Hasiba Kheliba Dhariba Dhyanam #3
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Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Questions in this Discourse
Osho, I do a little spiritual practice; I especially want to ask about that.
If you really practiced, you wouldn’t be able to ask. Sadhana isn’t “this much” or “that much.” There is no quantity to it. That is our great delusion. Because we are familiar with the world of things, we always think in terms of quantity. In the world of things there is quantity; within, there is only quality—no quantity. In the realm of feeling there is no measure. So we cannot say we love someone less. Either we love, or we do not. Less and more love is impossible—because there is no way to measure. Either we love, or we don’t. “Less love” is a deception. In the same way, either we enter into sadhana or we do not. “A little sadhana” is a deception. But since we live in the world of objects and our thinking is molded there, we bring those measures into spirituality—then a great mistake happens, a great mistake happens.
Likewise, we import stairs into the spiritual domain. There, there is only a leap; there are no stairs. But if there are no stairs, what becomes of the guru and the disciple? A guru is imagined to be standing on the last step, the disciple on the first. Therefore, in the true spiritual world there can be no guru and no disciple—absolutely none. All that is borrowed talk from the world of things: where there is laborer and owner, teacher and taught. In the spiritual realm there is neither a teacher nor a learner. Learning there is a leap—a jump into learning. Learning there is not a process; hence no sequence, no grades.
But then what of exploitation? If there are no grades, exploitation becomes difficult. So we create grades. We say—this one is on step number one, that one on step number two, this one on three, I am on step five.
I went once, Mahipalji—such a funny incident. There is a sannyasin, he has a big ashram and thousands of disciples. He sits on a large seat. Beside him there is a smaller seat. On that sits another sannyasin. All the other sannyasins sit below. When I arrived he asked, “Do you know who this is sitting here?” I said, “I don’t.” He said, “He was the Chief Justice of the High Court. Now he has become a sannyasin. But he is very humble—he never sits with me on the big seat, always on the small, lower seat.” I said, “He may be humble, but who are you? Because you always sit on the big seat. If he is humble, then who are you?” And I said, “He too sits on a small seat, and even below him there are people sitting lower still; he doesn’t sit with them either.”
I said, “They are waiting for your death. When you vacate this throne, he will move up. The hierarchy will go on. He is your chief disciple; when you die, he will become the guru. And among those below, whoever is the most competitive, the most ambitious, will seize this seat. Then this guru will say of him, ‘He is very humble.’ He calls him humble because he gratifies his ego—so he is humble. But if that man also jumps up and sits on the same seat, then he will no longer be humble, because my ego will start getting hurt.”
And then I asked, “Why are you telling people that this man was the Chief Justice of the High Court? A sannyasin means: what he was, he is no more. Whoever he was—whether a chamar, a road sweeper, or a High Court justice—it has nothing to do with it; he has leapt away from there. What is the need to say it? We say it only to proclaim that he is no ordinary sannyasin—don’t think he was some chamar, some street sweeper—he was the Chief Justice of the High Court! Then he hasn’t left anything at all; everything remains as it was.”
Everywhere in the world, what has damaged spirituality is gradation. Because the ladders, positions, titles of the world creep in there. The names change, but everything else arrives and stands there under new labels. Here there was leader and follower; there it became guru and disciple. Here there was owner and laborer; there it became teacher and learner. But wherever there is class, there is exploitation. Class means exploitation. Any kind of class will result in exploitation. And where there is no exploitation, you cannot fabricate a class—how would you make it?
So, in my understanding, perhaps it is very difficult to erase all kinds of classes from the earth; at least in spirituality there should be no class. That is the one possibility where we might bring classlessness. But there, the class structure is very rigid—more rigid than even in the world of wealth.
Our ambition, our ego, takes forms of so many kinds; it is hard to say. And whenever the ego takes any form, its way of thinking is always in process, because the ego cannot leap; it would die in a leap. It moves step by step. And it moves step by step precisely so that when it has secured one step, only then does it leave the previous one.
A leap means the next step is uncertain—may land or may not, there may be a pit, an abyss. A leap means the next step has not been made certain, and yet one has jumped. To “advance” means you have made the next step sure, planted your foot well there, then you lift the foot from the previous step. That is, when we secure the future, we leave the present. This is the sequential way of thinking. The leaping way of thinking is: we drop the present and allow the future to remain uncertain. Only if there is such fearlessness is there movement in spirituality. Out of fear, at most we make each step certain; we build the next stair completely solid first, then we climb it and leave the previous one. This is not renunciation; it is only advancement. The previous step is always implied in the next.
A man has ten thousand rupees; he “leaves” ten thousand and gains fifty thousand. He hasn’t left the ten thousand. In the fifty thousand, forty thousand plus the previous ten thousand are included. He only gains forty thousand; he does not leave the ten. The previous step is always absorbed into the next.
Thus the ego moves like a snake. When it goes forward, it bunches up its whole body and drags it ahead. The ego, therefore, never really leaves anything; it keeps compressing its entire past and pulling it forward. Hence the ego, basically, never passes through a revolution; it remains the same, only modified. On each new step it takes on new colors; and with every new step it acquires a new stiffness; it fills itself with delight.
There is such stiffness in “spirituality” too. But such spirituality cannot be spirituality. In my view, spirituality is always a leap—a jump into the unknown. And we cannot make gradations of the unknown; otherwise it becomes known. We cannot draw a map of the unknown; otherwise it becomes known. In the unknown we cannot even say whether something will be gained or lost. If even that becomes certain, then it is no longer unknown. So the leap from the known to the unknown—from the familiar to the unfathomable—our mind, which thinks in the language of quantity, gradations, gradualness, stairs, sequence, less and more, can never make. One must be very watchful of that mind.
Therefore, until we truly are, it is right to know that we are not seekers. To know we are “a little” seekers is dangerous. We are not…
If I do not love, it is very good to know that I do not love—at least that is true. And not loving has its own pain; it will catch hold of me, it will bite me, it will prick me day and night like a thorn: I have not loved. This will become so dense that one day I will have to take the leap into love. The sting will grow so intense that the ground where I stand will turn to fire. I will have to leap from it, because standing there will become impossible.
But our mind is cunning. It says, “No, it’s not that I don’t love; I love a little. I will try a little more, do a little more.” In this way the ground never gets hot enough—because of that “little”—for me to feel compelled to leap. I say, “I do love a little; I’ll increase it a bit, a bit more.” Therefore the pain of not loving never becomes utterly clear.
Now a man is turning his rosary. He says, “I do a little sadhana.” In this “little,” he will always save himself from sadhana. He will say, “It’s not as if I’m doing nothing; I’m doing a little.” One man is chanting a mantra. He says, “I’m doing a little, a little. It’s not that I’m idle. The work is on.” In this way he keeps persuading his mind: something is going on, something is going on.
It won’t work like that. This is a deception—a very deep deception.
Likewise, we import stairs into the spiritual domain. There, there is only a leap; there are no stairs. But if there are no stairs, what becomes of the guru and the disciple? A guru is imagined to be standing on the last step, the disciple on the first. Therefore, in the true spiritual world there can be no guru and no disciple—absolutely none. All that is borrowed talk from the world of things: where there is laborer and owner, teacher and taught. In the spiritual realm there is neither a teacher nor a learner. Learning there is a leap—a jump into learning. Learning there is not a process; hence no sequence, no grades.
But then what of exploitation? If there are no grades, exploitation becomes difficult. So we create grades. We say—this one is on step number one, that one on step number two, this one on three, I am on step five.
I went once, Mahipalji—such a funny incident. There is a sannyasin, he has a big ashram and thousands of disciples. He sits on a large seat. Beside him there is a smaller seat. On that sits another sannyasin. All the other sannyasins sit below. When I arrived he asked, “Do you know who this is sitting here?” I said, “I don’t.” He said, “He was the Chief Justice of the High Court. Now he has become a sannyasin. But he is very humble—he never sits with me on the big seat, always on the small, lower seat.” I said, “He may be humble, but who are you? Because you always sit on the big seat. If he is humble, then who are you?” And I said, “He too sits on a small seat, and even below him there are people sitting lower still; he doesn’t sit with them either.”
I said, “They are waiting for your death. When you vacate this throne, he will move up. The hierarchy will go on. He is your chief disciple; when you die, he will become the guru. And among those below, whoever is the most competitive, the most ambitious, will seize this seat. Then this guru will say of him, ‘He is very humble.’ He calls him humble because he gratifies his ego—so he is humble. But if that man also jumps up and sits on the same seat, then he will no longer be humble, because my ego will start getting hurt.”
And then I asked, “Why are you telling people that this man was the Chief Justice of the High Court? A sannyasin means: what he was, he is no more. Whoever he was—whether a chamar, a road sweeper, or a High Court justice—it has nothing to do with it; he has leapt away from there. What is the need to say it? We say it only to proclaim that he is no ordinary sannyasin—don’t think he was some chamar, some street sweeper—he was the Chief Justice of the High Court! Then he hasn’t left anything at all; everything remains as it was.”
Everywhere in the world, what has damaged spirituality is gradation. Because the ladders, positions, titles of the world creep in there. The names change, but everything else arrives and stands there under new labels. Here there was leader and follower; there it became guru and disciple. Here there was owner and laborer; there it became teacher and learner. But wherever there is class, there is exploitation. Class means exploitation. Any kind of class will result in exploitation. And where there is no exploitation, you cannot fabricate a class—how would you make it?
So, in my understanding, perhaps it is very difficult to erase all kinds of classes from the earth; at least in spirituality there should be no class. That is the one possibility where we might bring classlessness. But there, the class structure is very rigid—more rigid than even in the world of wealth.
Our ambition, our ego, takes forms of so many kinds; it is hard to say. And whenever the ego takes any form, its way of thinking is always in process, because the ego cannot leap; it would die in a leap. It moves step by step. And it moves step by step precisely so that when it has secured one step, only then does it leave the previous one.
A leap means the next step is uncertain—may land or may not, there may be a pit, an abyss. A leap means the next step has not been made certain, and yet one has jumped. To “advance” means you have made the next step sure, planted your foot well there, then you lift the foot from the previous step. That is, when we secure the future, we leave the present. This is the sequential way of thinking. The leaping way of thinking is: we drop the present and allow the future to remain uncertain. Only if there is such fearlessness is there movement in spirituality. Out of fear, at most we make each step certain; we build the next stair completely solid first, then we climb it and leave the previous one. This is not renunciation; it is only advancement. The previous step is always implied in the next.
A man has ten thousand rupees; he “leaves” ten thousand and gains fifty thousand. He hasn’t left the ten thousand. In the fifty thousand, forty thousand plus the previous ten thousand are included. He only gains forty thousand; he does not leave the ten. The previous step is always absorbed into the next.
Thus the ego moves like a snake. When it goes forward, it bunches up its whole body and drags it ahead. The ego, therefore, never really leaves anything; it keeps compressing its entire past and pulling it forward. Hence the ego, basically, never passes through a revolution; it remains the same, only modified. On each new step it takes on new colors; and with every new step it acquires a new stiffness; it fills itself with delight.
There is such stiffness in “spirituality” too. But such spirituality cannot be spirituality. In my view, spirituality is always a leap—a jump into the unknown. And we cannot make gradations of the unknown; otherwise it becomes known. We cannot draw a map of the unknown; otherwise it becomes known. In the unknown we cannot even say whether something will be gained or lost. If even that becomes certain, then it is no longer unknown. So the leap from the known to the unknown—from the familiar to the unfathomable—our mind, which thinks in the language of quantity, gradations, gradualness, stairs, sequence, less and more, can never make. One must be very watchful of that mind.
Therefore, until we truly are, it is right to know that we are not seekers. To know we are “a little” seekers is dangerous. We are not…
If I do not love, it is very good to know that I do not love—at least that is true. And not loving has its own pain; it will catch hold of me, it will bite me, it will prick me day and night like a thorn: I have not loved. This will become so dense that one day I will have to take the leap into love. The sting will grow so intense that the ground where I stand will turn to fire. I will have to leap from it, because standing there will become impossible.
But our mind is cunning. It says, “No, it’s not that I don’t love; I love a little. I will try a little more, do a little more.” In this way the ground never gets hot enough—because of that “little”—for me to feel compelled to leap. I say, “I do love a little; I’ll increase it a bit, a bit more.” Therefore the pain of not loving never becomes utterly clear.
Now a man is turning his rosary. He says, “I do a little sadhana.” In this “little,” he will always save himself from sadhana. He will say, “It’s not as if I’m doing nothing; I’m doing a little.” One man is chanting a mantra. He says, “I’m doing a little, a little. It’s not that I’m idle. The work is on.” In this way he keeps persuading his mind: something is going on, something is going on.
It won’t work like that. This is a deception—a very deep deception.
Osho, when it happens—when the leap takes place—will memory completely vanish, go far away? But words should still be remembered, right? Technical words, technical education—these should remain in this process.
Both points are right. The real thing is this: when we speak of memory, the question is not to erase memory. The question is to break our identification with memory. It is to know: I am not memory. That which I have memorized, known, recognized, read, heard, understood—that is not what I am. I am utterly separate from it. That is my accumulation. Just as I have accumulated wealth, I have also accumulated knowledge. That is locked in a safe; this is locked in memory. Memory is also a kind of safe. But I am not the safe.
A rich man falls into this mistake and becomes the safe; the learned man falls into the same mistake and becomes the safe. He feels, “This is what I am. My knowing is me.” No—my knowing is not me. Knowing is a process of my being. I am far more than my knowing. And beyond what I know there is an infinite possibility of knowing. So your distance from memory will grow; memory will not be erased. Therefore your technical knowledge will not be affected by the jump; on the contrary, your technical knowledge will become clearer. The farther you are from memory, the greater the clarity. The closer you are to memory, the less clarity there is; it becomes foggy. And when you become identified with memory, then you get into great difficulty—great difficulty. Memory is a mechanical device; it is like a tape recorder. You are not a tape recorder.
If someone keeps a tape recorder close and starts thinking, “I have become the tape recorder,” he will get into trouble. If the recorder breaks tomorrow, he will think, “I am broken.” If the recorder stops tomorrow, he will think, “I have stopped.” And if the recorder doesn’t stop, keeps on talking, he will say, “What can I do? This is what I am.” That is a very nasty kind of bondage.
Yes—memory is a tape recorder, a completely natural device. And sooner or later we will be able to handle it as we handle a tape recorder—we have already begun; even brainwashing is possible now. There is no difficulty left in that.
So you are different from this thing called memory. When the leap happens, it will not be wiped out; only your distance from it will increase. You will be able to see clearly what the instrument is and what consciousness is. Consciousness and memory will appear to you as two distinct things. Then a virginity will arise in your consciousness, a freshness untouched by memory—un-corrupted by it. In fact, memory corrupts a great deal.
Understand this well: our memory commits adultery with us. Yesterday you met me and you abused me. This morning when I see you, I am immediately corrupted. My memory says, “Here comes the one who abused you.” Now I cannot see you; I keep seeing that man of yesterday: “Ah, here comes the same man who abused me.” I am already preparing for you to abuse me. I am getting my reply ready. The retort I couldn’t make yesterday because your abuse came suddenly—today I will be perfectly ready: “You speak, and I will answer.” And when you find me primed for abuse, there is every possibility I may even provoke abuse out of you, because I am preparing the whole situation. And when abuse does arise from you, I will say, “Exactly right—I was prepared; I knew it.”
Thus memory has corrupted me. It bound me to the past. As if yesterday’s dust were still lying in your house and this morning it could not be cleaned. That is how it is. And this dust gathers endlessly; so you are never uncorrupted, never virgin—straight, fresh. The notion of virginity is precisely this: nothing is more sacred than virginity.
But the meaning we have given to virginity is very odd; it has nothing to do with this. Virginity means: the one whom yesterday has not corrupted; whose past does not contaminate his present or future; whose past does not come in between; who stands fresh every day. The past remains off to one side in memory, but it does not cast its shadow over him. And he is capable of seeing the new.
So today when you come, I will see you—not the one who abused me yesterday. Where is he now? Much water has flowed down the Ganges. For all I know, you may be coming to ask forgiveness, and I am thinking you are the same man who abused me. Who knows what you have become in twenty-four hours! In twenty-four hours one has no certainty about oneself—how can one have certainty about another?
So memory is a corrupting element. If you identify yourself with it, you are finished. In the end you will go mad if you are completely caught in its corruption. But if you stand entirely outside it and memory remains only a mechanical device that serves you—where the house is, where the shop is, where what you have read is kept—then it is merely a mechanical device you use.
Soon enough, we have already made small computers that we will carry in our pockets. There will be no need to burden human memory so much. No need to remember ten phone numbers. As you now feed numbers into a diary—“these are my friends’ numbers”—you will feed them into your computer: “These are my thousand friends’ phone numbers.” Then you ask, “What is Ram’s number?” The computer tells you, “This is it.” You will not need to keep it in memory; you will carry your computer and it will do the job.
Even now our inner mechanism is very much like a computer—we have to feed it. That is why we keep saying, “Ram’s phone number is this; Ram’s phone number is this.” Say it ten times and it gets fed; a groove is made.
But this is not you. You are always beyond it. You are the one who has done this, the one who will remember, the one who can forget. That consciousness is a separate stream.
When the leap happens, that consciousness will stand out clearly separate. And then you become virgin. Then you become virgin.
A rich man falls into this mistake and becomes the safe; the learned man falls into the same mistake and becomes the safe. He feels, “This is what I am. My knowing is me.” No—my knowing is not me. Knowing is a process of my being. I am far more than my knowing. And beyond what I know there is an infinite possibility of knowing. So your distance from memory will grow; memory will not be erased. Therefore your technical knowledge will not be affected by the jump; on the contrary, your technical knowledge will become clearer. The farther you are from memory, the greater the clarity. The closer you are to memory, the less clarity there is; it becomes foggy. And when you become identified with memory, then you get into great difficulty—great difficulty. Memory is a mechanical device; it is like a tape recorder. You are not a tape recorder.
If someone keeps a tape recorder close and starts thinking, “I have become the tape recorder,” he will get into trouble. If the recorder breaks tomorrow, he will think, “I am broken.” If the recorder stops tomorrow, he will think, “I have stopped.” And if the recorder doesn’t stop, keeps on talking, he will say, “What can I do? This is what I am.” That is a very nasty kind of bondage.
Yes—memory is a tape recorder, a completely natural device. And sooner or later we will be able to handle it as we handle a tape recorder—we have already begun; even brainwashing is possible now. There is no difficulty left in that.
So you are different from this thing called memory. When the leap happens, it will not be wiped out; only your distance from it will increase. You will be able to see clearly what the instrument is and what consciousness is. Consciousness and memory will appear to you as two distinct things. Then a virginity will arise in your consciousness, a freshness untouched by memory—un-corrupted by it. In fact, memory corrupts a great deal.
Understand this well: our memory commits adultery with us. Yesterday you met me and you abused me. This morning when I see you, I am immediately corrupted. My memory says, “Here comes the one who abused you.” Now I cannot see you; I keep seeing that man of yesterday: “Ah, here comes the same man who abused me.” I am already preparing for you to abuse me. I am getting my reply ready. The retort I couldn’t make yesterday because your abuse came suddenly—today I will be perfectly ready: “You speak, and I will answer.” And when you find me primed for abuse, there is every possibility I may even provoke abuse out of you, because I am preparing the whole situation. And when abuse does arise from you, I will say, “Exactly right—I was prepared; I knew it.”
Thus memory has corrupted me. It bound me to the past. As if yesterday’s dust were still lying in your house and this morning it could not be cleaned. That is how it is. And this dust gathers endlessly; so you are never uncorrupted, never virgin—straight, fresh. The notion of virginity is precisely this: nothing is more sacred than virginity.
But the meaning we have given to virginity is very odd; it has nothing to do with this. Virginity means: the one whom yesterday has not corrupted; whose past does not contaminate his present or future; whose past does not come in between; who stands fresh every day. The past remains off to one side in memory, but it does not cast its shadow over him. And he is capable of seeing the new.
So today when you come, I will see you—not the one who abused me yesterday. Where is he now? Much water has flowed down the Ganges. For all I know, you may be coming to ask forgiveness, and I am thinking you are the same man who abused me. Who knows what you have become in twenty-four hours! In twenty-four hours one has no certainty about oneself—how can one have certainty about another?
So memory is a corrupting element. If you identify yourself with it, you are finished. In the end you will go mad if you are completely caught in its corruption. But if you stand entirely outside it and memory remains only a mechanical device that serves you—where the house is, where the shop is, where what you have read is kept—then it is merely a mechanical device you use.
Soon enough, we have already made small computers that we will carry in our pockets. There will be no need to burden human memory so much. No need to remember ten phone numbers. As you now feed numbers into a diary—“these are my friends’ numbers”—you will feed them into your computer: “These are my thousand friends’ phone numbers.” Then you ask, “What is Ram’s number?” The computer tells you, “This is it.” You will not need to keep it in memory; you will carry your computer and it will do the job.
Even now our inner mechanism is very much like a computer—we have to feed it. That is why we keep saying, “Ram’s phone number is this; Ram’s phone number is this.” Say it ten times and it gets fed; a groove is made.
But this is not you. You are always beyond it. You are the one who has done this, the one who will remember, the one who can forget. That consciousness is a separate stream.
When the leap happens, that consciousness will stand out clearly separate. And then you become virgin. Then you become virgin.
Osho, suppose in a situation I have lost my memory completely. Will it be possible for me...
If what you are saying is true, then you have not lost anything. Got it? A man says, “I have completely lost my memory.” By saying so he gives solid proof that he has lost nothing—he even knows what all he has lost! Then where is the loss? Nothing is lost. If a man’s memory were truly gone, who would come and say, “Well, my memory is gone”? Do you understand?
Osho, tell me one more thing! A friend says I should drop the notion of God, drop my attachment to it. He says that if I do that, it will affect my memory; as an engineer in the Post and Telegraph, I won’t be able to do my work. In fact, it doesn’t even seem possible...
I understand what you’re saying. Leave God aside for a few days. Leave it because any God that we can hold on to and drop cannot be God. Understand? That is only our memory—what we have read in books, what we have heard—the “God” we are clinging to. That will create trouble. It will corrupt you too. Understand? Drop that. By “God” I mean the purity that comes from that innocence which is the basis for keeping consciousness pure and free through remembrance.
God means the supremely pure. God has nothing to do with a person. God means the most pure. Understand it rightly: it is not that God is holy; rather, whatever is holy is God. Understand? So that purity—you don’t need to keep it in memory; that is exactly the problem. Drop that. There is no need to keep remembering it.
And “spiritual” and “non-spiritual,” this separate and that separate—drop that too. It has nothing to do with it. Live joyfully, live peacefully, and stay alert that the past does not destroy your future. Understand? Then there isn’t much difference between the Post and Telegraph and God. Understand? There is no difference between your engineering in the Post and Telegraph and God.
(The audio recording of the question is not clear.)
No, no, no. Let us not insist on what should happen. Whatever is, accept it and remain at peace.
God means the supremely pure. God has nothing to do with a person. God means the most pure. Understand it rightly: it is not that God is holy; rather, whatever is holy is God. Understand? So that purity—you don’t need to keep it in memory; that is exactly the problem. Drop that. There is no need to keep remembering it.
And “spiritual” and “non-spiritual,” this separate and that separate—drop that too. It has nothing to do with it. Live joyfully, live peacefully, and stay alert that the past does not destroy your future. Understand? Then there isn’t much difference between the Post and Telegraph and God. Understand? There is no difference between your engineering in the Post and Telegraph and God.
(The audio recording of the question is not clear.)
No, no, no. Let us not insist on what should happen. Whatever is, accept it and remain at peace.
Osho, in meditation the sounds one hears, the fragrance that arises, or the light that appears—don’t these become obstacles?
They can become obstacles, and they can also become aids. It depends on your attitude, on how you take them. In truth there are not two separate categories in this world called hindrance and help. A stone lying on the path can be an obstacle or it can become a step. It can keep you from crossing, or it can support you in crossing. So the real question is not what is a hindrance and what is a help; the real question is how you take it.
Suppose an ecstatic fragrance starts arising within. It is simply a fact: you had known outer fragrances, now you have known an inner fragrance too. But that too is the essence accumulated from your countless experiences of outer fragrance across innumerable lives; it too is not truly inner. You have known inner light—again, it is the condensed storehouse of your infinite experiences of outer light, gathered within like atomic energy. When it manifests, the sun will seem pale. If you hear music within, that too is the distilled perfume of infinite music and sounds. It will also manifest inside.
So when these arise, it is certain that you have moved from the outside to that inner space where your outer experiences are stored. That place is within. Your movement is inward—that much is clear. When inner fragrance, inner light, and other such inner experiences appear, it proves you have gone in. You have entered from the gross into the subtle. But you have not yet entered the Unknown. The Unknown cannot be recognized. You are saying, “This is fragrance,” which means it still belongs to the known, because you can match it with fragrances you already know; recognition is possible. You say, “This is light,” because you can match it with the light you have always known. Otherwise, how would you call it light? So it is not the Unknown; it is still the known. Only, what was earlier found outside is now found inside. Like seeing the moon in the sky, and now seeing its reflection in the lake—only that much difference. What is outside has cast a reflection inside; you have caught it there. The dimension changed, but the gross turned subtle.
Yet the subtle is only a finer form of the gross. Very fine, but still of the same order. In that sense, the inner is a modification of the outer. What we call “outside” is what lies beyond the door; what we call “inside” is what lies within the door. Where, exactly, are they separate? The outside enters the inside; the inside flows out. They are intermingled. The same breath goes in—you call it “inner”; the same breath goes out—you call it “outer.” It is the same breath. We name one half “inside,” the other half “outside.”
Inside and outside are two sides of one thing. Subtle and gross are two sides of one thing. And all this is still the known. Yet it is easier to leap from the subtle known into the Unknown than to leap from the gross known. In that sense, the subtle is useful.
It becomes a hindrance if you become enamored and start saying, “I have attained.” Then it is a hindrance. You have not attained anything; you have only found a perfume. Even if it is millions of times finer than anything sold in the marketplace, it is still just perfume. If not today, tomorrow science will manufacture that too—there is no special difficulty; after all, it is perfume.
You heard music within—veenas playing as you have never heard, beyond any Ravi Shankar. But one day some Ravi Shankar may play it. Whatever can be heard can, at some point, be played, because hearing and playing are two parts of the same process.
The light you have seen within may one day be shown outside as well; science will arrange a way to display inner lights. LSD and mescaline already reveal inner lights and inner sounds—that is a scientific arrangement.
If you mistake all this for spiritual attainment, it will become a hindrance. If you think, “I have found it—fragrance is coming, the inner sound resounds, light is appearing—now everything is achieved,” you miss. The stone that could have become a step now becomes a wall. You get stuck badly. You were safer with the gross, because there the risk of confusing it with the spiritual was small; here the risk is great.
Out there it was collective. Others would say, “What spirituality? That’s just a house. That’s the sound of a sitar. That’s electric light. That’s the scent of a flower.” You had critics. Now you are utterly alone. There is no one else there, so it is easy to trust yourself—and easy to deceive yourself. There is no critic now. Only you hear that sound; no one else hears it. Only you see that light; no one else sees it. So it’s very easy to hallucinate yourself. If you say, “I’ve got it,” you will be harmed. As long as the urge to declare “I have attained” remains, danger remains.
No—you must take another leap. You have moved from gross to subtle, from outer to inner, but you have not yet entered the Unknown. The day the Unknown arrives, you will not be able to recognize it. How can you recognize the Unknown? You will not be able to say, “This is fragrance,” or “This is light,” or “This is God,” or “This is soul,” or “This is moksha,” or “This is nirvana.” You will only be able to say, “I cannot say.” There is no way; there is no recognition. Something has come, something has touched, but there is no way to give it a word. You cannot even say, “I have attained,” because you do not remain there as a stable ‘I.’ Only then is the leap into the Unknown—trans-sensory. All our knowing is sensory. There nothing remains—no veena will play, no fragrance will arise, no light will remain. Nothing will remain as an object—something happening there.
Where there is no object, the subject also disappears, because it has no support. As long as something appears, the ‘I’ remains as the one to whom it appears. If there is fragrance, I am present as the one to whom fragrance comes. If there is light, I am present as the one to whom light appears. As long as there is any object, the ‘I’ persists. In the objectless state, where would the ‘I’ remain? On what support could it stand to say, “I am”? What kind of ‘I’ could endure where there is no fragrance, no light, nothing to see, nothing to experience, nothing at all? That is why the phrase “spiritual experience” is utterly wrong. As long as there is experience, it is not spiritual; when the spiritual is, there is no experience—because experience is always objective, a relationship between subject and object. There one cannot even say that an experience has happened.
The Upanishads say: the one who says, “I have known,” know that he has not known. That very claim is the proof that he has not yet known.
Suppose an ecstatic fragrance starts arising within. It is simply a fact: you had known outer fragrances, now you have known an inner fragrance too. But that too is the essence accumulated from your countless experiences of outer fragrance across innumerable lives; it too is not truly inner. You have known inner light—again, it is the condensed storehouse of your infinite experiences of outer light, gathered within like atomic energy. When it manifests, the sun will seem pale. If you hear music within, that too is the distilled perfume of infinite music and sounds. It will also manifest inside.
So when these arise, it is certain that you have moved from the outside to that inner space where your outer experiences are stored. That place is within. Your movement is inward—that much is clear. When inner fragrance, inner light, and other such inner experiences appear, it proves you have gone in. You have entered from the gross into the subtle. But you have not yet entered the Unknown. The Unknown cannot be recognized. You are saying, “This is fragrance,” which means it still belongs to the known, because you can match it with fragrances you already know; recognition is possible. You say, “This is light,” because you can match it with the light you have always known. Otherwise, how would you call it light? So it is not the Unknown; it is still the known. Only, what was earlier found outside is now found inside. Like seeing the moon in the sky, and now seeing its reflection in the lake—only that much difference. What is outside has cast a reflection inside; you have caught it there. The dimension changed, but the gross turned subtle.
Yet the subtle is only a finer form of the gross. Very fine, but still of the same order. In that sense, the inner is a modification of the outer. What we call “outside” is what lies beyond the door; what we call “inside” is what lies within the door. Where, exactly, are they separate? The outside enters the inside; the inside flows out. They are intermingled. The same breath goes in—you call it “inner”; the same breath goes out—you call it “outer.” It is the same breath. We name one half “inside,” the other half “outside.”
Inside and outside are two sides of one thing. Subtle and gross are two sides of one thing. And all this is still the known. Yet it is easier to leap from the subtle known into the Unknown than to leap from the gross known. In that sense, the subtle is useful.
It becomes a hindrance if you become enamored and start saying, “I have attained.” Then it is a hindrance. You have not attained anything; you have only found a perfume. Even if it is millions of times finer than anything sold in the marketplace, it is still just perfume. If not today, tomorrow science will manufacture that too—there is no special difficulty; after all, it is perfume.
You heard music within—veenas playing as you have never heard, beyond any Ravi Shankar. But one day some Ravi Shankar may play it. Whatever can be heard can, at some point, be played, because hearing and playing are two parts of the same process.
The light you have seen within may one day be shown outside as well; science will arrange a way to display inner lights. LSD and mescaline already reveal inner lights and inner sounds—that is a scientific arrangement.
If you mistake all this for spiritual attainment, it will become a hindrance. If you think, “I have found it—fragrance is coming, the inner sound resounds, light is appearing—now everything is achieved,” you miss. The stone that could have become a step now becomes a wall. You get stuck badly. You were safer with the gross, because there the risk of confusing it with the spiritual was small; here the risk is great.
Out there it was collective. Others would say, “What spirituality? That’s just a house. That’s the sound of a sitar. That’s electric light. That’s the scent of a flower.” You had critics. Now you are utterly alone. There is no one else there, so it is easy to trust yourself—and easy to deceive yourself. There is no critic now. Only you hear that sound; no one else hears it. Only you see that light; no one else sees it. So it’s very easy to hallucinate yourself. If you say, “I’ve got it,” you will be harmed. As long as the urge to declare “I have attained” remains, danger remains.
No—you must take another leap. You have moved from gross to subtle, from outer to inner, but you have not yet entered the Unknown. The day the Unknown arrives, you will not be able to recognize it. How can you recognize the Unknown? You will not be able to say, “This is fragrance,” or “This is light,” or “This is God,” or “This is soul,” or “This is moksha,” or “This is nirvana.” You will only be able to say, “I cannot say.” There is no way; there is no recognition. Something has come, something has touched, but there is no way to give it a word. You cannot even say, “I have attained,” because you do not remain there as a stable ‘I.’ Only then is the leap into the Unknown—trans-sensory. All our knowing is sensory. There nothing remains—no veena will play, no fragrance will arise, no light will remain. Nothing will remain as an object—something happening there.
Where there is no object, the subject also disappears, because it has no support. As long as something appears, the ‘I’ remains as the one to whom it appears. If there is fragrance, I am present as the one to whom fragrance comes. If there is light, I am present as the one to whom light appears. As long as there is any object, the ‘I’ persists. In the objectless state, where would the ‘I’ remain? On what support could it stand to say, “I am”? What kind of ‘I’ could endure where there is no fragrance, no light, nothing to see, nothing to experience, nothing at all? That is why the phrase “spiritual experience” is utterly wrong. As long as there is experience, it is not spiritual; when the spiritual is, there is no experience—because experience is always objective, a relationship between subject and object. There one cannot even say that an experience has happened.
The Upanishads say: the one who says, “I have known,” know that he has not known. That very claim is the proof that he has not yet known.
Osho, before beginning practice we read in books that a seeker has such-and-such experiences, that this or that will happen, may happen. So when I prepare to practice on my own and I try to see where these colors show up—white, green, blue—and I sit right at the start to imagine them, even before a thought-free state arrives, don’t all these imaginations that we are taught become an obstacle to entering meditation?
They can be an obstacle, and they can also be an aid. In truth, there is no obstacle that cannot become a means. There is no such obstacle. And there is no means that cannot become an obstacle. It is a matter of attitude, not of the thing itself. It will not become an obstacle if you know it is happening because you heard it, read it, wrote it—that you are projecting it. Then it does not become an obstacle. But if you say, “No, it is not what I heard or read; this is a real experience,” then it can become an obstacle. Deep down it is a matter of attitude.
So one must always remain alert: Is what is happening merely the accumulation of what I have heard, read, been told, known? If that much stays in awareness, then one day that which has not been heard, read, or learned will happen. For now, everything is what has been heard, read, learned—everything. For now there is no other way; until the experience happens, all is second-hand—heard, read, written.
But there is no thing—this is the difficulty—there is no thing that cannot be both at once. And finally the thing is not important; our approach is important. So I say: make everything a means. Make everything a means. If you take everything as an obstacle, you will get into difficulty.
That too is a way: if you take everything as an obstacle, even then the leap can happen. If each thing is seen as an obstacle—that everything is a hindrance—then drop everything. It does not drop. The negative method is this: everything is a hindrance—this too is a hindrance, this too, this too—neti-neti, not this, not this, not this. It does not drop, because we say, “This is learned, heard, read—how can it drop?”
Then there is the other path: make each thing a means—“We will place a foot on this too, and on this too, and on this too; but we will not stop anywhere—we will leap from everything.” Both approaches are possible. Hence, in the world there are only two paths of practice: one positive, one negative. That’s all—just these two. One makes every single thing a means; the other takes every single thing as an obstacle. Both will work, because both become total. If everything is an obstacle, you become total—case closed. If everything is a means, you also become total. Either become total in negativity—there is no means at all—and the leap will happen; or become total in positivity—everything is a means. Do you follow?
Now, for example, Tantra is positive. It says: everything is a means—ganja, opium, woman, enjoyment—everything is a means. It says, nothing is an obstacle. Therefore Tantra will not say anything is bad. It says, nothing is bad; whatever is, is a means. Tantra is very hard to digest, because we say, “Some things must be bad, some good.” Therefore we cannot become total. The tantrika becomes total: even when he smokes ganja he says, “Jai Bhole.” Standing on the platform of ganja he leaps into Bhole. He says, “Jai Bhole.”
Now ganja and Bhole have no relation. What has ganja to do with the remembrance of God? But he says, “This too is Yours; I am willing for this too.” He says, “I am willing for this too.” He accepts everything; he does not reject. And from everything he goes on leaping. He says, “There is no obstacle at all—what is there to fear?”
You cannot frighten Tantra. There is no way to scare him. Whatever you use to frighten him, he will swallow that too. Hence Shankar came to its center: he will even drink poison. That too is a means. There has not been a more positive personality in the world than Shankar, because for him nothing is an obstacle.
The other is negative methods: like Buddha’s shunyata or Krishnamurti’s teaching. That is the negative method. They say everything is an obstacle—drop it all. Nothing is a means. There is no means. Therefore do not enter means at all; do not step on the ladder at all. Why put your foot on the ladder if you have to leap? If you have to leap, why climb? Do not climb. Do not go to any ladder, do not cling to any method. Then the leap is already taken. If you do not cling, if you do not put your foot on any rung, do not climb anywhere—where will you go? You will move into the void.
These two alone exist. And there has been a great conflict between them—a conflict full of misunderstanding. They are enemies—terrible enemies of each other!
My difficulty is that I find both right. Therefore my words sometimes become difficult for you. It seems to you that sometimes I say, “Here is a method,” and sometimes I say, “There is no method.” Then you find it hard to make sense: “What is this?” Because if there is no method, then we…
And I will keep saying both. My understanding is that in the coming future both must be said, because the mutual opposition of these two has harmed humanity greatly—greatly. You cannot say in advance by which path a person will go. Nothing can be said. Therefore insistence is dangerous. And when these two became sects, they became insistent—very insistent.
For example, Krishnamurti—he is not non-insistent; the insistence is heavy. He cannot tolerate the positive at all. He cannot accept that there could also be a means. It cannot be. For the negative, the insistence is extreme.
And a devotee—for example, Meera—she cannot accept that there could be no method. She will say, “All is method; non-method cannot be. No-method cannot be.”
And my trouble is that I find both right. But if I tell you both at once, you will be confused—you will go completely mad. Therefore sometimes I talk of one. I think, whoever is caught by the negative, let him go by the negative. Sometimes I speak of the positive. I think, whoever is caught by the positive, let him go by the positive. Hence it is very hard to find someone more inconsistent than me. If I wished to be consistent, I could be—no difficulty. I could hold to one and be consistent. But I will not. I will keep speaking of both.
And even then it is not certain which thing will be right for you at which moment. It is not that one person will always find the negative right. It may be that yesterday the negative seemed right to him and today it does not, because the failure of the negative may move his mind toward the positive; and the failure of the positive may move him toward the negative. Nothing can be said. Therefore dogmatic opinion is dangerous. But if you avoid insistence, inconsistency becomes inevitable. There will be statements that do not “hang together.” So people keep writing to me: “Earlier you said this; in such-and-such book you said that; in that camp you said this; in this camp you said that.”
They do not understand that they should take whatever suits them and move with it; I will go on saying everything. In one sense, this is a new experiment. And I hold that there is no greater courage than to be inconsistent, because it is a big hassle. Consistency is very convenient: one fixed road, fixed accounting; I say just that much—the matter ends. The other is wrong; I cut it off—no question remains. But for me, when I call the other “wrong,” I say it only so that this path becomes comprehensible to you. And when I call the other “right,” then I will call this one equally “wrong.”
In truth, for me there is no wrong and right. There are two paths and two kinds of people. And in each person both kinds of aspects exist. The complexity is great. Therefore for the masculine mind—not man, the masculine psyche—the positive path becomes easier, immediately easier, because there is aggression, a drive to conquer, to achieve, to grasp. The feminine mind is negativity, receptivity—let it come. It is not an attack but a waiting. So in those centuries where the masculine predominated—as in the past centuries, where woman had no influence—those were centuries of means, of methods. In the coming days woman is slowly becoming influential, and in the West, where woman has become very influential, a Krishnamurti-like view can have influence, because negativity has increased. But this is such a wavering matter—it wavers daily. Whatever of the two seems right to you, each person should decide within. If everything seems like an obstacle, that too is a very good decision.
(The audio recording of the question is not clear.)
You will know only by experiment. The intellect will be a participant in the experiment, but by intellect alone you will not know. How will you know what is for you? By intellect alone you will not know, because the intellect does not have the capacity to experience. The capacity to experience lies in the total personality. The intellect can reflect upon experience; if there is no experience in hand, the intellect can do nothing.
So experiment, see; whatever experiences come, place them in the hands of the intellect and tell it to think. And if it seems that movement happens through method, then go into method—and go all the way. If it seems that movement does not happen, then go into non-method. And it is my wish that those who go deep by any one of these ways, I will later take them into the other as well, so that they do not remain dogmatic.
There is a sad experience from the distant past: one who went by one method never returned to try its opposite. To do so is very valuable, because then no insistence remains in you. Then you will be able to say that all paths take you there. And you will also be able to say that to reach, there is no path. You will be able to say both.
So one must always remain alert: Is what is happening merely the accumulation of what I have heard, read, been told, known? If that much stays in awareness, then one day that which has not been heard, read, or learned will happen. For now, everything is what has been heard, read, learned—everything. For now there is no other way; until the experience happens, all is second-hand—heard, read, written.
But there is no thing—this is the difficulty—there is no thing that cannot be both at once. And finally the thing is not important; our approach is important. So I say: make everything a means. Make everything a means. If you take everything as an obstacle, you will get into difficulty.
That too is a way: if you take everything as an obstacle, even then the leap can happen. If each thing is seen as an obstacle—that everything is a hindrance—then drop everything. It does not drop. The negative method is this: everything is a hindrance—this too is a hindrance, this too, this too—neti-neti, not this, not this, not this. It does not drop, because we say, “This is learned, heard, read—how can it drop?”
Then there is the other path: make each thing a means—“We will place a foot on this too, and on this too, and on this too; but we will not stop anywhere—we will leap from everything.” Both approaches are possible. Hence, in the world there are only two paths of practice: one positive, one negative. That’s all—just these two. One makes every single thing a means; the other takes every single thing as an obstacle. Both will work, because both become total. If everything is an obstacle, you become total—case closed. If everything is a means, you also become total. Either become total in negativity—there is no means at all—and the leap will happen; or become total in positivity—everything is a means. Do you follow?
Now, for example, Tantra is positive. It says: everything is a means—ganja, opium, woman, enjoyment—everything is a means. It says, nothing is an obstacle. Therefore Tantra will not say anything is bad. It says, nothing is bad; whatever is, is a means. Tantra is very hard to digest, because we say, “Some things must be bad, some good.” Therefore we cannot become total. The tantrika becomes total: even when he smokes ganja he says, “Jai Bhole.” Standing on the platform of ganja he leaps into Bhole. He says, “Jai Bhole.”
Now ganja and Bhole have no relation. What has ganja to do with the remembrance of God? But he says, “This too is Yours; I am willing for this too.” He says, “I am willing for this too.” He accepts everything; he does not reject. And from everything he goes on leaping. He says, “There is no obstacle at all—what is there to fear?”
You cannot frighten Tantra. There is no way to scare him. Whatever you use to frighten him, he will swallow that too. Hence Shankar came to its center: he will even drink poison. That too is a means. There has not been a more positive personality in the world than Shankar, because for him nothing is an obstacle.
The other is negative methods: like Buddha’s shunyata or Krishnamurti’s teaching. That is the negative method. They say everything is an obstacle—drop it all. Nothing is a means. There is no means. Therefore do not enter means at all; do not step on the ladder at all. Why put your foot on the ladder if you have to leap? If you have to leap, why climb? Do not climb. Do not go to any ladder, do not cling to any method. Then the leap is already taken. If you do not cling, if you do not put your foot on any rung, do not climb anywhere—where will you go? You will move into the void.
These two alone exist. And there has been a great conflict between them—a conflict full of misunderstanding. They are enemies—terrible enemies of each other!
My difficulty is that I find both right. Therefore my words sometimes become difficult for you. It seems to you that sometimes I say, “Here is a method,” and sometimes I say, “There is no method.” Then you find it hard to make sense: “What is this?” Because if there is no method, then we…
And I will keep saying both. My understanding is that in the coming future both must be said, because the mutual opposition of these two has harmed humanity greatly—greatly. You cannot say in advance by which path a person will go. Nothing can be said. Therefore insistence is dangerous. And when these two became sects, they became insistent—very insistent.
For example, Krishnamurti—he is not non-insistent; the insistence is heavy. He cannot tolerate the positive at all. He cannot accept that there could also be a means. It cannot be. For the negative, the insistence is extreme.
And a devotee—for example, Meera—she cannot accept that there could be no method. She will say, “All is method; non-method cannot be. No-method cannot be.”
And my trouble is that I find both right. But if I tell you both at once, you will be confused—you will go completely mad. Therefore sometimes I talk of one. I think, whoever is caught by the negative, let him go by the negative. Sometimes I speak of the positive. I think, whoever is caught by the positive, let him go by the positive. Hence it is very hard to find someone more inconsistent than me. If I wished to be consistent, I could be—no difficulty. I could hold to one and be consistent. But I will not. I will keep speaking of both.
And even then it is not certain which thing will be right for you at which moment. It is not that one person will always find the negative right. It may be that yesterday the negative seemed right to him and today it does not, because the failure of the negative may move his mind toward the positive; and the failure of the positive may move him toward the negative. Nothing can be said. Therefore dogmatic opinion is dangerous. But if you avoid insistence, inconsistency becomes inevitable. There will be statements that do not “hang together.” So people keep writing to me: “Earlier you said this; in such-and-such book you said that; in that camp you said this; in this camp you said that.”
They do not understand that they should take whatever suits them and move with it; I will go on saying everything. In one sense, this is a new experiment. And I hold that there is no greater courage than to be inconsistent, because it is a big hassle. Consistency is very convenient: one fixed road, fixed accounting; I say just that much—the matter ends. The other is wrong; I cut it off—no question remains. But for me, when I call the other “wrong,” I say it only so that this path becomes comprehensible to you. And when I call the other “right,” then I will call this one equally “wrong.”
In truth, for me there is no wrong and right. There are two paths and two kinds of people. And in each person both kinds of aspects exist. The complexity is great. Therefore for the masculine mind—not man, the masculine psyche—the positive path becomes easier, immediately easier, because there is aggression, a drive to conquer, to achieve, to grasp. The feminine mind is negativity, receptivity—let it come. It is not an attack but a waiting. So in those centuries where the masculine predominated—as in the past centuries, where woman had no influence—those were centuries of means, of methods. In the coming days woman is slowly becoming influential, and in the West, where woman has become very influential, a Krishnamurti-like view can have influence, because negativity has increased. But this is such a wavering matter—it wavers daily. Whatever of the two seems right to you, each person should decide within. If everything seems like an obstacle, that too is a very good decision.
(The audio recording of the question is not clear.)
You will know only by experiment. The intellect will be a participant in the experiment, but by intellect alone you will not know. How will you know what is for you? By intellect alone you will not know, because the intellect does not have the capacity to experience. The capacity to experience lies in the total personality. The intellect can reflect upon experience; if there is no experience in hand, the intellect can do nothing.
So experiment, see; whatever experiences come, place them in the hands of the intellect and tell it to think. And if it seems that movement happens through method, then go into method—and go all the way. If it seems that movement does not happen, then go into non-method. And it is my wish that those who go deep by any one of these ways, I will later take them into the other as well, so that they do not remain dogmatic.
There is a sad experience from the distant past: one who went by one method never returned to try its opposite. To do so is very valuable, because then no insistence remains in you. Then you will be able to say that all paths take you there. And you will also be able to say that to reach, there is no path. You will be able to say both.