My beloved Atman! I have heard: there was a gardener who had grown old. How old he had become, even he did not know. For one who spends his whole life turning seeds into flowers, there is hardly any time left to measure his age. Only those who count their years and do nothing else come to know their age. And I have heard, many a time Death came close to that gardener and then went back. Because whenever Death arrived, he was so absorbed in his work that even Death could not gather the courage to break his creation midway. To break a life is easy; to break a creation in the midst of its becoming is very difficult. He had become very old. He had discovered many secrets of the life of plants. He had created new flowers. He had produced flowers that would last for years. He had found many chemical sciences for tending, refreshing, reviving, keeping plants alive for long years. Before dying he tried hard to explain to his young sons which flower served which purpose. He wanted to tell them that not all colorful flowers are meaningful; that not every dazzling plant is useful; that in thorns too many secrets of life lie hidden, not only in flowers; that do not stop with flowers that bloom quickly—what blooms quickly also withers quickly; that there are flowers which take long, with difficulty, to blossom; that within these plants are medicines which can turn life into nectar. He tried to tell his young sons everything—when to give manure and when not; when to water less and when to water more; in what season to protect, in what season not to worry. But the sons did not understand. Sons never understand. If the old could be understood by the young, the world would be a far better place. But the language of the old has never been understood by sons—neither then, nor now, nor does there seem much hope it will be understood in the future. Perhaps the language of experience—how can it be understood by the unexperienced? The language of those who know—how can it be heard by those who do not? Those who are in darkness—how can they understand the language of light? And those still flowing with the current of life—how can the truths seen by those nearing death be grasped by them? The sons turned a deaf ear. They believed flowers bloom on their own. All the unwise believe so. Flowers do not bloom on their own. Behind them there is labor, there is resolve, there is sadhana. The father fell ill. He was confined to his hut. From the window he watched flowers droop, plants die. His sons sometimes watered them, but at the wrong time. Those plants that needed protection were neglected, while those that were good for nothing—only gaudy, glittering blossoms—the sons poured themselves upon. The old man tried hard to explain. The sons refused and finally said: Now keep quiet! Your words no longer delight us. We are doing what we can. What feels pleasant is what will be done. The old man watched the plants die—the very ones he had nurtured with his life; he watched the flowers wither; and watched weeds grow and spread—useless, meaningless. What that old man must have felt—if there is a Paramatma anywhere, then seeing the garden of man, that is exactly how he must be feeling. In man’s life the meaningful is being lost; the meaningless grows vigorously. Plants utterly vain have occupied vast tracts; what is significant has been lost, shrunk, pressed under the jungle, and died. What can be done with man so that the secret of flowering may become clear to him again? Of two sutras I have spoken in the last two days; today I wish to speak on a third. On the first day I said: one needs an eternal inquiry, a never-dying search. An aspiration that does not let one settle where one has settled—that keeps lifting towards the Unknown, keeps calling towards the Infinite. That even the far, the unseen, remains a magnet. That what is not attained yet, what is far beyond reach, those lofty peaks keep inviting the soul and our feet keep moving towards them—such a seeking is needed in life. A life without seeking is a dead, stagnant pond, which will rot and perish, but will never reach the ocean. Only those streams reach the sea which every day, through unknown paths, keep seeking and seeking the unfamiliar, unknown ocean. One day they arrive where, arriving, the ocean is found—where, upon finding, nothing more remains to be desired. I said in the first sutra: let life be a stream of inquiry and search. And in the second sutra I said: where should this search be centered? In our personality, where is that place where energy is hidden, where power is dormant, where the fire lies concealed which we can awaken into a lamp? Where are the sources of force stored, which we can raise and lead upwards? Even if we do not raise our energies upward, they will still flow—but then they will flow downwards. Flowing downward is nature’s law. The one who does nothing also flows down. To rise upward is to rise above nature, towards the Divine. That does not happen by following the rule, but by breaking it—by going against the current of rule. In the second sutra I said: at which center? Our energy is gathered at the center of sex; if not led upwards it will flow downwards and be lost. But we can be capable—if we meditate on that pulsing center, take our awareness there, and search for the place where life sits coiled within us, where the power of life is hidden. If we take our observing eye, our knowing there, that power will awaken and begin to rise. But for its rising one chemical understanding is essential—that today, in the third sutra, I wish to explain. Life is a great chemical secret, a vast chemical mystery. Those who do not understand the chemistry of life cannot attain the revolution of life. Life is composed of very small elements. What we are is a weave constructed by elements arriving from the Infinite around us. And the way we behave has the hand of those very elements that make us up. If a change can be created in this chemistry, a different kind of journey can begin. Ordinarily iron sinks in the sea; but with a little device, a little art, iron becomes a boat and carries one across the ocean. Nothing heavier than air can rise in air. So for thousands of years man wished to fly; he dreamed, but could not. He wrote tales of Pushpak vimans, he fantasized—but could not rise. How could that which is heavier than air lift off? Then with a little knack, very heavy things began to rise and move through the sky. Man’s personality too is a chemical cluster. And with this cluster it is like this: someone says, what is the harm if we do not water a plant? A little water missing—what harm? But we know, even the largest tree will die if a little water is not given. Or we say, if we do not give a little manure—what is the point of adding that foul smell? But we do not know, it is that very stench of manure that, traveling through the plant’s veins, becomes the fragrance of the flower. If manure is not given, flowers will not come. With man’s body—with this tree of the body—there is great unawareness, beyond reckoning. Man eats wrong, dresses wrong, sits wrong, sleeps wrong—everything is wrong; therefore ascent cannot happen. It is as if we have turned the lamp upside down, all its oil has spilled. Now, in the overturned lamp and the spilled oil, we try to light the wick—and it will not light. Someone tells us: first set the lamp upright. Man is upside down; thus all movement goes downward; no flame arises upward. It is necessary to understand some of these inverted chemistries of man. A few small indications. Perhaps it has never crossed your mind that, across the earth, no animal drinks milk after leaving its mother’s breast—except man. In nature’s arrangement, man alone continues to drink milk after weaning. And we never consider whether some mischief is afoot! And more curious—after leaving the mother’s breast man does not drink human milk; he drinks the milk of animals. Remember: as long as man lives on animal food—on the milk of animals—he cannot rise above sexuality; he cannot transcend lust. Perhaps unimaginable to you: cow’s milk carries the power to create the sexuality that runs in a bull’s body. That milk is made for a bull-calf’s vigor. If such a force of sexuality dwells in the bull, it is no wonder that similar sexuality arises in the human who drinks cow’s milk. The same with buffalo milk, or any animal milk. We take milk to be the most sattvic food. Milk can become sattvic, but only when the inner sexuality—as I said yesterday—begins to move upward. Then milk does not harm. But until sex-energy—until virya-ojas—has begun to flow upward, milk becomes an inevitable channel for driving virya downward. Truth is: after leaving the mother’s breast, no one needs milk at all. We think eating meat is evil; we think killing animals is evil; we think eating eggs is bad—but we never ask, what is milk? Milk is a part of blood. In the womb of a mother—of any female—there is a process that separates blood into two parts. Blood has two fractions—red and white. The female mechanism separates the red corpuscles from the white; the white becomes milk. That is why drinking milk quickly increases blood. Milk is blood. And more difficult: we never consider that the milk of an animal suits the personality of that animal. The cow’s milk is fit for the cow’s calf. You are not the cow’s calf—whatever Shankaracharya might say. The cow’s sons are oxen. And even an ox does not need milk for his whole life. Consider: so long as children are small and not sexually mature, milk may somehow be useful. But once sexual maturity is attained, once a person becomes adult in sex, then milk is dangerous. All of humanity is troubled and afflicted by milk. The animals whose milk we drink engender their animal tendencies within us. Also note: milk is a highly unnatural food—except the mother’s milk for the child until nature’s need ends. After that, milk is extremely un-natural. And because of this unnatural food, the entire chemical balance of man’s personality is disturbed. Thus in the world there is sex in animals, but no sexuality. Animals have sex, not sexuality. Sexuality exists only in man! Animals have sex; they bear young; they are influenced by sex. But they neither think of sex day and night, nor make films about it, nor compose music, nor write literature, nor create poetry out of it. Beyond that, they have no concern. In the twenty-four hours man works, ninety-eight percent is sex-centered in one way or another. The remaining two percent—if you dig deep—you will find related to the same lust. What has happened to man? He has gone deranged. And in his derangement his whole chemical constitution has broken down. We have forbidden meat-eating. People think Mahavira or Buddha forbade meat because it is violent—then they do not know the truth. Mahavira and Buddha did not deny meat due to violence. Those who think and preach that way are utterly ignorant of their inner science. Mahavira and Buddha refused meat because the tendencies of the animal whose flesh is eaten enter the human who eats it; he becomes of the same plane as the animal he eats. The crucial question is not that the animal is violated; more crucial is that the meat-eater draws his soul downward, not upward. I joked that no matter how much one says “Gau Mata,” by saying so you do not become the cow’s son. But another nuance must be understood. In one sense the cow is indeed mother—but not in the sense in which India’s unknowing cow-worshippers talk. They say since milk comes from the cow, she is mother; since she bears calves that help in tilling, she is mother—these are meaningless. They do not know. The cow is mother in other senses. In the sense Darwin called the ape our father, the cow is mother. Darwin and Western science searched for the origin of the human body—its bodily heredity, how it evolved. In tracing bodily evolution they found man’s body is a link after the ape. The human body has come through the monkey—this is true. But in India, where for thousands of years people reflected on man’s evolution, no one concluded the body came from the monkey. Why? One reason: India never cared for bodily heredity. India asks not whence the body, but whence the soul. And seekers in India, searching the soul, discovered that the first link of man’s soul came through the cow. Man’s soul evolved through the lineage of the cow, and man’s body through the lineage of the ape. Man carries the monkey’s body and the cow’s soul. Like a blacksmith forges the iron blade and a carpenter fashions the handle—together an axe is made. From one side, nature evolved the body—through the ape—and through that journey the finest body emerged. From the other side, the soul’s evolution proceeded—through the cow’s journey the finest soul ripened. From the meeting of the two, man arose. Man is a confluence of many journeys of evolution. The body came from elsewhere, the soul from elsewhere. Therefore India paid no heed to the ape, and the West, for long, will not even consider the cow. They cannot know that the soul too has a genesis, a chain of history. In this sense the cow is mother—not in the sense that you go on drinking her milk forever. If you forever tried to drink even your own mother’s milk, she would take you to court! Milk is the central factor in making man’s personality sexual. If one is not freed from milk in diet, danger remains. Yes, I know—if virya’s energy begins to move upward, milk can be used. Thus if rishis and yogis have called milk a supreme food, they are not wrong—but only after the upward journey has begun, not before. In the chemistry of man’s personality, fruits and vegetables have the fundamental place. Why? Because fruits, vegetables—the green world—are stages of growth before sex arises. Their production is not sexual. As soon as the animal world begins, sexual production begins. Therefore animal flesh or milk—all is the same: all is animal food. Any of it becomes a hindrance to raising human consciousness. You become what you eat. Ninety percent of you is food. What you take within works within you. Drink alcohol for a while and you will know: while alcohol works, you are not; alcohol is. I have heard: a king’s procession passed down a road. A man stood at a crossroad hurling abuses. While others flung flowers, he flung insults. He was seized at once and imprisoned. Next day he was brought to the king. The king asked: What happened to you? Why did you abuse yesterday? He said: Majesty, if you ask truly—I was not; wine was. I do not know. The abuses were uttered by wine. As soon as I came to, I found myself in fetters. Of the time between I know nothing. If you must inquire—ask the wine. I was not there in between! Drink a little—and you are not; the alcohol becomes active. What we take within as nourishment—shapes the flame of our personality downward or upward. But we pay no attention. Or those who speak of it speak such foolishness that even listening is hard. Slowly, a great science is needed—one that lends chemical support to consciousness, a device to aid its ascent. Remember: man is ninety percent chemistry, indeed ninety-nine percent still; the soul is scarcely one percent. Yes, some day it can be a hundred percent—but that is not yet. So one must be attentive—even to the smallest things. First point: food from the world of fruits and vegetables lifts human consciousness upward. Food from animals pulls it downward. And nature has made an astonishing arrangement—do you know? There is a child in the mother’s womb. We say, my parents’ blood runs in my veins—this is outright false. No one has a parent’s blood running in his veins. Nature has a wondrous arrangement: the mother’s blood does not enter the child. Before reaching the embryo, the mother’s blood disintegrates into its basic elements. Then the child selects from those elements and constructs his new blood. Thus it is possible the mother may need blood and the son’s blood will not suit. If the mother’s blood were running in the son, take the son’s blood and give it to the mother. No—tests are needed to find who matches. The son may not match. Why? Because the son has produced his own blood. Nature has arranged: create your own, that you may be free. If we accept another’s constructed blood or flesh as food, we can never be free; our personality will begin to become like that other. Thus nature made such an astonishing provision that even your mother’s personality does not dominate you. Her blood must be broken down and remade anew. No one carries father’s or mother’s blood—remember. Each carries his own. And each one’s blood is unique; not all blood is alike. If my leg is injured and needs a skin graft, take the skin from your leg—even from the same place—it will not take. Strange! How does skin know to whom it belongs? Does even skin have individuality? Certainly. If skin from your other leg is grafted on your leg, it will take; another’s will be rejected. Your body will refuse it—foreign, alien, cannot be assimilated. If this is true—that only one’s own skin can be grafted on one’s own body, and another’s hardly can—then by accepting prepared food from animals, we create disintegration within ourselves, a danger. Many strata arise within; our personality no longer remains one. Therefore we need food from where nourishment is direct and directly assimilated—where your own being can choose, and harmony is created. Your personality chooses for itself and becomes its own kind; then the flame of that personality begins to move upward. As it is, we have become so related to animals that many animals’ voices resound within! At times you will wonder—anger a man and when he pounces upon you, you will not believe whether this man is attacking or some animal! In rage, who knows what beasts emerge from within. Let a riot break out—wolves, dogs, lions will surge out. Man will not appear. Inside, man is not! He is only on the surface—skin-deep, thinner than skin. Tear it a little and what emerges may be many kinds of animals—not man. Within, man is not; we are not creating man. How to create man? Because man is, for now, the last link of this evolution—beyond him will be further links. Thus one must, with deep remembrance, construct this body only with those elements that raise the personality upward. Remember: ahar does not mean only food. Ahar means whatever is taken in. Whatever is taken in! Ahar is what enters through the senses to shape the personality. So do not take ahar to mean only diet; diet is one kind of ahar. There are other kinds. When I am walking and looking at people, I am eating through my eyes. What I see is forming my personality. What are you seeing? Know this: if a man is kept in a room where everything is red, his brain begins to reel. If the same man is kept in a room where everything is green, his brain will become tranquil. Green nourishes calm; red excites agitation. Whatever you behold—chemistry goes on. Every color, entering you, does something. Where you look, what you look at—you are being formed by what you see. What you hear—each sound strikes the veena within, transforming you. With such indiscriminate hearing, reading, eating, seeing—how will a revolution in consciousness be possible? Such a revolution is the result of a highly disciplined plan. It is astonishing what man chooses to see and hear. If there is nothing right to see, closing the eyes is not so bad. But no one is ready to close the eyes; people are ready to see the wrong rather than be still. Plugging the ears would not be bad compared to hearing the wrong—but the urge to hear is so intense we are ready to hear anything, anything! Thus all kinds of rubbish accumulate within. A man rises in the morning and first asks, Where is the newspaper? He begins collecting garbage. He has set out on the downward road. What does he read? From the first corner to the last—ninety percent riots, quarrels, accidents; cheating, robbery, court cases; and the news of the most heinous criminals in society—politicians—in bold letters. He drinks this in without thought; it will shape his personality. It is not a casual thing that you glanced at a paper and threw it away. The paper will be sold as waste, but what it has put inside will whirl within you for lives. Remember: once a memory is engraved, it cannot be erased until Samadhi is attained. Before that it is not erased. You will have to carry the burden. We are carrying infinite burdens from endless births. Who knows what junk we have gathered. Someone comes and says, So-and-so has stolen something—and we become so titillated we drop twenty-five tasks and ask, And then? and then? What use is it who stole? What meaning? Why gather this trash within? You wish to grow a garden, plant flowers in your life—and you gather stones and weeds! With such rubbish you cannot have a beautiful garden. You must become like a gardener—alert, choicelessly aware—seeing what you allow within. First point: what are we taking in—whether as food or as words. Words are food too. Now computers have been built around the world; the knowledge given to them is called feeding—food. We too are feeding our inner computers. Twenty-four hours we feed—through newspapers, books, anything. Every week five thousand new books are printed worldwide. Never before has man had such hunger to know. Yet never before has man been so ignorant. Mountains of books pile up, five thousand more each week; librarians in Moscow and Washington face the problem that at this rate, by century’s end there will be no place left to store books. Perhaps we will have to make tiny books to be read with microscopes, or microfilm to read on screens. Where to keep so many books? In London or Moscow libraries, the shelves if laid end to end would circle the earth thrice. Amid this growing heap, man’s craving to know—from morning to night through newspapers, radio, television—leaders, gurus, sadhus, sannyasins—he is eager to know from anyone. He keeps collecting to know, yet there is no sign of wisdom. The lamp of knowing is not seen lit; man appears extinguished. There is no wisdom and there is a heap of knowledge. Surely something has gone wrong. We are collecting rubbish indiscriminately. As if someone eats anything—stones, pebbles, whatever he finds. He eats much but begins to die. People ask, He eats so much, why is he dying, why ill? Because he throws anything inside. Each thing has its value; a single wrong word entering can unhinge your whole personality. A single small word! You walk down the road; someone says, This man is a fool. One small word—just a sound. A man who does not know Hindi will hear the sound and walk on, undisturbed. But you understand—and your night is ruined. You toss and turn; that little word has entered. It makes you toss. Sweat beads on your brow. You rise, sit, wash your head; the word keeps circling: He called me a fool! One little word creating such storms—how much junk have we amassed! And with all this, we think of a journey upward! We have heard wrongly, eaten wrongly. We dress wrongly. No one asks why we wear what we wear, and to what effect. Have you noticed—whenever an age becomes more sexual, clothes become tight; when an age is spiritual, clothes become loose. It happens suddenly—it is not accidental; there are reasons. The tighter the clothes, the more the body stays taut. Therefore on the battlefield tight clothing is essential—to keep a man tensed enough to commit acts that, if he were relaxed, would be dangerous. He must remain tense, as if every moment he wishes to jump out of his clothes. He should stay so irritated in his very being—taut, rushed. Have you seen—wearing tight clothes you climb stairs two at a time. You will not see a man in loose robes taking stairs two at a time. The one in loose garments climbs with dignity, one step at a time. In old houses the servants’ stairs were separate—long steps for tight-clothed servants to spring up; the master’s robes were loose, hanging far—perhaps two servants held them. His steps were small, and he ascended slowly. In no tradition on earth have sages ever worn tight clothes. There is something in it: the more you bind the body, the more tendencies move downward; the more you let it be relaxed, free, the more uplift happens. I say these small things as examples so that the chemistry of this body may come into your awareness as an indication. The full plan you must devise; but let the hint be clear—what to do so that when we meditate upon that inner center of energy, all these things support meditation. Now someone wears any kind of clothes, of any color—many stripes and patches—and no one asks what has happened to him. For clothing crowded with many colored stripes indicates an agitated mind within. A silent person will choose a single, long expanse of color. Have you watched the sky—when it is purely blue, undivided, one seamless hue? If you lie on the sand and gaze for half an hour, you will find you have become one with it, something within has settled. But imagine the sky patched with a thousand colors, and you watch half an hour—you will return home deranged, unable to locate your house or even yourself! The whole world is turning into a madhouse. In every way we grow more insane, because whatever we do excites—does not soothe. Why do you feel good in the mountains? What is there? Only greenery. That expanse of green brings a hush within; some inner resonance is stirred. In truth, our bodily personality is formed from the same green vegetation. There is an inner harmony between the outer tree and our inner being. Coming near the green trees, what in us has become their fruit—vibrates; there is harmony, a meeting. Standing by man-made buildings does not bring this. Stand awhile by the tall cement structures of New York, Chandigarh, or Bombay—you will feel a gloom, not freshness. Man-made concrete and stone stir no resonance in your life-breath. But sit quietly by an old tree whose green branches spread into the sky—something happens. I have heard a story. Laila’s father grew afraid of Majnun and fled with her to another village. Fathers have always feared love, and they have not let the world of love be. Majnun learned and went in search. He came to know that a caravan with Laila would pass a certain road. He stood by a banyan tree at the roadside, a vast forest stretching beyond. He stood leaning against the banyan, thinking at least I will see her. Seated on a camel, Laila appeared. With her hand she signaled: Do not fear, I will return soon. The caravan moved on. In her father’s presence she could not speak, only signaled. Majnun remained where he was, waiting: now she will come, now she will come. The day passed, the night passed, a week passed. Villagers said: You are mad! Why stand by this bush? He said: Go. He did not speak, only gestured them away. He feared if he left even for a moment, the caravan might pass and Laila might think, I told him to wait and he was not there. What would she think? He did not move. Months passed; they say years passed—twelve years. He did not leave. Slowly his body and the tree fused, and the tree felt compassion. As it sent sap to its own branches, it began to send sap into Majnun’s arms and legs. Leaves sprouted from his limbs; branches grew; roots covered him; he became one with the tree. Sometimes—in darkness, at night, at dawn, in solitude—a single sound echoed in the forest: Laila! Laila! Villagers grew afraid to pass at night. They thought Majnun had died and become a ghost crying in the forest! After twelve years Laila returned and asked, Where is Majnun? They said: For some days he stood under that tree; then we do not know. But at night a voice is heard in the forest. That night Laila went. A voice called, Laila! She searched and came to the tree; she circled it and could not find Majnun. She asked: Majnun, where are you? He said: I am here. I have always been here—twelve years. She felt with her hands; Majnun had become the tree—leaves sprouted from him. She wept and cried: How mad you are! Why did you remain here so long? Majnun said: I am blessed—for two reasons. You I found—and living close to this tree, I have fused with it; in uniting with the tree, I have also united with God. While I was joined to man, I was cut off from the Divine. Since I joined this tree, I am joined to the Divine. That which attracts you on mountains, among trees, in waves of the sea, in rivers—what is it? It is the resonance within us meeting some truth without. The two become one—for a while we are lost. But whatever man makes seems contrary to the Divine. And we are surrounded by it—by clothes, by houses, by food; by books, by newspapers. All this has disturbed the chemistry of our whole personality. Man has become a ruined garden: weeds grow where flowers should; where the elixir’s herbs should spring, only bramble appears. Where water should fall, it does not; where it should not, we pour it. Where manure is needed, there is none; where it is not, we heap piles. In such a state, if the Divine peeks out from his window—what would he think? Yet this can be changed. Some people have always tried to change it. Some sutras have never been lost; they exist even today. Whoever is ready to understand can make them clear and transform his whole personality. In the third sutra today I tell you: try to live with this mindfulness—that I will do only that which lifts me upward. I will hear only what raises me; I will wear only what raises me; I will meet only those who lift me; I will see only that which lifts me. If life is to become sadhana, one must strike from all sides—everywhere aim towards height. If listening to a veena, then that which lifts; if seeing, then that which lifts; if embracing, then only one who lifts. If you must bow your head at someone’s feet, then only at those which lift you upward. People bow to money’s feet; they bow to politicians’ feet—who will take you down, into hell. And know: if you go to hell now, you will find it crowded; all those whom you call ‘late and sainted’ politicians have gone there. They do not become heavenly; they go to hell, and there is a crush—no space to be found. Bow only where you rise; do not bow where you sink. Better to break than to bow that leads downward. Better to die hungry than to eat that which drags you down. Better to stand naked than wear clothes that pull you down. Better to be alone than keep company that drags you down. What need of a light that blinds? Better the darkness in which at least you can open your eyes! This reflection is necessary—inch by inch of life, every aspect, morning to evening, waking and sleeping. One devoted to the revolution of truth considers not only the day; he examines even the night’s dreams—are these to be seen or not? If I see these, do I go downward or upward? He scrutinizes even his dreams. We cannot even manage wakefulness—what to say of dreams. He even grieves when certain dreams arise; he seeks to change them—We will not let these come. We will dream only those that lift. We will breathe only that which lifts. We will circulate only that blood which lifts. If life becomes such a collective enterprise towards height, there is no reason why any human being cannot become Divine. Each person is Divine—but hidden, unmanifest. Each person is Divine—but as a possibility, not yet a truth. Possibility can become truth. That which is potential, seedlike, can be revealed. One who dies without making it manifest has lost an opportunity—one that does not come again and again. These few things I have said in three days. If you have questions—only about these three days’ talks—do not send frivolous ones; I will not answer them. About what I have said in these three days, whatever questions there are, their answers I will give you tomorrow evening. You have listened to my words with such peace and love; I am deeply obliged. Finally, I bow to the Paramatma seated within all. Please accept my pranam.
Osho's Commentary
I have heard: there was a gardener who had grown old. How old he had become, even he did not know. For one who spends his whole life turning seeds into flowers, there is hardly any time left to measure his age. Only those who count their years and do nothing else come to know their age. And I have heard, many a time Death came close to that gardener and then went back. Because whenever Death arrived, he was so absorbed in his work that even Death could not gather the courage to break his creation midway.
To break a life is easy; to break a creation in the midst of its becoming is very difficult.
He had become very old. He had discovered many secrets of the life of plants. He had created new flowers. He had produced flowers that would last for years. He had found many chemical sciences for tending, refreshing, reviving, keeping plants alive for long years.
Before dying he tried hard to explain to his young sons which flower served which purpose. He wanted to tell them that not all colorful flowers are meaningful; that not every dazzling plant is useful; that in thorns too many secrets of life lie hidden, not only in flowers; that do not stop with flowers that bloom quickly—what blooms quickly also withers quickly; that there are flowers which take long, with difficulty, to blossom; that within these plants are medicines which can turn life into nectar. He tried to tell his young sons everything—when to give manure and when not; when to water less and when to water more; in what season to protect, in what season not to worry. But the sons did not understand.
Sons never understand. If the old could be understood by the young, the world would be a far better place. But the language of the old has never been understood by sons—neither then, nor now, nor does there seem much hope it will be understood in the future.
Perhaps the language of experience—how can it be understood by the unexperienced? The language of those who know—how can it be heard by those who do not? Those who are in darkness—how can they understand the language of light? And those still flowing with the current of life—how can the truths seen by those nearing death be grasped by them?
The sons turned a deaf ear. They believed flowers bloom on their own. All the unwise believe so. Flowers do not bloom on their own. Behind them there is labor, there is resolve, there is sadhana.
The father fell ill. He was confined to his hut. From the window he watched flowers droop, plants die. His sons sometimes watered them, but at the wrong time. Those plants that needed protection were neglected, while those that were good for nothing—only gaudy, glittering blossoms—the sons poured themselves upon. The old man tried hard to explain. The sons refused and finally said: Now keep quiet! Your words no longer delight us. We are doing what we can. What feels pleasant is what will be done.
The old man watched the plants die—the very ones he had nurtured with his life; he watched the flowers wither; and watched weeds grow and spread—useless, meaningless.
What that old man must have felt—if there is a Paramatma anywhere, then seeing the garden of man, that is exactly how he must be feeling.
In man’s life the meaningful is being lost; the meaningless grows vigorously. Plants utterly vain have occupied vast tracts; what is significant has been lost, shrunk, pressed under the jungle, and died.
What can be done with man so that the secret of flowering may become clear to him again?
Of two sutras I have spoken in the last two days; today I wish to speak on a third.
On the first day I said: one needs an eternal inquiry, a never-dying search. An aspiration that does not let one settle where one has settled—that keeps lifting towards the Unknown, keeps calling towards the Infinite. That even the far, the unseen, remains a magnet. That what is not attained yet, what is far beyond reach, those lofty peaks keep inviting the soul and our feet keep moving towards them—such a seeking is needed in life.
A life without seeking is a dead, stagnant pond, which will rot and perish, but will never reach the ocean. Only those streams reach the sea which every day, through unknown paths, keep seeking and seeking the unfamiliar, unknown ocean. One day they arrive where, arriving, the ocean is found—where, upon finding, nothing more remains to be desired.
I said in the first sutra: let life be a stream of inquiry and search.
And in the second sutra I said: where should this search be centered? In our personality, where is that place where energy is hidden, where power is dormant, where the fire lies concealed which we can awaken into a lamp? Where are the sources of force stored, which we can raise and lead upwards?
Even if we do not raise our energies upward, they will still flow—but then they will flow downwards. Flowing downward is nature’s law. The one who does nothing also flows down. To rise upward is to rise above nature, towards the Divine. That does not happen by following the rule, but by breaking it—by going against the current of rule.
In the second sutra I said: at which center? Our energy is gathered at the center of sex; if not led upwards it will flow downwards and be lost. But we can be capable—if we meditate on that pulsing center, take our awareness there, and search for the place where life sits coiled within us, where the power of life is hidden. If we take our observing eye, our knowing there, that power will awaken and begin to rise.
But for its rising one chemical understanding is essential—that today, in the third sutra, I wish to explain.
Life is a great chemical secret, a vast chemical mystery. Those who do not understand the chemistry of life cannot attain the revolution of life. Life is composed of very small elements. What we are is a weave constructed by elements arriving from the Infinite around us. And the way we behave has the hand of those very elements that make us up. If a change can be created in this chemistry, a different kind of journey can begin.
Ordinarily iron sinks in the sea; but with a little device, a little art, iron becomes a boat and carries one across the ocean. Nothing heavier than air can rise in air. So for thousands of years man wished to fly; he dreamed, but could not. He wrote tales of Pushpak vimans, he fantasized—but could not rise. How could that which is heavier than air lift off? Then with a little knack, very heavy things began to rise and move through the sky.
Man’s personality too is a chemical cluster. And with this cluster it is like this: someone says, what is the harm if we do not water a plant? A little water missing—what harm? But we know, even the largest tree will die if a little water is not given. Or we say, if we do not give a little manure—what is the point of adding that foul smell? But we do not know, it is that very stench of manure that, traveling through the plant’s veins, becomes the fragrance of the flower. If manure is not given, flowers will not come.
With man’s body—with this tree of the body—there is great unawareness, beyond reckoning. Man eats wrong, dresses wrong, sits wrong, sleeps wrong—everything is wrong; therefore ascent cannot happen. It is as if we have turned the lamp upside down, all its oil has spilled. Now, in the overturned lamp and the spilled oil, we try to light the wick—and it will not light. Someone tells us: first set the lamp upright.
Man is upside down; thus all movement goes downward; no flame arises upward.
It is necessary to understand some of these inverted chemistries of man. A few small indications.
Perhaps it has never crossed your mind that, across the earth, no animal drinks milk after leaving its mother’s breast—except man. In nature’s arrangement, man alone continues to drink milk after weaning. And we never consider whether some mischief is afoot! And more curious—after leaving the mother’s breast man does not drink human milk; he drinks the milk of animals.
Remember: as long as man lives on animal food—on the milk of animals—he cannot rise above sexuality; he cannot transcend lust.
Perhaps unimaginable to you: cow’s milk carries the power to create the sexuality that runs in a bull’s body. That milk is made for a bull-calf’s vigor. If such a force of sexuality dwells in the bull, it is no wonder that similar sexuality arises in the human who drinks cow’s milk. The same with buffalo milk, or any animal milk.
We take milk to be the most sattvic food. Milk can become sattvic, but only when the inner sexuality—as I said yesterday—begins to move upward. Then milk does not harm. But until sex-energy—until virya-ojas—has begun to flow upward, milk becomes an inevitable channel for driving virya downward. Truth is: after leaving the mother’s breast, no one needs milk at all.
We think eating meat is evil; we think killing animals is evil; we think eating eggs is bad—but we never ask, what is milk? Milk is a part of blood. In the womb of a mother—of any female—there is a process that separates blood into two parts. Blood has two fractions—red and white. The female mechanism separates the red corpuscles from the white; the white becomes milk. That is why drinking milk quickly increases blood. Milk is blood.
And more difficult: we never consider that the milk of an animal suits the personality of that animal. The cow’s milk is fit for the cow’s calf. You are not the cow’s calf—whatever Shankaracharya might say. The cow’s sons are oxen. And even an ox does not need milk for his whole life.
Consider: so long as children are small and not sexually mature, milk may somehow be useful. But once sexual maturity is attained, once a person becomes adult in sex, then milk is dangerous. All of humanity is troubled and afflicted by milk. The animals whose milk we drink engender their animal tendencies within us.
Also note: milk is a highly unnatural food—except the mother’s milk for the child until nature’s need ends. After that, milk is extremely un-natural. And because of this unnatural food, the entire chemical balance of man’s personality is disturbed. Thus in the world there is sex in animals, but no sexuality. Animals have sex, not sexuality. Sexuality exists only in man!
Animals have sex; they bear young; they are influenced by sex. But they neither think of sex day and night, nor make films about it, nor compose music, nor write literature, nor create poetry out of it. Beyond that, they have no concern. In the twenty-four hours man works, ninety-eight percent is sex-centered in one way or another. The remaining two percent—if you dig deep—you will find related to the same lust. What has happened to man? He has gone deranged. And in his derangement his whole chemical constitution has broken down.
We have forbidden meat-eating. People think Mahavira or Buddha forbade meat because it is violent—then they do not know the truth. Mahavira and Buddha did not deny meat due to violence. Those who think and preach that way are utterly ignorant of their inner science. Mahavira and Buddha refused meat because the tendencies of the animal whose flesh is eaten enter the human who eats it; he becomes of the same plane as the animal he eats.
The crucial question is not that the animal is violated; more crucial is that the meat-eater draws his soul downward, not upward.
I joked that no matter how much one says “Gau Mata,” by saying so you do not become the cow’s son. But another nuance must be understood. In one sense the cow is indeed mother—but not in the sense in which India’s unknowing cow-worshippers talk. They say since milk comes from the cow, she is mother; since she bears calves that help in tilling, she is mother—these are meaningless. They do not know. The cow is mother in other senses.
In the sense Darwin called the ape our father, the cow is mother. Darwin and Western science searched for the origin of the human body—its bodily heredity, how it evolved. In tracing bodily evolution they found man’s body is a link after the ape. The human body has come through the monkey—this is true.
But in India, where for thousands of years people reflected on man’s evolution, no one concluded the body came from the monkey. Why?
One reason: India never cared for bodily heredity. India asks not whence the body, but whence the soul. And seekers in India, searching the soul, discovered that the first link of man’s soul came through the cow. Man’s soul evolved through the lineage of the cow, and man’s body through the lineage of the ape. Man carries the monkey’s body and the cow’s soul.
Like a blacksmith forges the iron blade and a carpenter fashions the handle—together an axe is made.
From one side, nature evolved the body—through the ape—and through that journey the finest body emerged. From the other side, the soul’s evolution proceeded—through the cow’s journey the finest soul ripened. From the meeting of the two, man arose.
Man is a confluence of many journeys of evolution. The body came from elsewhere, the soul from elsewhere. Therefore India paid no heed to the ape, and the West, for long, will not even consider the cow. They cannot know that the soul too has a genesis, a chain of history.
In this sense the cow is mother—not in the sense that you go on drinking her milk forever. If you forever tried to drink even your own mother’s milk, she would take you to court!
Milk is the central factor in making man’s personality sexual. If one is not freed from milk in diet, danger remains. Yes, I know—if virya’s energy begins to move upward, milk can be used. Thus if rishis and yogis have called milk a supreme food, they are not wrong—but only after the upward journey has begun, not before.
In the chemistry of man’s personality, fruits and vegetables have the fundamental place.
Why?
Because fruits, vegetables—the green world—are stages of growth before sex arises. Their production is not sexual. As soon as the animal world begins, sexual production begins. Therefore animal flesh or milk—all is the same: all is animal food. Any of it becomes a hindrance to raising human consciousness.
You become what you eat. Ninety percent of you is food. What you take within works within you. Drink alcohol for a while and you will know: while alcohol works, you are not; alcohol is.
I have heard: a king’s procession passed down a road. A man stood at a crossroad hurling abuses. While others flung flowers, he flung insults. He was seized at once and imprisoned. Next day he was brought to the king.
The king asked: What happened to you? Why did you abuse yesterday?
He said: Majesty, if you ask truly—I was not; wine was. I do not know. The abuses were uttered by wine. As soon as I came to, I found myself in fetters. Of the time between I know nothing. If you must inquire—ask the wine. I was not there in between!
Drink a little—and you are not; the alcohol becomes active.
What we take within as nourishment—shapes the flame of our personality downward or upward. But we pay no attention. Or those who speak of it speak such foolishness that even listening is hard.
Slowly, a great science is needed—one that lends chemical support to consciousness, a device to aid its ascent. Remember: man is ninety percent chemistry, indeed ninety-nine percent still; the soul is scarcely one percent. Yes, some day it can be a hundred percent—but that is not yet. So one must be attentive—even to the smallest things.
First point: food from the world of fruits and vegetables lifts human consciousness upward. Food from animals pulls it downward. And nature has made an astonishing arrangement—do you know?
There is a child in the mother’s womb. We say, my parents’ blood runs in my veins—this is outright false. No one has a parent’s blood running in his veins. Nature has a wondrous arrangement: the mother’s blood does not enter the child. Before reaching the embryo, the mother’s blood disintegrates into its basic elements. Then the child selects from those elements and constructs his new blood.
Thus it is possible the mother may need blood and the son’s blood will not suit. If the mother’s blood were running in the son, take the son’s blood and give it to the mother. No—tests are needed to find who matches. The son may not match.
Why?
Because the son has produced his own blood. Nature has arranged: create your own, that you may be free. If we accept another’s constructed blood or flesh as food, we can never be free; our personality will begin to become like that other. Thus nature made such an astonishing provision that even your mother’s personality does not dominate you. Her blood must be broken down and remade anew.
No one carries father’s or mother’s blood—remember. Each carries his own. And each one’s blood is unique; not all blood is alike.
If my leg is injured and needs a skin graft, take the skin from your leg—even from the same place—it will not take. Strange! How does skin know to whom it belongs? Does even skin have individuality?
Certainly. If skin from your other leg is grafted on your leg, it will take; another’s will be rejected. Your body will refuse it—foreign, alien, cannot be assimilated.
If this is true—that only one’s own skin can be grafted on one’s own body, and another’s hardly can—then by accepting prepared food from animals, we create disintegration within ourselves, a danger. Many strata arise within; our personality no longer remains one.
Therefore we need food from where nourishment is direct and directly assimilated—where your own being can choose, and harmony is created. Your personality chooses for itself and becomes its own kind; then the flame of that personality begins to move upward.
As it is, we have become so related to animals that many animals’ voices resound within! At times you will wonder—anger a man and when he pounces upon you, you will not believe whether this man is attacking or some animal! In rage, who knows what beasts emerge from within. Let a riot break out—wolves, dogs, lions will surge out. Man will not appear. Inside, man is not! He is only on the surface—skin-deep, thinner than skin. Tear it a little and what emerges may be many kinds of animals—not man. Within, man is not; we are not creating man.
How to create man?
Because man is, for now, the last link of this evolution—beyond him will be further links. Thus one must, with deep remembrance, construct this body only with those elements that raise the personality upward.
Remember: ahar does not mean only food. Ahar means whatever is taken in. Whatever is taken in! Ahar is what enters through the senses to shape the personality. So do not take ahar to mean only diet; diet is one kind of ahar.
There are other kinds.
When I am walking and looking at people, I am eating through my eyes. What I see is forming my personality.
What are you seeing?
Know this: if a man is kept in a room where everything is red, his brain begins to reel. If the same man is kept in a room where everything is green, his brain will become tranquil. Green nourishes calm; red excites agitation.
Whatever you behold—chemistry goes on. Every color, entering you, does something. Where you look, what you look at—you are being formed by what you see. What you hear—each sound strikes the veena within, transforming you.
With such indiscriminate hearing, reading, eating, seeing—how will a revolution in consciousness be possible? Such a revolution is the result of a highly disciplined plan.
It is astonishing what man chooses to see and hear. If there is nothing right to see, closing the eyes is not so bad. But no one is ready to close the eyes; people are ready to see the wrong rather than be still. Plugging the ears would not be bad compared to hearing the wrong—but the urge to hear is so intense we are ready to hear anything, anything! Thus all kinds of rubbish accumulate within.
A man rises in the morning and first asks, Where is the newspaper? He begins collecting garbage. He has set out on the downward road. What does he read? From the first corner to the last—ninety percent riots, quarrels, accidents; cheating, robbery, court cases; and the news of the most heinous criminals in society—politicians—in bold letters. He drinks this in without thought; it will shape his personality. It is not a casual thing that you glanced at a paper and threw it away. The paper will be sold as waste, but what it has put inside will whirl within you for lives.
Remember: once a memory is engraved, it cannot be erased until Samadhi is attained. Before that it is not erased. You will have to carry the burden.
We are carrying infinite burdens from endless births. Who knows what junk we have gathered.
Someone comes and says, So-and-so has stolen something—and we become so titillated we drop twenty-five tasks and ask, And then? and then? What use is it who stole? What meaning? Why gather this trash within? You wish to grow a garden, plant flowers in your life—and you gather stones and weeds! With such rubbish you cannot have a beautiful garden. You must become like a gardener—alert, choicelessly aware—seeing what you allow within.
First point: what are we taking in—whether as food or as words. Words are food too.
Now computers have been built around the world; the knowledge given to them is called feeding—food. We too are feeding our inner computers. Twenty-four hours we feed—through newspapers, books, anything.
Every week five thousand new books are printed worldwide. Never before has man had such hunger to know. Yet never before has man been so ignorant. Mountains of books pile up, five thousand more each week; librarians in Moscow and Washington face the problem that at this rate, by century’s end there will be no place left to store books. Perhaps we will have to make tiny books to be read with microscopes, or microfilm to read on screens. Where to keep so many books? In London or Moscow libraries, the shelves if laid end to end would circle the earth thrice.
Amid this growing heap, man’s craving to know—from morning to night through newspapers, radio, television—leaders, gurus, sadhus, sannyasins—he is eager to know from anyone. He keeps collecting to know, yet there is no sign of wisdom. The lamp of knowing is not seen lit; man appears extinguished. There is no wisdom and there is a heap of knowledge. Surely something has gone wrong.
We are collecting rubbish indiscriminately. As if someone eats anything—stones, pebbles, whatever he finds. He eats much but begins to die. People ask, He eats so much, why is he dying, why ill? Because he throws anything inside. Each thing has its value; a single wrong word entering can unhinge your whole personality. A single small word!
You walk down the road; someone says, This man is a fool. One small word—just a sound. A man who does not know Hindi will hear the sound and walk on, undisturbed. But you understand—and your night is ruined. You toss and turn; that little word has entered. It makes you toss. Sweat beads on your brow. You rise, sit, wash your head; the word keeps circling: He called me a fool!
One little word creating such storms—how much junk have we amassed! And with all this, we think of a journey upward!
We have heard wrongly, eaten wrongly. We dress wrongly. No one asks why we wear what we wear, and to what effect.
Have you noticed—whenever an age becomes more sexual, clothes become tight; when an age is spiritual, clothes become loose. It happens suddenly—it is not accidental; there are reasons.
The tighter the clothes, the more the body stays taut. Therefore on the battlefield tight clothing is essential—to keep a man tensed enough to commit acts that, if he were relaxed, would be dangerous. He must remain tense, as if every moment he wishes to jump out of his clothes. He should stay so irritated in his very being—taut, rushed.
Have you seen—wearing tight clothes you climb stairs two at a time. You will not see a man in loose robes taking stairs two at a time. The one in loose garments climbs with dignity, one step at a time. In old houses the servants’ stairs were separate—long steps for tight-clothed servants to spring up; the master’s robes were loose, hanging far—perhaps two servants held them. His steps were small, and he ascended slowly.
In no tradition on earth have sages ever worn tight clothes. There is something in it: the more you bind the body, the more tendencies move downward; the more you let it be relaxed, free, the more uplift happens.
I say these small things as examples so that the chemistry of this body may come into your awareness as an indication. The full plan you must devise; but let the hint be clear—what to do so that when we meditate upon that inner center of energy, all these things support meditation.
Now someone wears any kind of clothes, of any color—many stripes and patches—and no one asks what has happened to him. For clothing crowded with many colored stripes indicates an agitated mind within. A silent person will choose a single, long expanse of color.
Have you watched the sky—when it is purely blue, undivided, one seamless hue? If you lie on the sand and gaze for half an hour, you will find you have become one with it, something within has settled. But imagine the sky patched with a thousand colors, and you watch half an hour—you will return home deranged, unable to locate your house or even yourself!
The whole world is turning into a madhouse. In every way we grow more insane, because whatever we do excites—does not soothe.
Why do you feel good in the mountains? What is there? Only greenery. That expanse of green brings a hush within; some inner resonance is stirred.
In truth, our bodily personality is formed from the same green vegetation. There is an inner harmony between the outer tree and our inner being. Coming near the green trees, what in us has become their fruit—vibrates; there is harmony, a meeting.
Standing by man-made buildings does not bring this. Stand awhile by the tall cement structures of New York, Chandigarh, or Bombay—you will feel a gloom, not freshness. Man-made concrete and stone stir no resonance in your life-breath. But sit quietly by an old tree whose green branches spread into the sky—something happens.
I have heard a story. Laila’s father grew afraid of Majnun and fled with her to another village. Fathers have always feared love, and they have not let the world of love be. Majnun learned and went in search. He came to know that a caravan with Laila would pass a certain road. He stood by a banyan tree at the roadside, a vast forest stretching beyond. He stood leaning against the banyan, thinking at least I will see her. Seated on a camel, Laila appeared. With her hand she signaled: Do not fear, I will return soon. The caravan moved on. In her father’s presence she could not speak, only signaled.
Majnun remained where he was, waiting: now she will come, now she will come. The day passed, the night passed, a week passed. Villagers said: You are mad! Why stand by this bush?
He said: Go. He did not speak, only gestured them away. He feared if he left even for a moment, the caravan might pass and Laila might think, I told him to wait and he was not there. What would she think?
He did not move. Months passed; they say years passed—twelve years. He did not leave. Slowly his body and the tree fused, and the tree felt compassion. As it sent sap to its own branches, it began to send sap into Majnun’s arms and legs. Leaves sprouted from his limbs; branches grew; roots covered him; he became one with the tree. Sometimes—in darkness, at night, at dawn, in solitude—a single sound echoed in the forest: Laila! Laila! Villagers grew afraid to pass at night. They thought Majnun had died and become a ghost crying in the forest!
After twelve years Laila returned and asked, Where is Majnun?
They said: For some days he stood under that tree; then we do not know. But at night a voice is heard in the forest.
That night Laila went. A voice called, Laila! She searched and came to the tree; she circled it and could not find Majnun. She asked: Majnun, where are you?
He said: I am here. I have always been here—twelve years.
She felt with her hands; Majnun had become the tree—leaves sprouted from him. She wept and cried: How mad you are! Why did you remain here so long?
Majnun said: I am blessed—for two reasons. You I found—and living close to this tree, I have fused with it; in uniting with the tree, I have also united with God. While I was joined to man, I was cut off from the Divine. Since I joined this tree, I am joined to the Divine.
That which attracts you on mountains, among trees, in waves of the sea, in rivers—what is it? It is the resonance within us meeting some truth without. The two become one—for a while we are lost.
But whatever man makes seems contrary to the Divine. And we are surrounded by it—by clothes, by houses, by food; by books, by newspapers. All this has disturbed the chemistry of our whole personality.
Man has become a ruined garden: weeds grow where flowers should; where the elixir’s herbs should spring, only bramble appears. Where water should fall, it does not; where it should not, we pour it. Where manure is needed, there is none; where it is not, we heap piles. In such a state, if the Divine peeks out from his window—what would he think?
Yet this can be changed. Some people have always tried to change it. Some sutras have never been lost; they exist even today. Whoever is ready to understand can make them clear and transform his whole personality.
In the third sutra today I tell you: try to live with this mindfulness—that I will do only that which lifts me upward. I will hear only what raises me; I will wear only what raises me; I will meet only those who lift me; I will see only that which lifts me. If life is to become sadhana, one must strike from all sides—everywhere aim towards height. If listening to a veena, then that which lifts; if seeing, then that which lifts; if embracing, then only one who lifts. If you must bow your head at someone’s feet, then only at those which lift you upward.
People bow to money’s feet; they bow to politicians’ feet—who will take you down, into hell. And know: if you go to hell now, you will find it crowded; all those whom you call ‘late and sainted’ politicians have gone there. They do not become heavenly; they go to hell, and there is a crush—no space to be found.
Bow only where you rise; do not bow where you sink. Better to break than to bow that leads downward. Better to die hungry than to eat that which drags you down. Better to stand naked than wear clothes that pull you down. Better to be alone than keep company that drags you down. What need of a light that blinds? Better the darkness in which at least you can open your eyes!
This reflection is necessary—inch by inch of life, every aspect, morning to evening, waking and sleeping. One devoted to the revolution of truth considers not only the day; he examines even the night’s dreams—are these to be seen or not? If I see these, do I go downward or upward? He scrutinizes even his dreams.
We cannot even manage wakefulness—what to say of dreams. He even grieves when certain dreams arise; he seeks to change them—We will not let these come. We will dream only those that lift. We will breathe only that which lifts. We will circulate only that blood which lifts. If life becomes such a collective enterprise towards height, there is no reason why any human being cannot become Divine.
Each person is Divine—but hidden, unmanifest.
Each person is Divine—but as a possibility, not yet a truth.
Possibility can become truth. That which is potential, seedlike, can be revealed. One who dies without making it manifest has lost an opportunity—one that does not come again and again.
These few things I have said in three days. If you have questions—only about these three days’ talks—do not send frivolous ones; I will not answer them. About what I have said in these three days, whatever questions there are, their answers I will give you tomorrow evening.
You have listened to my words with such peace and love; I am deeply obliged. Finally, I bow to the Paramatma seated within all. Please accept my pranam.