Jeevan Sangeet #1

My beloved Atman!
Darkness has its own joy, and yet why this longing for light? Why are we so tormented for light? Perhaps you have seldom considered that our craving for light is a symbol of the fear seated within us—a symbol of fear. We want light so that we may become fearless. In darkness the mind grows afraid. The longing for light is not a great virtue; it is but evidence of the fear spread over the inner being. A frightened man wants light. And one who is fearless—darkness ceases to be darkness for him. The pain of darkness, its inner conflict, is because of fear. And the day man becomes fearless, even this desire for light will dissolve.
And remember: very few on this earth have dared to call the Divine darkness itself. Most have called the Divine light. “God is light”—people have said this. But it may be that those who defined God as light did so out of fear. Those who said, “God is light,” were surely afraid. They could accept God only as light. A frightened mind cannot accept darkness.
Yet a few rare ones have also said that the Divine is the ultimate darkness. When I look within, I find the Divine as the supreme darkness.
Why?
Because light has a boundary; darkness is boundless. Imagine light however far—you will come upon its limit. Think as far as you can, you will find light is limited.
Think of darkness—where is it bounded? To imagine a boundary for darkness is itself difficult. Darkness has no boundary. Darkness is infinite.
Also because light is an excitement, a tension. Darkness is a peace, a rest. But since we are all frightened people, we call life light and death darkness.
The truth is, life is a tension and death is a rest. Day is a restlessness, night a pause. Our endless running across birth after birth—if someone calls that light, it is not wrong. But the ultimate liberation, Param moksha—that will be darkness.
Perhaps you never thought of it: a ray of light falling on the eye creates tension, a kind of strain. Try sleeping in light—you cannot. Resting in light is difficult. Darkness leads into supreme peace, into deep quietude.
Yet a little darkness—and we are uneasy, perturbed! A little darkness—and we are anxious: what will happen, what will not happen! Those who are so troubled, so afraid of darkness—remember—will be equally afraid of peace. One who fears darkness this much, remember, will be just as afraid to enter Samadhi. For Samadhi is peace even beyond this darkness.
It is for this that we fear death. What is this fear of death? When has death ever harmed anyone? Never have I heard of death damaging anyone. Life may have damaged much, but death—no, I have never heard it harming anyone.
Whom has death hurt? Life gives a thousand hurts. What is life but a long queue of discomforts? Whom has death tormented? When did it ever harass anyone? When did it give suffering? Still, we are afraid of death. And we press life to our chest.
And death is unfamiliar—and why fear the unfamiliar? Fear should be of the familiar. What we do not know—whether it is good or bad—we do not even know that—why fear it?
The fear is not of death; it is the fear of again being lost in darkness. Life seems lit; all is visible—the familiar, the known faces, our home, our village—everything is seen. Death appears like a dense, engulfing darkness. If we are lost there, nothing will be seen—not our companions, not our friends; not our family, not our beloveds; not all that we made. All of it will be lost, and who knows into what darkness we shall descend. The mind fears entering that darkness.
Remember, the fear of entering darkness hides another fear within it—the fear of becoming alone. You know well: in light you are never alone—others remain visible. In darkness, however many may be sitting beside you, you become alone. The other is not visible. One does not know whether he is even there. In darkness man becomes solitary. And if one wants to be solitary, one must descend into darkness.
Dhyana, Samadhi, yoga—these are names for the capacity to enter deep darkness.
(So it is good that there is no light. And a bit of a muddle has been made because Hiralalji has brought two or three lamps. Had a wedding procession or two more come, and had these two lamps not been found, it would have been better.)
Darkness is unfamiliar. In it we become alone. Everything seems lost. The known, the familiar, appears erased. And remember, only those can walk the path of truth who are capable of losing the familiar, leaving the known; who can step into the unknown, the unfamiliar, where there is no road, no footpath. Only they can descend into truth.
These few things I say at the outset, and I say them so that one who cannot love darkness will remain deprived of loving many great truths of life. Next time when darkness surrounds you, look closely—there is nothing so terrifying. And when darkness surrounds you again, melt into it, become one with it. And you will find what light has never given, darkness gives.
All the essential secrets of life are hidden in darkness.
The tree is above; the roots are below in the dark, unseen. You see the trunk, the leaves, the flowers. Fruits appear. But the root is not seen; it works in darkness. Pull the roots into the light and the tree will die. That immeasurable play of life—the leela—happens in darkness.
In the mother’s womb, in darkness, life is born. We are born out of darkness; and in death we return into darkness.
Someone once sang: What is life? As though in a mansion where one lamp burns, a little light prevails, and around that mansion spreads an ocean of dense darkness—some bird, fleeing the dark sky, slips into the lit mansion, flutters a while, and then flies out from another window. From one darkness we come; in the small lamp of life we flutter for a while, and then are lost again into the other darkness.
Finally, it will be darkness that remains our companion. If you fear it so much, the grave will be a great difficulty. If you are so terrified, dying will be a great torment. No—one must learn to love it too.
And to love light—that is very easy. Who does not begin to love light? So loving light is no great matter. Love darkness! Love darkness too!! And remember: one who loves only light will begin to hate darkness. But one who loves darkness as well—he will of course love light also. Keep this in mind.
For one who has become ready to love even darkness—how will he not love light? Love of darkness contains within itself love of light; but love of light does not contain love of darkness.
Like this: to love what is beautiful—that is easy. Who does not love beauty? But if I begin to love the unbeautiful as well—one who can love the unbeautiful will, of course, love the beautiful too. The reverse is not true. One who loves the beautiful is unable to love the unbeautiful. One may love flowers—that is easy; but to love thorns—few can. And loving flowers may actually hinder loving thorns; but one who has begun to love thorns finds no hindrance in loving flowers.
These were a few opening words.
A little story comes to me, with which I will begin our three days together.
It was a night like this. The moon was in the sky—and a madman was walking alone down a road. He stopped near a tree. Beside that tree there was a large well. The madman peeped into the well. The moon’s reflection was trembling there. The madman thought, “Poor moon! How has it fallen into the well? What can I do? How to save it? No one is around. If I don’t save it, it may die!”
There was another difficulty: it was the month of Ramadan; if the moon remained stuck in the well, what would become of those who fast? When would they break their fast? They would perish! The one who fasts during Ramadan thinks only of when it will end! All those who fast think like this. All who perform religious rituals are waiting for the bell to ring—when will it be over? The religious are scarcely better than schoolboys!
“What will happen—this is the month of Ramadan and the moon is trapped in the well?” thought the madman. “As for me, I have nothing to do with these Ramadans and so on, but there is no one else around.”
Who knows from where he found a rope—he brought it, tossed it into the well, made a noose, hooked the moon. The moon did not get hooked—for it was not there. But a rock got caught in the noose! He began to pull with all his strength. The rope would not budge the rock. He said, “The moon is very heavy—how can a single man pull it out? And who knows how long it has been fallen—may be dead, may be alive—how heavy it must be! And what kind of people are these that no one knows! So many read poems to the moon, sing songs, and when the moon is in trouble no poet is to be seen to rescue it! Some sing only poetry; they never come when needed! In truth, those who never come when needed learn to do poetry.” He pulled and pulled; at last the noose broke. He had put in such force. The rock was strong; he fell flat on his back. His eyes squeezed shut, his head cracked, spray of water splashed; he opened his eyes—there was the moon sailing high in the sky! He said, “Good! The poor thing is saved! I got a bit hurt, but never mind, it’s out!”
We laugh at that madman. But what was his fault?
People come to me and ask: How to be liberated? I tell them this story. They ask: How to attain moksha? I tell them this story.
They laugh at the story—and then ask again: Please show a path to liberation. Then I think: they have not understood the story. If someone is bound, he can be freed. If someone is tied up, the knot can be opened. But if no one was ever bound, and seeing only a reflection one concludes one is trapped—then trouble begins.
All humanity is caught in the same confusion as that madman with the moon in the well. The whole world is stuck in this difficulty.
There are two kinds of people in the world. That madman was one in himself; the world has split his madness in two. One kind believes the moon is trapped. The other tries to pull the trapped moon out. The first is the householder; the second is the sannyasin. Two kinds of madmen. The sannyasin says, “I will free the soul!” The householder says, “Now we are trapped—what to do? How to get out? We are trapped!” Those who are trapped touch the feet of those who try to free them. Two kinds of madmen: one shouts, “The moon is trapped!” The other is hauling it out! The trapped one touches the feet of the one who is pulling.
The truth is altogether different. And if that truth is glimpsed, one’s whole life changes—and is changed forever.
The truth is that man has never been trapped. That which is within us is eternally free—it has never been in bondage. But the reflection has gotten stuck. We are outside, yet our picture is stuck. And we have no idea that we are more than a picture! We think we are only the picture! Then the trouble begins. We all mistake our picture for our being!
One man is a leader, another poor, another rich; one is a guru, another a disciple; one a husband, another a wife—these are pictures that appear in others’ eyes. I am as I am. I am not as I appear in your eyes. What appears in your eyes is my reflection. It is in that reflection that I have gotten entangled.
Today you meet me on the road and greet me, and I am pleased, thinking I am a very good man: four people bow to me. But what joy is it that a man becomes good because four people bow? Four—or fifty, or a thousand—what relation has goodness with bows? And in this world where the worst of men may receive thousands of salutations, if I fall into the delusion that because four bowed I am a good man—then I have fallen into a big reflection. Tomorrow the same four do not greet me, they turn their backs—and the trouble begins. The reflection is trapped; now it demands, “Bow to me!” And I have seized the reflection. Now I say, “Bow to me; if you do not, it will be very difficult.”
Look: a man becomes a minister, and then he is no longer a minister—see what becomes of him. As if the garment has lost its press, its starch has gone limp. As if he slept in the same clothes for days and keeps wearing them—what a sight he becomes. A man once becomes a minister and then falls—he becomes all flabby and crumpled. What happened to him?
He got caught in the reflection. The reflection took hold of him. Now he says: the reflection that was visible—that is me! I am not ready to take myself as otherwise! Yes, if the reflection deepens, all right: a small minister becomes a big minister—fine; a small clerk a big clerk—fine; anything so long as the reflection expands. But if the reflection shrinks—trouble. Because he has assumed that he is the reflection.
One man gives respect, another insults—did we ever notice that we have never seen our own face? That original face—that which we call my face—we do not know it! We have seen only reflections.
When a father stands before his son—have you seen his swagger? The father says to the son: “What do you know? I have seen life. I have seen the years. When your time comes, when you have experience—you will know.” Who is speaking? Is the father speaking to the son? No. Is he himself speaking? No. A reflection is speaking—a reflection which he is holding in the son’s eyes. The son is afraid—the father has his neck in his hand. The son is frightened; a reflection forms in his eyes. And one who is afraid can be frightened even more. The same father stands before his boss, and then he hides his tail. Whatever the boss says, he says, “Yes, sir.”
I have heard of a fakir. For a few days he became a servant of a king. Just so. Can fakirs be servants of anyone? One who does not wish to be a master of anyone cannot be a servant either. Then why did he become one? Just so. There was a reason—he wanted to know how the king’s servants live.
He became the king’s servant. On the very first day—some vegetable was cooked—the king ate it, and fed it to this servant too, and told the cook to make the same vegetable every day. Then he asked the fakir, “What do you say? How is it?”
He said, “My lord, there is no better vegetable in the world. It is nectar.” For seven days the cook cooked the same thing. It was the king’s order.
To eat the same dish for seven days—you can imagine the state of the poor fakir! Even heaven would become suffocating if you had to stay seven days—a man would say, “Let me take a little stroll through hell and then come back.” After a while even heaven wearies. That is why the gods come down to earth—why? Life there grows stale; they long to come down for a few days.
The fakir was fed up. After seven days he kicked the platter and said to the cook, “What insolence is this—day after day the same thing!”
The cook said, “My lord, you said it was wonderful.”
The fakir said, “This is poison. Eat it daily and you will die.”
The king said, “Strange! Seven days ago you said it was nectar!”
The fakir replied, “My lord, I am your servant, not the servant of the vegetable. I serve you and say whatever reflection I see forming in your eyes. That day you said, ‘Nectar, I like it very much.’ I said, ‘Nectar, nothing higher exists.’ Am I the servant of a vegetable? I am your servant. Today you say, ‘It does not suit me.’ I say, ‘It is poison; whoever eats it will die.’ Tomorrow you may say, ‘It is nectar, so delicious.’ I will say, ‘There is no greater nectar anywhere—this is nectar.’ I am your servant, not the servant of the vegetable. I live by the reflection in your eyes.”
We all live like this. The one who sits within—we neither know him, nor has he ever been trapped. Nor can he be trapped. There is no way for him to be bound. And the strange thing is: we are trying to free him! How to liberate him! The very question is absurd. He has never been bound. Something else is bound. And we do not even think about that, do not bring attention to it.
What is man’s restlessness? What is his sorrow? What pain is this?
It is the reflection. When the reflection wobbles, the mind becomes agitated. When the reflection cracks, the mind is distressed. When the reflection expands, the mind is delighted.
I have heard: one morning a small jackal set out hunting, searching for a bite. It was desert land; the sun had just risen; the jackal’s shadow had become very long. The jackal said, “Today small morsels will not do.” He thought, “I am a camel. Such a long shadow! So today petty prey will not suffice; I am no small animal. A large hunt is needed.”
So he strutted about, looking for prey. By then the sun climbed higher. He had found nothing; noon arrived. No hunt. He looked at his shadow again; it had shrunk to a tiny thing. He said, “Ah, for lack of food see what a bad state I’m in! What a body I started with, what a body it has become! Now even a small prey will do.” But the mind was very unhappy. Very unhappy!
We too set out at the start of life in the same way—long shadows. When the sun of life rises, every child is so full he will conquer the world. Every child is an Alexander. In old age the shadow shrinks. He thinks it is all futile, there is no essence. Yet he lives by shadow! And the shadow forms in the eyes of those around us. And the irony—the ones who seek liberation live by the shadow too!
A sannyasin wears ochre robes. What has sannyas to do with cloth? But that ochre makes a reflection in the other’s eyes—very respectable, full of reverence. Seeing ochre the other bows. That picture forming in the other’s eyes—that is why the ochre robe. Otherwise what need is there of ochre?
Can two pennies’ worth of ochre make a sannyasin? If so, buy all the ochre and keep it at home; paint everything—the house, all your clothes. Paint your body too. You will become a circus lion—not a sannyasin. And in the name of sannyas, circus lions have gathered.
What is this mind?
A man goes to the temple at dawn, singing a bhajan loudly. Watch him: if no one is on the road, the bhajan becomes softer. If two or four people appear, his voice grows louder. Where is the devotion—to God or to the four passersby? He is worshipping and keeps looking back—has anyone come to watch? If no one comes, the worship ends quickly; if someone comes, it drags on! If someone arrives from whom a favor can be extracted, it goes on longer!
What is happening? We live by reflection.
A man passes by the temple each morning returning home. He wants people to say, “He is religious.” What has people’s saying to do with it? But we live by what forms in people’s eyes.
That reflection of the moon in the well—that is what is stuck. And a great difficulty—how to free it? So countless paths of liberation have been invented. One says, “Chant Ram-Ram and you will be freed!” Another says, “Without Om there is no way!” Another says, “Say Allah-Allah!” And some who blend everything into a khichdi say, “Allah-Ishwar—take both names together! One won’t do—use both powers! Who knows which is the real—take both! Bow to all sages. Namo loe savvasahunam! Bow to all sadhus together! Grab every saint’s leg! If one saint does not work, grab them all! Find a way to be saved. One must be saved. Life is full of suffering.”
True—it is. Life has pains and sorrow, many discomforts. There is a great restlessness. But why? Why the trouble? Do not look at the cause that truly causes it!
A man came to me and said, “I am very restless; show me a way to peace.” He caught hold of my feet. I said, “Take your hands off my feet—what can my feet have to do with your peace? I have never heard of such a thing. And no matter how much you beat my feet, you won’t discover where your peace lies in my toes. What fault do my feet have? You are restless—what wrong have they done you?”
He was startled. He said, “What are you saying! I went to Rishikesh—found no peace; to Sri Aurobindo’s ashram—no peace; to Arunachala, to Ramana’s ashram—no peace anywhere. All sham and show. Someone mentioned your name, so I have come.”
I said, “Get up and go straight out the door, otherwise tomorrow you will go about saying, ‘I went there too—no peace there either.’ And the irony is—when you became restless, which ashram did you visit to learn how to become restless? Which guru did you ask how to be restless? Did you come to me then? Whom did you ask: ‘Gurudev, I want to be restless—guide me’? You became restless by yourself—sufficient unto yourself. And now to be peaceful you come to blame another? If you do not become peaceful, we will be culpable! As though we made you restless! Did you consult us?”
He said, “No, I did not.”
“Then understand rightly: you became restless yourself. Find out how—find the cause. If you see what is causing it, drop that. You will be peaceful.
“There is no method to be peaceful. There is a method to be unpeaceful. One who drops the method of being unpeaceful becomes peaceful. There is no path to be free. There is a path to be unfree. There is a technique of bondage. One who does not bind himself—he is free.”
I clutch my fist tight, very tight, and ask you, “How do I open my fist?” You will say, “Just open it—what is there to ask? Kindly stop holding it tight and it will open.” To open the fist you need not do anything else—just don’t clench it. If you clench, the fist is closed; don’t clench, it opens. Openness is the nature of the fist; clenching is effort, exertion. Openness is natural, effortless.
Man’s Atman is naturally free, peaceful, blissful. If you are miserable—you are applying some trick. If you are bound—you have forged the handcuffs. If you suffer—you seem very skillful at producing suffering. This is your craftsmanship—that you manufacture misery. And you are no ordinary craftsman—for upon that Atman, which sorrow can hardly touch, you build a house of sorrow. And no ordinary clever blacksmith are you—you fasten chains upon that Atman on which no chain has ever sat, nor ever can. And the ultimate jest: you put the chains on yourself and then go about asking how to be free of them! “We need a way! How to be peaceful, how to be blissful, how to go beyond pain?”
On this first day of our preliminary talk I want to tell you: the reflection is sorrow, the reflection is pain, the reflection is bondage. And we all live in reflection. One who lives in reflection can never live in himself. How will one who is fixated on the reflection return to oneself?
I have heard: in a house a little child was running and crying, running and crying. The mother asked, “What is it?” He said, “I want to catch my shadow.” He runs. The shadow is very clever—when you run it runs ahead. The child cries, beats his chest. He runs; the shadow goes ahead. He wants to catch its head—how will he catch it? How will he catch his head? A fakir came to the door to beg—he began to laugh. The mother was worried. He laughed and said, “Not like this; this is no way. The boy will be in trouble. The boy has set out on the path of the world.”
The mother said, “What path of the world? He is just playing.”
He said, “In this play the child is entangled in the path of the world.”
“What to do?”
The fakir went inside. He took the crying child’s hand and placed it on the child’s own head. As the hand reached the head, the shadow’s head also came under his hand. The child said, “I caught it! Amazing—you caught it so easily! By putting my hand on my head, the shadow came into my grip.”
A shadow becomes exactly what we are. But if you try to do something with the shadow, you do not change. Change yourself, and the shadow changes. And we all are engaged from birth to death—not one life but lives without count—in doing something with the shadow. Running after the shadow—and the shadow is neither caught nor captured, the mind grows sorrowful. The shadow slips again and again; we feel small, powerless. “We have failed.” And then the shadow seems to be trapped in a thousand prisons—we begin devising ways to free it. We chant mantras, we repeat God’s names, read the Gita, the Ramayana, the Koran. Who knows what we do. We do everything—and nothing happens. Because what must be done—we do not do.
What must be done is this: see, recognize clearly—who is entangled? I? Have I ever been entangled? Who is unpeaceful? I? Have I ever been unpeaceful? You say, “A thousand times—daily—this very moment.”
But again I tell you: if you inquire, you will be astonished. You have never been unpeaceful. That which is your innermost, the deepest of the deep, your innermost being, your essence—you—has never been unpeaceful. The reflection is stuck. You have never been unpeaceful, never sorrowful. The reflection is sorrowing, is restless, is in pain.
A small river, quiet. It hardly flows. An Indian river—because in India nothing flows—everything stands still. Thus everything rots. What stands rots. The Indian river stands still; throw rubbish into it—it stays. Come after lifetimes—you will find it there, rotted. All has become foul.
A dog comes to the bank to drink. The river is still—reflections form. Seeing a dog below, the dog steps back in fear. He is very thirsty—intensely. He must drink. The thirst pushes him; he approaches the edge. But below is a dog; frightened, he retreats again. Water is near, thirst is within. Water is outside, thirst is inside—both present—no real obstacle. One obstacle intrudes. He approaches and then, afraid of the dog below, withdraws. How long can he go on like this?
A man passes by, sees this, and laughs. Not at the dog—only fools laugh at dogs—but at himself: “I too have hovered around my own shadow many times and turned back.”
He goes near and gives the dog a shove. The dog resists. Anyone you push will resist—even if you push him into a pool of nectar he will say no. When shoved, man becomes stubborn; he won’t move.
The man gives the dog a forceful push; with one shove the dog falls into the water. There, no shadow—shadow is gone. He drinks. The fakir laughs again.
If the dog could ask he would: “Why do you laugh?” The dog cannot—but we can. Ask that man: “Why do you laugh?” He would say, “Because this has been my state. My own shadow created countless difficulties, obstacles, walls. My own shadow came in the way.”
In whose eyes is our shadow formed? Not upon a river. Not in a mirror. In mirrors and rivers all is well. The real mirror is the eyes of the people around us—that is where we get entangled, that is where we stand stuck. When it is said that man is entangled in the world—it is not the Atman that is entangled, only the reflection.
One must ask oneself continuously—whenever you are in sorrow. When great sorrow is upon you, close the door for a moment, sit in aloneness, and ask within: “Am I sorrowing?” And I tell you—if you ask with honesty, with utter authenticity—immediately you will hear a response arising within: sorrow may be around me, but I am not sorrowing.
Your leg is broken, the foot hurts, there is pain. Ask yourself, “Is it happening to me? Am I in pain?” And you will clearly see: the leg hurts, the news of pain is arriving—but I? I stand apart as a witness; I am seeing.
A friend of mine fell from the stairs—an old man; his leg broke. Doctors tied him to the bed—three months without moving, they said. He is an active man—he cannot live without moving; even if for no reason, he must fidget. Without fidgeting life does not go on.
And how many of us move only with purpose? If someone were to keep an account from morning to night, he would find that ninety-eight percent of his movement is pointless. But to sit still—then many things become visible which one does not wish to see.
He lay in bed. I went to see him. He began to cry. “I am in great trouble. Better I had died. Three months—how will I live, how will I lie here? Great suffering.”
I said, “Close your eyes and find out: are you and the pain one, or two?”
He said, “What will that do?”
I said, “Just do it—then we will talk. Close your eyes. I will sit here. Until it becomes clear, don’t open them. Find whether you and the pain are one or two. If you and pain were one, you could never know that there is pain. How would pain know that there is pain? Can pain know pain?
“It is like saying a thorn knows it pricks. A thorn pricks another—the pricking is known by the other. Two are essential. Pain is one; and that which knows there is pain—that is two. It is separate. If it were one, nothing could be known.
“Do you know that anger has come? If you and anger were one, could you know? Then you would be anger. Then anger could not disappear—because if anger disappeared, you would disappear too.
“No—you are always separate. Anger comes and goes; sorrow comes and goes; restlessness comes and goes. Smoke gathers and vanishes. But that which stands in the middle—stands forever.” The continuous search for this is called dhyana. The search for that element which is not in bondage, not in sorrow, not in pain, not in restlessness, which is always outside everything. Always outside! Try as you may, it is never inside. Ever outside. Outside every event, every happening; outside every becoming—whatever is happening, it stands outside.
Once I was in a car on a road—with three friends. They were taking me to a village, and the car overturned on a bridge—we fell about eight feet down. The car turned turtle, wheels upward. The whole car was crushed. A small vehicle—only two doors. One door was blocked by a rock. The other door was free, yet my friends—their wife, their driver—were so terrified they cried and shouted, but did not get out. “We are dead! We are dead!” they screamed.
I said, “If you were dead, who would be shouting? Please get out. If you were dead the fuss would be over—who would cry out?”
But they would not listen. The wife kept repeating, “We are dead!”
I shook her: “Have you gone mad! If you were dead there would be peace—who would shout?”
She said, “All right—but we are dead.”
A great joke! Who is dead? If it is known who is dead—you are not dead. The knower is different from what is happening. And the knower is present.
We got out. They were calculating: what broke, what smashed. I asked, “Is your car insured?”
They said, “Yes.”
“Then forget it—end of that story. And yourselves—insured too?”
They said, “Yes.”
“Good. Then even if you had died there would be no trouble! Now the question is: will you learn anything from this event, or not?”
They said, “What is there to learn? We must never sit in a car if we can help it. First, we must fire this driver. And never allow the speed to go beyond thirty. That is what we have learned.”
I said, “Such a great opportunity—and you learned such trifles! Like going to a university and coming back knowing how to count to ten! You had such a great moment—and you learned to count to ten?”
They said, “What else is there to learn?”
I said, “At such a time there was a wondrous opportunity. When the car fell, for a moment you could have seen—who is dying? Who is falling? On whom is the accident happening? It was a perfect moment because in such danger consciousness becomes wholly alert. In such danger, the whole awareness is awake.
“If someone leaps onto your chest with a knife, for a second all your thoughts—whether to go to the movie today or not; or what to do; or what was printed in the paper; or who became president—all stop. For a second all stops. In that moment you could see completely what is happening—that what is happening is outside. And beyond all happenings there is one who stands and sees.”
The meaning of dhyana is: the search for this one who stands outside every event and is never inside. Nothing else is meant by dhyana. In these three days we will experiment only with this.
How to discover that which, while amidst all, is outside all? How to discover that which is born and dies—and yet is never born and never dies? How to discover that which is in the body, appears to be the body—and is not the body? How to find the one who thinks and yet has never thought; who seems worried, seems angry—and upon whom neither anger nor worry has ever fallen? How to find him?
But he cannot be found so long as you are gazing at the moon in the well. The moon stands always outside; it never goes into a well. Have you ever seen it go? Yet it appears to go. And many times it appears clearer in the well than in the sky. It depends on the cleanliness of the well—the moon has nothing to do with it. If the well is very clear, the moon will appear very clear.
This is why we do not want to look into an enemy’s eyes—because the enemy’s eyes are a dirty well; the picture is not pleasing. We want to look into a friend’s eyes. A husband looks into his wife’s eyes—and the wife has been taught from the beginning, “He is God!” Her eyes are completely clean—there he appears as God! And he is delighted: “I am God!” The wife writes letters, “Your servant,” and he feels, “I am the master!” But consider—into whose eyes are you gazing? Into your wife’s eyes?
One day a man in a village market announced: “There is none more beautiful in the world than my wife.”
People asked, “Who told you?”
He said, “Who else would tell me—my wife told me.”
They said, “You are mad—you believe your wife!”
He said, “All believe their wives; and wives believe their husbands; and all believe the people around them. So if I believe mine—what fault is it?”
There are many kinds of wells. If the well is dirty, the moon is not seen clearly; if the well is clean, it appears clearly. But remember—the moon never enters any well. If you assume it does, your whole life will be in difficulty. First difficulty—this moon that is in the well will never come into your hands. When it slips from your hands again and again, life becomes sorrow. Then you will be intent on how to free this moon! Now you want to be out of the well! You want moksha! You want to be a sannyasin! A new hassle begins—because what never went in, how will you take it out?
The moon stands always outside. The Atman stands always outside. It never entered any well. Yet the illusion arises that it enters many wells. And the more wells it seems to enter, the more it seems that we are expanding. This is why, if one man bows to you it is not as pleasant; ten bow—more pleasant; a million bow—still more; ten million—then what to say! The whole world bows—then what to say! Because images appear in that many wells—and it seems, “I have spread so far! I have become so much! So many places I have become!” One place alone goes missing—the place where I actually am—and there I begin to appear where I am not.
The meaning of dhyana, of meditation, is: step outside those wells in which you have never gone. Now this is a strange thing—how to step out of wells you never entered?
There is only one way to be out of them: to discover whether you are already outside. We begin this search now. We will sit here for fifteen minutes and inquire.
These lights will be put out; darkness will be complete; you will be alone. In that aloneness, sit utterly relaxed in the body. Close the eyes. Let the breath be gentle. And inquire within: Am I outside? Am I outside every experience?
Do not assume anything. Do not start repeating in the mind: “I am outside, I am outside.” That will do nothing. Because when you say, “I am outside,” it means you know you are inside and are trying to persuade yourself that you are outside. This often happens. Do not affirm; inquire: Am I really inside? Am I inside any experience?
An ant may bite your foot. In that moment inquire: Is the ant biting me—or the foot? And I am seeing. The leg will grow heavy, numb; needles may begin to tingle. Then see: this leg, these needles, this heaviness—is this me, or am I knowing it? A sound will be heard, noise will come, someone will pass, someone will shout, a horn will blow—then see: this sound that is being heard—is this sound me, or is the listener standing completely apart? Darkness surrounds—this darkness is being known; the peace of this darkness is being known.
Remember, do not only assume you are outside of restlessness. Go deeper and you will find you are outside of peace as well. Where restlessness never reaches, how can peace reach? You are outside both. There is neither darkness nor light there.
Let this inquiry go deeper and deeper within: Am I outside? Am I outside? Ask it; know it; seek it. And as you continue the search, the mind will settle. A silence will descend such as perhaps you have never known. An explosion from within—so vast—that perhaps you have never been aware of it. For the first time you will know: I am outside the well—and I have never been inside.
In these three days we will explore this intensively, as deeply as possible. Each day I will speak on different threads—but all threads will lead to this same point. I will push from different sides—but all the pushes will drop you at the same door.
Let the first experiment be tonight.
Sit a little apart from each other. Let no one touch anyone. A little distance—no one should be touching. Make no sound; quietly move and sit anywhere. Let my voice be audible—only that. And do not converse at all with anyone, because in this matter no other can be your companion. Silence—no talking.
Take your places. Let the body be utterly relaxed. Now no talking at all. Stop speech.
Sit in total quiet. Close your eyes. I will give a few suggestions: first, live them; then gently move into the search for that which is within you.
First, let the whole body be relaxed—as if the body is not. Let it go limp, as if it were a corpse. Utterly relaxed, released.
Eyes are closed; the body is loose, relaxed, loose, utterly relaxed—totally at ease.
Now let the breath also be very gentle. Do not slow it deliberately; let it be. Let it be gentle on its own. If it does not come, it does not; if it does not go, it does not. However it comes and goes—let it. Completely relaxed. Breath will become very slow, very soft—almost hanging on the surface. Let the breath be gentle.
The body is relaxed, the breath is gentle. Now within yourself, that which stands farthest—these sounds are coming, you will hear them. You are hearing. You are separate, distinct, other. I am other than all that is happening around me—whether outside my body or within it—whatever is happening, all is outside me.
Lightning may flash, rain may fall, sounds will come. The body will relax—it may even slump. All is outside me. All is outside me. I am separate. I am separate, I stand apart. I am seeing this all happening. I am nothing but a watcher. I am a witness, only a witness. I am a witness, I am a witness. I am seeing—everything is, everything is outside me; everything is happening, far from me. I stand far, apart, above, distinct. I only see, I only know—I am only the witness.
Sink deeper and deeper into this feeling: I am the witness. I will be silent for ten minutes. Go down step by step, step by step—deeper.
I am the witness. I only know. I only know what is happening. I am only the witness.
And this feeling, deepening and deepening, will carry you into such peace as you have never known. Into such vast silence as is utterly unfamiliar. It will immerse you in such bliss as you have never had a hint of.
I am the witness. I am the witness. I am only the witness.