My beloved Atman! I try that I may sow a few seeds in you about truth, about the love of the Paramatman; that a thirst may arise within you, that a discontent be born within you. Not to give you contentment, but to give birth to discontent within you — this is my effort. May you become restless for the Paramatman. For truth — like a flame, like fire — let some deep longing begin to burn within. The one who becomes discontented can one day be fulfilled; but the one who never knows discontent, the doors of fulfillment are closed to him forever. And the one who is thirsty — sometime he finds water; the one who is never thirsty remains deprived of water forever. In these four days I have spoken only a little about that thirst. On the first day I spoke about ‘thirst’ itself. And I bow in gratitude to those in whose lives, in some way, there is a thirst for truth — a sprout somewhere within. Those who, though doing whatever they do for twenty-four hours, are not satisfied by their doing; and wherever they are, however their lives may be, something keeps quietly sliding within, some movement keeps running in the mind. They feel that what is, is not such as to satisfy; there is also the sense of something more to be attained. This thirst arises when life’s suffering is seen, when life’s real form is seen, as one would see death — I told you that. Then we considered the ‘path’ — how one might proceed after this thirst has arisen. I said: neither belief nor disbelief, but freedom from both. Only a mind independent of both becomes capable of knowing truth. Then we reflected on the ‘door’. Not through thought, and not through unthought, but through nirvichar — through thought-free awareness. Through thought-free alertness man attains a certain arrival. One finds somewhere that he has arrived; in his life new glimpses of light and bliss begin to happen. We inquired into this. And today, on the final day, I must speak to you a little about ‘entry’ — about the very entering. It is a most sacred realm into which we wish to enter. The region of entry, near to the Lord, is most sacred — where we long to arrive. It must be understood very quietly, very simply. As I said yesterday: let there be awareness and no thoughts — this is sadhana. Either thoughts are there and awareness is not; or, if thoughts are not, then a stupor descends. In both conditions the mind is bound. It is necessary to rise beyond both. And only he who can rise beyond both comes upon meditation. How shall we rise beyond? Ordinarily, whatever devices are undertaken do not take us beyond — they bind us more, they constrict us more, they chain us more. What is the right experiment to bring awakening into life? Shall we repeat the name of Ram? Shall we chant on beads? Read the scriptures? In past talks I said that nothing will happen through these. I also said there are many ways by which we stupefy ourselves, make ourselves unconscious, intoxicate ourselves in some way — and then waste our lives in those states. Through them, too, nothing will happen. What will happen — will happen by bringing a continuous awareness to all the actions of life. As I said, wherever our attention goes, we wake up in that direction. If our attention is towards the totality of life’s acts, an amazing awakening begins to arise within us. Yesterday at one in the afternoon I was waiting for someone, so I lay down. Because I was waiting, even the slightest knock at the door, or the sound of a footstep, and I was alert — I was aware of it. Otherwise I would not have been. But because there was waiting, even a tiny sound, someone moving at the door, someone saying something, someone walking on the stairs — all that I was hearing. It was within awareness. When it is within awareness, it is known. If my awareness had not been in that direction, I would not have known. That is why I said: wherever the stream of attention flows, our awareness awakens there. If the stream of attention awakens towards a fragment of life, there arises knowledge of the other; if the stream awakens unbroken, there arises self-knowing. Let me begin today’s talk with a small story — so you may understand what I mean by awareness, by attention, and to what end I speak of it. In the lands of the East, especially in Japan, there are schools for learning swordsmanship, for learning the art of the sword. Once in our country there were such schools, too. Over the doors of those schools is written: House of God. It sounds like utter madness: where swordplay is taught, on the school’s door it reads, House of God! Temple of the Divine! We would be surprised: inside they teach the sword, and outside the door it reads: Temple of the Paramatman! But let me tell you: if one learns the sword rightly, he comes near to the house of God. Why does he come near? Because the swordsman must keep tremendous awareness. And if awareness is awakened totally, then swordsmanship is learned — and the path towards God begins to open. That is why they wrote over the houses of swordsmen: House of God. In such a temple of the Lord — where the sword was taught — a young man once came to be initiated. He went to the great master of that time and said, I want initiation; I wish to learn this art. The master asked, How long can you stay with me? The young man said, I am in a hurry. At most I can stay one year. The master said, Then go back. Learn some small trade. Swordsmanship is great work; lifetimes are consumed. And this is no ordinary swordsmanship — through the sword we also teach entry into the Paramatman. So come with lifetimes of patience and endurance — then you can learn. It will not happen so quickly. The young man asked, How much time will it take? The master said, Time is not the question. It can happen in a moment — or lifetimes may pass. It depends on you — with what intensity you awaken awareness. He said, I will stay as long as you wish me to stay. The master said, Remember, if your patience is firm, then do not ask me again — Teach me swordsmanship now. When it is my wish, I will begin. A year passed. He had said he would learn in a year; a year went by. And the master said, You sweep the house, clean the walls, bring water, milk the cow — do all these chores. When it is needed I will begin your lessons. A year passed; no lesson began. He carried garbage, cleaned the house, did small tasks. The master paid him no attention. There was attention towards others. He became anxious: in this way lifetimes will pass and nothing will be learned. But one day, while he was sweeping with a broom, the master suddenly came from behind and attacked him with a wooden sword — a sudden attack from the back. The young man was startled, frightened; he sprang up and said, What are you doing? The master said, The lesson has begun. Now remember, I may attack at any time. Whatever you may be doing, I may attack at any time. And the attacks began. He is making bread — from behind the master attacks with the wooden sword. He is sweeping — an attack. He is sleeping — an attack. Twenty-four hours, from anywhere an attack could come. What happened within him? There was no sword in his hand; no way to defend. He asked the master for a sword. The master said, What will you do with a sword yet? First let awareness arise — then the sword will be of use. Just imagine: you are sleeping — someone may attack; you are cooking — someone may attack; you are eating — someone may attack. He began to remain alert twenty-four hours a day. He began to remain aware: an attack can come at any moment. Days passed in this way. A new state of consciousness began to form within him. His attention began to remain constantly poised: an attack is to happen. Slowly it came to be that the master would attack — and he would, even before the blow landed, spring up as if he had sensed it from behind. Awareness was ripening. The master was pleased and said, There is movement in the lesson. By the time three years had passed, the state was such that he might be sitting — and if an attack were to come, his hand would move even before the blow. By three years, awareness had become so keen that he knew at every moment what could happen. He was awake; he was aware. For in the art of the sword, it cannot be said from where the other’s blow will come; before his blow, your sword must have already moved to defend, otherwise you cannot be saved. In swordplay it cannot be predicted where the strike will land; if your defense is not already there before it, you cannot survive. To defend before the blow means: awareness must be so intense that, within the other, when the intention arises to strike, you experience that intention — where it is about to land. Without this no one can learn the sword. Awareness — alertness. After three years he thought, He has troubled me enough. Even in sleep I remain watchful. Even in sleep, if the master attacks, I spring up at once. Let me see how awake this old man is! On the morning of the third year, the master was lying down — it might have been around five. The disciple went and raised his wooden sword to strike. The master, with eyes still closed, said, Stop! The disciple was astonished: What? I had not yet... your eyes are closed! The master said, If awareness is utterly awake, then even the tiniest quiver of your thought is caught. If awareness is utterly awake, then the footfall of another’s thought, as it slips by, can be heard. If awareness is utterly awake, then the ripple of feeling within another returns as an echo. All depends on awareness. What is the meaning of awareness? It means: to be continuously awake. We are all asleep. That youth awoke. He said to the master, When will I learn the sword now? The master said, Now you may go. You have learned. Not a single formal lesson in swordplay did he give; he said, Go — you have learned. Now no one can defeat you with a sword — your awareness is awake. This is the art of life as well. If awareness is awake, there is no defeat in life. If awareness is not awake, life will surely defeat you. We live asleep. Consider and experience it: you live almost asleep. When you eat, do you eat with awareness? Do you know that you are taking food? When you walk on the road, do you walk with awareness? Do you know you are walking? When you go to bed to sleep, do you sleep with awareness? Do you know that you are sleeping? Or are you doing things as if intoxicated, as if in a stupor — and the mind is elsewhere? He whose mind is not in the doing, but somewhere else while he does — he is asleep. What is the meaning of being asleep? It means: wherever we are, our awareness is not there. Then we are asleep. If where we are, our awareness is not — we are asleep. And our mind is such that it is never where we are. Either it is in the past: in the moments that have gone by, in events, in memories — it keeps wandering there. Or it is in the future: in imaginations, in the desires for what is to come. The present moment, the moment that is here — in it the mind is never. We are never in the present. We are either in the past or in the future. He who is not in the present is asleep — because life is in the present. Life is in the present. Neither the past has any real existence, nor the future. The past has gone; the future has not yet come. Only what is — which stands near — that thin line of the present moment upright before you — there you are. If you are not there, you are an asleep person. Then this asleep person — whose awareness is in the past or in the future — whatever he does in the present will go wrong, will be in discord. How can an asleep person do rightly? Whatever he does will be a mistake. If you ask me: I call sin the name of doing anything while asleep. Whatever act you do while asleep — that is sin. I do not say violence is sin; I do not say anger is sin; I do not say killing is sin; I do not say stealing is sin. I say: any act done in sleep is sin. And you will be surprised: those very things we have called sin cannot be done without sleep. You cannot murder without being asleep. You cannot steal without being asleep. You cannot lie without being asleep. You cannot be angry without being asleep. Sleep is the root, the very source of sin. All delusion begins there. When someone asks me: What is virtue? I say: awakened action. What you do while awake, with total awareness, being in the present — that action becomes virtue. We are encircled by constant sleep within. A foggy mind is there that barely wakes for a moment or two — and then falls asleep again. We spend our lives sleeping. This sleep must be broken; this stupor must be shattered. How will this stupor break? If we do some prayer in it — the sleep will become deeper. If we sing bhajans and kirtans — sleep will become deeper. If we go to a temple — sleep will become deeper. If we memorize scriptures — sleep will become deeper. This stupor will not break through these. It will break only by doing, with awareness, the very actions you are doing twenty-four hours a day. If the smallest acts are done with awareness, with each act there will begin to be born within you a new awareness, a new watchfulness, a new consciousness. If I come to you now as you sit here, and place a sword hard against your neck — at that moment will you think? Will you go to the future or to the past? In that moment only a single instant of present will remain. For one second you will wake and be in the present. Near my village there is a small hill. And a small river. One edge of the hill is very high, sheer and flat. If someone falls from there, life would go. A thin footpath runs along it; even walking on it is difficult — a narrow ledge. When someone asks me what awareness is, I take him there. I say, Walk on this ledge — and I walk along. His legs begin to tremble. I say, Come along. Here you cannot walk without awareness. Whatever difference you find within — understand, that is awareness. There he becomes suddenly alert; thoughts cease. Only one thought remains — step by careful step. All his attention is concentrated in his feet. All his attention is concentrated in his feet! His feet become like eyes — they begin to see. If he misses for a second, he is gone. And do you know — in life too you stand on just such a narrow ledge day and night, twenty-four hours. You miss for a second — and you are gone. Yet you pass life in sleep. Because you do not know that life too is a very thin ledge, under which there is the chance of falling at every instant. But you do not notice — and you keep walking on, you keep going. I once said here in this very hall: if we lay down here a plank fifty feet long and one foot wide, on the floor — and asked you to walk on it — all of you would go across. No one would have trouble. Would anyone fall? Among so many, neither an old man nor a child; neither woman nor man. All would pass over it. But if the same plank is placed from the upper gallery to this wall — with a pit below — the same fifty-foot plank, one foot wide — and you are asked to walk — how many could go across? What changed? The plank is the same, the length is the same, the width is the same. Below, you walked; above, why do you fear to walk? In truth, below there is no danger in walking asleep — you can walk in sleep. Above, you cannot walk asleep. And the habit of sleep is such that to do anything opposite to it becomes difficult — very arduous. If you walk there, you will take one or two steps — and your very life will tremble: Shall I go further or not? Where is the danger? The plank is as big as before; nothing has changed. You are the same; the plank is the same. Where is the danger? The danger is neither in the pit nor in the plank — it is within you. You cannot walk asleep now; now you must walk awake. And we have no habit of wakefulness. We have no habit of awareness in life. We are habituated to unconsciousness. And we even begin to love unconsciousness — because there is a certain pleasure in it. Waking has a certain pain; sleep has a certain pleasure. That is why the whole world drinks wine and makes intoxicants. The pleasure of sleep is that one forgets life — one forgets life! We devise all kinds of ways to forget life: we watch plays, listen to music, watch films, drink alcohol. All are ways to forget. Somehow, we may forget our life; we may fall asleep; we may be fully benumbed — then there is no trouble in life. Most people prefer sleep to awakening. Most people prefer oblivion to awareness. In truth, most people prefer dying to living. If you look deeply, your tendency to remain asleep — that there be no trouble, no restlessness — is because restlessness awakens, pain awakens, suffering awakens. Therefore you seek pleasure, because in pleasure one can sleep. The search for comfort, the search for pleasure, is the search for sleep. Understand this: the more you seek pleasure, why do you seek it? Because in pleasure, less awakening is needed. And this is why those who generally live in pleasure, within them no prajna, no discernment, ever awakens. In life, prajna and discernment are born in suffering. They are born in suffering — why? Because in suffering you cannot remain asleep. You will have to wake up. You will have to be aware. Pain awakens; comfort lulls. Our search is for comfort. The search for comfort, rightly seen, is against awakening. We are on the side of sleep. And the one who is on the side of sleep — if he thinks carefully — the logical end is that he is on the side of death. For death is nothing but sleep complete. Life is attained only by the one who stands for awakening. That is why I said on the first day: our life is like death — because we are asleep. If you want to know life, you will have to awaken. And awakening is not that you sometimes go to the temple and wake for half an hour. You will have to awaken twenty-four hours. Therefore tapas is unbroken. It is not fragmentary — that you sat ten or fifteen minutes in a corner of a temple and you think the work is done, and you return. Life is seamless; tapas is seamless. Every moment it must be practiced. There is no holiday from tapas. It is not that two hours of tapas are done and then there is time off; or that in twenty-four hours you do twenty-three hours of tapas and one hour you take leave. From tapas there is no leave, no recess. Twenty-four hours — waking, and slowly even while asleep. Slowly, you must work on consciousness for twenty-four hours. And work on consciousness happens only when we gradually awaken awareness. The more we awaken it, the more it awakens. The more we awaken it, the more it awakens! The possibilities of awakening are infinite. But we do not wish to awaken. And from all situations that could awaken us, we escape. We always wish to remain bound to the old — because in the new we will have to awaken. We always wish to be surrounded by the old people — because with the new we would have to awaken. We always cling to old situations — lest a new situation come and we have to awaken. We always remain caught in old habits — for if we drop habits, we will have to awaken. He who wishes to awaken awareness should not bind his mind in too many habits — because habits become dead, and one begins to do them asleep. You eat at the same time each day; sleep at the same time; get up at the same time. Slowly, all this becomes mechanical. This all becomes mechanical. You pray at the same time; you love your children at the scheduled hour; you go to the office at the scheduled hour. Slowly, you become a dead man, a bundle of habits. Within you nothing remains naturally awake. And if nothing is awake, remember — you can have no relationship with life. To awaken you must do something — continuously do. People ask me: What should we do? They want me to tell some little trick — so their mind may become quiet and they may attain the Paramatman. It is not so. Not at all. There is no little trick. Only yesterday someone asked me: There should be a shortcut. There is no shortcut. A small path by which we may reach the Paramatman quickly — no such path exists. And if someone says there is, he is finding a way to exploit your weakness. Your weaknesses are being exploited all over the world. You want a quick route. Someone says, Wear this amulet — you will meet God. Because there is weakness in you, he exploits you with an amulet. You say, We want God quickly. He says, Perform a sacrifice, build a temple, build a dharmashala — all will be well. He says, Go bathe in the Ganga — all will be well. Such a man becomes your guru — because he recognizes your weakness and finds a way to exploit. You are made a fool. There is no short path. How can there be a short path? There is only one path to attain the Paramatman — neither short nor long — and it is this: in life, to practice unbroken awareness, remembrance, mindfulness, watchfulness, non-stupor — twenty-four hours. Rising and sitting, in every routine, in every act, in every deed, even the thinnest veil of thought should not pass unknown to you. But in you everything passes unknown. If you observe, a man sits in a chair, shaking his foot. Ask him, Why are you shaking your foot? He will at once stop the foot. As soon as you ask, Why are you shaking your foot? his awareness will go to the foot; he will himself see, What absurd, useless motion am I making — I am shaking my foot! He will stop it at once and say, I do not know — it was just happening. What madness is this — just happening? It is your foot, and it moves without your knowing — and you say, It was just happening? And the man whose foot moves without his knowing — in his life much else must be happening without his knowing. Naturally, in his life many things must be happening unknowingly. Many things in his life are taking place without awareness. If you remember your past life: have you ever gotten angry knowingly? You will find — never knowingly. The friendships you have made — were they made knowingly? The enmities you have made — knowingly? The things you like, do you like them knowingly? And the things you dislike, do you dislike them knowingly? You will find: no liking, no disliking, no friendship, no enmity is ever truly conscious. You are just like the man on the chair shaking his leg — you spend your life shaking your leg. All this happens without your knowing. It happens through you — you do not do it. Buddha was passing near a village. Some people abused him, insulted him. Buddha said, Friends, I must go; I have to reach the next village. If your conversation is finished, grant me leave. They said, Conversation? We have abused and insulted you! There must be an answer! Buddha said, Knowingly, no one can answer abuse. Unknowingly, yes — and that answer is not given, it just comes. It means the man is not aware, he is mechanical. Abuse comes from there; here a button is pushed; a second abuse comes out. He behaves like a machine. You press a switch — the fan revolves. You press it again — the fan stops. I abuse you; your mind revolves, is inflamed; you abuse me. Whoever answers another’s abuse without reflection, without awareness, is a machine. He is not yet human. He is asleep. All your abuses come this way. Buddha said, It used to be that if someone abused me, then an abuse came from within me too. Now I have awakened. Now I am awake — so neither can your abuse enter me without my awareness. On all the doors my consciousness sits. Your abuse comes towards me — and I know the abuse is coming. As soon as I know, it dissolves at once — becomes smoke. If abuse enters unknowingly, it harasses; if it enters knowingly, it cannot harass. Your abuse is like a live coal thrown towards water: until it reaches the water, it is a coal; the moment it touches water, it is ash. Just so, within me the coolness of awareness has arisen; until your abuse reaches me it is abuse, but the moment it touches my awareness, it becomes cool and turns to ash. Now what shall I answer? And how? When you abuse, I feel compassion for you — how mad you are! Anger does not arise. Because I am filled with awareness. When I was unconscious, I became angry; compassion did not arise. If a man comes to me full of diseases, will anger arise in me — or compassion? If a man comes to me in anger — it too is a mental disease — should anger arise in me, or compassion? If a man abuses me, should compassion arise or anger? If I am in awareness, compassion will arise. If I am unconscious, anger will arise. In all the actions we are doing constantly — whatever is happening through us — nothing should happen without awareness. There was Gurdjieff. He had gone to Tiflis, a village in Russia. Some enemies of his surrounded him in the marketplace and insulted him greatly. Just as they abused Buddha, they abused him. Gurdjieff said, I will come tomorrow and answer this. They said, Tomorrow? Who answers abuse tomorrow? If you have courage, answer now. He said, There is much courage — but there is awareness, too. There is much courage — but there is awareness! It may be that what you said is true. Let me think, understand, awaken discrimination. If I feel it needed, I will come to answer; if I do not come, know that what you said was right. Gurdjieff wrote: When my father was dying, he called me near. I was about eleven; he had reached around a hundred and ten. He called me to his ear and said, I want only one promise from you — only one assurance — and it is this: whatever you do, do not do it without awareness. And Gurdjieff wrote: That single assurance changed my entire life — that whatever is to be done, is to be done with awareness, with watchfulness. Let attention be total and there. If attention is elsewhere and the act occurs, a mistake enters life — and man falls. If attention is there, a mistake is impossible. When Vinoba had newly reached Gandhi, he used to spin yarn. Perhaps there was no one more skilled in thread and the spinning wheel than he — Gandhi used to call him the acharya. Vinoba had made his charkha very fine; he had made the spindle excellent; his skill in spinning was no less than Gandhi’s. His thread was finer, more uniform, more even. Yet his thread broke; Gandhi’s thread did not. He asked Gandhi, My charkha is better than yours, my spindle is better than yours, my knowledge of spinning is no less than yours; my thread is more fine and even — yet your thread does not break; why does mine break? Gandhi said, Your attention must be going elsewhere. When you spin, thread is a fine, fragile thing. If attention drifts, the hand gives a slight jerk, the thread snaps. If attention stays with the thread, rises with it and falls with it — if the stream of attention moves with the thread up and down without a break — how will the thread break? That is why Gandhi began to say: spinning is prayer — if there is attention. If you sweep the house and do it attentively — that your attention goes forward with the broom and returns with the broom — then sweeping becomes meditation, becomes prayer. Every work of life can become prayer and a path to the Paramatman if it is yoked with awareness. And every work of life becomes a way to hell if it is not yoked with awareness. There was a monk in Tibet. A man came to him — he was a famous general, renowned throughout the land. Swords hung at both his sides. He asked the monk, Can you tell me the path to heaven? The monk said, Heaven! First look at your face! And you come to talk of heaven! He was a famed general; the whole land honored him. People trembled at his voice. Even at ninety he was called when there was war. Such was his respect. He had grown so old he could not mount a horse; two men lifted him into the saddle. Once, while they were lifting him, a new soldier laughed: What kind of general is this who needs two men to seat him on a horse! The old man called him: Come here. Why did you laugh? He said, I laughed because how will one be a general who needs two men to mount him? The old man said, Granted that to mount I need two men — but to unseat me, even two thousand will not be enough! Granted I need two men to mount — but to bring me down, even two thousand will not suffice! Such was he. So he went to the fakir. The fakir said, Look at yourself! You have come to talk of heaven! He grew angry; his hand moved to the hilt. The fakir said, What child’s play are you making — what can your sword do to me? His sword flashed out — he was inflamed. The monk said, What childishness — and does this sword even have an edge? The sword rose to the monk’s neck. The monk said, Look — the path to hell has opened. As soon as he said, Look — the path to hell has opened, awareness returned; the general drew back the sword and sheathed it. The monk said, This is the path to heaven. Do you understand? He had lost awareness. He was heated with anger; stupor seized him; the sword came out. This was purely mechanical — daily business for him. The sword reached the neck. The monk said, Look — you opened the door to hell. At those words — You opened the door to hell — he understood: He has answered what I asked. Awareness returned; the sword went back into the sheath. The monk said, This is the path to heaven. Awareness. Whatever happens in life — let it happen with awareness. Let nothing in life be done unawares, in ignorance. Then what will happen? You will begin to feel, twenty-four hours a day, a flame inside the body — a light of discrimination — separate, gradually. You will feel: I am separate. The body will appear like a shell. As we sit in this building, I do not feel I am the building; I feel I am in the building. If awareness awakens, you will feel: I am in the body. It will be absolutely clear. The walls of the body will appear separate, and you within, separate. Like a tender coconut — its kernel is stuck to its shell; and a dry coconut — the kernel and shell separate. There was a Muslim fakir, Farid. People offered coconuts there. Someone asked him: When Christ was crucified, did he not suffer? When Mansoor was cut to pieces, did he not feel pain? Sheikh Farid had a coconut; he handed over a coconut — it was a wet coconut. He said, Break it. They broke it. With the outer shell, the inner kernel also was torn to pieces. Farid said, Look — some men are like this. Then he struck a dry coconut; the shell broke, the kernel came out whole. He said, Some men are like this. There are men that if you hurt the body, their soul is hurt — because body and soul are stuck together. And there are those whom, however much you hurt the body, no hurt reaches within — because the awareness of body and soul has become separate. The deeper awareness awakens in you, the more the kernel and shell will separate; you will begin to move towards being a dry coconut. Your body will appear separate; your consciousness will appear separate. Only in awareness can this happen; in unawareness how can anything be seen as separate? The deeper awareness goes, the more your soul, your consciousness, will stand distinct from the body. And that which is separate from the body has no death. Knowing it, the doors of infinite life open. That which is distinct from the body — which is in the body but is not the body, which wears the clothing of the body but is apart — its journey is very different. The body is born; the body dies. It has neither birth nor death. As your awareness slowly develops and enters into that, you begin to experience new things: that you died to one world and were born into another. With a change of awareness one world goes, a new world begins. The world that was — its name was samsara; the world that now is — its name is the Paramatman. This very world becomes the Paramatman. This expanse spread on all sides becomes Brahman. Brahman, Paramatman, and samsara, and jagat — these are not different things. They are two ways of seeing the same truth. In ignorance, in unawareness, what appears is samsara. In awareness, in consciousness, the same appears as the Paramatman. Paramatman and the world are not two. If within us there is unawareness, then outside there is world; if within us there is awareness, then all is the Paramatman. And in that moment, in that instant, the revolution and new birth that happens within you frees you from your ‘I’. Your ‘I-sense’ goes and the ‘Paramatman-sense’ enters. Then you no longer feel I am; you feel: am. The ‘I’ becomes empty. Pure being remains. You feel there is — there is presence — but the ‘I’ — that ‘I’ dissolves. That ‘I’ was created by the confusion of being one with the body. It was the delusion of being the body that made it seem I am. As soon as your relationship stands separate from the body, the ‘I’ goes. It was only the ‘I’ that died — now the ‘I’ itself is gone — whose death can now be? He who knows truth dies before death; therefore his dying becomes difficult. There was Lao Tzu; he said, Blessed are those who die before death — for they will never die. A most wondrous statement: Blessed are those who die before death — for they will not die. They alone attain life. All I have said is to die before death — clearly, that a death may occur in your life to what you had taken life to be, so that life opens where you did not know, which was still dark. And this happens through awareness — through unbroken awareness. It will surely seem that what I say is difficult. In truth, in life nothing of value can happen that is not difficult. People ask me everywhere that what I say is beyond the capacity of the common man. This is utterly false. It is beyond no one’s capacity. By making such excuses we lower our own capacity by our own hands. These are all excuses. We keep trying to make ourselves ordinary — that we are very common people; what can we do? Neither Mahavira nor Buddha nor anyone else was more special than you. Every human being has the same dignity as any other. But we are very clever. We made Mahavira into God, so that we could remain ordinary. We made Buddha into an avatar, so that we could remain ordinary. We made Christ the son of God, so that we could remain ordinary. We separated all these people from ourselves, so that we could remain ordinary — and sleep. And we could say that awakening is a matter for some special ones. We are ordinary people — how can we awaken? No human being is ordinary. But you will not know this until awareness begins to awaken. Until awareness is not awakened, everyone seems ordinary; as awareness begins, no one is ordinary. Until the sprout breaks forth from the seed, it seems uncertain whether there is a tree in this seed or not. But there is no seed in which there is not a tree. When does the proof come? Only when the sprout breaks. So do not decide now that you are ordinary. You cannot decide anything yet. Make a little effort. Show a little courage, a little daring. Let the sprout break a little — and you will know: there is no seed without a tree. There is no human being who does not have the possibility of the Paramatman within him. The possibility is there — but it must be awakened. It must be raised. And one must dare towards the life relative to which we have taken untruth to be truth; regarding those things we have considered of great value — one must die. If one dies to those things and awakens within — if both processes proceed together, that he dies to the futile and awakens to meaningful awareness — then revolution is certain. And from that revolution man experiences freedom, release. One small story more, and I will complete my talk. Once, in ancient times, there was a king. From the forest he brought a parrot. The parrot was very beautiful. The king came to love it very much. He had golden cages made for it; had pearls and diamonds set in them; lakhs of rupees were spent; he raised the parrot. It was well educated. It learned to speak human language. After years, one day the king said, I am going to the forest to hunt. From the tree on which you were caught, your kith and kin, your kindred, your friends — they dwell there. If you have any message, I will deliver it. The parrot said, Tell them I am very happy — the king loves me greatly. I am in great comfort — the king shows me great kindness. But neither for comfort nor for the king’s love and kindness can freedom be sold. So you be alert. Tell my friends: I am comfortable; there is great kindness; all arrangements and conveniences are there; the king loves me very much. But under no price can freedom be sold. You be watchful — say this to my friends. The king thought, This message is troublesome — but I had promised. He went and stood under the tree from which the parrot had been taken; thousands of parrots lived on that tree. In the evening, when they all returned, the king told them the parrot’s message. As he spoke, the parrots began to fall from the tree — as if suddenly dead. As he said, Your friend says: there is much comfort, but freedom cannot be sold for comfort; the cage is very beautiful, made of gold — but cannot be chosen over the sky; be alert — as he said it, the parrots began to fall, one by one. It was as if they were dying in heaps. The king said, What is this? What kind of ill-omened message is this! Thousands fell and died. He was disturbed and returned, troubled: What message was this, with what words, that as I spoke, thousands of parrots fell and died! He came back and told the parrot, What madness did you do? What message did you send? What ill-omened words — as I spoke them, parrots fell and died. As the king said this, he saw the parrot thrash and die. There in the cage it died. The king said, What a fool I am — I came and told him this news — he too died! What is this matter? But the parrot had died. The king loved it greatly; he thought it should be given a royal farewell. Arrangements were made; the cage was opened; he was placed in fine cloth. But people were astonished: as soon as he was taken out of the cage and placed in cloth, he flapped his wings and flew into the sky — and sat upon the palace roof. The king said, What trick is this? What is this matter? The parrot said, My friends sent me the message of freedom; they answered my message. They said: Become like a dead man — the cage will open. And that is the message. And in this final farewell I want to say the same to you: Become like a dead man — and life will be yours. I have nothing else to say in the end. For so many days you have listened to me with love — to many things that can create restlessness and trouble, things that could bring anger towards me, the urge to condemn me. You have listened with love even to such things — which could wound your mind, bring you pain, harm your fixed notions. Even if you threw stones at me after hearing such things, I would still feel you are gracious — you throw only stones. But no one throws stones. You listen with love — I feel great grace. I become indebted to you. There is no reason for you to be indebted to me; I am indebted — I wound so much; you listen with love — I feel great grace. It seems the compassion of God is present — that there is so much love in you that you listen to whatever I say. I am greatly obliged that you have listened to all this. And in the end I say only this: if you truly want to attain life, learn to die. He who dies — his cage opens. He attains life, freedom, the liberation of the sky. May God grant such liberation to each one. It is within each one. It is everyone’s right. It is everyone’s capacity. If we endeavor, if we strive, if we become aware, it can be attained. May the Paramatman grant this opportunity to all — this is my prayer. And again, my thanks to all. At the end, please accept my pranam to the Paramatman seated within each of you.
Osho's Commentary
I try that I may sow a few seeds in you about truth, about the love of the Paramatman; that a thirst may arise within you, that a discontent be born within you. Not to give you contentment, but to give birth to discontent within you — this is my effort. May you become restless for the Paramatman. For truth — like a flame, like fire — let some deep longing begin to burn within. The one who becomes discontented can one day be fulfilled; but the one who never knows discontent, the doors of fulfillment are closed to him forever. And the one who is thirsty — sometime he finds water; the one who is never thirsty remains deprived of water forever. In these four days I have spoken only a little about that thirst.
On the first day I spoke about ‘thirst’ itself. And I bow in gratitude to those in whose lives, in some way, there is a thirst for truth — a sprout somewhere within. Those who, though doing whatever they do for twenty-four hours, are not satisfied by their doing; and wherever they are, however their lives may be, something keeps quietly sliding within, some movement keeps running in the mind. They feel that what is, is not such as to satisfy; there is also the sense of something more to be attained. This thirst arises when life’s suffering is seen, when life’s real form is seen, as one would see death — I told you that.
Then we considered the ‘path’ — how one might proceed after this thirst has arisen. I said: neither belief nor disbelief, but freedom from both. Only a mind independent of both becomes capable of knowing truth.
Then we reflected on the ‘door’. Not through thought, and not through unthought, but through nirvichar — through thought-free awareness. Through thought-free alertness man attains a certain arrival. One finds somewhere that he has arrived; in his life new glimpses of light and bliss begin to happen. We inquired into this.
And today, on the final day, I must speak to you a little about ‘entry’ — about the very entering.
It is a most sacred realm into which we wish to enter. The region of entry, near to the Lord, is most sacred — where we long to arrive. It must be understood very quietly, very simply.
As I said yesterday: let there be awareness and no thoughts — this is sadhana.
Either thoughts are there and awareness is not; or, if thoughts are not, then a stupor descends. In both conditions the mind is bound. It is necessary to rise beyond both. And only he who can rise beyond both comes upon meditation.
How shall we rise beyond?
Ordinarily, whatever devices are undertaken do not take us beyond — they bind us more, they constrict us more, they chain us more.
What is the right experiment to bring awakening into life? Shall we repeat the name of Ram? Shall we chant on beads? Read the scriptures?
In past talks I said that nothing will happen through these. I also said there are many ways by which we stupefy ourselves, make ourselves unconscious, intoxicate ourselves in some way — and then waste our lives in those states. Through them, too, nothing will happen.
What will happen — will happen by bringing a continuous awareness to all the actions of life. As I said, wherever our attention goes, we wake up in that direction. If our attention is towards the totality of life’s acts, an amazing awakening begins to arise within us.
Yesterday at one in the afternoon I was waiting for someone, so I lay down. Because I was waiting, even the slightest knock at the door, or the sound of a footstep, and I was alert — I was aware of it. Otherwise I would not have been. But because there was waiting, even a tiny sound, someone moving at the door, someone saying something, someone walking on the stairs — all that I was hearing. It was within awareness. When it is within awareness, it is known. If my awareness had not been in that direction, I would not have known. That is why I said: wherever the stream of attention flows, our awareness awakens there. If the stream of attention awakens towards a fragment of life, there arises knowledge of the other; if the stream awakens unbroken, there arises self-knowing.
Let me begin today’s talk with a small story — so you may understand what I mean by awareness, by attention, and to what end I speak of it.
In the lands of the East, especially in Japan, there are schools for learning swordsmanship, for learning the art of the sword. Once in our country there were such schools, too. Over the doors of those schools is written: House of God. It sounds like utter madness: where swordplay is taught, on the school’s door it reads, House of God! Temple of the Divine! We would be surprised: inside they teach the sword, and outside the door it reads: Temple of the Paramatman!
But let me tell you: if one learns the sword rightly, he comes near to the house of God.
Why does he come near?
Because the swordsman must keep tremendous awareness. And if awareness is awakened totally, then swordsmanship is learned — and the path towards God begins to open. That is why they wrote over the houses of swordsmen: House of God.
In such a temple of the Lord — where the sword was taught — a young man once came to be initiated. He went to the great master of that time and said, I want initiation; I wish to learn this art.
The master asked, How long can you stay with me?
The young man said, I am in a hurry. At most I can stay one year.
The master said, Then go back. Learn some small trade. Swordsmanship is great work; lifetimes are consumed. And this is no ordinary swordsmanship — through the sword we also teach entry into the Paramatman. So come with lifetimes of patience and endurance — then you can learn. It will not happen so quickly.
The young man asked, How much time will it take?
The master said, Time is not the question. It can happen in a moment — or lifetimes may pass. It depends on you — with what intensity you awaken awareness.
He said, I will stay as long as you wish me to stay.
The master said, Remember, if your patience is firm, then do not ask me again — Teach me swordsmanship now. When it is my wish, I will begin. A year passed. He had said he would learn in a year; a year went by. And the master said, You sweep the house, clean the walls, bring water, milk the cow — do all these chores. When it is needed I will begin your lessons.
A year passed; no lesson began. He carried garbage, cleaned the house, did small tasks. The master paid him no attention. There was attention towards others. He became anxious: in this way lifetimes will pass and nothing will be learned. But one day, while he was sweeping with a broom, the master suddenly came from behind and attacked him with a wooden sword — a sudden attack from the back. The young man was startled, frightened; he sprang up and said, What are you doing?
The master said, The lesson has begun. Now remember, I may attack at any time. Whatever you may be doing, I may attack at any time. And the attacks began. He is making bread — from behind the master attacks with the wooden sword. He is sweeping — an attack. He is sleeping — an attack. Twenty-four hours, from anywhere an attack could come.
What happened within him? There was no sword in his hand; no way to defend. He asked the master for a sword. The master said, What will you do with a sword yet? First let awareness arise — then the sword will be of use.
Just imagine: you are sleeping — someone may attack; you are cooking — someone may attack; you are eating — someone may attack.
He began to remain alert twenty-four hours a day. He began to remain aware: an attack can come at any moment. Days passed in this way. A new state of consciousness began to form within him. His attention began to remain constantly poised: an attack is to happen. Slowly it came to be that the master would attack — and he would, even before the blow landed, spring up as if he had sensed it from behind. Awareness was ripening. The master was pleased and said, There is movement in the lesson.
By the time three years had passed, the state was such that he might be sitting — and if an attack were to come, his hand would move even before the blow. By three years, awareness had become so keen that he knew at every moment what could happen. He was awake; he was aware.
For in the art of the sword, it cannot be said from where the other’s blow will come; before his blow, your sword must have already moved to defend, otherwise you cannot be saved. In swordplay it cannot be predicted where the strike will land; if your defense is not already there before it, you cannot survive. To defend before the blow means: awareness must be so intense that, within the other, when the intention arises to strike, you experience that intention — where it is about to land. Without this no one can learn the sword.
Awareness — alertness. After three years he thought, He has troubled me enough. Even in sleep I remain watchful. Even in sleep, if the master attacks, I spring up at once. Let me see how awake this old man is! On the morning of the third year, the master was lying down — it might have been around five. The disciple went and raised his wooden sword to strike. The master, with eyes still closed, said, Stop! The disciple was astonished: What? I had not yet... your eyes are closed! The master said, If awareness is utterly awake, then even the tiniest quiver of your thought is caught. If awareness is utterly awake, then the footfall of another’s thought, as it slips by, can be heard. If awareness is utterly awake, then the ripple of feeling within another returns as an echo. All depends on awareness.
What is the meaning of awareness?
It means: to be continuously awake.
We are all asleep. That youth awoke. He said to the master, When will I learn the sword now?
The master said, Now you may go. You have learned. Not a single formal lesson in swordplay did he give; he said, Go — you have learned. Now no one can defeat you with a sword — your awareness is awake.
This is the art of life as well. If awareness is awake, there is no defeat in life. If awareness is not awake, life will surely defeat you.
We live asleep. Consider and experience it: you live almost asleep. When you eat, do you eat with awareness? Do you know that you are taking food? When you walk on the road, do you walk with awareness? Do you know you are walking? When you go to bed to sleep, do you sleep with awareness? Do you know that you are sleeping? Or are you doing things as if intoxicated, as if in a stupor — and the mind is elsewhere?
He whose mind is not in the doing, but somewhere else while he does — he is asleep.
What is the meaning of being asleep?
It means: wherever we are, our awareness is not there. Then we are asleep. If where we are, our awareness is not — we are asleep. And our mind is such that it is never where we are. Either it is in the past: in the moments that have gone by, in events, in memories — it keeps wandering there. Or it is in the future: in imaginations, in the desires for what is to come. The present moment, the moment that is here — in it the mind is never. We are never in the present. We are either in the past or in the future.
He who is not in the present is asleep — because life is in the present.
Life is in the present. Neither the past has any real existence, nor the future. The past has gone; the future has not yet come. Only what is — which stands near — that thin line of the present moment upright before you — there you are. If you are not there, you are an asleep person.
Then this asleep person — whose awareness is in the past or in the future — whatever he does in the present will go wrong, will be in discord. How can an asleep person do rightly? Whatever he does will be a mistake.
If you ask me: I call sin the name of doing anything while asleep. Whatever act you do while asleep — that is sin. I do not say violence is sin; I do not say anger is sin; I do not say killing is sin; I do not say stealing is sin. I say: any act done in sleep is sin.
And you will be surprised: those very things we have called sin cannot be done without sleep. You cannot murder without being asleep. You cannot steal without being asleep. You cannot lie without being asleep. You cannot be angry without being asleep. Sleep is the root, the very source of sin. All delusion begins there.
When someone asks me: What is virtue? I say: awakened action. What you do while awake, with total awareness, being in the present — that action becomes virtue.
We are encircled by constant sleep within. A foggy mind is there that barely wakes for a moment or two — and then falls asleep again. We spend our lives sleeping. This sleep must be broken; this stupor must be shattered.
How will this stupor break?
If we do some prayer in it — the sleep will become deeper. If we sing bhajans and kirtans — sleep will become deeper. If we go to a temple — sleep will become deeper. If we memorize scriptures — sleep will become deeper. This stupor will not break through these. It will break only by doing, with awareness, the very actions you are doing twenty-four hours a day. If the smallest acts are done with awareness, with each act there will begin to be born within you a new awareness, a new watchfulness, a new consciousness.
If I come to you now as you sit here, and place a sword hard against your neck — at that moment will you think? Will you go to the future or to the past? In that moment only a single instant of present will remain. For one second you will wake and be in the present.
Near my village there is a small hill. And a small river. One edge of the hill is very high, sheer and flat. If someone falls from there, life would go. A thin footpath runs along it; even walking on it is difficult — a narrow ledge. When someone asks me what awareness is, I take him there. I say, Walk on this ledge — and I walk along. His legs begin to tremble. I say, Come along. Here you cannot walk without awareness. Whatever difference you find within — understand, that is awareness. There he becomes suddenly alert; thoughts cease. Only one thought remains — step by careful step. All his attention is concentrated in his feet. All his attention is concentrated in his feet! His feet become like eyes — they begin to see. If he misses for a second, he is gone.
And do you know — in life too you stand on just such a narrow ledge day and night, twenty-four hours. You miss for a second — and you are gone. Yet you pass life in sleep. Because you do not know that life too is a very thin ledge, under which there is the chance of falling at every instant. But you do not notice — and you keep walking on, you keep going.
I once said here in this very hall: if we lay down here a plank fifty feet long and one foot wide, on the floor — and asked you to walk on it — all of you would go across. No one would have trouble. Would anyone fall? Among so many, neither an old man nor a child; neither woman nor man. All would pass over it. But if the same plank is placed from the upper gallery to this wall — with a pit below — the same fifty-foot plank, one foot wide — and you are asked to walk — how many could go across? What changed? The plank is the same, the length is the same, the width is the same. Below, you walked; above, why do you fear to walk?
In truth, below there is no danger in walking asleep — you can walk in sleep. Above, you cannot walk asleep. And the habit of sleep is such that to do anything opposite to it becomes difficult — very arduous. If you walk there, you will take one or two steps — and your very life will tremble: Shall I go further or not? Where is the danger? The plank is as big as before; nothing has changed. You are the same; the plank is the same. Where is the danger? The danger is neither in the pit nor in the plank — it is within you. You cannot walk asleep now; now you must walk awake. And we have no habit of wakefulness. We have no habit of awareness in life.
We are habituated to unconsciousness. And we even begin to love unconsciousness — because there is a certain pleasure in it. Waking has a certain pain; sleep has a certain pleasure. That is why the whole world drinks wine and makes intoxicants. The pleasure of sleep is that one forgets life — one forgets life!
We devise all kinds of ways to forget life: we watch plays, listen to music, watch films, drink alcohol. All are ways to forget. Somehow, we may forget our life; we may fall asleep; we may be fully benumbed — then there is no trouble in life. Most people prefer sleep to awakening. Most people prefer oblivion to awareness. In truth, most people prefer dying to living. If you look deeply, your tendency to remain asleep — that there be no trouble, no restlessness — is because restlessness awakens, pain awakens, suffering awakens. Therefore you seek pleasure, because in pleasure one can sleep. The search for comfort, the search for pleasure, is the search for sleep. Understand this: the more you seek pleasure, why do you seek it? Because in pleasure, less awakening is needed. And this is why those who generally live in pleasure, within them no prajna, no discernment, ever awakens.
In life, prajna and discernment are born in suffering. They are born in suffering — why? Because in suffering you cannot remain asleep. You will have to wake up. You will have to be aware. Pain awakens; comfort lulls. Our search is for comfort. The search for comfort, rightly seen, is against awakening. We are on the side of sleep. And the one who is on the side of sleep — if he thinks carefully — the logical end is that he is on the side of death. For death is nothing but sleep complete.
Life is attained only by the one who stands for awakening. That is why I said on the first day: our life is like death — because we are asleep. If you want to know life, you will have to awaken. And awakening is not that you sometimes go to the temple and wake for half an hour. You will have to awaken twenty-four hours. Therefore tapas is unbroken. It is not fragmentary — that you sat ten or fifteen minutes in a corner of a temple and you think the work is done, and you return.
Life is seamless; tapas is seamless. Every moment it must be practiced. There is no holiday from tapas. It is not that two hours of tapas are done and then there is time off; or that in twenty-four hours you do twenty-three hours of tapas and one hour you take leave. From tapas there is no leave, no recess. Twenty-four hours — waking, and slowly even while asleep. Slowly, you must work on consciousness for twenty-four hours. And work on consciousness happens only when we gradually awaken awareness. The more we awaken it, the more it awakens. The more we awaken it, the more it awakens! The possibilities of awakening are infinite. But we do not wish to awaken. And from all situations that could awaken us, we escape. We always wish to remain bound to the old — because in the new we will have to awaken. We always wish to be surrounded by the old people — because with the new we would have to awaken. We always cling to old situations — lest a new situation come and we have to awaken. We always remain caught in old habits — for if we drop habits, we will have to awaken.
He who wishes to awaken awareness should not bind his mind in too many habits — because habits become dead, and one begins to do them asleep.
You eat at the same time each day; sleep at the same time; get up at the same time. Slowly, all this becomes mechanical. This all becomes mechanical. You pray at the same time; you love your children at the scheduled hour; you go to the office at the scheduled hour. Slowly, you become a dead man, a bundle of habits. Within you nothing remains naturally awake. And if nothing is awake, remember — you can have no relationship with life.
To awaken you must do something — continuously do.
People ask me: What should we do? They want me to tell some little trick — so their mind may become quiet and they may attain the Paramatman.
It is not so. Not at all. There is no little trick.
Only yesterday someone asked me: There should be a shortcut.
There is no shortcut. A small path by which we may reach the Paramatman quickly — no such path exists. And if someone says there is, he is finding a way to exploit your weakness. Your weaknesses are being exploited all over the world.
You want a quick route. Someone says, Wear this amulet — you will meet God. Because there is weakness in you, he exploits you with an amulet. You say, We want God quickly. He says, Perform a sacrifice, build a temple, build a dharmashala — all will be well. He says, Go bathe in the Ganga — all will be well. Such a man becomes your guru — because he recognizes your weakness and finds a way to exploit. You are made a fool.
There is no short path. How can there be a short path?
There is only one path to attain the Paramatman — neither short nor long — and it is this: in life, to practice unbroken awareness, remembrance, mindfulness, watchfulness, non-stupor — twenty-four hours. Rising and sitting, in every routine, in every act, in every deed, even the thinnest veil of thought should not pass unknown to you.
But in you everything passes unknown. If you observe, a man sits in a chair, shaking his foot. Ask him, Why are you shaking your foot? He will at once stop the foot. As soon as you ask, Why are you shaking your foot? his awareness will go to the foot; he will himself see, What absurd, useless motion am I making — I am shaking my foot! He will stop it at once and say, I do not know — it was just happening.
What madness is this — just happening? It is your foot, and it moves without your knowing — and you say, It was just happening? And the man whose foot moves without his knowing — in his life much else must be happening without his knowing. Naturally, in his life many things must be happening unknowingly. Many things in his life are taking place without awareness.
If you remember your past life: have you ever gotten angry knowingly? You will find — never knowingly. The friendships you have made — were they made knowingly? The enmities you have made — knowingly? The things you like, do you like them knowingly? And the things you dislike, do you dislike them knowingly? You will find: no liking, no disliking, no friendship, no enmity is ever truly conscious. You are just like the man on the chair shaking his leg — you spend your life shaking your leg. All this happens without your knowing. It happens through you — you do not do it.
Buddha was passing near a village. Some people abused him, insulted him. Buddha said, Friends, I must go; I have to reach the next village. If your conversation is finished, grant me leave.
They said, Conversation? We have abused and insulted you! There must be an answer!
Buddha said, Knowingly, no one can answer abuse. Unknowingly, yes — and that answer is not given, it just comes. It means the man is not aware, he is mechanical. Abuse comes from there; here a button is pushed; a second abuse comes out. He behaves like a machine. You press a switch — the fan revolves. You press it again — the fan stops. I abuse you; your mind revolves, is inflamed; you abuse me. Whoever answers another’s abuse without reflection, without awareness, is a machine. He is not yet human. He is asleep. All your abuses come this way.
Buddha said, It used to be that if someone abused me, then an abuse came from within me too. Now I have awakened. Now I am awake — so neither can your abuse enter me without my awareness. On all the doors my consciousness sits. Your abuse comes towards me — and I know the abuse is coming. As soon as I know, it dissolves at once — becomes smoke. If abuse enters unknowingly, it harasses; if it enters knowingly, it cannot harass. Your abuse is like a live coal thrown towards water: until it reaches the water, it is a coal; the moment it touches water, it is ash. Just so, within me the coolness of awareness has arisen; until your abuse reaches me it is abuse, but the moment it touches my awareness, it becomes cool and turns to ash. Now what shall I answer? And how? When you abuse, I feel compassion for you — how mad you are! Anger does not arise. Because I am filled with awareness. When I was unconscious, I became angry; compassion did not arise.
If a man comes to me full of diseases, will anger arise in me — or compassion? If a man comes to me in anger — it too is a mental disease — should anger arise in me, or compassion? If a man abuses me, should compassion arise or anger? If I am in awareness, compassion will arise. If I am unconscious, anger will arise.
In all the actions we are doing constantly — whatever is happening through us — nothing should happen without awareness.
There was Gurdjieff. He had gone to Tiflis, a village in Russia. Some enemies of his surrounded him in the marketplace and insulted him greatly. Just as they abused Buddha, they abused him. Gurdjieff said, I will come tomorrow and answer this.
They said, Tomorrow? Who answers abuse tomorrow? If you have courage, answer now.
He said, There is much courage — but there is awareness, too. There is much courage — but there is awareness! It may be that what you said is true. Let me think, understand, awaken discrimination. If I feel it needed, I will come to answer; if I do not come, know that what you said was right.
Gurdjieff wrote: When my father was dying, he called me near. I was about eleven; he had reached around a hundred and ten. He called me to his ear and said, I want only one promise from you — only one assurance — and it is this: whatever you do, do not do it without awareness. And Gurdjieff wrote: That single assurance changed my entire life — that whatever is to be done, is to be done with awareness, with watchfulness. Let attention be total and there. If attention is elsewhere and the act occurs, a mistake enters life — and man falls. If attention is there, a mistake is impossible.
When Vinoba had newly reached Gandhi, he used to spin yarn. Perhaps there was no one more skilled in thread and the spinning wheel than he — Gandhi used to call him the acharya. Vinoba had made his charkha very fine; he had made the spindle excellent; his skill in spinning was no less than Gandhi’s. His thread was finer, more uniform, more even. Yet his thread broke; Gandhi’s thread did not. He asked Gandhi, My charkha is better than yours, my spindle is better than yours, my knowledge of spinning is no less than yours; my thread is more fine and even — yet your thread does not break; why does mine break?
Gandhi said, Your attention must be going elsewhere. When you spin, thread is a fine, fragile thing. If attention drifts, the hand gives a slight jerk, the thread snaps. If attention stays with the thread, rises with it and falls with it — if the stream of attention moves with the thread up and down without a break — how will the thread break?
That is why Gandhi began to say: spinning is prayer — if there is attention. If you sweep the house and do it attentively — that your attention goes forward with the broom and returns with the broom — then sweeping becomes meditation, becomes prayer.
Every work of life can become prayer and a path to the Paramatman if it is yoked with awareness. And every work of life becomes a way to hell if it is not yoked with awareness.
There was a monk in Tibet. A man came to him — he was a famous general, renowned throughout the land. Swords hung at both his sides. He asked the monk, Can you tell me the path to heaven?
The monk said, Heaven! First look at your face! And you come to talk of heaven!
He was a famed general; the whole land honored him. People trembled at his voice. Even at ninety he was called when there was war. Such was his respect. He had grown so old he could not mount a horse; two men lifted him into the saddle. Once, while they were lifting him, a new soldier laughed: What kind of general is this who needs two men to seat him on a horse! The old man called him: Come here. Why did you laugh? He said, I laughed because how will one be a general who needs two men to mount him? The old man said, Granted that to mount I need two men — but to unseat me, even two thousand will not be enough! Granted I need two men to mount — but to bring me down, even two thousand will not suffice! Such was he.
So he went to the fakir. The fakir said, Look at yourself! You have come to talk of heaven! He grew angry; his hand moved to the hilt. The fakir said, What child’s play are you making — what can your sword do to me? His sword flashed out — he was inflamed. The monk said, What childishness — and does this sword even have an edge? The sword rose to the monk’s neck. The monk said, Look — the path to hell has opened. As soon as he said, Look — the path to hell has opened, awareness returned; the general drew back the sword and sheathed it. The monk said, This is the path to heaven. Do you understand?
He had lost awareness. He was heated with anger; stupor seized him; the sword came out. This was purely mechanical — daily business for him. The sword reached the neck. The monk said, Look — you opened the door to hell. At those words — You opened the door to hell — he understood: He has answered what I asked. Awareness returned; the sword went back into the sheath. The monk said, This is the path to heaven.
Awareness. Whatever happens in life — let it happen with awareness. Let nothing in life be done unawares, in ignorance. Then what will happen? You will begin to feel, twenty-four hours a day, a flame inside the body — a light of discrimination — separate, gradually. You will feel: I am separate. The body will appear like a shell.
As we sit in this building, I do not feel I am the building; I feel I am in the building. If awareness awakens, you will feel: I am in the body. It will be absolutely clear. The walls of the body will appear separate, and you within, separate. Like a tender coconut — its kernel is stuck to its shell; and a dry coconut — the kernel and shell separate.
There was a Muslim fakir, Farid. People offered coconuts there. Someone asked him: When Christ was crucified, did he not suffer? When Mansoor was cut to pieces, did he not feel pain? Sheikh Farid had a coconut; he handed over a coconut — it was a wet coconut. He said, Break it. They broke it. With the outer shell, the inner kernel also was torn to pieces. Farid said, Look — some men are like this. Then he struck a dry coconut; the shell broke, the kernel came out whole. He said, Some men are like this.
There are men that if you hurt the body, their soul is hurt — because body and soul are stuck together. And there are those whom, however much you hurt the body, no hurt reaches within — because the awareness of body and soul has become separate.
The deeper awareness awakens in you, the more the kernel and shell will separate; you will begin to move towards being a dry coconut. Your body will appear separate; your consciousness will appear separate. Only in awareness can this happen; in unawareness how can anything be seen as separate?
The deeper awareness goes, the more your soul, your consciousness, will stand distinct from the body. And that which is separate from the body has no death. Knowing it, the doors of infinite life open. That which is distinct from the body — which is in the body but is not the body, which wears the clothing of the body but is apart — its journey is very different. The body is born; the body dies. It has neither birth nor death. As your awareness slowly develops and enters into that, you begin to experience new things: that you died to one world and were born into another. With a change of awareness one world goes, a new world begins. The world that was — its name was samsara; the world that now is — its name is the Paramatman. This very world becomes the Paramatman. This expanse spread on all sides becomes Brahman.
Brahman, Paramatman, and samsara, and jagat — these are not different things. They are two ways of seeing the same truth. In ignorance, in unawareness, what appears is samsara. In awareness, in consciousness, the same appears as the Paramatman. Paramatman and the world are not two. If within us there is unawareness, then outside there is world; if within us there is awareness, then all is the Paramatman. And in that moment, in that instant, the revolution and new birth that happens within you frees you from your ‘I’. Your ‘I-sense’ goes and the ‘Paramatman-sense’ enters. Then you no longer feel I am; you feel: am. The ‘I’ becomes empty. Pure being remains. You feel there is — there is presence — but the ‘I’ — that ‘I’ dissolves. That ‘I’ was created by the confusion of being one with the body. It was the delusion of being the body that made it seem I am. As soon as your relationship stands separate from the body, the ‘I’ goes. It was only the ‘I’ that died — now the ‘I’ itself is gone — whose death can now be? He who knows truth dies before death; therefore his dying becomes difficult.
There was Lao Tzu; he said, Blessed are those who die before death — for they will never die. A most wondrous statement: Blessed are those who die before death — for they will not die. They alone attain life.
All I have said is to die before death — clearly, that a death may occur in your life to what you had taken life to be, so that life opens where you did not know, which was still dark. And this happens through awareness — through unbroken awareness.
It will surely seem that what I say is difficult. In truth, in life nothing of value can happen that is not difficult. People ask me everywhere that what I say is beyond the capacity of the common man. This is utterly false. It is beyond no one’s capacity. By making such excuses we lower our own capacity by our own hands. These are all excuses. We keep trying to make ourselves ordinary — that we are very common people; what can we do? Neither Mahavira nor Buddha nor anyone else was more special than you. Every human being has the same dignity as any other.
But we are very clever. We made Mahavira into God, so that we could remain ordinary. We made Buddha into an avatar, so that we could remain ordinary. We made Christ the son of God, so that we could remain ordinary. We separated all these people from ourselves, so that we could remain ordinary — and sleep. And we could say that awakening is a matter for some special ones. We are ordinary people — how can we awaken?
No human being is ordinary. But you will not know this until awareness begins to awaken. Until awareness is not awakened, everyone seems ordinary; as awareness begins, no one is ordinary. Until the sprout breaks forth from the seed, it seems uncertain whether there is a tree in this seed or not. But there is no seed in which there is not a tree. When does the proof come? Only when the sprout breaks.
So do not decide now that you are ordinary. You cannot decide anything yet. Make a little effort. Show a little courage, a little daring. Let the sprout break a little — and you will know: there is no seed without a tree. There is no human being who does not have the possibility of the Paramatman within him. The possibility is there — but it must be awakened. It must be raised. And one must dare towards the life relative to which we have taken untruth to be truth; regarding those things we have considered of great value — one must die. If one dies to those things and awakens within — if both processes proceed together, that he dies to the futile and awakens to meaningful awareness — then revolution is certain. And from that revolution man experiences freedom, release.
One small story more, and I will complete my talk.
Once, in ancient times, there was a king. From the forest he brought a parrot. The parrot was very beautiful. The king came to love it very much. He had golden cages made for it; had pearls and diamonds set in them; lakhs of rupees were spent; he raised the parrot. It was well educated. It learned to speak human language.
After years, one day the king said, I am going to the forest to hunt. From the tree on which you were caught, your kith and kin, your kindred, your friends — they dwell there. If you have any message, I will deliver it. The parrot said, Tell them I am very happy — the king loves me greatly. I am in great comfort — the king shows me great kindness. But neither for comfort nor for the king’s love and kindness can freedom be sold. So you be alert. Tell my friends: I am comfortable; there is great kindness; all arrangements and conveniences are there; the king loves me very much. But under no price can freedom be sold. You be watchful — say this to my friends.
The king thought, This message is troublesome — but I had promised. He went and stood under the tree from which the parrot had been taken; thousands of parrots lived on that tree. In the evening, when they all returned, the king told them the parrot’s message. As he spoke, the parrots began to fall from the tree — as if suddenly dead. As he said, Your friend says: there is much comfort, but freedom cannot be sold for comfort; the cage is very beautiful, made of gold — but cannot be chosen over the sky; be alert — as he said it, the parrots began to fall, one by one. It was as if they were dying in heaps. The king said, What is this? What kind of ill-omened message is this! Thousands fell and died.
He was disturbed and returned, troubled: What message was this, with what words, that as I spoke, thousands of parrots fell and died! He came back and told the parrot, What madness did you do? What message did you send? What ill-omened words — as I spoke them, parrots fell and died. As the king said this, he saw the parrot thrash and die. There in the cage it died.
The king said, What a fool I am — I came and told him this news — he too died! What is this matter? But the parrot had died. The king loved it greatly; he thought it should be given a royal farewell. Arrangements were made; the cage was opened; he was placed in fine cloth. But people were astonished: as soon as he was taken out of the cage and placed in cloth, he flapped his wings and flew into the sky — and sat upon the palace roof.
The king said, What trick is this? What is this matter?
The parrot said, My friends sent me the message of freedom; they answered my message. They said: Become like a dead man — the cage will open. And that is the message.
And in this final farewell I want to say the same to you: Become like a dead man — and life will be yours. I have nothing else to say in the end.
For so many days you have listened to me with love — to many things that can create restlessness and trouble, things that could bring anger towards me, the urge to condemn me. You have listened with love even to such things — which could wound your mind, bring you pain, harm your fixed notions. Even if you threw stones at me after hearing such things, I would still feel you are gracious — you throw only stones. But no one throws stones. You listen with love — I feel great grace. I become indebted to you. There is no reason for you to be indebted to me; I am indebted — I wound so much; you listen with love — I feel great grace. It seems the compassion of God is present — that there is so much love in you that you listen to whatever I say. I am greatly obliged that you have listened to all this.
And in the end I say only this: if you truly want to attain life, learn to die. He who dies — his cage opens. He attains life, freedom, the liberation of the sky.
May God grant such liberation to each one. It is within each one. It is everyone’s right. It is everyone’s capacity. If we endeavor, if we strive, if we become aware, it can be attained. May the Paramatman grant this opportunity to all — this is my prayer. And again, my thanks to all.
At the end, please accept my pranam to the Paramatman seated within each of you.