, Rama and Ravana meet; enemies and friends all come together. All the differences are only on the screen in front.
“Destiny” was a very sweet word, but it got spoiled. In human hands, all coins get worn, become stale, get rubbed down. After long use, words lose their sweetness.
Destiny does not mean you sit passively doing nothing. But that’s the meaning it has come to carry. Destiny does not mean sloth. Destiny means the sense of non-doership. There is a great difference between the two.
But man is clever, crafty; he extracts what suits his convenience. From destiny he didn’t draw the sense of non-doership; he drew laziness. He said, “Then what is there to do? If everything is happening on its own, what is there to do? It will go on happening.” And so he sat down—sluggish, indolent.
From this sloth and laziness, tamas increased; there was no arising of sattva. He sank into idleness, fell into darkness; he did not rise into light. And he found a handy excuse: “It’s all destiny.”
All of India has fallen into this tamas in just this way: “It’s destiny; what is there to do? Whatever is to be, will be. What can our doing change?”
But those who coined the word had a very different purpose. Their purpose was to attain the sense of non-doership. You are not the doer; the Divine is. Do what He has you do. Don’t sit idle. Don’t run away. Keep moving in life and say, “Whatever You have me do, I will do. As You will.” Therefore, if something good happens, we will not be elated; if something bad happens, we will not be miserable. Because none of it is our doing; it is all Your will. You know. The final accounting is with You. You sow the seed; You reap the harvest; we are only the caretakers in between. Nothing is ours. We have nothing to get or give. The whole spread is Yours. For a while You have seated us at the shop, so we are sitting at the counter. When You ask us to get up, we will get up. The shop is not ours. It will remain right here.
If such a feeling arises, there will be no inertia; action will become intense, pure, luminous. And when the doer is removed from behind action, action itself becomes worship, becomes yoga, becomes sadhana. Then action refines you; it doesn’t rot you. Then action takes you through fire and turns you into gold.
The meaning of destiny was: leave it to the Divine, and do whatever He has you do. We, instead, took it to mean: “Since He is doing it, why should we do anything? We’ve left it to Him; we’re sitting. Now we won’t do. If the shop is Yours, You run it; we’re off.”
Either the shop is ours and we’re ready to run it; or the shop is Yours—then You take care, we’re gone. If the shop is ours and we run it, anxiety will seize us. If it’s not ours, we won’t run it!
If action is lost from life, brilliance is lost. Just as when a spring stops flowing, it becomes foul; when a tree stops growing, it rots. Wherever there is blockage, there decay sets in.
If action is lost from life, your spring no longer flows. Consciousness does not flow, does not journey. You will begin to rot; you will become a pond, a stagnant puddle. There will be only mud.
Either we become lazy, or we become the doer. And the point is to be in between. Do not be lazy; do not become the doer. Whoever has grasped this has caught hold of the blade’s edge. For him, the path is found.
Avoid the doer; do not run away from action. Then you have understood the essence of Krishna. Then the word “destiny” becomes lovely again—full of dignity, full of glory. Then you can sit in the little boat of this small word and cross the entire ocean of becoming.
But if you play tricks, the very boat that carries one across—if you turn it upside down—by that same boat you will drown. The boat that floats can also sink you.
You have turned the word “destiny” upside down in your life. You want to travel in an overturned boat! It keeps going under.
Third question:
Osho, you have greatly extolled the Mahabharata, calling it the complete poetry of life. Then is the claim correct that whatever is not in the Mahabharata is nowhere? And does this claim not limit the vastness of life?
Osho, you have greatly extolled the Mahabharata, calling it the complete poetry of life. Then is the claim correct that whatever is not in the Mahabharata is nowhere? And does this claim not limit the vastness of life?
Let us understand it in two parts.
First, the claim is correct. Whatever is not in the Mahabharata is nowhere. The Mahabharata was born at that ultimate peak to which any civilization can reach. Like spring among the seasons: the beauty known in spring is ultimate. Through the year you may catch its fragrance many times, but the summit is touched only in spring.
Every civilization has its spring. But immediately after spring the descent begins. Every civilization reaches its highest peak; from there the decline starts. Wherever there is perfection, from there death begins to happen.
The Mahabharata was the ultimate summit of Indian civilization. But from the peak, the fall comes. As the wheel of a cart turns: the part that reaches the very top, the moment it reaches, begins to come down. As the wheel of life turns: one is a child, becomes young, grows old, dies.
Have you ever noticed when you begin to grow old? Exactly at thirty-five you begin to grow old. You may become aware of it at fifty—that’s another matter. But you start aging at thirty-five—if you are to live seventy years, the circle completes at seventy, and at thirty-five it touches its last height.
So at thirty-five your genius is in full bloom. The body is at its final height of health. From there energy begins to decline. That’s why between forty and forty-five heart attacks and all kinds of illnesses begin to appear. Energy has started descending. Death begins to send word, begins to knock at the door.
It is only fitting that Krishna is the supreme peak of India. We have called him the complete incarnation.
The civilization of the East touched its ultimate height—Gauri Shankar, Everest. In the Mahabharata is the whole distilled essence of what the East discovered in its long journey through life—the essence of thousands of years. And then came the decline; it had to.
So the Mahabharata is both the height and the beginning of the fall. From there the circle began to move downward. We have not yet been able to touch that height again. We wander, we search.
And the Indian mind is always turned backward. Because the heights we once saw, the golden peaks we once touched, do not get forgotten. They come in our dreams; they descend into our poetry; they surround us like a shadow, their sweetness calls us.
That is why India is perhaps the only country in the world that looks back. In America people look ahead. They have not yet touched their last peak. Just as a child looks toward the future, the old begin to look back. In America people think of tomorrow. In India we think of the gone, the past.
There is a reason. We saw the height; going higher than that no longer seems possible—it seems impossible. The Mahabharata is the distilled essence of that entire civilization which scattered and was lost. Other civilizations arose in the world and perished, but they could not leave behind their distillation.
Babylonian civilization vanished—only a few ruins remain. No great scripture remains that tells the tale of their entire glory.
Assyria vanished; Egypt vanished. The pyramids stand, stone inscriptions remain. But no source of luminous knowledge remains by which we could once again grasp what Egypt touched in its youth, in its fullness. What Egypt knew at the last height of its youth—hard to say; one can only imagine.
India alone is such a land that what it had come to know remained behind in the Mahabharata. It is written. Today much of it may feel unbelievable. Many things have become difficult to believe—because today it is hard to prove them. But as science advances, it seems whatever is written in the Mahabharata might well be true—because science is making those very things observable again.
Consider this: the conception of weapons in the Mahabharata appears precisely atomic. The kind of vast destruction described could only be wrought by nuclear arms.
The West has once again come close to atomic weaponry. And there is the possibility that if a third world war occurs, the whole of civilization will be destroyed. The records that remain then will not be believed for thousands of years, because no proof would be left.
And note this: whenever a civilization is destroyed, its great cities—where the civilization is concentrated—are the first to be annihilated. Small villages, distant primitive tribes remain. If India were destroyed today and Bastar’s tribals survived, then in their tales it would remain that trains ran, airplanes flew. But they would not be able to explain it to their children. And if the children asked, “How did they fly?” how would a tribal from Bastar explain how an airplane flies? He had seen them flying; but how they flew—how would he explain that! To understand that is an entire science.
If a third world war happens, New York, London, Bombay, Delhi, Paris will be destroyed; the metropolises will vanish. What will remain are small villages, tucked away in distant mountains. In their stories the memory will remain. And for thousands of years they will repeat those stories, and the elders will say, “We have known.” But the children will doubt, because it will all sound like stories; they will have no proof.
Whenever a great civilization is lost, all its proofs are shattered.
So this saying—whatever is in the Mahabharata is all there is, and whatever is not there is nowhere—is true in many senses. Because whenever a civilization touches its height, it touches all those things which any civilization at its height will touch. There will be small differences of detail, but the essential will be the same.
I too say: whatever is not in the Mahabharata is nowhere. If you don’t find it in the Mahabharata, look a little more carefully—you will. Whatever you find anywhere, search for it carefully in the Mahabharata.
The Mahabharata is our Encyclopedia Britannica. Just as if you don’t find it in the Encyclopedia Britannica, you might assume it does not exist—it is their collected essence. If European civilization were lost and Britannica remained, you can imagine the situation; similarly the Mahabharata remained while our civilization was lost.
It is our dictionary, our lexicon, our treasury of knowledge, our encyclopedia—everything. Though in those days the way of saying things was different. We said them in stories. And those ways of saying are themselves worth pondering.
Stories are easy to remember; they can be carried for thousands of years. A story has a capacity to enter the memory. So we wrote in stories. And into those stories we placed everything. Whenever someone has the eyes, the understanding, the key, they will open it.
And at the center of the Mahabharata is the Gita. Everything is in the Mahabharata. Whatever is not in it is nowhere. And whatever is in the Mahabharata—its cream, its clarified essence—is in the Gita. And what is not in the Gita is not in the Mahabharata. The Gita is the distilled series of our entire spiritual quest.
The second question is: then does this mean we have limited the vast life to the Mahabharata?
No. It only makes clear that the vast can fit into the tiny; the great tree can fit into the seed. It means only this: do not take the small to be small; the vast may be hidden within it. This does not limit the vast; it makes the small vast. It depends on how you look.
You could look at it and say: this limits the vast—that vast life has been confined to the Mahabharata.
No; it does not limit the vast. It only shows that the small too is vast; the seed is the tree; the atom is the cosmos.
In a tiny drop the whole secret of the ocean is contained. You do not then say the ocean has been limited! Know a single drop rightly and you have known the whole ocean—nothing remains to be known. If you analyze one drop and discover its formula is H2O, the entire ocean stands analyzed. You do not need to analyze all the oceans. Recognize one drop and you have recognized all the seas.
All these scriptures are composed in sutras—each sutra holds the essence of the experiences of thousands upon thousands. They were created through deep churning, great reflection, profound meditation. That is why we call them sutras. They are seed-forms.
A small saying—do not take it to be small. Its consequences are vast. A tiny spark—do not think it tiny. From that tiny spark the whole universe could be reduced to ash.
No, no boundary is set for the vast; only the boundary of the small breaks.
In truth, the small and the vast cannot be two. If the vast is, then the small cannot be—because in the small too, the vast alone will be. And if the small is, the vast cannot be—because then the vast would be merely an aggregate of the small; how could it then be vast!
Take this rightly to heart. Since the whole of existence is infinite, every part of it must also be infinite. For you cannot make the infinite by adding finite parts. This is a simple mathematical notion.
If we keep adding finite pieces, we can certainly make something very large, but not the infinite. How can the infinite arise by joining finite fragments? Pile brick upon brick—you can build a great palace, but not the boundless.
Go the other way round. If this existence is infinite, beginningless and endless, then every fragment of it must also be infinite. Otherwise, made of fragmented limits, this vast would also have a limit.
The small is not small—this is how the knowers have known. The little is not little; the drop is not a drop—this is how the knowers have known.
First, the claim is correct. Whatever is not in the Mahabharata is nowhere. The Mahabharata was born at that ultimate peak to which any civilization can reach. Like spring among the seasons: the beauty known in spring is ultimate. Through the year you may catch its fragrance many times, but the summit is touched only in spring.
Every civilization has its spring. But immediately after spring the descent begins. Every civilization reaches its highest peak; from there the decline starts. Wherever there is perfection, from there death begins to happen.
The Mahabharata was the ultimate summit of Indian civilization. But from the peak, the fall comes. As the wheel of a cart turns: the part that reaches the very top, the moment it reaches, begins to come down. As the wheel of life turns: one is a child, becomes young, grows old, dies.
Have you ever noticed when you begin to grow old? Exactly at thirty-five you begin to grow old. You may become aware of it at fifty—that’s another matter. But you start aging at thirty-five—if you are to live seventy years, the circle completes at seventy, and at thirty-five it touches its last height.
So at thirty-five your genius is in full bloom. The body is at its final height of health. From there energy begins to decline. That’s why between forty and forty-five heart attacks and all kinds of illnesses begin to appear. Energy has started descending. Death begins to send word, begins to knock at the door.
It is only fitting that Krishna is the supreme peak of India. We have called him the complete incarnation.
The civilization of the East touched its ultimate height—Gauri Shankar, Everest. In the Mahabharata is the whole distilled essence of what the East discovered in its long journey through life—the essence of thousands of years. And then came the decline; it had to.
So the Mahabharata is both the height and the beginning of the fall. From there the circle began to move downward. We have not yet been able to touch that height again. We wander, we search.
And the Indian mind is always turned backward. Because the heights we once saw, the golden peaks we once touched, do not get forgotten. They come in our dreams; they descend into our poetry; they surround us like a shadow, their sweetness calls us.
That is why India is perhaps the only country in the world that looks back. In America people look ahead. They have not yet touched their last peak. Just as a child looks toward the future, the old begin to look back. In America people think of tomorrow. In India we think of the gone, the past.
There is a reason. We saw the height; going higher than that no longer seems possible—it seems impossible. The Mahabharata is the distilled essence of that entire civilization which scattered and was lost. Other civilizations arose in the world and perished, but they could not leave behind their distillation.
Babylonian civilization vanished—only a few ruins remain. No great scripture remains that tells the tale of their entire glory.
Assyria vanished; Egypt vanished. The pyramids stand, stone inscriptions remain. But no source of luminous knowledge remains by which we could once again grasp what Egypt touched in its youth, in its fullness. What Egypt knew at the last height of its youth—hard to say; one can only imagine.
India alone is such a land that what it had come to know remained behind in the Mahabharata. It is written. Today much of it may feel unbelievable. Many things have become difficult to believe—because today it is hard to prove them. But as science advances, it seems whatever is written in the Mahabharata might well be true—because science is making those very things observable again.
Consider this: the conception of weapons in the Mahabharata appears precisely atomic. The kind of vast destruction described could only be wrought by nuclear arms.
The West has once again come close to atomic weaponry. And there is the possibility that if a third world war occurs, the whole of civilization will be destroyed. The records that remain then will not be believed for thousands of years, because no proof would be left.
And note this: whenever a civilization is destroyed, its great cities—where the civilization is concentrated—are the first to be annihilated. Small villages, distant primitive tribes remain. If India were destroyed today and Bastar’s tribals survived, then in their tales it would remain that trains ran, airplanes flew. But they would not be able to explain it to their children. And if the children asked, “How did they fly?” how would a tribal from Bastar explain how an airplane flies? He had seen them flying; but how they flew—how would he explain that! To understand that is an entire science.
If a third world war happens, New York, London, Bombay, Delhi, Paris will be destroyed; the metropolises will vanish. What will remain are small villages, tucked away in distant mountains. In their stories the memory will remain. And for thousands of years they will repeat those stories, and the elders will say, “We have known.” But the children will doubt, because it will all sound like stories; they will have no proof.
Whenever a great civilization is lost, all its proofs are shattered.
So this saying—whatever is in the Mahabharata is all there is, and whatever is not there is nowhere—is true in many senses. Because whenever a civilization touches its height, it touches all those things which any civilization at its height will touch. There will be small differences of detail, but the essential will be the same.
I too say: whatever is not in the Mahabharata is nowhere. If you don’t find it in the Mahabharata, look a little more carefully—you will. Whatever you find anywhere, search for it carefully in the Mahabharata.
The Mahabharata is our Encyclopedia Britannica. Just as if you don’t find it in the Encyclopedia Britannica, you might assume it does not exist—it is their collected essence. If European civilization were lost and Britannica remained, you can imagine the situation; similarly the Mahabharata remained while our civilization was lost.
It is our dictionary, our lexicon, our treasury of knowledge, our encyclopedia—everything. Though in those days the way of saying things was different. We said them in stories. And those ways of saying are themselves worth pondering.
Stories are easy to remember; they can be carried for thousands of years. A story has a capacity to enter the memory. So we wrote in stories. And into those stories we placed everything. Whenever someone has the eyes, the understanding, the key, they will open it.
And at the center of the Mahabharata is the Gita. Everything is in the Mahabharata. Whatever is not in it is nowhere. And whatever is in the Mahabharata—its cream, its clarified essence—is in the Gita. And what is not in the Gita is not in the Mahabharata. The Gita is the distilled series of our entire spiritual quest.
The second question is: then does this mean we have limited the vast life to the Mahabharata?
No. It only makes clear that the vast can fit into the tiny; the great tree can fit into the seed. It means only this: do not take the small to be small; the vast may be hidden within it. This does not limit the vast; it makes the small vast. It depends on how you look.
You could look at it and say: this limits the vast—that vast life has been confined to the Mahabharata.
No; it does not limit the vast. It only shows that the small too is vast; the seed is the tree; the atom is the cosmos.
In a tiny drop the whole secret of the ocean is contained. You do not then say the ocean has been limited! Know a single drop rightly and you have known the whole ocean—nothing remains to be known. If you analyze one drop and discover its formula is H2O, the entire ocean stands analyzed. You do not need to analyze all the oceans. Recognize one drop and you have recognized all the seas.
All these scriptures are composed in sutras—each sutra holds the essence of the experiences of thousands upon thousands. They were created through deep churning, great reflection, profound meditation. That is why we call them sutras. They are seed-forms.
A small saying—do not take it to be small. Its consequences are vast. A tiny spark—do not think it tiny. From that tiny spark the whole universe could be reduced to ash.
No, no boundary is set for the vast; only the boundary of the small breaks.
In truth, the small and the vast cannot be two. If the vast is, then the small cannot be—because in the small too, the vast alone will be. And if the small is, the vast cannot be—because then the vast would be merely an aggregate of the small; how could it then be vast!
Take this rightly to heart. Since the whole of existence is infinite, every part of it must also be infinite. For you cannot make the infinite by adding finite parts. This is a simple mathematical notion.
If we keep adding finite pieces, we can certainly make something very large, but not the infinite. How can the infinite arise by joining finite fragments? Pile brick upon brick—you can build a great palace, but not the boundless.
Go the other way round. If this existence is infinite, beginningless and endless, then every fragment of it must also be infinite. Otherwise, made of fragmented limits, this vast would also have a limit.
The small is not small—this is how the knowers have known. The little is not little; the drop is not a drop—this is how the knowers have known.
Fourth question:
Osho, you said that Mahavira refrained from many acts out of fear of violence. Was it fear of violence, or an upsurge of nonviolence and compassion?
Osho, you said that Mahavira refrained from many acts out of fear of violence. Was it fear of violence, or an upsurge of nonviolence and compassion?
For Mahavira it was indeed an upsurge of nonviolence and compassion; for his followers it became fear of violence. That is precisely where the difference between a true master and followers arises. The causes change, while the deeds look the same.
If compassion has arisen, you are not anxious that someone might die—because you know death never really happens. You are only concerned that no pain be inflicted because of you. “May I not, without cause, become the basis of someone’s suffering.” Out of compassion you withdraw from places and actions where you could become a source of hurt to anyone.
Mahavira avoids for the birth of great compassion. But those who follow him avoid not because great compassion has flowered in them. They are calculating: let there be no violence; if there is violence, sin might accrue; if sin accrues, I might fall into hell; karmic bondage may result. Their arithmetic is self-regarding. They are not concerned with the other; they are concerned only with themselves. It is a ledger of self-interest.
Yet the outward acts are identical. Hard to tell them apart, because both abstain. From the outside no easy distinction can be made. Therefore each person must develop the capacity to discern within: For what reason am I abstaining?
You give alms to someone. You may give because giving delights you. Or you may give because giving is an investment—you expect returns in the future: in liberation, in heaven; you will collect the principal with interest. You may give because a man is standing at your door, the neighborhood will talk, your prestige will be dented; he keeps asking and you aren’t giving two coins, so you give to save face. Or you give simply to get rid of him.
In every case the outer act is identical—you gave something—but the quality of the act differs entirely. If you gave in the spirit of joy, then only have you truly given. If you gave to get rid of him, you paid a bribe: “Here, baba, forgive me; move on; go elsewhere—take these two coins and free me.” You bribed him. If you gave to show the neighbors you are magnanimous—who wouldn’t be tempted to become a “great donor” for just two coins?—you bought ego from the onlookers; you made a deal. If you gave to reap reward in heaven and noted it in your accounts to recover from God with interest…
I have heard: a Marwari died. By some slip-up he went straight to heaven. The gatekeeper was startled: “A Marwari in heaven! How did you get here?” The man said, “Why shouldn’t I? I gave in charity.” The gatekeeper, worried, opened the ledgers and found he had once given three paise to an old woman. On the strength of those three paise he had arrived at heaven’s door—and he knocked as if he had donated his whole life. The gatekeeper asked his assistant, “What now? He won’t leave; he’ll demand his return with interest—look at that swagger. What to do?” The assistant put his hand in his pocket, pulled out four paise, and said, “Here, take four paise and go to hell. There’s no other way. Take back your charity with interest and reside in hell.”
Acts can be the same. The act is not the question. The decisive factor is the inner mood, the wellspring from which the act emerges. And only you can examine that—how you are doing what you do.
Forget about Mahavira. Whether he acts from fear or from compassion—Mahavira knows. Examine your own life. Whatever you do, let it not be negative; let it be creative. Let it arise from love, from compassion, from the impulse to give and share—then wonder will happen. Not in heaven, for there is no time to wait—here and now. In an act born of love you will at once glimpse joy. The fruit is not far away.
I do not trust those who say, “Do it now and you’ll get the fruit in heaven or hell—or in your next birth.” You will put your hand into fire now and get burned in your next life? I don’t accept it. Put your hand into fire now—you burn now. Walk through a garden of flowers now—you breathe fragrance now.
Life is utterly cash. Talking of credit looks like mischief—some trickery is involved, the handiwork of clever people who would bewitch you.
Life is completely cash. As it should be. Life never mortgages itself on tomorrow’s moment. You love—this very moment you are intoxicated with joy. You hate—this very moment you burn in hell-fire. You are angry—you drink poison. You forgive—you taste nectar. This very moment. The fruit is hidden in the act itself; there is no need to go far from it.
Two final small questions.
Is attaining buddhahood also predestined? If so, what difference does it make whether one does or does not do anything? No difference at all—but keep doing, as if in a play. Buddhahood will come to your door on its own. Buddhahood has nothing to do with doing or not-doing; it has to do with witnessing. The one who awakens—we call him Buddha.
Ego is your sleep; it keeps you unconscious. Let the ego collapse; let the sense of doer-ship drop. Keep doing outwardly—for you are in a hurry to drop action itself, not in a hurry to drop the sense of the doer.
You think, “If nothing makes a difference, if buddhahood is already destined, then I’ll just close my eyes, pull up the quilt, and sleep.” Then the Buddhas must have been fools; otherwise they too would have pulled up the quilt and slept!
Buddhahood is destined; it will happen, it will unfold. You can delay as long as you wish; wander as much as you like—it makes no difference, because buddhahood is your nature. But if you lie under the quilt asleep, the wandering will be very long. In the end buddhahood will be found whenever you throw off the quilt and open your eyes—you will discover you are Buddha.
The art of opening the eyes is to become a witness, not a doer. So don’t be in a hurry to abandon karma; be eager to drop the sense of the doer.
And the second question: From witnessing, the art of acting seems to arise, but why does the feeling of bliss not get connected? Then you are doing an acting of acting—fake. The acting must be real. If inwardly you still know yourself as the doer but, “What to do? This Krishna keeps insisting—so let’s act!”—then bliss will not arise.
Bliss is the touchstone. If you act as acting—as if, without the inner doer—bliss naturally flowers; it never fails. If bliss does not happen, know that the acting is also false. If bliss happens, understand that you have caught the secret of acting. You are on the road, on the right path. The temple may still be far, but not too far—the pinnacle will start to be visible, bliss will begin to dance. Sat-chit-ananda is not far when bliss starts to quiver within.
If compassion has arisen, you are not anxious that someone might die—because you know death never really happens. You are only concerned that no pain be inflicted because of you. “May I not, without cause, become the basis of someone’s suffering.” Out of compassion you withdraw from places and actions where you could become a source of hurt to anyone.
Mahavira avoids for the birth of great compassion. But those who follow him avoid not because great compassion has flowered in them. They are calculating: let there be no violence; if there is violence, sin might accrue; if sin accrues, I might fall into hell; karmic bondage may result. Their arithmetic is self-regarding. They are not concerned with the other; they are concerned only with themselves. It is a ledger of self-interest.
Yet the outward acts are identical. Hard to tell them apart, because both abstain. From the outside no easy distinction can be made. Therefore each person must develop the capacity to discern within: For what reason am I abstaining?
You give alms to someone. You may give because giving delights you. Or you may give because giving is an investment—you expect returns in the future: in liberation, in heaven; you will collect the principal with interest. You may give because a man is standing at your door, the neighborhood will talk, your prestige will be dented; he keeps asking and you aren’t giving two coins, so you give to save face. Or you give simply to get rid of him.
In every case the outer act is identical—you gave something—but the quality of the act differs entirely. If you gave in the spirit of joy, then only have you truly given. If you gave to get rid of him, you paid a bribe: “Here, baba, forgive me; move on; go elsewhere—take these two coins and free me.” You bribed him. If you gave to show the neighbors you are magnanimous—who wouldn’t be tempted to become a “great donor” for just two coins?—you bought ego from the onlookers; you made a deal. If you gave to reap reward in heaven and noted it in your accounts to recover from God with interest…
I have heard: a Marwari died. By some slip-up he went straight to heaven. The gatekeeper was startled: “A Marwari in heaven! How did you get here?” The man said, “Why shouldn’t I? I gave in charity.” The gatekeeper, worried, opened the ledgers and found he had once given three paise to an old woman. On the strength of those three paise he had arrived at heaven’s door—and he knocked as if he had donated his whole life. The gatekeeper asked his assistant, “What now? He won’t leave; he’ll demand his return with interest—look at that swagger. What to do?” The assistant put his hand in his pocket, pulled out four paise, and said, “Here, take four paise and go to hell. There’s no other way. Take back your charity with interest and reside in hell.”
Acts can be the same. The act is not the question. The decisive factor is the inner mood, the wellspring from which the act emerges. And only you can examine that—how you are doing what you do.
Forget about Mahavira. Whether he acts from fear or from compassion—Mahavira knows. Examine your own life. Whatever you do, let it not be negative; let it be creative. Let it arise from love, from compassion, from the impulse to give and share—then wonder will happen. Not in heaven, for there is no time to wait—here and now. In an act born of love you will at once glimpse joy. The fruit is not far away.
I do not trust those who say, “Do it now and you’ll get the fruit in heaven or hell—or in your next birth.” You will put your hand into fire now and get burned in your next life? I don’t accept it. Put your hand into fire now—you burn now. Walk through a garden of flowers now—you breathe fragrance now.
Life is utterly cash. Talking of credit looks like mischief—some trickery is involved, the handiwork of clever people who would bewitch you.
Life is completely cash. As it should be. Life never mortgages itself on tomorrow’s moment. You love—this very moment you are intoxicated with joy. You hate—this very moment you burn in hell-fire. You are angry—you drink poison. You forgive—you taste nectar. This very moment. The fruit is hidden in the act itself; there is no need to go far from it.
Two final small questions.
Is attaining buddhahood also predestined? If so, what difference does it make whether one does or does not do anything? No difference at all—but keep doing, as if in a play. Buddhahood will come to your door on its own. Buddhahood has nothing to do with doing or not-doing; it has to do with witnessing. The one who awakens—we call him Buddha.
Ego is your sleep; it keeps you unconscious. Let the ego collapse; let the sense of doer-ship drop. Keep doing outwardly—for you are in a hurry to drop action itself, not in a hurry to drop the sense of the doer.
You think, “If nothing makes a difference, if buddhahood is already destined, then I’ll just close my eyes, pull up the quilt, and sleep.” Then the Buddhas must have been fools; otherwise they too would have pulled up the quilt and slept!
Buddhahood is destined; it will happen, it will unfold. You can delay as long as you wish; wander as much as you like—it makes no difference, because buddhahood is your nature. But if you lie under the quilt asleep, the wandering will be very long. In the end buddhahood will be found whenever you throw off the quilt and open your eyes—you will discover you are Buddha.
The art of opening the eyes is to become a witness, not a doer. So don’t be in a hurry to abandon karma; be eager to drop the sense of the doer.
And the second question: From witnessing, the art of acting seems to arise, but why does the feeling of bliss not get connected? Then you are doing an acting of acting—fake. The acting must be real. If inwardly you still know yourself as the doer but, “What to do? This Krishna keeps insisting—so let’s act!”—then bliss will not arise.
Bliss is the touchstone. If you act as acting—as if, without the inner doer—bliss naturally flowers; it never fails. If bliss does not happen, know that the acting is also false. If bliss happens, understand that you have caught the secret of acting. You are on the road, on the right path. The temple may still be far, but not too far—the pinnacle will start to be visible, bliss will begin to dance. Sat-chit-ananda is not far when bliss starts to quiver within.
Osho's Commentary
Thus, O Arjuna, a man whose intelligence is free of attachment and desire, and whose inner being is conquered, attains through renunciation the supreme perfection of actionlessness—that is, he attains the supreme perfection which is the realization of the actionless, pure, solid mass of Existence-Consciousness-Bliss, the Divine.
Krishna accepts all. His acceptance knows no conditions or limits. He is utterly unconditional. He says: Arjuna, there is no need for sannyas. Stay where you are; while doing your duty, by renouncing the craving for fruits, renunciation is accomplished. But this does not mean that those who take sannyas, who disappear into the Himalayas, who choose solitude—do not attain the Divine.
We quickly erect dogmas. On one side are those who say, “Unless you renounce everything, liberation is impossible.” Opposite them are those who say, “What question of renunciation! Live in the world, do your work, surrender the sense of doer-ship to God, and you will attain liberation.” Those who hold the second view see sannyasins as wrong; those who hold the first see householders as wrong.
Krishna has no bias. He says: There will be people for whom existence itself intends sannyas. Understand this well—it is delicate. For there will certainly be such people.
Just as Arjuna understood, his doubts thinned, and he entered the war—do you think if in Arjuna’s place there had been Siddhartha Gautama, the Buddha, or Vardhamana Mahavira, the same event would have occurred? No. In Mahavira’s very being there is something from which the flower of renunciation must blossom. Mahavira did not impose sannyas upon himself; existence brought it to fruition in him.
So Krishna says: The sannyasin too attains. He is not saying, “Don’t imagine the sannyasin does not attain.” The key to attainment is neither sannyas nor householder’s life. The key is the renunciation of fruit-desire. Whether you drop fruit-desire while living at home—if home suits your nature—or not.
There are people for whom homelessness alone suits. It is in their nature—it is their swadharma. It is not right to restrain them. Until they are homeless they will not feel at ease. They are wanderers by nature. If you tie them to a house, it will be death for them; home will be a prison.
Just as there are women and men in the world—opposites, different, with distinct angles of life and mind—so in every dimension of life there are opposites. Some are householders; some are renunciates. It is their nature.
If you force everyone into sannyas, there will be trouble—many householders will get trapped in it. If you make a householder a sannyasin, he will soon recreate householder-dharma within sannyas; he will turn even his renunciation into a home. Slowly, the whole world will creep in there too—he cannot help it. The seed of the householder is within him. Nor is there any need to avoid it; wherever you seat him, he will begin his own work.
I have heard: Some passengers were traveling by ship when a huge, ferocious fish attacked. No remedy seemed possible; the ship was small and the fish could sink it. They threw food into its mouth to placate it. For a while it was quiet, then returned. They threw more things—furniture too. Then came the turn to throw people! They drew lots, for no one would agree. A Jewish man was chosen and thrown in. Even that did not help. They thought, “At this rate we will all die; better to fight.” With spears they leapt in and killed the fish. When they cut open its belly, the story says, the furniture they had thrown—on it the Jewish man was seated on a chair, with a table before him. He had set up a stall with the food that had been thrown, and was selling items at two annas each to those the fish had already swallowed.
Some things you cannot change. A Jew is a Jew—wherever you send him, he will set up a shop. The story seems apt to me; people have their nature!
In the world there are two kinds of people: those we may call householders, and those we may call renunciates. They complement one another like women and men.
And even a renunciate, if he is to live, must depend on householders. Mahavira is utterly renunciate—but he must live on householders. He doesn’t even keep a water pot or a bowl for alms. But what difference does it make? Others prepare his food.
When a Jain monk travels, his “kitchen” travels behind him. I was astonished: what is this kitchen-business? A Jain monk receives food only from Jain households; not from just anyone. And where to find the kind of pure food he is permitted? So devotees travel with his kitchen.
And not one kitchen. The more renowned the monk, the more kitchens trail him—his prestige decides. For an ordinary monk one or two people—one woman, one man—may be enough. They set up the kitchen anywhere in a village or forest; he comes and takes his meal.
But if the monk is prominent, then the rule says he should not beg. In the morning he takes an inner vow: “I will eat only at the door where two bananas are hanging.” It is a way of leaving it to fate. If no house has two bananas hanging, that’s it—no food today.
When this began, it was significant and deep. It meant: he keeps no sense of doer-ship, not even this much. If existence wants to give, it will hang two bananas. Sometimes monks would take such vows that months would pass unmet.
Many times Mahavira would enter a village and return unfed. He would tell no one, for if he told, the whole thing would be spoiled. The vow must be kept within, taken during morning prayer and meditation: today’s symbol.
Once Mahavira vowed: “I will accept food only from a house before which stands a black cow with white spots, with jaggery stuck to her horn.” He too chose something far-fetched! He went to villages for many days and did not get food, for how often will a cow be standing—and with jaggery on its horn!
But one day it happened. A bullock cart laden with jaggery passed; a cow must have poked it and got jaggery stuck to her horn; she was standing before a house. But even that is not enough. The people of the house must invite the monk to accept food. If they don’t invite, what will the cow’s presence do? Mahavira’s understanding was: only if food has been prepared for me is it fit to accept. Why ask for it? If existence wants to give, it will have it made and keep it ready; it will arrange everything; it will fulfill whatever my condition is. It took three months for this incident to come together.
Now, for the more famous Jain monks, one kitchen does not suffice—twenty are set up. Twenty kitchens means a hundred or a hundred and fifty men and women trail behind. Wherever the monk stops, twenty kitchens spring up, twenty tents cook food. Then he stands before the tents and his morning vow is fulfilled.
And now it is always fulfilled, because the rules are fixed and known. The two bananas—everyone knows, so they hang two bananas. “A woman with a child must stand at the door”—in India it’s no obstacle; women are anyway standing at doors with children! “The householder should fold his hands and invite”—so he does. Such simple conditions have been made common knowledge among devotees. But twenty kitchens set up!
It is astonishing. One ordinary householder needs one kitchen; for a monk twenty kitchens are required! That’s householder-ism twenty times over. What could be done with two loaves from one kitchen now requires twenty; all that food is wasted, for he will accept from only one place.
Remember, when rules are born, there is something else in them—soon human cunning enters and everything is perverted.
In my view there are two kinds of people: renunciates and householders. If you keep a renunciate at home, in a few days the house will look like an ashram or a dharmashala. He cannot earn much; that race is not in him; that craving is absent. Whatever he gets, he will share; he delights more in giving than in accumulating. Seat a householder in a temple; in a few days you’ll find the temple has become a shop. Because the seeds lie within us.
The difficulty is that often opposites attract. The householder is drawn to the renunciate; the renunciate is drawn to the householder. This attraction bewilders. It is essential to recognize yourself: What is my tendency? What is my nature? What is my swabhava?
This is what Krishna calls recognizing swadharma. He says, swadharme nidhanam shreyah—better to die in one’s own nature.
Do not misunderstand this to mean: better to die as a Hindu, or as a Muslim. It has nothing to do with sects. Swadharma means your intrinsic nature—your own way. To die in that is better, because if you die fulfilling your nature, even death becomes great peace, great contentment, samadhi.
Paradharma—the nature of another—is perilous, says Krishna. However attractive it may seem, it is not yours; it doesn’t fit your being. Don’t tangle with it; otherwise you’ll run into trouble. Then even while living, there will be suffering—life will become hell.
But Krishna is not partisan. He says: Wherever you are, as your feeling is—if you find it simple and natural to remain in action, then drop fruit-desire; that is enough. If you find it natural to drop action itself, then drop action—only beware that even in renouncing action, fruit-desire does not arise, for the root issue is fruit-desire.
Don’t go sit somewhere renouncing the world and keep muttering: “Now I should get liberation; it should come now. Why the delay in the fruit? Why has God not come to my door yet? I have renounced so much!”
The formula is: renounce the desire for fruits—whether in the house or in sannyas; whether in action or in nonaction; whether in the marketplace or in the Himalayas—keep one thing in mind: drop fruit-desire; drop the sense of the doer.
O Arjuna, unattached, desireless, and with a conquered inner being, a person attains through sannyas the supreme perfection of actionlessness.
O son of Kunti, listen from me how one who has attained the perfection of inner purity reaches the compact mass of Existence-Consciousness-Bliss—the Brahman—and becomes steadfast in supreme knowledge. Endowed with purified intelligence, frequenting solitude and pure places, moderate in diet, with mind, speech, and body mastered, firmly established in dispassion, devoted to constant meditation; by subduing the inner instrument through sattvic concentration, by renouncing the sense-objects like sound, by destroying attachment and aversion; by dropping ego, power, pride, lust, anger, and possessiveness; becoming free of “mine-ness” and peaceful—such a one becomes fit to be one with the compact mass of sat-chit-ananda, the Brahman.
Krishna says many things in this sutra. Note the foundational ones.
Free of desire (spruha)…
One who has no envy or competitive craving in relation to others. So long as you have spruha—competitiveness—you are pursuing something of this world. Here, things are few and desirers are many; therefore everything is a struggle.
In regard to the Divine there is no need for struggle. There are hardly any desirers, and the Divine is abundant. Whether one wants Him or a thousand want Him, He is not diminished. Hence there is no need for spruha.
Where there is spruha, there is worldliness. Desire the Divine directly. Do not raise any question of competing with others. He is such that all may take and He is still not exhausted. The Upanishads say: From that Fullness even if we draw out Fullness, Fullness alone remains. Take as much as you want; it will not run out. So do not panic; do not compete.
Endowed with purified intelligence…
Intelligence crowded with thought is impure intelligence. It is intelligence, but veiled in smoke—like a lamp whose flame is surrounded by soot. Purified intelligence means the smoke has disappeared; thoughts are gone. Only the flame remains—the pure form of intelligence itself.
Frequenting solitude and pure places…
As one drops the sense of doing and drops thoughts, solitude arises within. Right now you always want the other—crowds, society. Alone, you are afraid; alone, you feel, “What to do?” You get bored in aloneness. You are not willing to be with yourself. And one who is not willing to be with himself will not be able to be with God. Ultimately, being with oneself is being with God—because He is the very core of your ultimate life, your center.
Solitude, pure places; moderate in diet; mastery of mind, speech, and body; firmly established in dispassion…
What is firm dispassion? Unripe dispassion is when you renounce before you have even tasted the hurt of attachment; at the first little difficulty you flee the world. Such unripe dispassion will not help; you will return. The world will keep calling you back.
Know life well; endure its pain to the very roots; let its sorrow penetrate every fiber—so that its longing becomes zero. Only one who has been thoroughly burned in the world becomes fit for the Divine.
Firm in dispassion, devoted to constant meditation…
Whatever you do—get up, sit, sleep, walk, be silent, speak—let a continuous current of awareness flow within. Stay conscious. Eat consciously, walk consciously. Don’t live like a drunkard; don’t be in a stupor; be awake in all you do. Let each bead of your actions be strung on the thread of awareness. Only then does that supreme steadfastness in the knowledge of the Real—the compact mass of sat-chit-ananda—become available.
By abandoning ego, power, pride, lust, anger, and possessiveness; becoming free of “mine-ness” and peaceful—one becomes fit for oneness with Brahman.
The Divine can be found this very moment—you are not ready.
People ask me, “How can we find God?” I tell them: Don’t ask that. Ask only: How can we become worthy of God? The moment you are worthy, He is already found.
But no one asks how to become worthy. We take it for granted that we are worthy; we ask only how to find Him. And if we do not find, we say, “There is no God; if He were, we would have found Him.”
From not finding God, we do not infer that perhaps we are not vessels, not worthy. The blind man says, “There must be no light; that is why I do not see.” The deaf man says, “There must be no sound, no music; that is why I do not hear.”
You too say, “There must be no God; that is why I do not find Him.” You assume you have eyes and ears—that you are the vessel. There the mistake begins.
If you do not find God, ask: How can I become a worthy vessel? If you do not find bliss, ask: How can I become a worthy vessel? If life does not taste of nectar, ask: How can I become a worthy vessel?
Here is where philosophy and religion part ways. The philosopher sets out to investigate whether God exists. The religious person begins to fashion his own worthiness: Am I a vessel or not? The philosopher goes on searching and never finds; the religious person finds.
Your worthiness will ultimately become the meeting with the Divine. He is present—perhaps right before your eyes, behind your eyes, around you—He surrounds you on all sides.
Kabir has said: I laugh to see a fish thirsty in water—surrounded by water on all sides, yet thirsty.
All around you is That which you seek. When you move your hand, it is in Him. When you speak, it is in Him. When you walk, it is in Him. When you sleep, it is in Him. You have come from Him; you will dissolve in Him. And you ask, “Where is He?”
Surely, you lack that sensitive heart which can recognize Him; those sensitive eyes which can see Him; those sensitive hands which can touch Him.
So do not raise questions about God; raise questions about your own worthiness. Whoever raised the question of worthiness, one day attained the Divine. And whoever kept asking about God, sooner or later had to admit there is no God. For you will seek and not find, try in every way and not find; in the end only atheism will be left in your hand. Focus on God—and you become an atheist. Focus on yourself—and becoming a theist is certain.
Therefore there have been theists on earth who never spoke of God at all—Buddha and Mahavira never raised the topic. It is useless to talk of it. They spoke only of themselves—of purifying themselves, becoming stainless, attaining inner virginity. In that very instant everything is found.
Whenever anyone asked Buddha about God, he said: Don’t raise futile questions. Drop this nonsense. Speak of yourself. How to purify your vessel—that is enough.
Let the vessel here be ready—and there, the clouds gather; the rain pours. Not even a moment’s delay.
That’s all for today.