Jeevan Sangeet #3

There are two or three things. First, in trying to become light by dropping raga-dvesha, we have assumed that we are heavy because of raga and dvesha. I said this last night, and again this morning. This is sheer delusion. And if you accept it and then set out to erase raga-dvesha, you will never be able to erase it.
So I am not saying how to become light from raga-dvesha. I am saying: first find out whether raga-dvesha and you are one or two. Simply inquire into this, analyze it within your own mind: are raga and I one, or separate? And as it becomes clearer that I am separate—raga over there, dvesha over there, I am here—as this sense deepens, raga-dvesha will begin to wither. The day it becomes utterly clear that I am separate from all—there is no raga and no dvesha—that day you are out.
In truth, no one is inside raga-dvesha at all—that is what I want to say. But once you believe, “I am in raga-dvesha,” then the real difficulty begins. Then you will have to devise some way to get out.
Witnessing is the one and only way. Be a witness to raga, be a witness to dvesha. Just be a witness. Do not try to be saved, do not try to run away. When raga comes, witness that raga has arisen—“I am watching that raga has arisen; I am separate, raga is over there.” When dvesha comes, see that dvesha has come—“This is dvesha arising, I am separate.” Just as when darkness comes we see it, when light comes we see it.
Right now there is light here. Sit; evening will fall and darkness will come. We do not say then, “I have become darkness.” We say, “Darkness has come.” In the morning we say, “Light has come.” And I? I remain separate. Darkness comes, light comes; it comes and it goes.
Raga and dvesha come and go exactly the same way. Behind them I stand alone, I stand apart. The mistake is that when raga comes, I grab it and say, “This is me.” When dvesha comes, I grasp it and say, “This is me.” This identification—this is what needs to be broken. And you will not do anything to break it. Merely seeing it breaks it.
For instance, when anger comes, just see: anger has come. And you will be amazed—at the very moment you know anger has come and I am standing apart, anger thins like smoke and disperses. You remain standing, anger is no more.
So whatever tendency arises, simply become a sakshi, a witness.

Question:
It does arise as soon as we come into contact with people.

I am not saying it will not arise. I am not saying that at all. I am saying: whatever happens, be a witness to it. By becoming a witness it will slowly stop arising. Then you will come into contact with people and nothing will arise in between. There will be a person there and a person here; in between, nothing. Neither raga nor dvesha.
To put it rightly, our amurchha—our non-intoxication, our non-possessiveness—is the way to freedom from raga-dvesha. Our murchha—our swoon of identification—is falling into raga-dvesha.
We are unconscious; that is why we seize whatever appears. When anger comes it doesn’t feel as if anger has come to me—it feels as if I have become anger! Look closely: it feels “I have become anger!” Fire has ignited—I myself have become fire! In that moment it is not that, in anger, we beat someone; rather, we have become anger and we are beating!
Hence after anger passes we feel, “Oh! What have I done? I could never have done such a thing; then how did it happen?” You were not present—you had fallen fast asleep; anger became everything and made it all happen. Then comes repentance. But the mistake you made in anger you repeat in repentance. Then you again believe, “I am repentance.” The basic error is the same. You now assume, “I am repenting; I have become repentance.” You weep, beat your chest, pray to God: “What has happened! This should not have happened. I will give it up.” First you made the mistake of grasping; now you say you will renounce.
That is why I say: grasping is foolishness and renouncing is foolishness. Knowing “I am separate and this is separate” is intelligence. Neither grasp nor renounce.
This requires a gradual, twenty-four-hour alertness. Whenever anything happens, keep so much awareness that you can see what is happening—am I separate or not? Let this sense of being separate deepen. For example, you are listening right now. You can listen possessed by raga, you can listen possessed by dvesha, or you can simply listen. All three are possible. If while listening you are thinking, “Yes, this is right, I should take hold of this and do it,” then raga has begun. If while listening you are thinking, “This goes against our book, this is contrary to our scripture; we should not hear this, this is totally wrong,” you have become possessed by dvesha—still you are not listening. The third way is to just listen; and the one standing behind has neither raga nor dvesha—he does not say “this is wrong,” he does not say “this is right”—he just listens, lets it be heard. The understanding born of such listening will be free of raga-dvesha. But we almost never listen like this.
If you experiment like this in every action, then gradually you do not get free of raga-dvesha; you discover you were never bound. That is my emphasis. It is not that one day you will discover you have become free of raga-dvesha. If it seems so, the mistake continues. You will discover: I was never bound at all.
Like a man who sleeps at a ghat at night and dreams he is in Calcutta, or Tokyo. In the dream he becomes restless: “I have come so far from Udaipur—how will I get back? What will happen now? I’ve landed in Tokyo—there are a thousand things at home; I went to sleep at home in Udaipur and I’ve come to Tokyo! I must be in Udaipur by morning—how shall I reach? Which plane should I catch? Which ship? Will I make it by morning?” He asks rightly, because as far as his mind is concerned he has reached Tokyo. But in fact he has gone nowhere; he is lying right there. Morning comes, his eyes open; he’s surprised: “How did I return? I had gone to Tokyo—how did I come back from Tokyo?” But as he awakens he sees he neither went nor came—he was here. There was the illusion of going, and then the illusion of coming. Because the illusion of going creates the illusion of return.
So “being caught by raga” is one illusion; “raga is dropped” is a second illusion. One who is free of both illusions is called a Vitarag. Vitarag means: one who knows, “I am beyond both.” Vitar means beyond. It does not mean “I have renounced.” It does not mean “I have dropped.” It means: I never grasped, I never dropped—I was beyond. And I had fallen into the illusion that I was entangled.

Question:
Am beyond or was beyond?

Was beyond. “Am beyond” you always are. When you come to know—at the very time you thought you were within—when you know, you will find you were not within even then. And “I am not within” is obvious now.
So do not ask me in the language of renouncing. I call the language of renouncing the language of ignorance. Renunciation is the by-product of the ignorance of grasping. Someone has grasped, someone else renounces. A man says he has grasped his wife—though even while grasping, the wife is separate and he is separate. And no matter how much he tries, he is not actually grasping. No one is actually grasping! However much you grasp the wife—what are you grasping? What you hold is not the wife; and what the wife is remains beyond your hands, completely beyond your fist. Hence the daily quarrel: you grasp, and yet you find there is no grasp.
One who says “I am grasping” is in an illusion. Then another says, “I am leaving my wife.” But that illusion of leaving is the by-product of the illusion of grasping. He now says, “I will not go near my wife; I will not look at her; I am going to the jungle! I have renounced my wife!”
A Jain monk—he had “left” her twenty years ago. I was reading his biography and was shocked. Twenty years later the wife died; he was in Kashi when the news reached him. The biographer writes: an amazing event occurred—when he heard, he said, “Well then, trouble is over!” The writer praises him: what renunciation! Even when the wife died he said, “The trouble is over!” I wrote to the author: You are utterly mad. And if the monk actually said this, he is more mad than you. What he had left twenty years ago—was the trouble still continuing? You say, “Now the trouble is over!” How ridiculous.
He left the wife twenty years back. But what he had left was “mine”—that illusion remained. Because he left only because she was “his”! Even now she remains “his”! The one “left behind” remains “his,” and the trouble must have continued somewhere inner, on some level—“the wife whom I left is there.” He had once grasped; now he “left”—a second illusion. Twenty years later she dies and he says, “The trouble is over!” Meaning the trouble continued for twenty years. What the leaving did not end, how did her dying end? The wife had ‘died’ for him in one sense twenty years ago; even so, she had not left him.
So I say, not the language of grasping and leaving; only the language of seeing what is happening, and how immersed or how apart we are.

(The recording of the question is not clear.)
…And a man who has a thorn in his foot—we tell him, “Bring another thorn, we will take the first one out.” He says, “I am already troubled by one thorn—why are you calling for another? The thorn is killing me, and you call for a second!” We tell him, “Wait. First we will remove the thorn with another thorn.” We bring a second thorn; with difficulty he allows us to put it in his foot. He says, “I am already troubled by one, and you are adding another!” Then with the second we pull out the first. And if he then says, “Now I shall keep the second thorn carefully in my foot, for it has removed the first—such grace! I will keep it,” we tell him, “No—throw away the second thorn also. The only use of the second was to remove the first; now it has no use.” Do you understand?
So I say: remove belief by a revolution in thought. And when belief is uprooted, when blindness is thrown out root and branch, then thought too has to be thrown away. Then nirvichar—no-thought—is the third step.
Belief is one step—the lowest. The second step is vichar, thought. The third is nirvichar, no-thought. Do you understand me? These are levels. One who cannot bring about a revolution in thought—how will he be in no-thought? For nirvichar is to drop thought as such. And “revolution in thought” means dropping wrong thought and taking up right thought. But “revolution of thought” is to drop thought itself. That is the ultimate revolution—the last.
Do you follow my meaning?
We are all surrounded by beliefs, so to such people I say: leave belief, bring thought. And when thought comes, I say: now thought too is not needed—let even this go; be nirvichar. There is a movement above as well. I say both things—two levels of talking; there is no contradiction.
Like a man climbing a house. He places his foot on one rung. We tell him: now leave the first rung so you can place your foot on the second. If you cling to the first, you cannot step onto the second. He steps onto the second. Then we tell him: now leave the second so you can step onto the third. He says, “What confusion is this? First you told me to leave the first so I could hold the second; now you tell me to leave the second.” We say: it is not about holding and leaving—we want to take you where, in the end, there will be no ladder—nothing to hold, nothing to leave. But the ladder must be used. These are all rungs. Nirvichar is the last—there the ladder ends.

Question:
Then after that, is there no condition?

The condition after that cannot be known without going.

(The recording of the question is not clear.)
No, no. We shall meet in the evening. And if anything essential remains, write it down.

(The recording of the question is not clear.)
You are not Atman at all. And what you are—until it dissolves, there will be no trace of Atman. You are totally mind, and that is a shadow.

Question:
In whose shadow are we circling?

This is what should be searched. This should be searched! And the very searching will show a strange thing: that our circling is sheer madness. When you look in a mirror, whose shadow do you see?

Question:
There is something—that’s what we see.

Whose? Yours, is it not? And the one who sees is you as well. And the shadow you see is your own. Just as we see our shadow in the mirror: the mirror is dead, yet even a mirror pleases us! If the mirror is good, you return pleased by your reflection—if you appear beautiful. And if you look ugly, you return annoyed. The poor mirror knows nothing—neither the concern to make you beautiful nor to make you ugly. But if the mirror shows you as beautiful—and none are as beautiful as mirrors show—it is the shopkeeper’s mirror, designed to flatter, and he sells it. You look and are delighted. Who is delighted? Delighted by whom?
And the mirror is dead. Others’ eyes are living mirrors in which we see our shadow.
Four people tell you, “You are a very good man,” and you return inflated. What happened by someone saying a nice thing? It is a shadow. If four others say, “You are a boor, a fool, a bad man,” you return unhappy, toss all night, feel troubled. What changed by their saying so? The shadow did not become pleasing. What we wanted to see in their eyes did not appear—so we were thrown into difficulty. This is what I am pointing to.
We live in our shadow all the time—watching who says what, who thinks what, how we appear in whose eyes. And one who lives by shadow cannot go in search of truth. For truth is where we withdraw from the shadow and go behind it; leave the shadow, drop the concern with it.
Commonly we call a sannyasin one who has left society. But even a sannyasin is often looking at his shadow in society’s eyes—then where has he left?
A sadhu met me, his mouth covered with a cloth. I said, “Why not drop this—what is the meaning?” He said, “I can drop it today, but tomorrow no sadhu will accept me as a sadhu.” I said, “Why this insistence that others certify you as a sadhu? The insistence should be to be a sannyasin. Why the insistence to be certified? Certification is by others; being is one’s own. But without being certified there is no taste—for the shadow will not form. Then people will say, ‘Oh, this man is nothing.’” This is what I call living for the shadow.
And do not talk of Atman and such. We have learned the words—and they are dangerous. We hold very fine words in our hands, and our conversation, our interpretations and analyses are very fine. But where we actually live, those words have no relation. Where we live never goes above the plane of mind, and our talk never descends below the plane of Atman. Hence there is no harmony between our talking and our living. We live at the level of mind; we speak at the level of Atman. There is no correspondence.
A man lives in darkness and talks of light. A man is sick and talks of health. In fact, it is the sick who talk of health; a healthy man does not—what is the point? The sick man, harassed day and night by his illness, talks of health, health. The poor talks of wealth; if you hear a man talk of wealth, know he is poor—no matter how much wealth he has. Why would the wealthy talk of wealth? We talk about what we do not have, and what we do have we hide.
So what we actually are we hide; and what we are not we have read about in books: that there is Atman, that Atman has no shadow, that Atman is this and not that. Where is this Atman? What concern have you—or anyone—with it? The concern is with what is. And what is, is a play of shadows, a total play of reflections. Our joys and sorrows are exactly like this.
If a flat-nosed girl is born in India, she will be unhappy all her life—because the shadow that forms in every eye will be of the “ugly.” If the same girl is born in China, she will not be unhappy, because a flat nose is beautiful there. So what is the sorrow—of the flat nose? Then it should be the same in China. There is no sorrow of a flat nose there. And if tomorrow we too decide that a flat nose is beautiful—and there is no obstacle to deciding; no difficulty—for the work of the nose is done equally by a flat nose and by a long one. The real thing is the work. The inner function is like the silencer on a motorcar—whether it is flat or round or long makes no difference; it throws out smoke. The nose is nothing more than a passage for the breath; whether the passage is flat or long makes no difference—the function is fulfilled.
So we can decide that flat is beautiful, or long is beautiful. It is only a convention. If you keep a convention for long, man forgets that what we are assuming has no intrinsic meaning. But where such conventions exist, the reflection that forms is different. A flat nose—and a man is ugly! He will stay conscious of his nose all the time. He will make every effort so that your attention does not go to his nose. And what is the meaning of all this? Suppose a flat-nosed man is in a forest where there is no other person—will he ever be unhappy about his flat nose? He will not—because no reflection is formed, no shadow is created. It is the shadow that troubles us.
Rahul went to Russia for the first time. Rahul had very beautiful, very soft hands. Those who have never done any work will have soft, beautiful hands—there is no difficulty in this. Whoever shook his hand in India would say, “How fine—so delicate, feminine hands!” In Russia, the first man who received him at the station shook his hand and then pulled it away, saying, “You should guard your hand; whoever meets you will despise you. In our country such a hand is the hand of a parasite. There are no calluses of labor—you have never done any work; you live off others.”
Rahul said, “This is a great difficulty.” And he said, “Throughout Russia I was always alert when shaking hands. As soon as my hand met another, the look in the other’s eyes changed—he immediately read that I was a parasite.”
This is how it is. We have not yet thought that a beautiful hand should feel good to shake. But the image in the eye—if it has been decided that such a hand is wrong—then it creates great difficulty.
We all live in shadows, countless kinds of shadows.

(The recording of the question is not clear.)
About this shadow—this is what I am talking about. This is what I am addressing! My whole effort is that you think over what I say; if it feels wrong, throw it away; if it feels right, use it. Do you follow me?

Question:
It happens that if there is some turmoil in the mind…

No, no, there has been no turmoil. Your mind is very solid, strong. If there had been turmoil, you would have come filled with doubt; you have come filled with answers. There has been no upheaval. Upheaval is something far different. Do you understand me? You have come with answers—where is the upheaval?

Question:
No, after some churning there is something of my own…

Has even a little churning happened?

Question:
Yes, it has.

What was the churning?

Question:
Then I thought: can darkness be infinite?

You have not thought at all. If you had, you would not come carrying a single word out of it. Listen again, try to understand it a little.
In truth, anything that has existence will always be limited. Existence is necessarily limited. Existence is always bounded. Only shunya—emptiness—can be infinite; nonexistence can be infinite.
When we say “a thing is,” its “is-ness” becomes its boundary. It will be somewhere, sometime; it will be in some place, within some limit; its being will complete itself at some point and the not-being of it will begin somewhere. Existence is always limited.
Therefore those who say “God is” make God limited. Those who know say: God neither is nor is-not. To throw him beyond boundaries, it becomes necessary to add “is-not” as well.
Understand: if this room is, it will have walls—otherwise it cannot be a room. If it is not a room, the question of walls does not arise. So the room’s being is always bounded; only not-being can be boundless.
Now when I say “darkness is infinite,” the reason is this: essentially darkness is not—it is non-existence. Light is existence. Light has being; darkness has non-being. Therefore you can kindle light and you can extinguish light. You can neither kindle darkness nor extinguish darkness.

(The recording of the question is not clear.)
Try first to understand. You can bring light and you can take it away. You can neither bring darkness nor take it away. If we told you, “Friends, go and bring a little darkness,” you would say, “We are unable.” But if we said, “Go and bring a little light,” you would say, “We’ll bring it right away.”
Because light is limited you can carry it in. How will you carry darkness? And here is another curious thing: because light is, it can be brought and removed. Darkness is not. Darkness means not being.

Question:
We can hang black curtains and darkness will be there.

Then you will have to hang black curtains and block the light. You are doing nothing for darkness—you are only preventing light from coming. If you observe, whenever you do anything it is with light. You can do nothing with darkness. You are entirely impotent before darkness.
Understand this a little. Whatever you can do—when you say, “We will hang curtains,” by hanging curtains you do not bring darkness—you only stop light. If you put out the lamp, you do not bring darkness; by putting out the lamp you only extinguish light. You can do nothing with darkness; whatever you do will be with light. Because light is—and is limited—something can be done with it. Nothing can be done with darkness.
Thus, in the sense in which I said it: before Paramatma you should be utterly impotent—you should not be able to do anything. Before the divine you cannot do a thing. If you can do anything in his presence, you are greater than he. This is symbolic; do not seize it like lunatics, otherwise words create trouble. As I said last night—if you heard—it is only a symbol. One who says, “God is light,” is also using a symbol.

(The recording of the question is not clear.)
First, understand the whole thing. Understand it fully. That is why I said it will be difficult to understand. While I am speaking, something keeps grinding inside your head—then my words will not reach you. And I am not saying you should agree with me—so there is nothing to fear. If my words feel wrong, throw them in the trash and go home. I make no one a follower, I initiate no one into any sect, I have no disciple, I have no relationship with anyone. I speak my word, you hear it—great grace. The matter ends there—no further insistence. If it is wrong, I have no obstinacy that you must accept it as right.
If you try to understand what I said yesterday… See: light sometimes is, sometimes is not. Darkness is always. The question of its being or not being does not arise. When light appears you do not see darkness; when light disappears you begin to see darkness.
In the morning the sun rises and you might think the stars have vanished. They have not gone anywhere—they are where they were. Only in the sun’s radiance you cannot see them. Now this is curious: some things are visible in light and some things are not visible in light. The stars of the sky are not visible by day. When evening comes and the sun sets they begin to appear. The sun sets here and there they appear; they were there, the whole sky filled with them. The sun’s light covered your eye—you could not see them.
Light is a flash; darkness is a stability.
And when I say this, I am not against light at all—do not mistakenly take me to be against light. Nor am I against those who call God light. I am only saying: when we go to understand Paramatma there is no way other than to use symbols. Symbols must be used. And the use of a symbol means we are giving a specific indication: in this sense we use this symbol. Since I want to speak of the divine as that which neither comes nor goes—that which always is; which at times hides, at times manifests, that is another matter, but it does not come and go—then I can say it better by the symbol of darkness than by the symbol of light.
When I say, “God is infinite,” I mean: God is shunya. Only shunya, only emptiness, can be infinite. Everything else has boundaries. So if we must say, “God is infinite,” we must say, “God is shunya.” And to indicate shunya, darkness is more meaningful than light.
When I say, “God is perfect peace,” I am saying that light is a tension. Every ray of light creates a certain tension in you. That is why you awaken in the morning; with light the whole world awakens. Darkness descends and the whole world falls asleep.
Darkness is repose in deep sleep. Light is a constant stirring in deep life.
Light is a movement; darkness is no-movement—agati; it is sleep, dissolution, melting.
To understand God: God is less a movement, more a no-movement, more a rest. This is only symbolic. If someone is troubled by the word, let him not say “darkness”—no quarrel. Just understand what gestures we are making toward the divine.
Then I say: life is today; it was not yesterday. You are today; you were not yesterday; you will not be tomorrow. Life is on earth; there are infinite stars and planets and no life on them. On earth, ten or twenty lakh years ago there was no life. Tomorrow the earth may dry up and life may vanish again. Today, on countless stars and planets there is no life.
Life is a flash. But the not-being of life is an eternal order; within it, life flashes and disappears. What it disappears into is of greater value than what it arises from; where it arises from is of lesser value than where it rests.
There is an ocean; a wave rises upon it. The ocean was when there was no wave; the ocean will be when there is no wave. Whether the wave is or not makes no difference to the ocean’s being. If someone says, “The wave is the ocean,” he is not wrong. But he is not speaking the deepest truth either; rather, the reverse is truer: the ocean is the wave—because if the wave disappears the ocean still is. The ocean becomes a wave; it may also not become a wave.
Paramatma manifests as life; he may also not manifest. The non-manifest is the longer order; within it manifestation flashes and is gone.
What I said is that non-being and being are two aspects of one thing. But of these two, more profound, more foundational, is non-being—because being appears for a moment; non-being seems endless.
When I said “life is in darkness,” you did not understand. To understand symbols is difficult—more so when we have fixed notions. Then it becomes very difficult.
What does “life is in darkness” mean? Only this: the entire root of life is in mystery—in the mysterious, where there is utter darkness, where there is no light at all. It does not mean I am saying: there is no life in sunlight. There is life in the sun’s light; by it life manifests—in flowers, leaves, in us—everything is happening in the sun’s light. But why does life manifest through sunlight? The root of that is entirely in darkness. Do you get it? Darkness means the mysterious—that in which everything is lost, where nothing is clear, where everything becomes misty. In light everything is clear; in darkness everything is lost.
Paramatma is the supreme mystery, the greatest mystery. Of course, that mystery is utterly in darkness. For example, I said: the roots of a tree—beneath, in the dark, they are at work.
You eat food; you eat in the light. But who digests your food—you do not know! Who is digesting within—you do not know! It all happens silently in darkness.
Scientists say: if the work happening in a man’s stomach had to be done in a factory—to convert bread into blood—we would need a factory so vast it would cover several square miles and thousands of people would have to work there. And even now we do not fully know how bread becomes blood. If we did, food would cease to be a problem. We still do not know what is happening. How does it happen—that bread converts into blood?
A plant eats earth and produces a flower. How does earth convert into a flower, where does it convert—it remains a mystery. It is happening somewhere in darkness, of which nothing is known. Dissect the plant—nothing is discovered—when is earth becoming flower? At what instant does that conversion occur? When do you eat and when does it become blood, flesh, marrow? And how astonishing: from the same chapati you eat, one part becomes blood, one part bone, one part hair, one part eye, one part skin, one part marrow! From the same bread all that is made! Where does it happen? In what realm? Somewhere deep in darkness, silently, utterly silently.
And scientists now say: as we have tried too hard to know, disturbances have been created. The more we try to know, the more man is disturbed; the more difficulty arises; the more roots are uprooted and the more trouble follows.
So try to understand what I said. I am not an enemy of light. One who is not an enemy even of darkness—how can he be an enemy of light? And one who is ready to call even darkness God—within that, light is included. One who is ready to say that life arises out of darkness—will he say it does not arise from light? Of course it does. Try to understand me.
Understanding will be easier if you do not hurry to accept or reject. There is no need to rush to either—because I have no insistence. Do not worry whether you should accept or not; just think it over—that is my only request. Think it over; if it seems right, good; if not, you are free; be done with the hassle. The man was wrong—the matter ends. Only the request to think—no more.

Question:
Why did life need to manifest?

A man cannot answer this. If ever Paramatma is met, ask him: “Why did life need to manifest?” Although even then you will not be satisfied—it will be very difficult to be satisfied.

Question:
My idea is…

No—what is your idea…

Question:
…it is exchange.

No, no—there is no exchange. Either I am willing to receive, or to give. Exchange does not happen. Do you follow me?

(The recording of the question is not clear.)
Understand my point. I am always willing to receive. If you want to give, I am utterly willing; then I will sit silently and try to understand, and will drop the concern to explain. Do you follow me? Let me do one work—or you do one work. If both happen together—exchange—then one cart moves from there to here, one cart from here to there; somewhere there is a crossing, but there is no meeting. It cannot happen. I am always willing. There is no joy for me in explaining to you; there is even more joy for me in understanding. If you ever come, sit for an hour—I will listen to you, I will understand. But then I will not explain in that time; there will be no need.

Question:
No, but afterwards my analysis…

No need. That is for your life. There is no need for analysis. I will have heard you—if it is of use to me, I will take it; if not, I will leave it. The matter ends. Where is the question of analysis? Analysis should be left for after many births, only before God—before that it has no meaning.

Question:
This means that the thing is somewhere else—the one we call God?

You were not here this morning?

Question:
No, I could not come in the morning.

You were not here. Listen to the morning talk; it is recorded. I spoke only about this. Listen to all three days’ talks. Then if any idea remains to be told me, come to Jabalpur. I will listen to you for two or three days. And I tell you: I cannot make you understand as much by speaking as I can by listening to you. When all of you comes out, it becomes very easy—very easy.

Question:
This is an endless light; it has never ended till today.

Then it is very difficult.

Question:
It has kept on flowing; it will go on flowing.

Then let it flow—no harm. No harm at all.

Question:
Should one learn Yoga for spirituality?

If you want to learn it for bodily health—wonderful. Its use is of great value—extraordinary for health. But bodily health has no direct relation to spirituality, except that a healthy body can travel the spiritual path with more ease; an unhealthy one encounters a little hindrance.
And the other processes are of mental powers—and they too have no relation to spirituality. If you want to cultivate telepathy, hypnosis, and such—they also are useful; but they have nothing to do with spirituality.
The essential spirituality is what I am speaking of. Even if you do all that, in the end you will have to come to not-doing.

Question:
So all that is useless?

Useless in this sense—in this sense alone: like a man goes to college to study. And I say: for spirituality, college study is useless. He comes and says, “Then is college study useless?” I will say: No, college studies have other meanings and other uses. If you want to be a doctor, go to college. But becoming a doctor or engineer has nothing to do with spirituality. You can become spiritual without becoming a doctor or engineer; and you may not become spiritual even after becoming one. There is no relation.
So when I say any method, any yoga is useless for spirituality, I am not saying yoga is useless. I am saying: “for spirituality”—keep that condition in mind. Otherwise it becomes difficult.

Question:
It has other uses.

Yes—many other uses.

Question:
Everywhere it is told that for the path of spirituality there is Yoga.

Yes, yes—exactly so it is told.

Question:
That very notion has caused all the confusion.

Exactly so it is told—and the confusion has arisen—indeed. In the land where yoga is most discussed, where is spirituality? So many asanas, so many yogas go on—where is spirituality?

Question:
Like parakaya-pravesh—this happened, that happened.

Even all these have no relation to spirituality.

(The recording of the question is not clear.)
Not the least. Not at all. In many ways they are hindrances—they take you in a different direction. They hinder because: I am going straight—I have to reach Udaipur station. Along the way many roads branch off—one goes to the bazaar, one to an exhibition, one to a cinema. They turn off here and there. If I go toward the cinema, it becomes a hindrance on the way to the station—because the cinema will delay me. If I want to go straight, I should pass the cinema with a bow and say, “I am going to the station right now—I won’t come.” Though all these appear along the way and cut off to the sides.
A man like Ramamurti—a strongman. Whatever elements exist in Ramamurti’s body, they exist in all of us. Any one of us could become a Ramamurti with effort—no obstacle. He works so much on the body that we are astonished, wonderstruck. A car runs over his chest—he does not feel it! Break stones on his chest—he is not injured! He holds a car from behind with his hands—the car buzzes, but cannot move forward! These are powers hidden in all our bodies. But working on them has no relation to spirituality.
If someone says, “One must become a Ramamurti to enter spirituality,” the matter becomes impossible. Ramamurti has nothing to do with it.
The reality is: from the body there are two paths—one goes beyond the body toward mind, and one goes deeper into the body, not toward mind.
Understand this.
Let us take it like this: this is body, this is mind, this is Atman. One path goes from body to mind, from mind to Atman. Another path goes from body deep into the body’s own mystery. One path goes from mind into the deeper mysteries of mind. One path goes from Atman into the deeper mysteries of Atman. There are vertical paths and there are horizontal paths.
Ramamurti is going horizontally—within the body. He can discover all the mysteries of the body. Maybe future explorers will surpass him and discover still more. The body itself is an infinity. It holds great mysteries which perhaps we do not yet know at all.
Hatha Yoga goes straight into the body. You can go for births on end; you will experience amazing mysteries, acquire amazing powers. But spirituality has nothing to do with it—these are the body’s mysteries. Your life may become long, your body iron-like—whatever—many things are possible. It has no bearing. As far as entering above is concerned, a generally healthy body is sufficient—no need to go so deep.
It is like a man who drives a car. You drive a car. You only turn the wheel, press the accelerator, steer—and the work is done. You will never need to go inside to see how it works; that is the mechanic’s world. Without knowing the inside, you can drive. For you that much is enough. For the mechanic, it is not enough. It may be that those who drive the most have never peered inside to see what happens; if you ask them how a car runs, they cannot tell you. They say, “We only know we press with our foot, we turn the wheel—beyond that we don’t know.”
Then from body to mind: within mind there is also a horizontal path. If you go horizontally in mind, there are siddhis and riddhis, a whole world of powers—miracles. You will find all of it happening. But then you have gone inside the mind.
To go above, a silent mind is enough—no need to go deeper within it.
The third is of Atman. If you go inward in Atman, again other things will be found. Those who enter Atman horizontally find other things. But those who go vertically in Atman find Paramatma. For example, the Jains went straight into Atman, therefore Paramatma could not appear in their vision. The total reason is only this: they did not go vertically upward; they went inward within Atman—not beyond Atman—so there they did not meet Paramatma. They said: there is no God.
Today Western psychology has gone straight into the mind. It says: there is no Atman. Western physiology, medical science, has gone straight into the body. It says: what Atman, what mind—there is only body; all is bodily mechanism.
Do you understand?
This is all mystery; hence the difficulty. And what I am speaking is only this much: the path by which you go vertically straight—from where you are to where God is. I am not talking about the side paths that cut off in between. But all those paths exist; you can travel on them; there is a science for traveling them.
Hence Patanjali is not useless; Western science is not useless; psychology is not useless. All are meaningful. But for one who goes straight they are nuisances—because if he goes sideways, it is so long he may never return; births may pass and he does not return.
So keep the nose straight and go. I am speaking of the point itself, where the nose does not swerve even a little. Not that the others are useless; they are only useless from this perspective. The cinema has its meaning, the hospital has its meaning—but one who must reach the station leaves both cinema and hospital and runs straight for the station. That alone is meaningful.

Question:
I want your guidance about taking sannyas.

First, as long as the notion arises to take advice from someone to take sannyas, do not take sannyas. When the state comes where the whole world says, “Do not take it,” and yet you must—only then. Not before. Otherwise you will be in much trouble.

Question:
What do you mean by trouble?

Trouble means: when we ask someone, it means we ourselves are not clear yet—only then do we ask.

Question:
No, the question arises only because I have to be in the world and look after myself and I have to work. That may take time. I don’t mind taking this moment.

No, no—I understand. I am saying: as long as no inner clarity arises, only then there is the idea of guidance. To ask for guidance means to be confused. Do you get me? Whenever we go to ask for guidance, it means we are confused.
Therefore there are two kinds of sannyasins in this world: those who took sannyas by someone’s guidance—and those who simply are sannyasins. Those who are sannyasins never asked anyone—their joy is of a different order.
So the day you feel, “This is finished—being a sannyasin is my bliss,” then the matter is over—do not ask anyone. Do not ask anyone at all. If you ask, it means you are still confused whether to take it or not—and you want someone to carry your decision. Then you will get both answers.

Question:
The decision I want to take—because I am confused, because I don’t know the world, I don’t know where to adjoin at present.

Yes—hence you will find both kinds of advisers. Someone will say, “Don’t take it,” someone will say, “Take it.” Still, in the end you will have to decide yourself.

Question:
Even if it is possible after taking sannyas, as you say, to continue work—but I say what is the use? It is only for the society. I told one of the swamis whom I met—I said, “What difference it makes…?”

Yes, and keep another thing in mind: just as you see worldly people—see the sannyasins too. In general a person thinks: “By marriage no one seems particularly happy—so why marry?”

Question:
But I don’t have unhappiness in my life…

I understand. In the same way also ask: by taking sannyas, who seems delighted?

Question:
But then you say that bliss is eternal.

No, no. All these statements are fine—but what concern have they with your problem?

Question:
Supposing they are not happy—means they don’t see the happiness in them.

Then you can see anywhere. Then what is the issue of taking or not taking? If it is a question of seeing, then why ask whether to sit in this room or that? Sit wherever you are and see. If you are a nurse, see the happiness; if you are a sannyasin, see the happiness. There is no quarrel then. If it is only a matter of seeing, there is no quarrel.
But it is not only that. It must also be seen. How will you see? If you set out to see, complication remains—then you will feel, “Let me go to that room—maybe more is visible there; let me go to that room.” That is not the question.
And you say you are not frustrated—that is good, very good. And you say you do not care what others say—also very good. Then drop all concern for guidance. Live as your joy moves you. Keep in mind only one thing: to become a sannyasin from a worldly person is very easy; to become worldly again from a sannyasin is very difficult.
Because if you now want to become a sannyasin, everyone will say, “Wonderful!” There will be noise, clapping, blessings; swamis will appear—everything. But if you then say, “I am returning,” all doors will close. All kinds of abuse, insult, calumny will be showered. Society is very cunning: it leaves the way to go, but not to return.
So I say: always choose what keeps you free ahead—what does not bind. Otherwise trouble begins. Right now, no one binds you as a nurse—you are more free. As a sannyasini you will be free only if… Because as a nurse you can leave right now and the world will say nothing. But if you leave sannyas tomorrow, you will be in great difficulty.
Hence I say: being a nurse is a freer state than being a sannyasini. Even being a cobbler is a freer state than being a muni. Because a cobbler can leave any day; the monk’s profession cannot be left. It is a difficult matter.

Question:
But this path is a path of evolution.

All paths are of evolution. There is no path that is not of evolution. If you want evolution, it happens by any path. Therefore, where there is the maximum freedom, there the maximum evolution happens. Do not bind.
What is the meaning of sannyas? When someone asks me, “Shall I take sannyas?” I am amazed. Sannyas means one who accepts no rules, no fetters; who cares for no one; who does what comes from his own joy. That is the meaning of sannyas.
But when someone says, “Shall I take sannyas?” he is saying, “Shall I bind myself in that particular bondage—accept that particular bondage?” How amusing. Sannyasin means freedom; sannyasin means live by your joy; do what feels right; do not bind yourself. Do not bind.
But without binding things do not move—either someone says, “Marry—bind yourself to this,” or someone says, “Do not marry—bind yourself to sannyas.” But do not remain unbound! Be bound somewhere! They will not let you remain in-between—and they will not let a woman remain at all, because the whole social structure is made by men; it is an enemy of woman. “Be a slave! Either be a wife or be a sadhvi! We will not allow you to be free!” My meaning is: sannyasin means to be free.
Be free. Remain a nurse as long as you like; if you want to become something else, become that. Do not take initiation from anyone. All that is foolishness. Why take initiation from anyone? Does freedom require initiation? Bondage does.
Be free—that is enough. Seek your bliss wherever you find it. Fear no one—that is the meaning of sannyas. Fear no one. Even if you take sannyas, you will have to fear—those from whom you take it; the society you enter—you will have to fear them. They will say, “Eat this, drink this; rise at this hour, sleep at this hour; go here, do not go there.” It will become difficult. You will find it is worse than being a nurse.
Keep one thing in mind: keep doing whatever increases your bliss. The day you are completely free, that day you are a sannyasini. No need to take or give with anyone. Do you understand me? You can become one while remaining a nurse; you can become one after leaving.

Question:
No, but spiritual knowledge…

Who is stopping spiritual knowledge?

Question:
My capacity is limited.

Everyone’s is limited—everyone’s. A sannyasin’s too is limited. Do you think he has no worries? He too has to worry morning and evening: where will I eat, where will I stay? You are more carefree.
My view is: one who labors six or eight hours—his remaining hours are free. A sannyasin is a servant for twenty-four hours—to utter fools too, even to those with no intelligence. You come home after six hours—free; then do whatever you want. If you want to dance, dance; if you want to sing, sing—do what you want. A sannyasin cannot—because fools all around keep watching: what is she doing, whom did she speak to, whom did she meet, where is she going? And if there is a slip, food stops, respect stops—everything becomes difficult.
Worry only this much: two, three, four hours of work, enough to earn your bread—the remaining twenty hours are free. Use those twenty hours for whatever you wish. And who can stop knowledge? Knowledge is scattered everywhere—seek it. Do not bind yourself. To be a sannyasin means do not bind.
When I say, “Become a sannyasin,” I mean only this: do not bind. Be free. Those who say, “Become a sannyasin,” mean the opposite: bind, do not be free—bind to us, accept this particular mold. Sheer stupidity. It has no meaning. Be free; learn from whom you wish—no harm. Why the hurry? Why the hurry to bind yourself?

Question:
I visited two or three places and I observed everything. I said my aim is to progress on the spiritual path, and I do not find it…

Yes, yes—do anything, anything—happily, staying free. And if you feel there is more freedom in being a sannyasin, become a sannyasin—no objection from me. If a woman were to tell me, “I find more freedom in being a prostitute,” I would say, “Then be that.” Your freedom, your search—wherever and however—no one should bind you. You are your own master; live your life. Do what you feel.
But no binding anywhere—no binding anywhere! And beware of “guru-dom.” All gurus roam about in search of this—“Here is a sannyasini—almost ready; when she becomes real, she will think, Now let it go.”

Question:
Has true sannyas happened now?

Hmm.

(The recording of the question is not clear.)
You can do so—because full knowledge is not yet there; and tomorrow there will be more knowledge than today. Therefore always keep the possibility of returning. Tomorrow you will be more knowing than today; if you bind tomorrow by today, you err. I will know more tomorrow than today. If today I swear I will not turn back, and tomorrow I see it was all wrong—then? Keep returning and not returning free. No need to be bound anywhere—not even to a place or a land.

Question:
But why should we think that we have to come back and we want to…?

That is not the question at all. Anything can happen. Today you walk a path and tomorrow you may discover it goes nowhere—what will you do then? Will you not return—will you stand there, bound by oath?

Question:
But it will be so complicated to think now…

One who fears complications fears life. He has no path except suicide.

Question:
That is why I say why should I think more and more—because as I think more and more, complications…

One who fears complications fears life itself. He will never find any truth.

Question:
So all these things I never thought of…

Increase the complications—properly.

Question:
Increase them?

Absolutely. Only then will there be experience of life. Otherwise there will be no experience. If a woman who has been a prostitute becomes a nun, what she will know is something a girl who has never loved can never know. Even the man who has walked the worst paths—when he walks the best—the knowing he attains is richer, more abundant. His life becomes deeper.
Complications deepen you. Why fear them? If you fear complications, shut your door, sit inside and die—suicidal.

Question:
But when difficulty arises—suppose I go on one path—when difficulties arise, then I see the difficulty immediately. Why should I feel the difficulty before I start?

Do not think. Do as you feel right. This too is all thinking!

Question:
No, that is—I am just talking to you…

This is all thinking. Where will you escape to? Do not think. Keep only one thing in mind: do not evade life. God pushes you into life—“Go, know!”—and the mahatmas teach you to evade. These mahatmas are the greatest enemies of God. If you want God, avoid mahatmas—nothing else.
Have you ever seen a mahatma attain God, Chandraesh ji? Never. Even a sinner may find him; the pundits never do.