My beloved Atman! I have heard: in a dangerous storm a boat overturned. One man survived and was cast up on a deserted island. A day, two days, four days, a week, two weeks he waited, thinking that from that great world of which he was a citizen someone would surely come to rescue him. Then months passed, and a year began to pass. Then, seeing no one coming, slowly he even forgot how to wait. After five years a ship passed that way. To take that man off that solitary, deserted island, the ship sent men ashore. And when they told the lost man to return with them, he fell into thought. They said, What are you thinking about? Will you come or not? The man said, If you have some newspapers on the ship—papers that bring news of your world—I would like to look through a few of the recent ones. After looking at the papers he said, Take care of your world yourselves—and of your newspapers too. I refuse to go. They were very surprised. Their surprise was natural. But the man said, In these five years the peace, the silence, the joy I have known—I had not known it in fifty years of life in that great world of yours. Blessed was the day, by the grace of Paramatma, when the boat overturned in the storm and I landed on this island. Had I never been thrown onto this island, perhaps I would never even have come to know in what a vast madhouse I had been living for fifty years. We are part of that vast madhouse! In it we are born, in it we grow, in it we live. And so we never even come to know that all that is worth attaining in life has slipped from our hands. And what we call happiness, what we call peace—neither has anything to do with happiness, nor anything to do with peace. And what we call life—perhaps it is in no way better than death. But recognition is difficult. Around us is a world of noise—an atmosphere overloaded with words and racket on every side. In that atmosphere we forget those very paths that can lead inward into silence and peace. In this land—and beyond this land as well—some have discovered within themselves a deserted island. It is neither possible that everyone’s boat should sink, nor that so many storms should arise, nor that so many deserted islands be found where all might experience peace and silence. And yet it is possible that each person may discover that deserted island within himself. Dhyana—meditation—is the path to the discovery of that deserted island within one’s own being. It is worth understanding that there is great dispute among all the religions of the world—except on one point. And that one point is meditation. Muslims think one way, Hindus another, Christians another, Parsis another, Jains and Buddhists yet another. Their doctrines are all very different. But on one point, across this earth, there is no difference at all: the path of life’s bliss goes through meditation. And if anyone has ever reached Paramatma, it has been by the ladder of meditation and none other. Whether it is Jesus, or Buddha, or Mohammed, or Mahavira—whoever has known life’s ultimate blessedness has dived deep within to discover that deserted island. On this science of meditation I would like to say two or three things to you. First: ordinarily it is only when we speak that we come to know which thoughts were moving within us. The science of meditation calls this state—when we know what was within us only when we speak—the most superficial state. If a man does not speak, we cannot even recognize who he is, what he is. Socrates, when meeting anyone, would say: Speak a little, so that I may recognize who you are. If you do not speak, recognition is very difficult. That is why we do not distinguish animals individually: they do not speak. In silence all faces become alike. Only when a word manifests outside us do we come to know what was within. The science of meditation says: this is the outermost layer of the mind—the surface, the top skin. Even before we speak, the thought runs within; otherwise how will we speak? If I say, Om, then before I uttered it, before my lips moved, in some corner of my heart the Om had already formed. Meditation says: that is the second layer in the depth of personality. Ordinarily a man lives only on the top layer. He knows nothing of the second. Beneath the world of his speaking there is a world of thinking—of that too he remains unaware. If only we could become aware of the world of our thinking, we would be very surprised. Of all that we think, only a very small portion finds expression in speech—just as when you drop an iceberg into water a small part is above and nine parts are submerged. So too nine parts of our life, our thought, remain submerged; one part appears above. Hence it often happens that after you have already flared up in anger you say, How could this be—how did I get angry? A man commits a murder; afterwards he regrets and says, How could this be that I killed? In spite of me! he says, in spite of me it happened! I never intended to do such a thing. He does not know that murder is not accidental; it is first constructed within. But that layer is deep, and our connection with it has been lost. Meditation says: the name of the first layer is Vaikhari; the second layer is Madhyama. And beneath these is yet another layer which the science of meditation calls Pashyanti. Before a word is formed within—beyond the lips, in a corner of the heart—earlier still the word is born. But ordinarily we have no awareness at all of that third layer. We have no connection with it. Sometimes we peep into the second; the third we never glimpse. The science of meditation says: the first layer is of speaking; the second of thinking; the third is of seeing. Pashyanti means: seeing—where words are seen. Mohammed says, I saw the Quran; I did not hear it. The Rishis of the Vedas say, We saw the knowledge; we did not hear it. Moses says, Before me the Ten Commandments appeared—they were seen, not heard. This is the third layer where thoughts are visible, not audible. Even the third layer is not the last layer of mind according to meditation. There is a fourth layer, which the science of meditation calls Para. There thoughts are neither visible nor audible. And only when a person descends beneath both seeing and hearing does that fourth layer reveal itself. Beyond that fourth layer is the realm of meditation. These are our four sheaths; within these four walls is our very soul. We live outside the outermost parapet of the fortress. Our whole life is lived with the layer of words, and it never occurs to us that the treasures are not outside—outside there is only the dust of the roads. And bliss is not outside. If even the melody of bliss is heard outside—that is much. All that is of life is within—in the roots, pressed in the deep darkness. Meditation is the path that leads there. Across the earth many paths have been tried to reach that fifth state. Whoever does not cross these four states and dive into the fifth depth—such a person may have been given life, but he has made no effort to know life. He may have received treasures, yet remained unfamiliar with them—and spent his time begging on the roads. He had a veena from which music could arise, but he never touched it. His fingers never once reached his own veena. What we call happiness—religion does not call it happiness. Nor is it. We know this well. Our happiness is almost like this—I remember a small story. A man is sitting among friends—very restless, very troubled. It seems he is suppressing some great pain within. Finally a friend asks, You are so disturbed! What is the matter? Headache? Stomach ache? The man says, No—neither headache nor stomach ache. My shoes hurt terribly. They are very tight. His friend says, Then take them off. And if the shoes are so tight that they trouble you so much, then buy a better pair. The man says, No, that will not do. I am already in great trouble. My wife is ill. My daughter married a man I did not wish. My son is a drunkard, a gambler. And I am on the verge of bankruptcy. No—I am already so unhappy. The friends say, You are mad—already so unhappy, at least change these shoes. The man says, With these shoes remains my only happiness. They were astonished. They asked, What kind of happiness is that? The man said, I am in so many miseries. All day these shoes bite me; in the evening when I take them off I feel a great relief. My one happiness is this: in the evening when I come home and take off these shoes, such relief. That is the only happiness I have. Otherwise there is only sorrow upon sorrow. I cannot change these shoes. What we call happiness is no more than the relief from a tight shoe; it is not more than a brief release. What we call happiness is but a short freedom from some tension—negative, not positive. A man drinks for a little while and thinks he is happy. A man descends into sex for a little while and thinks he is happy. A man listens to music for a while and thinks he is happy. A man sits gossiping, laughing, and thinks he is happy. All these happinesses are no different from taking off a tight shoe in the evening. They have nothing to do with true happiness. Happiness is a positive, creative state—not negative. Happiness is not like a sneeze—that the sneeze comes and afterwards there is some relief because it was irritating before. It is not a negative thing—that a burden leaves the mind and afterwards you feel good. Happiness is a creative experience. But without meditation no one experiences such a creative happiness. And as man has become more civilized and educated, he has gone farther from meditation. All education, all civilization teaches how to relate with others—but not how to relate with oneself. Society has no use for your relating with yourself. Society wants you to relate with others rightly, efficiently—the matter ends there. You work efficiently—the matter ends there. Society does not see you as anything more than a function. Be a good shopkeeper, a good employee, a good husband, a good mother, a good wife—that’s all. Society has nothing to do with you. Therefore all of society’s education is utilitarian. Society gives education that produces results. Bliss seems to produce nothing. Bliss is not a commodity to be sold in the marketplace. Bliss is not something that can be converted into money, nor deposited in a bank balance, nor given any market price. Hence society has no concern with bliss. The difficulty is precisely this: bliss alone has value for the individual—nothing else has. But as man becomes civilized, utilitarian—everything must have utility. People come to me; they ask, What will we get from meditation? Perhaps they think—money, a house, some position. From meditation neither position will be found, nor money, nor a house. Meditation is not a utility. But the man who roams only in search of useful things—that man is roaming only in search of death. Life itself has no utility. Whatever is significant in life is purposeless. Whatever is significant in life has no market value. Does love have a price in the market? None. Does bliss have a price? None. Prayer? None. Meditation? Paramatma? None at all. But in a life that has no path for the non-utilitarian, for the purposeless, even the sparkle of the stars is lost; the fragrance of flowers is lost; the songs of birds are lost; the rushing of rivers is lost. Nothing remains—only the market remains. Nothing remains except work. Nothing remains except tension, troubles, anxieties. And life is not an aggregation of anxieties. Yet our life is exactly that. Meditation is the search for that dimension in life where, without any purpose, simply in being—just to be—we rejoice. And whenever any ray of happiness descends into our life, those are the moments when we are idle, without work—on the seashore, or behind a mountain’s shoulder, or beneath the night’s starry sky, or with the rising sun, or following the birds in the sky, or near the blooming flowers—when we are without work, utterly useless, of no market value—only in such moments a faint resonance of happiness descends. But that is accidental. Meditation is the systematic search for that ray. Sometimes it happens. It is a tuning; sometimes between ourselves and the universe a musical note aligns—sometimes. Just as a child may pluck the strings of a sitar and perchance a raga arises—accidentally. Meditation is the name for deliberately enlarging the doorway through which the ray of bliss begins to descend—where we slip free from matter and connect with Paramatma. As I see it, nothing is more without price than meditation. And nothing is more precious than meditation. And the wonder is that this meditation, this prayer—call it by any name—is not as difficult as people think. The difficulty is only unfamiliarity—not knowing. As if a flower has bloomed on our window sill and we have not opened the window; as if the sun stands outside our door and our doors are closed; as if the treasure lies before us while we sit with eyes shut—that is the kind of difficulty. Out of mere unfamiliarity we have lost something that could be ours at any moment. Meditation is every person’s capacity. Not only capacity—every person’s birthright. The day Paramatma creates the individual, he creates him along with meditation. Children have more meditation than the old. Therefore in children’s lives there is a more vibrant thrill of bliss than in the old. Therefore in children’s eyes there is something otherworldly! When children speak it is as if silence itself speaks from within. When the old speak, they speak to avoid silence. Two people sit together, and quickly they begin to talk—lest silence surround them, lest quiet descend between them. Otherwise, there will be difficulty—once silence comes it will be hard to break it, hard to melt it. If husband and wife do not speak for a little while—danger. If the wife does not speak—danger. If silence falls for a little while—there is fear, for it will be very difficult to break it afterwards. We do not allow it to come. We keep talking and talking to escape from silence. When children speak, silence speaks through them. When the old speak, it is only an escape from silence. Yet we set about quickly making children old. So long as they are children they are not reliable; so long as they are children they cannot be part of our working world. Soon, what they have received from Paramatma, we are eager to twist, to break, and fit into our ways. Before the child can even know what he had, we make him almost unfamiliar with it; and familiar with that which he will remain familiar with all his life—while remaining unfamiliar with his original inheritance. Meditation is our nature. We are born with it. Therefore to become acquainted with meditation later is not difficult, because it is ours—we have merely forgotten. It is only a remembering. Something was ours which we forgot—and we remember it again. Therefore it is not difficult. And each person can enter meditation. By a meditation-temple I mean a place where, irrespective of religion or path or viewpoint, a person can become acquainted with meditation scientifically, and can enter meditation. Not only that—but can scientifically become acquainted with the obstacles on the path of meditation. And remember, I emphasize—scientifically! There is no shortage of temples, no shortage of mosques, there are many gurudwaras. But the language of the temples, mosques, and gurudwaras has no connection now with the mind of the modern man. It is not that what the temple says is wrong; nor that what is said in the mosque is wrong; nor that the gurudwara’s message is wrong. The messages are right—but their language has become so old that the modern mind has no link with it. How could there be now? The entire arrangement of modern education is scientific. And all the ways of thinking of temple, mosque, gurudwara are pre-scientific. With them the modern mind cannot harmonize anywhere. By a meditation-center or meditation-temple my intent is this: through scientific methods and scientific arrangement, to introduce the modern mind to meditation not merely intellectually but experimentally—to give him entry. And intellectually to be introduced to meditation is difficult; experimentally it is very simple. There are things we can know only by doing; we can never do them by first knowing. In fact, we cannot know them at all unless we do them. A scientific arrangement—so that everyone can understand in the most modern idiom, symbols, and language. Not only understand, but do—and thus be introduced to meditation. There are two or three small points worth keeping in mind. Many times very small things do not occur to us. Dr. Perls, an American psychologist, experimented all his life on a very small point—so small we could not even imagine it. He says: the person who does not chew his food properly will have more violence in his life—he will be more violent. The person who chews properly—his violence will lessen. This seems very strange. What relation could there be between chewing and violence? But Perls’ thirty years of research shows that all animals’ violence is bound up with their teeth. All animals commit violence with the teeth; whenever they become violent they use their teeth. Man too—his violence is centered in his teeth. But the foods man has developed do not permit so much violence. So the violence of the teeth spreads throughout his whole body. In the last ten years Perls has had many violent people—crazy people—those who could not live without committing violence—simply practice chewing their food properly. And he found that in three months, men who could not refrain from breaking and smashing things, who could not refrain from hurting someone—their violence evaporated. He then investigated scientifically the relation of teeth, violence, and human personality, and what he says has turned out largely true. Try the experiment and you will see. For fifteen days chew your food until it becomes liquid before you swallow. And be mindful for twenty-four hours: does your violence change day by day or not? After twenty-one days you will be amazed—your anger will have changed. And nothing had to be done for anger itself—something else was done. If you try directly to do something about anger, no change will come. The anger will be suppressed on one side and will begin to appear on another. If you are seized by anger, then under your table clasp your hands and drive your nails hard into the padding of your own chair—do this three times, then open and release your fists—and then try to be angry. You will be astonished: in opening and closing your fists thrice, the very energy by which you could be angry has been spent. In truth, nails and teeth are the centers of violence. All animals act violently with nails and teeth. Because man’s teeth and nails were weak, he invented weapons that serve the function of teeth and nails. If we look at all human weapons we will find them either an extension of teeth or of nails. At the meditation-center I want this entire scientific arrangement—so that your violence, your anger, your anxiety, your tension, your insomnia—all the disorders that arise in your mind—why they arise and how, can be demonstrated—and how they depart can be demonstrated by having them depart from you. This will be the negative side of meditation: how the useless rubbish accumulated in you can be removed. And then, positively, these four steps I have named—Vaikhari, Madhyama, Pashyanti, Para—how you can be led inward through these four steps—how you can descend within. Once the outer garbage is thrown out, to go within is very simple—not at all difficult. Perhaps, in much less time than we waste learning a thousand useless things, the movement of meditation begins. Peter Link has written somewhere: with much less effort than a man takes to go to hell, he can reach heaven. With much less labor than we expend on anger, we can enter meditation. With as much effort as we spend fighting others—if that same becomes effort to transform oneself—then we would, long since, have succeeded in discovering the image of Paramatma within. With a hundredth of the running we do on outer roads—if we went on the inner path—we would reach our own home. And the one who does not reach himself—no matter how far he runs outside—he will reach nowhere. He who has not reached himself cannot reach anywhere else. And one who has not found any music of peace within—though he roam to the ends of the world—he will find nothing but hell. We carry our hell or our heaven with us. This meditation-temple is to be a scientific arrangement—free of sectarianism, bound to no religion—and open to all. And for the different experiments with meditation that every religion has discovered, their scientific validity is to be explored at that center as well. There are one hundred and twelve methods of meditation in the whole world. And each method is wondrous. With any one of these hundred and twelve, a person can reach Paramatma. Among them are methods completely opposite to one another. So a follower of one method calls another method entirely wrong. Yet all these one hundred and twelve become paths leading the seeker to meditation, to peace, to bliss, to truth. At this meditation-center we intend to experiment with the full one hundred and twelve methods. For the first time on earth such an experiment will be made—where all the processes of meditation that have appeared on earth are brought together in one place. We would not wish to lose even a single person there. Whichever path he can go by, guidance will be given to him on that very path. There are strange methods whose names you will not even have heard. Let me tell you one or two. In Tibet there is a very small method—its name is balancing. In the morning after your bath, stand at home, place your feet apart, and observe: is there more weight on your left foot or on your right? If on the left, then very gently shift the weight to the right. Keep it on the right for two moments, then shift to the left. For fifteen days, keep shifting the body’s weight from left to right and right to left. Then this Tibetan experiment says: now practice so that the weight remains on neither foot—come to rest exactly between the two. And after three weeks, when you are exactly in the middle—weight neither on left nor on right—when you are precisely in the center, at that very moment you will enter meditation. Just then you enter meditation. From the outside it will seem such a simple matter! When you do it, it will feel both easy and difficult. It appears very simple—explainable in two lines. Yet millions have attained the supreme bliss through this small experiment. As soon as you are balanced—neither left nor right—just as you come to the midpoint—you will find that balancing, that equilibrium has also happened to your consciousness. Consciousness too has become balanced, has become centered. Instantly, like an arrow, there is an inward movement. There are such one hundred and twelve methods in the whole world. I want to provide a complete scientific arrangement for all one hundred and twelve at this meditation-center—and not only to explain them to you, but to have you practice them. If one method does not work, we will have you practice the second. But we will not let you return from that temple in disappointment. Because these one hundred and twelve are the ultimate methods—beyond them there cannot be more. If one does not work, another will; if not the second, then the third. And the method that will work for you can be found immediately—there is a science for discovering which method will work for you. And if in the great cities of this country—and outside the country too—we can establish such scientific temples of meditation, then for humankind, which today is passing through the maximum of pain and torment and sees no path—for it a door may open. For whatever we thought would set everything right—none of it has set anything right. We thought: if people have sufficient food, everything will be fine. Today in half the world food is entirely sufficient. We thought: people will have clothes, houses, good roads, medicines, treatment, fewer diseases. Today half the world has all these. And a strange event has occurred—the very ones who have everything have become the most restless, anxious, and troubled. Poor countries are in one sense fortunate; starving nations in one sense are fortunate—because their hope is still alive. They think socialism will come, wealth will increase, be distributed—everything will be fine. This very hope has broken in those countries where all has been set right. Now they stand in a great despair—deep despair. Such hopelessness never appeared in human history. Today, America is more hopeless than any land on earth. And today America is, in our ordinary sense, the most prosperous in human history—one who has everything—and yet suddenly the experience is: nothing is possessed. The reason for such hopelessness is one. We thought all would be attained by those means—but all those illusions have been shattered. Now we will have to turn back and listen to Buddha, to Krishna, to Christ, to Mohammed. For they said many, many times, long ago: let everything be attained by man—but if the experience of the self is not attained, nothing is attained. But we could not take their words seriously—how could we? Their words seemed very fanciful, very utopian. And those who said: Let there be money, houses—their words seemed practical and realistic. History’s irony—that those who were very practical proved very utopian; and those who seemed very utopian—today they are proving to be the most practical upon the earth. But religion cannot now return by the old roads. Religion will enter by new roads—scientific and technological. Once, a man would go to the Himalayas. Even today we think: if a man goes to the Himalayas, he can enter meditation. But have we ever asked—why did he go to the Himalayas? The cooler the environment becomes, the easier it is to go within. But how many can go to the Himalayas? Yet in Bombay there can be an air-conditioned meditation hall. There is no need to go to the Himalayas—because the coolness available on the Himalayas can now be had in Bombay. This mad rush to the Himalayas is unnecessary. Right in the midst of the market in Bombay the same coolness can be created that a yogi once found on a Himalayan peak. Snow can be placed around him—if snow is of benefit, snow can be provided. If altitude is of benefit—lessening of the earth’s gravitation—then even in Bombay gravitation can be reduced. If silence is of benefit, then in Bombay soundproofing can be arranged. And for the maximum number of people, a Himalayan peak is not possible. And if more go there, even the Himalayan snows will melt. Only because few have gone there has it remained useful. If many go, the same heat, the same fever will reach there too. The day a direct road goes to Everest, we will even build colonies there. In the coming future, wherever man is, there the whole of technology and science can be used; and there the entire arrangement can be made that a yogi once had to create through great difficulties. Now, by means of science, it is possible—even accessible for an ordinary man. Using the full range of science and technology, this temple—the temple of meditation—is to be created. It will be a temple only in the sense that it is of meditation; otherwise, it will be a scientific laboratory. In this laboratory, whatever discoveries have been made about man should be fully used. A person comes to meditate—but his blood pressure is high. To take this man into meditation is not easy; it is difficult. His elevated blood pressure will become an obstacle. The old teachers had no means to measure blood pressure. But in today’s meditation-temple blood pressure can be measured. Means to reduce it can be arranged. And then facilities can be created to take him into meditation. Yes—once a man enters meditation, it will be difficult for blood pressure to take hold of him again. But from the state of high blood pressure it is difficult to enter meditation. All the yogis of the world have emphasized light eating—eating less. On fasting, on light diet, on right diet—all have insisted. Yet they had no exact means to determine what light diet is, except guesswork. They knew nothing of calories, of the constituents of food. So often under the name of light diet, harm was done. Today we have very scientific means to know how many calories a person needs. And we can determine how much one should reduce so that meditation becomes easy, and how much increase would make it difficult. If there is too much food, meditation will be difficult—because excess food demands excess sleep. To digest it, more sleep is needed. Less food demands less sleep. And the less inner sleep there is, the more the awakening of meditation can arise. Meditation is awakening. A man sits to meditate after eating too much—there will be difficulty. But too much food does not mean simply that much has filled the belly—because it may be that a man has eaten many vegetables, the stomach feels heavy, yet calorically he has not eaten much. And another has eaten a little sweet—the stomach feels light, yet calorically he has eaten a lot. Generally ascetics have eaten sweets, drunk milk, taken rich preparations—without awareness. But there was no clear way. Today we have the way. How much a person sleeps will determine how his meditation can proceed. Both are linked. If meditation becomes right, sleep will become right. But making meditation right is not as easy as making sleep right. If sleep is first corrected, the movement into meditation becomes easy. Now people do not sleep at all. They have been awake all night and sit to meditate in the morning! One who has not slept all night will only sleep in meditation. Hence it is no surprise that people doze while worshipping in temples, while listening to monks. I have heard some doctors even advise: if you cannot sleep, go to a religious discourse. I have heard: a great pastor would often say to a friend, Do come someday to hear my sermon. When the friend would not agree, one day he went. The pastor spoke as best as he could. As they were leaving, he asked, How was it? The friend said, Very refreshing. The pastor’s heart beat with joy. He asked, Which point did you find so refreshing? He said, When I woke up, my mind was very fresh. Even at home, when I sleep, I do not feel so refreshed. I will surely come again. Your sermon was very refreshing. Why does one feel sleepy in temples, in religious talks? Because boredom comes—sleep comes. When something bores you, sleep comes. And when there is lack of sleep, you are bored very quickly. Those who cannot sleep come to me: We cannot sleep. Perhaps meditation will bring sleep. They do not know: meditation will certainly set sleep right—but to set sleep right before entering meditation is essential. Otherwise meditation will be difficult. Difficult because the mind’s first need is sleep; as soon as it finds rest, it will fall asleep. Meditation requires being awake even in relaxation—relaxed and aware. On one side everything at rest, on the other completely awake—only then can one enter meditation. But the rule of sleep is: become relaxed, sleep comes. So in meditation people will often fall asleep. All this arrangement is possible today. Sleep can be measured. Your dreams can be measured—how many you have. You yourself do not know how many dreams there are, what kinds. Just yesterday a woman seeker was with me. She wanted to meditate. I asked about her dreams. She said, What have dreams to do with it? I want to meditate. I said, It is necessary for me to ask—because the dreams will tell me whether you truly want to meditate, or to do something else first. She said, In dreams I have nothing but sexuality and violence—murder, arson—such dreams. I said, That is what your mind wants to do. Meditation will be difficult just now. First we must purify your dreams. One who wants to purify himself—if he cannot purify even his dreams—he will not be able to purify himself. If even such an ordinary thing as dreaming is impure, then the purification of the self will be very difficult. If even dreams have not yet become sattvic, it is very difficult for your being to become sattvic. If dreams have not yet become peaceful, it is very difficult for your essence to become peaceful. But before today there was no facility to examine dreams. In this meditation-center I want to make complete arrangements to examine dreams. Now it is possible. Just as your cardiogram is taken, so a graph of your sleep and dreams can be made—how long you dreamed, of what kind. Violent or non-violent, sexual or not—what kind they were—quite a lot can be known from the graph, and how much of the night you dream. You will be amazed to know—knowledge of dreams has increased so much—that it is now evident there are waves within the mind. When dreams run, the waves are of one kind; when dreams stop, the waves are of another. And the great wonder is: the state of waves in deep sleep is the same as the waves in meditation. When one is in meditation, the brain-waves are as in deep sleep. And when one is dreaming, the waves are as when one is anxious. There is a link between anxiety and dreams; between deep sleep and meditation there is a link. This whole scientific arrangement I intend to create in the meditation-temple—so that each person may be helped scientifically. And as I see it, today man needs meditation more than anything—because today man is more restless than ever before. I have said a few things. Reflect, contemplate—there is no need to believe. And this meditation-temple will not be for believers, but for experimenters. Believers are nowhere now; people only say so—no true believer remains! On every man’s chariot sits Shalya. One small story and I will complete my talk. In the Mahabharata’s great war, the man Karna chose as his charioteer became the cause of his defeat. The name of the charioteer he chose was Shalya. Shalya means doubt, skepticism, suspicion. And Karna—you know the meaning—Karna means ear. All doubts enter through the ear. Karna chose Shalya as charioteer, and Arjuna chose Krishna. For the entire war this became decisive. For Shalya was so-called because he was a man of great doubt. Karna was very powerful. Those who know, those before whom the Mahabharata happened, all thought Arjuna could not defeat Karna—Karna was supremely powerful. Behind Karna was the power of the sun. Arjuna would not win. Yet in the war it happened that Arjuna won and Karna lost. Those who know say he lost because he chose the wrong charioteer. For all the while Shalya kept saying to Karna, Will you defeat Arjuna? All the while he said only this. Karna would pull his bowstring, and Shalya, his charioteer, would say, Why do you labor? Will you defeat Arjuna? Your victory is very difficult. This was one charioteer. And Krishna was the other—Arjuna had laid down his Gandiva and sat—and Krishna delivered the entire Gita that the man might fight. For Krishna said, What is to be has already been decided. You need do nothing—you are only an instrument. That Shalya who came to Karna—that doubt that came into his mind—became his drowning. Today Shalya is the charioteer of every man. Whether he recognizes it or not, doubt stands beside every man. Therefore the beliefs propagated in the absence of doubt no longer work. First we must kill Shalya—only then can any effect be brought to bear on the inner consciousness. And this killing of Shalya cannot be done without science. Therefore, in this meditation-center, I want to kill your Shalya through science. It will not happen now through belief. If I say: Believe—you will not believe. The possibility of belief has gone. That time is over—when people believed. That childhood of humanity is lost forever. Now man is adult. And the doubt he has—if we cannot destroy it through scientific experiment—we will not succeed in bringing any revolution into human life. Therefore I call this meditation-temple a scientific temple—where we can attempt to bring meditation, religion, to man by a scientific path. You have listened to my words with such love and peace—I am deeply obliged. And in the end I bow down to the Lord seated within all. Please accept my pranam.
Osho's Commentary
I have heard: in a dangerous storm a boat overturned. One man survived and was cast up on a deserted island. A day, two days, four days, a week, two weeks he waited, thinking that from that great world of which he was a citizen someone would surely come to rescue him. Then months passed, and a year began to pass. Then, seeing no one coming, slowly he even forgot how to wait.
After five years a ship passed that way. To take that man off that solitary, deserted island, the ship sent men ashore. And when they told the lost man to return with them, he fell into thought. They said, What are you thinking about? Will you come or not? The man said, If you have some newspapers on the ship—papers that bring news of your world—I would like to look through a few of the recent ones. After looking at the papers he said, Take care of your world yourselves—and of your newspapers too. I refuse to go.
They were very surprised. Their surprise was natural. But the man said, In these five years the peace, the silence, the joy I have known—I had not known it in fifty years of life in that great world of yours. Blessed was the day, by the grace of Paramatma, when the boat overturned in the storm and I landed on this island. Had I never been thrown onto this island, perhaps I would never even have come to know in what a vast madhouse I had been living for fifty years.
We are part of that vast madhouse! In it we are born, in it we grow, in it we live. And so we never even come to know that all that is worth attaining in life has slipped from our hands. And what we call happiness, what we call peace—neither has anything to do with happiness, nor anything to do with peace. And what we call life—perhaps it is in no way better than death.
But recognition is difficult. Around us is a world of noise—an atmosphere overloaded with words and racket on every side. In that atmosphere we forget those very paths that can lead inward into silence and peace.
In this land—and beyond this land as well—some have discovered within themselves a deserted island. It is neither possible that everyone’s boat should sink, nor that so many storms should arise, nor that so many deserted islands be found where all might experience peace and silence. And yet it is possible that each person may discover that deserted island within himself.
Dhyana—meditation—is the path to the discovery of that deserted island within one’s own being.
It is worth understanding that there is great dispute among all the religions of the world—except on one point. And that one point is meditation. Muslims think one way, Hindus another, Christians another, Parsis another, Jains and Buddhists yet another. Their doctrines are all very different. But on one point, across this earth, there is no difference at all: the path of life’s bliss goes through meditation. And if anyone has ever reached Paramatma, it has been by the ladder of meditation and none other. Whether it is Jesus, or Buddha, or Mohammed, or Mahavira—whoever has known life’s ultimate blessedness has dived deep within to discover that deserted island.
On this science of meditation I would like to say two or three things to you. First: ordinarily it is only when we speak that we come to know which thoughts were moving within us. The science of meditation calls this state—when we know what was within us only when we speak—the most superficial state. If a man does not speak, we cannot even recognize who he is, what he is.
Socrates, when meeting anyone, would say: Speak a little, so that I may recognize who you are. If you do not speak, recognition is very difficult.
That is why we do not distinguish animals individually: they do not speak. In silence all faces become alike. Only when a word manifests outside us do we come to know what was within.
The science of meditation says: this is the outermost layer of the mind—the surface, the top skin. Even before we speak, the thought runs within; otherwise how will we speak? If I say, Om, then before I uttered it, before my lips moved, in some corner of my heart the Om had already formed.
Meditation says: that is the second layer in the depth of personality. Ordinarily a man lives only on the top layer. He knows nothing of the second. Beneath the world of his speaking there is a world of thinking—of that too he remains unaware.
If only we could become aware of the world of our thinking, we would be very surprised. Of all that we think, only a very small portion finds expression in speech—just as when you drop an iceberg into water a small part is above and nine parts are submerged. So too nine parts of our life, our thought, remain submerged; one part appears above. Hence it often happens that after you have already flared up in anger you say, How could this be—how did I get angry?
A man commits a murder; afterwards he regrets and says, How could this be that I killed? In spite of me! he says, in spite of me it happened! I never intended to do such a thing.
He does not know that murder is not accidental; it is first constructed within. But that layer is deep, and our connection with it has been lost.
Meditation says: the name of the first layer is Vaikhari; the second layer is Madhyama. And beneath these is yet another layer which the science of meditation calls Pashyanti. Before a word is formed within—beyond the lips, in a corner of the heart—earlier still the word is born. But ordinarily we have no awareness at all of that third layer. We have no connection with it. Sometimes we peep into the second; the third we never glimpse.
The science of meditation says: the first layer is of speaking; the second of thinking; the third is of seeing. Pashyanti means: seeing—where words are seen. Mohammed says, I saw the Quran; I did not hear it. The Rishis of the Vedas say, We saw the knowledge; we did not hear it. Moses says, Before me the Ten Commandments appeared—they were seen, not heard. This is the third layer where thoughts are visible, not audible.
Even the third layer is not the last layer of mind according to meditation. There is a fourth layer, which the science of meditation calls Para. There thoughts are neither visible nor audible. And only when a person descends beneath both seeing and hearing does that fourth layer reveal itself. Beyond that fourth layer is the realm of meditation. These are our four sheaths; within these four walls is our very soul. We live outside the outermost parapet of the fortress. Our whole life is lived with the layer of words, and it never occurs to us that the treasures are not outside—outside there is only the dust of the roads. And bliss is not outside. If even the melody of bliss is heard outside—that is much. All that is of life is within—in the roots, pressed in the deep darkness. Meditation is the path that leads there.
Across the earth many paths have been tried to reach that fifth state. Whoever does not cross these four states and dive into the fifth depth—such a person may have been given life, but he has made no effort to know life. He may have received treasures, yet remained unfamiliar with them—and spent his time begging on the roads. He had a veena from which music could arise, but he never touched it. His fingers never once reached his own veena.
What we call happiness—religion does not call it happiness. Nor is it. We know this well. Our happiness is almost like this—I remember a small story.
A man is sitting among friends—very restless, very troubled. It seems he is suppressing some great pain within. Finally a friend asks, You are so disturbed! What is the matter? Headache? Stomach ache?
The man says, No—neither headache nor stomach ache. My shoes hurt terribly. They are very tight.
His friend says, Then take them off. And if the shoes are so tight that they trouble you so much, then buy a better pair.
The man says, No, that will not do. I am already in great trouble. My wife is ill. My daughter married a man I did not wish. My son is a drunkard, a gambler. And I am on the verge of bankruptcy. No—I am already so unhappy.
The friends say, You are mad—already so unhappy, at least change these shoes.
The man says, With these shoes remains my only happiness.
They were astonished. They asked, What kind of happiness is that?
The man said, I am in so many miseries. All day these shoes bite me; in the evening when I take them off I feel a great relief. My one happiness is this: in the evening when I come home and take off these shoes, such relief. That is the only happiness I have. Otherwise there is only sorrow upon sorrow. I cannot change these shoes.
What we call happiness is no more than the relief from a tight shoe; it is not more than a brief release. What we call happiness is but a short freedom from some tension—negative, not positive.
A man drinks for a little while and thinks he is happy. A man descends into sex for a little while and thinks he is happy. A man listens to music for a while and thinks he is happy. A man sits gossiping, laughing, and thinks he is happy. All these happinesses are no different from taking off a tight shoe in the evening. They have nothing to do with true happiness.
Happiness is a positive, creative state—not negative. Happiness is not like a sneeze—that the sneeze comes and afterwards there is some relief because it was irritating before. It is not a negative thing—that a burden leaves the mind and afterwards you feel good. Happiness is a creative experience.
But without meditation no one experiences such a creative happiness. And as man has become more civilized and educated, he has gone farther from meditation. All education, all civilization teaches how to relate with others—but not how to relate with oneself.
Society has no use for your relating with yourself. Society wants you to relate with others rightly, efficiently—the matter ends there. You work efficiently—the matter ends there. Society does not see you as anything more than a function. Be a good shopkeeper, a good employee, a good husband, a good mother, a good wife—that’s all. Society has nothing to do with you. Therefore all of society’s education is utilitarian. Society gives education that produces results.
Bliss seems to produce nothing. Bliss is not a commodity to be sold in the marketplace. Bliss is not something that can be converted into money, nor deposited in a bank balance, nor given any market price. Hence society has no concern with bliss. The difficulty is precisely this: bliss alone has value for the individual—nothing else has. But as man becomes civilized, utilitarian—everything must have utility.
People come to me; they ask, What will we get from meditation? Perhaps they think—money, a house, some position.
From meditation neither position will be found, nor money, nor a house. Meditation is not a utility. But the man who roams only in search of useful things—that man is roaming only in search of death. Life itself has no utility. Whatever is significant in life is purposeless. Whatever is significant in life has no market value.
Does love have a price in the market? None. Does bliss have a price? None. Prayer? None. Meditation? Paramatma? None at all. But in a life that has no path for the non-utilitarian, for the purposeless, even the sparkle of the stars is lost; the fragrance of flowers is lost; the songs of birds are lost; the rushing of rivers is lost. Nothing remains—only the market remains. Nothing remains except work. Nothing remains except tension, troubles, anxieties.
And life is not an aggregation of anxieties. Yet our life is exactly that. Meditation is the search for that dimension in life where, without any purpose, simply in being—just to be—we rejoice. And whenever any ray of happiness descends into our life, those are the moments when we are idle, without work—on the seashore, or behind a mountain’s shoulder, or beneath the night’s starry sky, or with the rising sun, or following the birds in the sky, or near the blooming flowers—when we are without work, utterly useless, of no market value—only in such moments a faint resonance of happiness descends.
But that is accidental.
Meditation is the systematic search for that ray. Sometimes it happens. It is a tuning; sometimes between ourselves and the universe a musical note aligns—sometimes. Just as a child may pluck the strings of a sitar and perchance a raga arises—accidentally. Meditation is the name for deliberately enlarging the doorway through which the ray of bliss begins to descend—where we slip free from matter and connect with Paramatma.
As I see it, nothing is more without price than meditation. And nothing is more precious than meditation. And the wonder is that this meditation, this prayer—call it by any name—is not as difficult as people think. The difficulty is only unfamiliarity—not knowing. As if a flower has bloomed on our window sill and we have not opened the window; as if the sun stands outside our door and our doors are closed; as if the treasure lies before us while we sit with eyes shut—that is the kind of difficulty. Out of mere unfamiliarity we have lost something that could be ours at any moment. Meditation is every person’s capacity. Not only capacity—every person’s birthright. The day Paramatma creates the individual, he creates him along with meditation.
Children have more meditation than the old. Therefore in children’s lives there is a more vibrant thrill of bliss than in the old. Therefore in children’s eyes there is something otherworldly! When children speak it is as if silence itself speaks from within. When the old speak, they speak to avoid silence. Two people sit together, and quickly they begin to talk—lest silence surround them, lest quiet descend between them. Otherwise, there will be difficulty—once silence comes it will be hard to break it, hard to melt it. If husband and wife do not speak for a little while—danger. If the wife does not speak—danger. If silence falls for a little while—there is fear, for it will be very difficult to break it afterwards. We do not allow it to come. We keep talking and talking to escape from silence.
When children speak, silence speaks through them. When the old speak, it is only an escape from silence. Yet we set about quickly making children old. So long as they are children they are not reliable; so long as they are children they cannot be part of our working world. Soon, what they have received from Paramatma, we are eager to twist, to break, and fit into our ways. Before the child can even know what he had, we make him almost unfamiliar with it; and familiar with that which he will remain familiar with all his life—while remaining unfamiliar with his original inheritance.
Meditation is our nature. We are born with it. Therefore to become acquainted with meditation later is not difficult, because it is ours—we have merely forgotten. It is only a remembering. Something was ours which we forgot—and we remember it again. Therefore it is not difficult. And each person can enter meditation.
By a meditation-temple I mean a place where, irrespective of religion or path or viewpoint, a person can become acquainted with meditation scientifically, and can enter meditation. Not only that—but can scientifically become acquainted with the obstacles on the path of meditation.
And remember, I emphasize—scientifically! There is no shortage of temples, no shortage of mosques, there are many gurudwaras. But the language of the temples, mosques, and gurudwaras has no connection now with the mind of the modern man. It is not that what the temple says is wrong; nor that what is said in the mosque is wrong; nor that the gurudwara’s message is wrong. The messages are right—but their language has become so old that the modern mind has no link with it. How could there be now? The entire arrangement of modern education is scientific. And all the ways of thinking of temple, mosque, gurudwara are pre-scientific. With them the modern mind cannot harmonize anywhere.
By a meditation-center or meditation-temple my intent is this: through scientific methods and scientific arrangement, to introduce the modern mind to meditation not merely intellectually but experimentally—to give him entry. And intellectually to be introduced to meditation is difficult; experimentally it is very simple. There are things we can know only by doing; we can never do them by first knowing. In fact, we cannot know them at all unless we do them. A scientific arrangement—so that everyone can understand in the most modern idiom, symbols, and language. Not only understand, but do—and thus be introduced to meditation.
There are two or three small points worth keeping in mind. Many times very small things do not occur to us.
Dr. Perls, an American psychologist, experimented all his life on a very small point—so small we could not even imagine it. He says: the person who does not chew his food properly will have more violence in his life—he will be more violent. The person who chews properly—his violence will lessen.
This seems very strange. What relation could there be between chewing and violence? But Perls’ thirty years of research shows that all animals’ violence is bound up with their teeth. All animals commit violence with the teeth; whenever they become violent they use their teeth. Man too—his violence is centered in his teeth. But the foods man has developed do not permit so much violence. So the violence of the teeth spreads throughout his whole body.
In the last ten years Perls has had many violent people—crazy people—those who could not live without committing violence—simply practice chewing their food properly. And he found that in three months, men who could not refrain from breaking and smashing things, who could not refrain from hurting someone—their violence evaporated. He then investigated scientifically the relation of teeth, violence, and human personality, and what he says has turned out largely true.
Try the experiment and you will see. For fifteen days chew your food until it becomes liquid before you swallow. And be mindful for twenty-four hours: does your violence change day by day or not? After twenty-one days you will be amazed—your anger will have changed. And nothing had to be done for anger itself—something else was done. If you try directly to do something about anger, no change will come. The anger will be suppressed on one side and will begin to appear on another.
If you are seized by anger, then under your table clasp your hands and drive your nails hard into the padding of your own chair—do this three times, then open and release your fists—and then try to be angry. You will be astonished: in opening and closing your fists thrice, the very energy by which you could be angry has been spent.
In truth, nails and teeth are the centers of violence. All animals act violently with nails and teeth. Because man’s teeth and nails were weak, he invented weapons that serve the function of teeth and nails. If we look at all human weapons we will find them either an extension of teeth or of nails.
At the meditation-center I want this entire scientific arrangement—so that your violence, your anger, your anxiety, your tension, your insomnia—all the disorders that arise in your mind—why they arise and how, can be demonstrated—and how they depart can be demonstrated by having them depart from you. This will be the negative side of meditation: how the useless rubbish accumulated in you can be removed. And then, positively, these four steps I have named—Vaikhari, Madhyama, Pashyanti, Para—how you can be led inward through these four steps—how you can descend within. Once the outer garbage is thrown out, to go within is very simple—not at all difficult. Perhaps, in much less time than we waste learning a thousand useless things, the movement of meditation begins.
Peter Link has written somewhere: with much less effort than a man takes to go to hell, he can reach heaven.
With much less labor than we expend on anger, we can enter meditation. With as much effort as we spend fighting others—if that same becomes effort to transform oneself—then we would, long since, have succeeded in discovering the image of Paramatma within. With a hundredth of the running we do on outer roads—if we went on the inner path—we would reach our own home. And the one who does not reach himself—no matter how far he runs outside—he will reach nowhere. He who has not reached himself cannot reach anywhere else. And one who has not found any music of peace within—though he roam to the ends of the world—he will find nothing but hell. We carry our hell or our heaven with us.
This meditation-temple is to be a scientific arrangement—free of sectarianism, bound to no religion—and open to all. And for the different experiments with meditation that every religion has discovered, their scientific validity is to be explored at that center as well.
There are one hundred and twelve methods of meditation in the whole world. And each method is wondrous. With any one of these hundred and twelve, a person can reach Paramatma. Among them are methods completely opposite to one another. So a follower of one method calls another method entirely wrong. Yet all these one hundred and twelve become paths leading the seeker to meditation, to peace, to bliss, to truth.
At this meditation-center we intend to experiment with the full one hundred and twelve methods. For the first time on earth such an experiment will be made—where all the processes of meditation that have appeared on earth are brought together in one place. We would not wish to lose even a single person there. Whichever path he can go by, guidance will be given to him on that very path.
There are strange methods whose names you will not even have heard. Let me tell you one or two.
In Tibet there is a very small method—its name is balancing. In the morning after your bath, stand at home, place your feet apart, and observe: is there more weight on your left foot or on your right? If on the left, then very gently shift the weight to the right. Keep it on the right for two moments, then shift to the left. For fifteen days, keep shifting the body’s weight from left to right and right to left. Then this Tibetan experiment says: now practice so that the weight remains on neither foot—come to rest exactly between the two. And after three weeks, when you are exactly in the middle—weight neither on left nor on right—when you are precisely in the center, at that very moment you will enter meditation. Just then you enter meditation.
From the outside it will seem such a simple matter! When you do it, it will feel both easy and difficult. It appears very simple—explainable in two lines. Yet millions have attained the supreme bliss through this small experiment. As soon as you are balanced—neither left nor right—just as you come to the midpoint—you will find that balancing, that equilibrium has also happened to your consciousness. Consciousness too has become balanced, has become centered. Instantly, like an arrow, there is an inward movement.
There are such one hundred and twelve methods in the whole world. I want to provide a complete scientific arrangement for all one hundred and twelve at this meditation-center—and not only to explain them to you, but to have you practice them. If one method does not work, we will have you practice the second. But we will not let you return from that temple in disappointment. Because these one hundred and twelve are the ultimate methods—beyond them there cannot be more. If one does not work, another will; if not the second, then the third. And the method that will work for you can be found immediately—there is a science for discovering which method will work for you.
And if in the great cities of this country—and outside the country too—we can establish such scientific temples of meditation, then for humankind, which today is passing through the maximum of pain and torment and sees no path—for it a door may open. For whatever we thought would set everything right—none of it has set anything right. We thought: if people have sufficient food, everything will be fine. Today in half the world food is entirely sufficient. We thought: people will have clothes, houses, good roads, medicines, treatment, fewer diseases. Today half the world has all these. And a strange event has occurred—the very ones who have everything have become the most restless, anxious, and troubled. Poor countries are in one sense fortunate; starving nations in one sense are fortunate—because their hope is still alive. They think socialism will come, wealth will increase, be distributed—everything will be fine. This very hope has broken in those countries where all has been set right. Now they stand in a great despair—deep despair. Such hopelessness never appeared in human history.
Today, America is more hopeless than any land on earth. And today America is, in our ordinary sense, the most prosperous in human history—one who has everything—and yet suddenly the experience is: nothing is possessed. The reason for such hopelessness is one.
We thought all would be attained by those means—but all those illusions have been shattered. Now we will have to turn back and listen to Buddha, to Krishna, to Christ, to Mohammed. For they said many, many times, long ago: let everything be attained by man—but if the experience of the self is not attained, nothing is attained. But we could not take their words seriously—how could we? Their words seemed very fanciful, very utopian. And those who said: Let there be money, houses—their words seemed practical and realistic. History’s irony—that those who were very practical proved very utopian; and those who seemed very utopian—today they are proving to be the most practical upon the earth.
But religion cannot now return by the old roads. Religion will enter by new roads—scientific and technological. Once, a man would go to the Himalayas. Even today we think: if a man goes to the Himalayas, he can enter meditation. But have we ever asked—why did he go to the Himalayas? The cooler the environment becomes, the easier it is to go within. But how many can go to the Himalayas?
Yet in Bombay there can be an air-conditioned meditation hall. There is no need to go to the Himalayas—because the coolness available on the Himalayas can now be had in Bombay. This mad rush to the Himalayas is unnecessary. Right in the midst of the market in Bombay the same coolness can be created that a yogi once found on a Himalayan peak. Snow can be placed around him—if snow is of benefit, snow can be provided. If altitude is of benefit—lessening of the earth’s gravitation—then even in Bombay gravitation can be reduced. If silence is of benefit, then in Bombay soundproofing can be arranged.
And for the maximum number of people, a Himalayan peak is not possible. And if more go there, even the Himalayan snows will melt. Only because few have gone there has it remained useful. If many go, the same heat, the same fever will reach there too. The day a direct road goes to Everest, we will even build colonies there.
In the coming future, wherever man is, there the whole of technology and science can be used; and there the entire arrangement can be made that a yogi once had to create through great difficulties. Now, by means of science, it is possible—even accessible for an ordinary man.
Using the full range of science and technology, this temple—the temple of meditation—is to be created. It will be a temple only in the sense that it is of meditation; otherwise, it will be a scientific laboratory. In this laboratory, whatever discoveries have been made about man should be fully used.
A person comes to meditate—but his blood pressure is high. To take this man into meditation is not easy; it is difficult. His elevated blood pressure will become an obstacle. The old teachers had no means to measure blood pressure. But in today’s meditation-temple blood pressure can be measured. Means to reduce it can be arranged. And then facilities can be created to take him into meditation. Yes—once a man enters meditation, it will be difficult for blood pressure to take hold of him again. But from the state of high blood pressure it is difficult to enter meditation.
All the yogis of the world have emphasized light eating—eating less. On fasting, on light diet, on right diet—all have insisted. Yet they had no exact means to determine what light diet is, except guesswork. They knew nothing of calories, of the constituents of food. So often under the name of light diet, harm was done.
Today we have very scientific means to know how many calories a person needs. And we can determine how much one should reduce so that meditation becomes easy, and how much increase would make it difficult.
If there is too much food, meditation will be difficult—because excess food demands excess sleep. To digest it, more sleep is needed. Less food demands less sleep. And the less inner sleep there is, the more the awakening of meditation can arise. Meditation is awakening. A man sits to meditate after eating too much—there will be difficulty.
But too much food does not mean simply that much has filled the belly—because it may be that a man has eaten many vegetables, the stomach feels heavy, yet calorically he has not eaten much. And another has eaten a little sweet—the stomach feels light, yet calorically he has eaten a lot. Generally ascetics have eaten sweets, drunk milk, taken rich preparations—without awareness. But there was no clear way. Today we have the way.
How much a person sleeps will determine how his meditation can proceed. Both are linked. If meditation becomes right, sleep will become right. But making meditation right is not as easy as making sleep right. If sleep is first corrected, the movement into meditation becomes easy.
Now people do not sleep at all. They have been awake all night and sit to meditate in the morning! One who has not slept all night will only sleep in meditation. Hence it is no surprise that people doze while worshipping in temples, while listening to monks. I have heard some doctors even advise: if you cannot sleep, go to a religious discourse.
I have heard: a great pastor would often say to a friend, Do come someday to hear my sermon. When the friend would not agree, one day he went. The pastor spoke as best as he could. As they were leaving, he asked, How was it? The friend said, Very refreshing. The pastor’s heart beat with joy. He asked, Which point did you find so refreshing? He said, When I woke up, my mind was very fresh. Even at home, when I sleep, I do not feel so refreshed. I will surely come again. Your sermon was very refreshing.
Why does one feel sleepy in temples, in religious talks? Because boredom comes—sleep comes. When something bores you, sleep comes. And when there is lack of sleep, you are bored very quickly.
Those who cannot sleep come to me: We cannot sleep. Perhaps meditation will bring sleep. They do not know: meditation will certainly set sleep right—but to set sleep right before entering meditation is essential. Otherwise meditation will be difficult. Difficult because the mind’s first need is sleep; as soon as it finds rest, it will fall asleep. Meditation requires being awake even in relaxation—relaxed and aware. On one side everything at rest, on the other completely awake—only then can one enter meditation. But the rule of sleep is: become relaxed, sleep comes. So in meditation people will often fall asleep.
All this arrangement is possible today. Sleep can be measured. Your dreams can be measured—how many you have. You yourself do not know how many dreams there are, what kinds.
Just yesterday a woman seeker was with me. She wanted to meditate. I asked about her dreams. She said, What have dreams to do with it? I want to meditate. I said, It is necessary for me to ask—because the dreams will tell me whether you truly want to meditate, or to do something else first. She said, In dreams I have nothing but sexuality and violence—murder, arson—such dreams. I said, That is what your mind wants to do. Meditation will be difficult just now. First we must purify your dreams.
One who wants to purify himself—if he cannot purify even his dreams—he will not be able to purify himself. If even such an ordinary thing as dreaming is impure, then the purification of the self will be very difficult. If even dreams have not yet become sattvic, it is very difficult for your being to become sattvic. If dreams have not yet become peaceful, it is very difficult for your essence to become peaceful.
But before today there was no facility to examine dreams. In this meditation-center I want to make complete arrangements to examine dreams. Now it is possible. Just as your cardiogram is taken, so a graph of your sleep and dreams can be made—how long you dreamed, of what kind. Violent or non-violent, sexual or not—what kind they were—quite a lot can be known from the graph, and how much of the night you dream. You will be amazed to know—knowledge of dreams has increased so much—that it is now evident there are waves within the mind. When dreams run, the waves are of one kind; when dreams stop, the waves are of another. And the great wonder is: the state of waves in deep sleep is the same as the waves in meditation. When one is in meditation, the brain-waves are as in deep sleep. And when one is dreaming, the waves are as when one is anxious. There is a link between anxiety and dreams; between deep sleep and meditation there is a link.
This whole scientific arrangement I intend to create in the meditation-temple—so that each person may be helped scientifically. And as I see it, today man needs meditation more than anything—because today man is more restless than ever before.
I have said a few things. Reflect, contemplate—there is no need to believe. And this meditation-temple will not be for believers, but for experimenters. Believers are nowhere now; people only say so—no true believer remains! On every man’s chariot sits Shalya.
One small story and I will complete my talk.
In the Mahabharata’s great war, the man Karna chose as his charioteer became the cause of his defeat. The name of the charioteer he chose was Shalya. Shalya means doubt, skepticism, suspicion. And Karna—you know the meaning—Karna means ear. All doubts enter through the ear. Karna chose Shalya as charioteer, and Arjuna chose Krishna. For the entire war this became decisive. For Shalya was so-called because he was a man of great doubt. Karna was very powerful. Those who know, those before whom the Mahabharata happened, all thought Arjuna could not defeat Karna—Karna was supremely powerful. Behind Karna was the power of the sun. Arjuna would not win. Yet in the war it happened that Arjuna won and Karna lost. Those who know say he lost because he chose the wrong charioteer. For all the while Shalya kept saying to Karna, Will you defeat Arjuna? All the while he said only this. Karna would pull his bowstring, and Shalya, his charioteer, would say, Why do you labor? Will you defeat Arjuna? Your victory is very difficult. This was one charioteer. And Krishna was the other—Arjuna had laid down his Gandiva and sat—and Krishna delivered the entire Gita that the man might fight. For Krishna said, What is to be has already been decided. You need do nothing—you are only an instrument. That Shalya who came to Karna—that doubt that came into his mind—became his drowning.
Today Shalya is the charioteer of every man. Whether he recognizes it or not, doubt stands beside every man. Therefore the beliefs propagated in the absence of doubt no longer work. First we must kill Shalya—only then can any effect be brought to bear on the inner consciousness. And this killing of Shalya cannot be done without science. Therefore, in this meditation-center, I want to kill your Shalya through science.
It will not happen now through belief. If I say: Believe—you will not believe. The possibility of belief has gone. That time is over—when people believed. That childhood of humanity is lost forever. Now man is adult. And the doubt he has—if we cannot destroy it through scientific experiment—we will not succeed in bringing any revolution into human life.
Therefore I call this meditation-temple a scientific temple—where we can attempt to bring meditation, religion, to man by a scientific path.
You have listened to my words with such love and peace—I am deeply obliged. And in the end I bow down to the Lord seated within all. Please accept my pranam.