Geeta Darshan #10

Even the remembrance of the Divine becomes a seed only in those minds that have become free of the grasses and weeds of desires, aversions and attachments. Just as a gardener, preparing new soil, does not sow the seed straightaway—he uproots the weeds, throws away the useless roots, prepares the earth, and only then casts the seed.
A mind filled with desire and hatred is so overgrown with weeds, so crowded with futile roots, that there is no possibility for the seed of prayer to sprout in it.
This race of the mind—poisoning itself with its own hands—until it ends, the worship of the Divine is impossible.
I have heard: a fakir came to speak in a church. About a thousand people had gathered to listen. He asked those thousand people, I would like to ask you—Is there anyone among you who has conquered hatred? Because one who has not yet conquered hatred will not be capable of prayer. Before I call you to prayer, let me know whether there is anyone among you who has conquered hatred!
Among the thousand, no one seemed to rise, but then one man stood up—a hundred-and-four-year-old old man.
That priest said, I am happy, delighted, overjoyed—because if even in a thousand there is one who has conquered hatred, that is no small thing. And if even one person in this church has conquered hatred, then we shall succeed in invoking the Divine into this church. Your prayer alone will be enough to cast light into all these lives. I will pray to you, said the fakir, to also tell these people how you attained victory over your hatred.
And that old man said, Very simply. For all those wicked ones who tormented me, and all those fools who troubled me—those whom I hated—they are all dead. Now no one remains whom I can hate. You tell me, whom should I hate?
He is a hundred and four; almost all those with whom there had been quarrels and conflicts in life have died. He said, Now there is no need of hatred. In this way, from everyone’s life raga-dvesha drops away; from everyone’s life. The body grows feeble, lust becomes feeble. As the race of life slows and comes close to death, many impulses relax by themselves. Competition, as one approaches death, begins to wane. But even so, if someone thinks he will succeed in prayer in this manner, it is not possible.
Let energy be whole, power be whole; let the opportunity be total—where hatred is born and yet hatred does not arise; where aversion is provoked and yet aversion does not appear; where attachment would be born and yet attachment does not arise; where all adverse circumstances exist and still the mind does not rush toward life’s natural animal tendencies—only then does the seed of prayer sprout in life.
But we are such people that we do want prayer to blossom in life, we do want union with the Divine to happen, and bliss to descend. And that we become capable of seeing those mountain peaks where the light never wanes; and that we come to know, by experience, those depths where nectar dwells; that we enter those temples where the Supreme Lord abides—such is our longing. Yet for twenty-four hours we water the seeds of hatred, we tend aversion, we nurse enmity. And in every way we do all that can ruin the soil. And then we think the flower of Bhagavat-bhajan might someday bloom—this is not possible.
Krishna says: the foolish, the ignorant, finish their lives in desire and aversion. They have neither strength left, nor time left, nor consciousness left to be able to flow toward me. But the wise...
And who is wise? Only he is wise who is able to direct his life continually in the direction of bliss. And the ignorant is he who undertakes the journey to hell with his own hands—who carries his own hell with him. Wherever he reaches, he will manufacture a hell. He has a built-in program. He always has ready the formula for making hell. Wherever he goes, it will not take long—he will construct a hell.
The ignorant is the one who walks with all the possibilities of hell around him. And the wise is the one who carries with him all the possibilities of heaven. The greatest possibility of heaven is remembrance of the Divine.
Therefore Krishna says: that wise one who has made his mind desireless, purified it; in whose life the fragrance of virtue has arisen; who has uprooted and thrown away the useless weeds; who no longer lives in raga-dvesha; who now walks constantly in the direction of Bhagavat-bhajan—rising, sitting, walking, moving, doing anything—each act of his is dedicated to the Divine, and each moment—such a person becomes available to me.
Two things are to be remembered.
Let me use this very event: it is raining now. Everything depends on our vision. If we think a great sorrow is falling upon us, our vision becomes inimical. If we think the grace of the Divine is showering, our vision becomes friendly. And then this falling drop will no longer remain a mere drop of water—this falling drop becomes a drop of Bhagavat consciousness.
How we take life—everything depends on that. We have no idea that, if only we knew how to live, then when clouds pour from the sky and water descends, we could dance in joy. Peacocks dance—and once human beings also danced—but now man only takes cover. If the sun has risen, in its light we can feel merely the heat, or we can feel life. When darkness gathers, we can see within it the journey of the coming dawn—or only the blackness of death.
It depends on us how we look at life. The rain will not stop because of your looking. The water will not cease; the clouds will not care for your worry. But a slight shift in your viewpoint, a small change in your attitude—and everything changes.
I have heard that in a California motel a traveler was a guest. Morning—the sun was rising and the birds were singing. The motel manager said to that traveler, Please come outside. The sun has risen, the birds are singing, the sky is very beautiful. The man said, That is fine. But first let me know how much it will cost!
The world we live in is a marketplace. There we measure everything by price. If someday rain became scarce, surely we would stand beneath a shower after paying money. And in those countries where the sun does not appear, when the sun does come out, there is a holiday. The reason for a holiday on Sunday is that it is Sun-day—the day of the sun. The sky remains covered with clouds; there is no glimpse of the sun. When the sun comes forth, people, exhilarated with joy, lie down to take the sun’s warmth.
What becomes scarce, for which we must pay—then we feel there is some joy in it. But what we receive for free—even if Paramatma were to shower upon us for free—we will shut our doors and windows and remain inside.
(The rain has begun, and Osho continues speaking.)
I say, we shall sit here for a little while. It seems to me none of you is going to leave; those who were going to leave did not come at all. The rain will not stop. The rain will not be afraid of you. The rain will continue. The clouds will remain absorbed in their own bliss. For about an hour we are to be here; how it is for you will depend on your vision.

I would like you to keep in mind that every drop is the blessing of the Divine. And when you go from here, not only will your body be wet—your soul will have been drenched too. And that soaking of the soul is the true worship of the Lord. His worship is not done by sitting in some corner of temples; his worship is done in every corner of life, in every direction, in every dimension.

Krishna says: Those in whose minds there is neither lust nor hatred, who are not filled with aversion toward anyone, can easily become absorbed in my devotion. And to such wise ones I become available.
(The rain continues, and Osho continues speaking.)
For this hour, do not be ignorant. For at least this hour, be wise. And if even for a single moment one can taste the joy of knowing, one will no longer be inclined to become ignorant again. One will be able to find the remembrance of the Lord everywhere.

A drop is falling upon you; it is not just water, it is the Divine as well. For apart from the Divine, there is nothing in this world. When a drop falls on your head and slips past your eyes, know that the Divine, with His full coolness, has descended upon you and flowed down. And you will find that even while sitting here, in this moment of rain, a depth of prayer has reached your heart. And that depth will do its work. These clothes will dry; that depth is not so easily dried.

For release from old age and death, those who take refuge in Me and strive—they know Brahman, the entirety of the inner Self, and all action. (29)

Those who take refuge in me!

Within this small word “refuge,” the whole essence of religion is contained. This refuge is the foundational principle of all the spiritual disciplines discovered in the East.

Those who take refuge in me!

To be in refuge means one finds oneself so helpless, so utterly without help. One sees: by my doing, nothing will be accomplished. One sees: by my doing, nothing has ever happened. One sees that I am as good as not—indeed, I am not. One sees: I am nothing. Neither does breath move because of me, nor does blood flow because of me; neither do clouds gather because of me, nor does the rain fall on account of me. The unknown, infinite power does everything. Why should I carry myself needlessly in the middle? Let me drop myself; let me be carried by the flow. Let me stop struggling against this infinite; let me become its collaborator; let me lay myself at the feet of this infinite and say, “As Your will.”

Even once, if someone can say with a whole heart, “As Your will,” sorrow departs from his life. My will is suffering; His will is never suffering.

It is not that then thorns will no longer pierce your feet, nor that illness will not come, nor that death will not arrive. But the wonder is: thorns will still pierce the feet, yet they will not be felt as thorns. Illness will still come, yet you will remain untouched. Death will still occur, yet you will not be able to die. Events will remain outside; you will have gone beyond.

In truth, apart from the “I,” there is no other suffering in this world, no other pain. And we are so full of “I” that even if the Divine wished to enter us, there would be no space. From every pore the “I” is speaking. It is that very “I” that does not allow us to surrender. It is that very “I” that does not let us rest our head anywhere in refuge. That “I” says, “You—and you will bow your head?” That “I” says, “We will make the whole world bow before us.”

I have seen some of Napoleon Bonaparte’s childhood notebooks. When Napoleon was a student, in one of his small school exercise books, he wrote a sentence. He was studying geography. Why? He was studying geography because he intended to conquer the whole world—so of course he had to know geography. From childhood the thought of conquering the whole world was in Napoleon’s mind; knowledge of geography was necessary. A very amusing incident occurred. And in this life, amusing incidents do occur—life is a very profound joke.

There is the tiny island of St. Helena—very small. On the map Napoleon drew a circle around it and wrote, “This is so small there is no need to conquer it.” And the amusing thing is that when Napoleon was defeated, he was confined, imprisoned, on the island of St. Helena—the very place he had left aside as not worth conquering: a small island with nothing on it, just grass. No need to conquer it!

He wanted to conquer the whole world! But sometimes life makes deep jokes. He lost the whole world; in the end only the island of St. Helena remained. And it was there, as a prisoner, that Napoleon spent his last days. Perhaps it never even occurred to him that once, in a geography book, he had marked St. Helena as absolutely useless. In the end, there he found refuge. What had seemed utterly useless became the refuge. All the land slipped from his hands; that tiny island of St. Helena alone, in sum, was his refuge.

This happens every day in life. The very Divine whom we continually leave aside as not worth attaining, the very Divine whom we keep outside our life—at the end we discover that He alone was worthy to be our refuge, He alone.
(Raindrops have begun to fall; some people have opened their umbrellas. And Osho continues speaking.)
Whatever you do, do one thing: either keep your umbrellas open all the time, or close them completely—otherwise the clouds will keep teasing you; they’ll have their fun with you. So, either tell the clouds, “Now you can relax; we’re not going to open them at all,” or tell them, “Now you can relax; we’re going to keep them open.” Do one of the two; don’t keep doing both, or you’ll just waste time.

And if you’re getting wet anyway, then get thoroughly drenched—why such miserliness! How much can you save? How much will you save with umbrellas and all that? What will be saved? It’s only man’s delusion that we’ll somehow save ourselves! Save what? You’ll get wet—completely wet—you will, won’t you! So get wet. Put your umbrellas down and aside. Otherwise you’ll taste neither the joy of not getting wet nor the joy of being soaked. You’ll lose on both sides—neither of heaven nor of earth, neither of home nor of the ghat.

Surrender is a very wondrous word. Surrender means: I say, “Now I am no more; only You are.” And now whatever You do, whatever You make happen, I am content with it, I accept it. My acceptability is there.

Jesus is dying, hanging on the cross in his last moments. For an instant, a feeling must have arisen in his mind, just as the impulse to open the umbrella comes to you; for a moment a thought arose: “I lived my whole life for God, and in the end I’m being crucified!” For one instant the intellect must have raised a question. And for an instant Jesus looked up to the sky and said, “What are You making me do?” It was a small complaint, not a big one: “What are You making me do?”

But immediately the realization dawned: this is a complaint; this is giving counsel to God. I’m advising God, “What are You making me do!” Which means my will wanted something else that should happen, and You’re making something else happen. My will has stood up!

Two tears fell from his eyes. And those two drops took him to the very place Krishna calls surrender. Two tears welled up, and he cried out loudly, “No, no—forgive me. Thy will be done—let Your will be fulfilled. Who am I! Forgive me. I have erred. I have made a mistake. What have I said to You—that ‘What are You making me do!’”

Even such a tiny complaint was an obstacle for Jesus. So I say again and again: until that last moment, he was not Christ. Until that last moment, he was Jesus. But with that last utterance, in a split second the whole world changed. Those two tears falling, and Jesus saying, “Thy will be done—let Your will be fulfilled,” and then becoming serene, and swinging on the cross as if it were a swing—at that very moment Jesus became the Christ. In that instant he ceased to be merely human; he became the divine.

The very moment a person leaves himself in God’s refuge, in that very moment he becomes one with God.

Here lies life’s paradox: as long as we protect ourselves, we lose ourselves; and the day we lose ourselves, that day we are saved. And as long as we keep protecting ourselves, nothing will come into our hands—the fist will remain empty. The day we open it, the entire treasure, this whole universe, everything—everything is ours. But as long as the “I” is within, none of this can be ours. This very “I” is our enemy, but it seems to us our friend.

There was a very wondrous man, Eckhart. In jest, one day he prayed to God in the morning. But his prayer is precious and worth keeping in the heart. Eckhart prayed, “Lord, I will manage my enemies; You please manage my friends. Don’t worry about my enemies; I’m enough for them. But please take care of my friends; them I cannot manage at all.”

Eckhart’s disciple was with him and heard this prayer. He was astonished. Astonished because one deals with enemies, not with friends! What madness is Eckhart speaking? Surely there must be a mistake in the arrangement of words! Perhaps he meant to say, “I will manage my friends; You manage my enemies.” Maybe he got it wrong!

As soon as Eckhart finished praying, the friend grabbed his hand and said, “It seems you made a mistake. What did you say! There’s no need to deal with friends. And you told God: I’ll deal with enemies; You deal with my friends.”

Eckhart said, “I’m telling you: those whom we have taken as friends are precisely our enemies—and they are the hardest to deal with. And the greatest ‘friend’ among them is ‘I,’ the ego. It appears to be a friend. We spend our whole lives protecting it. This is the poison—because this very ‘I’ will never allow surrender. This very ‘I’ won’t let the head bow. This very ‘I’ won’t let you fall into let-go, to say, ‘All right.’”

Try it sometime. Just lie down on the ground; there’s no need to go to any temple. Stretch out on the ground, arms and legs loose, and say to God, “For one hour, only You are; I am not.” And lie there for an hour. Do not on your part create any interference. Just lie there as if a corpse is lying, or as if a small child has fallen asleep with his head in his mother’s lap. Keep doing it. Within fifteen or twenty days you will come to know what surrender means. It is not a word; it is an experience.

Lie down on the floor; shut your room, lie down, limbs loose. Rest your head on the ground and say, “Lord, for one hour You are; I am not.” Lie there. Thoughts will go on, feelings will go on. In two, four, eight days, thoughts and feelings will dissolve. In fifteen days you will feel that the ground on which you lie and you are not separate—you have become one, joined in a deep unity. By the end of a month, you will know what surrender means. Rays of the divine will begin to enter you from all sides. For surrender means opening.

In Indonesia a movement is going on—a precious movement. Among the few valuable things happening on this earth today is a small meditative movement started by Muhammad Subud. The movement is called Subud. Its process has no other specialty—only this: they persuade a person to leave himself in the hands of God. They call it “opening.” Krishna calls it surrendering. They say, leave all your doors open. There’s no need to defend against God; so leave doors and windows open. And lie down as if God is there and we are lying in His lap.

Within about three weeks, the results begin to deepen—as soon as you leave yourself open. It takes a little time to drop resistance. For two or four days you’ll say it, but won’t be able to leave it. Slowly, slowly, you will. The day it happens, you’ll find an immense energy entering within you. Something new has begun to flow in your muscles. Around your bones a new current has started. Near the beating of your heart a new power has arrived. Something else is flowing in your blood. Something else is gliding in your breath. And within about three months’ experience, you’ll find that you are no longer there—only God remains. Then even saying “I surrender” won’t be needed. Because even that much of you won’t remain to say, “I surrender.”

A young man came to Buddha. He had heard that Buddha told people, “Appo deepo bhava—be a light unto yourself.” But when he came, he felt very restless. He saw people saying, “Buddham sharanam gacchami—I go to the refuge of the Buddha.” He was disturbed. He had heard Buddha says, “Be your own light.” So this seemed contradictory—go to the Buddha’s refuge! If one has to be one’s own light, then don’t go to anyone’s refuge—that’s how he understood it.

Naturally, our ego interprets exactly in this way. It catches meanings that suit it. “Don’t go to anyone’s refuge,” it says—“Indeed, that’s what we’ve always said: there’s no need to go to any refuge.”

The young man saw thousands of monks placing their heads at Buddha’s feet and saying, “Buddham sharanam gacchami.” He came to Buddha and said, “Forgive me! You say, ‘Be a light unto yourself—seek the truth for yourself.’ And what are these people doing! They say, ‘We go to the refuge of the Buddha.’”

Buddha said, “First go into refuge—only then will you be. Right now you are not. What you have taken to be ‘I’ is precisely the obstacle to your being. We must break that ‘I.’ Yes, the day there remains no one within you to go into refuge, that day I will forbid you from seeking refuge. That day I’ll say there’s no need to go into refuge. But until there remains in you someone who would go into refuge, until then, go into refuge. In these two statements,” Buddha said, “there is no contradiction.”

Krishna says surrender. The whole essence of the Gita is surrender.

Mahavira said precisely the opposite: asharan—seek no refuge. The words seem utterly contrary. But Mahavira says asharan will be complete only when the “I” no longer remains. If the “I” is inside, asharan can never be complete.

So Krishna too says, “Through surrender, the ‘I’ will be erased. And then who remains to go into refuge? Whose refuge will you seek? Who will go?” Both disappear. The drop falls into the ocean and becomes one.

Therefore Krishna says, “The one who goes into refuge attains everything.”

Sādhibhūtādhidaivaṁ māṁ sādhiyajñaṁ ca ye viduḥ.
Prayāṇakāle ’pi ca māṁ te vidur yukta-cetasāḥ. 30.

And the man who knows Me as the Self of all—together with the adhbhuta, the adhidaiva, and the adhiyajna—such a one, with a unified heart, knows Me even at the final hour, that is, he attains Me.

A small sutra; the last and very precious.

Krishna says: the one who sees me in all beings sees me even in darkness.

We have all heard that God is of the nature of light; that God is life; that God is bliss. Here Krishna says: the one who sees me in all sees me even in darkness; sees me in sorrow; sees me in death.

And mark this well: until God is seen even in death, immortality is not attained. Until God is seen even in sorrow, bliss is not attained. Until darkness itself becomes light, God is not attained.

It is the demand of us foolish ones to pray: “O Lord, lead us from darkness to light.” This is the demand of our ignorance—because we split life into two parts. We say, “O Lord, lead us from death to immortality.” “From fear to fearlessness, from sorrow to joy.” These are the prayers of those who know nothing and who split life into fragments.

Krishna’s word is wondrous. We have all heard the seers’ prayer, “Lead us from darkness to light.” But Krishna says, “The one who sees Me in all beings sees Me even in darkness.”

If prayer were rightly made, it would be this: “O Lord, let me see You even in darkness; even in sorrow, let me see You; even in death, let me see You. I do not crave immortality—let me see You even in death. I do not crave joy—let me meet You even in sorrow. I do not ask for light—let darkness, too, be light for me.”

This prayer is deeper than the former and in tune with what Krishna says. For in existence the essence is one, not two. What we call darkness is only a form of light. What we call death is a transformation of immortality. What we call sorrow, what we know as pain and anguish, are stations on the journey to bliss. But we will see this only when we can view life comprehensively, as a whole.

We see life in fragments. The intellect breaks everything into pieces. Intellect has only one function: to break. It doesn’t know how to join. It has no instrument for wholeness.

A thousand years ago, a Catholic mystic named Selvicius came to India. He was among the most extraordinary men, and later, after returning to Rome, he became the Pope. Among all who have been Popes, none matched Selvicius. He tried to grasp many of India’s secrets and went deep into its spiritual disciplines. Indian fakirs gifted him many things to take with him.

One fakir gifted him something—a head made of copper. It was astonishing. A great mystery was connected with it. From that head, you could get an answer to any question in yes or no. Ask anything; it would answer yes or no. It was merely a copper head placed over a human skull. Remarkable. Selvicius asked thousands of questions and always got correct replies. “Will this man die tomorrow or survive?” If it said “yes,” he died; if it said “no,” he didn’t. Who knows what all he asked—and found it right.

Selvicius got into great difficulty. The fakir had warned him, “But keep one thing in mind: never, by trusting your intellect, open this head to see what’s inside.” But as the answers kept proving true, his mind grew restless. His sleep vanished. He had no peace—when can I break it open and see what’s inside!

Barely could he leave India. The first thing he did on reaching Rome was to break it open. Inside, there was nothing—just an ordinary skull. He found nothing.

Selvicius was deeply distressed. Even today, the broken pieces of that head lie buried in the Pope’s library in the Vatican; even today. Many other valuable things lie buried there, which could prove very useful someday. Selvicius cried, repented, tried to reassemble it—put it all together. But the answers never came again.

Intellect instantly wants to break things open to see what’s inside. But whatever is inside, it exists only in the whole, not in the broken. When we break a thing, its wholeness, its completeness, is destroyed. And all the mysteries of life are in its completeness.

Therefore science will never arrive at life’s supreme mystery—because the entire scientific method is breaking, analysis. Keep breaking things down. So the atom is found; the soul is not. The atom is found—by breaking. The soul is not found—because it is known by joining. You will find electrons; but you won’t find God. Electrons are found by breaking; God is found by joining.

Krishna speaks of the greatest joining. He says: I am darkness and I am light. I am life and I am death. I am creation and dissolution. And the one who sees me in all beings will one day see me even in darkness—in that which appears disagreeable.

And the day the divine is seen even in the disagreeable, what disagreeable remains? This hand of mine may appear beautiful to someone; cut it off and throw it on the road, and it won’t appear beautiful at all—very ugly. Your eye may appear beautiful; take it out and put it on the table, and the other person will shut his eyes: “Don’t do that.”

What’s the matter? An eye is beautiful when it is in the completeness of the body; separated, it becomes ugly. A hand is beautiful in the body’s wholeness; apart, it only spreads filth and stench.

This whole life, this vastness, is one. And when one can see it as one, one attains the experience of supreme beauty. That supreme beauty is the beauty of the Bhagavat—the divine beauty.

But we see everything in fragments; we cannot see anything in its entirety. We look at the tree, but we cannot see the sun—though sun and tree are joined. We look at the sun, but not the earth—though earth and sun are connected. We see night but not day—though day and night are two sides of the same coin. We see light and lose darkness; we see darkness and light disappears—though both are aspects of one.

How weak a man is—have you ever noticed! Take a small coin in your hand and try to see both sides at once; you’ll realize how weak man is. You cannot see both sides of a tiny coin at the same time. When one side is visible, the other is gone. When the other is visible, the first is gone.

That’s why those who go deep into logic say, “Since no one has ever seen both sides simultaneously, how justified is it to claim there are two sides to a coin? Who knows whether the underside even exists!” What certainty is there? It’s only an inference that there must be an underside. Whether it is or is not—who knows!

Man’s intellect cannot see the whole. The whole, the complete, it cannot see. Intellect sees in fragments. In fragmentation, all beauty is lost; in fragmentation, consciousness is lost; in fragmentation, truth is lost. Only shards of untruth fall into the hand—ugly, misshapen.

Krishna says: the one who sees me in all beings.

Begin to see in all beings—in rain, in clouds, in sun, in water, in sorrow, in joy, in friend and in foe. In word and in silence—begin to see the One. And then one day the event certainly happens—opposites vanish, duality ceases; two do not remain—only One.

And the day only One remains before your very life-breath, you take such a leap that you enter a new dimension, a new world. Then you are not the one you were until yesterday. Everything is the same, yet everything changes. You become a different man. Your new birth—you are reborn—you attain rebirth. This rebirth is not of the body, but of the soul—the soul appears anew.

Krishna has given the entire science to give the soul its new birth. Finally, remember surrender: leave everything to God.

And the second thing: in what is favorable, of course, the divine will be seen; keep seeking to see the divine even in the unfavorable. The one who seeks, finds. Only those remain deprived who never set out on the search at all. And as much as can be said by words, Krishna is saying. But something remains that can be known only in silence.

For ten days I have been speaking with you continuously. Now I would like that for ten days, at least for one hour—ten days I have spoken to you—ten days you continue this Gita-gyan-yajna at home. Sit silently for one hour every day now. And what I have explained in words and what may still not be understood will descend into your understanding and deepen in that hour of silence.

This Gita-gyan-yajna does not end today. Today it ends only in words; it begins in silence. From tomorrow, spend at least one hour a day in silence for ten days.

I have heard: an American traveler once went on a mountain journey. He got into great difficulty. He tried to speak to many in a village, but no one replied. In the evening some people were sitting on the parapet of a well; he too went and sat. He tried a few times to start a conversation. People looked at him but remained silent. Finally he asked, “What’s the matter? Is there some law in this village against speaking? Why don’t you speak? Is there any law against speaking?”

People stayed quiet a bit longer. Then an old man leaned to his ear and said softly, “There is no such law here. But up here, people speak only when they feel that by speaking they can improve upon silence.” They speak only when it seems they can add something beyond silence; otherwise, they do not speak.

We have never even considered such a thing. So here we will stop. You sit one hour in silence for ten days, and in that hour I shall speak to you again—but that speaking will be very deep. And in those ten days of silence, you will know what perhaps you could not know through words.

Very little can be said through words; much more can be said through silence. Very little can be understood through words; much more through silence. Because words are the instruments of the intellect—and intellect breaks. Silence is whole; it does not break, it joins.

Just these few things. Don’t get up yet. And today I would like this—close your umbrellas—it is the last day; let us all stand and join in kirtan. Let us clap and sing, and take our leave.

No—let no one go! Close your umbrellas, and if the rain is falling, the dance will be all the more joyous. For ten days you watched others dance. From that you won’t know what dance is. You dance—and see.