Jeevan Sangeet #9

You ask: I have said that revolution is an explosion, a sudden explosion. And then I speak of the process and practice of meditation—so is there no contradiction between the two?
No, there is no contradiction at all. If I say that when water becomes steam there is an explosion—at one hundred degrees water turns into steam—and then I tell someone: heat the water slowly so that it becomes steam. He might say to me, “You say water turns into steam all at once—then why should we practice heating it slowly? Is there no contradiction?” I would say to him: there is no contradiction.
When we heat water, at one degree the heated water is still not steam, and at ninety-nine degrees it is still not steam. One degree heated water is water, and ninety-nine-degree heated water is also water. At one hundred degrees, all at once, water becomes steam. But the heat up to one hundred degrees comes gradually; that heat does not arrive all at once.
So when I say water becomes steam all at once, I mean: it is not as if first a little bit of steam forms, then a little more, then a little more—no. At one hundred degrees water becomes steam in a single leap—an explosion happens. Steam takes the place of water; water is no more. And when I say: heat it, I mean that the heat up to one hundred degrees comes step by step. When I say revolution is an explosion, I also say that the necessary warming of the chitta before revolution comes only gradually; it does not come all at once. Otherwise there would be no need at all for the practice of meditation—then I would simply say, “Let the explosion happen—let it happen now.”
But your chitta is not yet at the point where explosion happens. Explosion has a boiling point, a point where it occurs. You are not there. If you were there, the explosion would happen this very moment. The explosion itself takes no time—but reaching the point of explosion takes time.
We plant a seed. When the seed becomes a sprout, it bursts forth all at once into a sprout. But before that, for months it lies in the earth—decaying, breaking, cracking open—then the sprout happens. The sprout, too, is in the manner of an explosion.
A child is born from a mother’s womb. Birth is an explosion. It is not that the child is born a little now, a little later, and then a little more. Birth is not a gradual affair. Birth happens—within a single instant. But before birth the child is growing for nine months, preparing and preparing to be born. Then birth is a single instant. Yet the preparation of nine months must go on. If that preparation is not there, birth will not happen in a single instant. There is a development to reach the point of birth; but birth itself is an explosion.
Revolution is an explosion; meditation is a development. And meditation is the primary preparation for that revolution of life. I speak for that preparation. The day the preparation is complete, that day the explosion will happen. Then it will not be that you say: now I am a little enlightened; soon I will be a little more enlightened, and then a little more. No. The day wisdom descends, like a sudden explosion, all doors will break open. But until its coming, step by step, step by step, that primary preparation goes on.
There is no contradiction between the two.
(The audio recording of the question is not clear.)
There will surely be signs. As when a man sets out to walk toward a garden— the garden is far, not even visible—yet as he comes nearer, even before the garden can be seen, cool breezes begin to come, some fragrance of flowers starts to drift in. The man says, “It seems the garden is near now.” He says, “Now the garden is close.” The garden is not visible, nor are the flowers, but the breezes have cooled, and there is a slight fragrance in the air. As he proceeds, the fragrance increases, the coolness grows, the freshness deepens. He says, “Surely I am nearing the garden.”
Before one reaches near Samadhi, near revolution, hints will certainly begin appearing in meditation too. For example, the restlessness of yesterday will start diminishing. The anger of yesterday will begin to lessen. The hatred of yesterday will begin to wane. The ego of yesterday will diminish. The inner unease of yesterday will subside. The lust of yesterday will recede. All these will tell you that you are nearing that place where the revolution happens—where you disappear and the Divine becomes manifest. Before that, these things will begin to change.
If those tendencies keep increasing, then understand that you are going away from Samadhi. If anger rises day by day, if restlessness grows, if hatred grows, if wickedness grows, know that you are going astray. But if these lessen, know that you are moving toward meditation. And only such signs can be; each person will have to think for himself. Because each person’s fundamental weakness will become his yardstick to gauge whether his meditation is developing or not. There may be a slight difference in each person’s basic weakness.
One man’s basic weakness may be anger—that his whole personality has been formed around anger; sooner or later everything circles back to anger. Then he must keep watch: is my anger decreasing? If anger is decreasing, it means a change has begun at his very root. Another person may have some other weakness—another, yet another. Each one should find his basic center: “This is my particular personality; let me see what change is happening here.” And change will go on happening. And the change will become visible. First you will see it yourself; slowly, those near you will see it too. But fundamentally, you will see it.
Keep only this much in mind: if the things that have been called sins begin to lessen in your chitta, understand that meditation is gaining momentum. And if what has been called virtue begins to increase, understand that meditation is moving forward.
My own statement is this: sin is that which takes a person away from himself; virtue is that which brings him nearer to himself. There is no other meaning to sin and virtue. Keep this in mind. And keep another thing in mind: the awareness of your chitta will gradually increase. Whatever you do, you will do more consciously. You did it yesterday too, the day before as well, but not so consciously. If you eat, you will eat consciously. If you speak, you will speak consciously. If you walk on the road, you will walk consciously. An awareness, a wakefulness, will go on increasing. And thus the first difference will appear: the more awareness grows, the harder it becomes to err. How can a man full of awareness get angry? How can a man full of awareness quarrel? How can a man full of awareness steal? With awareness filling you, differences will begin appearing in your personality.
So remember two things: all the forms that increase the restlessness of the chitta should begin to lessen, and awareness, wakefulness should begin to increase. Then understand that meditation is gradually developing. But even this is only the fragrance of the garden; it is not the garden.
And this is exactly the difference between a sadhu and a sant. A sadhu means one who is coming near the garden—not yet arrived. He is becoming a good man, becoming a sadhu, but still outside the garden. The fragrance and the breezes have begun, but he has not yet entered. A sant means one who has entered the garden. Now there is neither good nor bad. He has reached that where there is no good and no bad. Good and bad were accounting outside; within the garden there is no accounting at all.
So if saintliness goes on increasing, understand that meditation is rising. And understand what saintliness means! Saintliness does not mean you begin to wear colored robes, put sandal paste and tilak on your forehead, or drape yourself in a shawl printed with the Lord’s name. These have nothing to do with saintliness.
If you look closely, those who do such things—donning colored shawls, wearing ochre clothes, tying a mouth-cloth, wrapping themselves in the Lord’s name—such a person’s basic weakness is exhibitionism, display. And that weakness of display is making him do all these businesses. That desire for display—“that others see me, know me, recognize who I am”—that is his fundamental weakness. He could have become a film actor—and that would have been fine. He could have worked in a play—and that would have been fine: a suitable field for his weakness. But he has become a sadhu! What purpose has a sadhu with display? Yet he will go on expressing the same weakness.
So if someone’s weakness is that he enjoys display very much—then with the growth of meditation this taste will diminish. Whatever our weakness, we should search it out. And everyone knows his own weakness; there is no need to ask anyone else. We know at which point our personality goes insane.
Someone clutches money—this is his weakness. If meditation grows, his grip on money will loosen. Whatever it may be—two kinds of results will appear. If you keep an account of them, within a year or six months you will be able to decide where change has happened or not happened, what has happened and what has not. Change is certain. If there is meditation, there will be changes. They cannot be prevented.
Your entire conduct and personality will be transformed. Yet still remember: these are matters outside the garden. Within the garden—then there is no way to keep accounts, and no need to either. Before that, there is a need. Afterward, no one asks, “How shall I know that an explosion has happened?” When the house is on fire, does one come out and ask, “How shall I know my house is burning?” When the explosion happens—such a great revolution occurs—everything old burns away, everything new arrives. There is no need to ask; one simply knows.
But until the explosion happens, the mind naturally wants to ask about what signs will appear. So outside the garden a few signs are useful; inside, signs are of no use at all. There it is seen directly; it is known.
(The audio recording of the question is not clear.)
It is not a question of time. The question is not how long you do; the question is how you do. Whether ten minutes, fifteen minutes, or half an hour—the question of quality, of its inner fragrance, is more important; quantity and measure are not so much. Still, even that deserves consideration. At least half an hour in the morning, half an hour at night—at least that much.
Yet this is not a rigid rule. Do not think that if you cannot do half an hour you should not do at all. Whatever you do is meaningful. But if you do half an hour morning and half an hour night, results will come with intensity.
Even there, less the length of time, more the depth of meditation matters. Even if it is only five minutes, it should be with your whole being. Otherwise a man can sit for half an hour with eyes closed—many have been sitting in temples for a lifetime, nothing has happened. They only fulfill the time. They look at the clock, complete half an hour, and get up.
Do not be overly concerned with quantity. It has its use—without time how will anything happen? Half an hour and half an hour—find one hour in twenty-four for meditation. The other twenty-three hours the world goes on. In the end you will find that what was gained in the twenty-three hours was lost, and what was gained in the one hour remains with you forever.
Today it may seem a lot—one hour!—because you do not yet know what wealth meditation brings. One hour at least. And choose your time well. Generally, as soon as possible after waking in the morning—bathe and sit—that is beneficial. Why? Because through the night consciousness has rested. In the morning it is fresher, more blossomed, and can settle into silence more easily.
Before the day’s work begins, meditate—then the result of meditation will flow into the day’s work. The man who has passed through half an hour of meditation in the morning cannot be the same man at his shop as the one who comes without meditation. There will be a difference between the two—their inner glimmer will differ; their behavior will differ. So before the day’s world begins, half an hour. As we return from bathing with a freshness, similarly return from the inner bath with an inner freshness. That will influence the day’s work.
So in the morning—after waking, as soon as possible. And at night, at the time of sleep—the last moment as you are falling asleep—then meditate, and then simply fall asleep. These are two twilight times. In the morning we awaken from sleep; at night we wake and enter sleep again. In both states the condition of consciousness is changing. As consciousness goes from waking into sleep, the whole brain-state changes; and in the morning as we come from sleep into waking, again everything changes. In these transitional moments, if the seed of meditation is sown, it is most significant—because at that time consciousness is in transition and passes through places it does not normally reach.
For instance, at night you go to sleep. As you sleep, slowly-slowly waking fades, sleep descends. And there is one instant—you will notice if you watch—one instant: just before it you were awake, just after it you are asleep. A subtle instant comes in between—the door—where waking enters sleep, where awareness becomes unawareness. If at that very door the mood of meditation is present, that mood slips inside along with sleep, and during the entire night an inner current of meditation begins to flow through sleep. That door opens only then. As when this door is shut, and someone is going inside—when the door opens and you slip through with him, you are inside; then the door closes.
The doorway of consciousness opens toward sleep. The conscious mind falls asleep, the unconscious awakens. In that moment, a new condition opens in awareness, a new door. Whatever feeling you carry to that door will remain your treasure throughout the night.
That is why when a student faces examination, he gives exams even in his sleep the whole night. There is no other reason. He sleeps while studying, thinking only of the exam; the exam enters into sleep—and all night long he is taking the exam.
The shopkeeper, counting money day and night, falls asleep counting and goes on counting in dreams. You must have heard: a cloth-merchant even tears a sheet in his sleep—cutting cloth in a dream, selling to someone.
In sleep we continue to do only what we were doing at the last moment before sleep. If you haven’t noticed, do notice: the last thought at sleep-time becomes the first thought at waking. The last thought at the moment of sleep becomes always the first at the moment of waking. It remains present in consciousness the whole night and becomes the first thought in the morning. Try it experimentally—you will see.
So the last thought of night should be as peaceful, silent, blissful as possible. Then the inner current of the night will remain linked with it. One who goes to sleep out of meditation gradually transforms his whole sleep into meditation. No one has the time to meditate six hours—but we do sleep six hours. If the entire state of sleep becomes meditation, we obtain the benefit of six hours of meditation.
So the last moments at night—meditation. And the first moments in the morning—meditation. If you can find these two times, it is very good. If one has more time—then whenever one can, even ten or five minutes—find it. Remember one thing: there can never be excess in meditation. However much you do, it can never be too much. Can there be excess of peace? Can we say someone is overly peaceful? There is no limit to peace. In meditation too, there is no limit. So do not worry about excess. Whenever time is found, use it.
And when the art of meditation comes fully into remembrance, then if you are on a bus—close your eyes. What is the use of hearing idle chatter and watching the road? What is the profit? Close your eyes. If you sit two hours on the bus, dissolve those two hours into meditation.
At the office—if there is no work; waiting outside in a waiting room—rather than doing something useless, better to close your eyes. You will thus avoid needless seeing, needless thinking, needless hearing—and give that time to the work that is ultimately meaningful. If a person gives even the idle, wasted moments to meditation, it is enough—absolutely enough.
A man sits in a train—sits there all day—and goes on reading the same newspaper again and again. I see daily in trains: he has read the paper many times; but what else to do—so he reads again! The same songs he has heard a thousand times; again he opens the radio and listens! The same conversations he has had countless times; again he has them!
If a man keeps in mind through the day: these things I am doing—how many of them have I done countless times before? And among the things I am doing, how many could be left undone with no harm at all? He will be in trouble—astonished to see that ninety-eight out of a hundred of his words are unnecessary!
When you send a telegram—how you cut each word! “This much will do… this much will do.” Eight or ten words suffice. In ten words you say what, if asked to write a letter, you would spread over two pages—and the telegram conveys it faster, with greater force, because in ten words all the power is condensed. The long letter spreads the same thing thinly over two pages; its impact diminishes.
In speaking, listening, walking, moving about—one should be telegraphic—so that the time saved can be invested in meditation.
(The audio recording of the question is not clear.)
As far as possible, at night it should be done while lying down to sleep. If as soon as you lie down you fall asleep instantly and cannot practice at all, then do it sitting. The night meditation should be in the lying posture, so that while meditating you slip into sleep—so that you do not even know when meditation ended and sleep began. Let meditation, continuing and continuing, enter into sleep. So do it lying down. If you do it sitting, you will then have to lie down; that lying down will become an interruption, a break, a gap—meditation will end and only then will you sleep. Therefore do it lying down. Only in one condition: if someone feels that the moment he lies down he falls asleep and cannot do anything, then for two or three months do it sitting; later, gradually, do it lying down.
Question:
If everyone is talking…?
That gives no trouble. Your mind should not be talking. Others talking is no concern. Meditation is for you to do; not for them.
Question:
But just now the children were talking, and your attention went there, didn’t it!
No, no—my attention there? I am not meditating here. I am speaking here, and if while I am speaking ten other people start speaking, I have no objection, I can still go on speaking—but it would be purposeless. I am not meditating here. If I were meditating, bring your children by all means—no harm. Understand? I am speaking here; if while I speak two or four children cry and chatter, the very purpose for which I speak is not fulfilled—my words will not reach you.
In speaking, another’s speaking can create a hindrance. If you put two or four more mikes here and all start speaking, I have no objection—but then I will not speak, because speaking would be meaningless. But meditation is different. You are to enter meditation. You have no right over other people’s children that because you are meditating all the children of the world must become quiet! What meaning would that have? You go into meditation—go joyfully. The children are not going into meditation—why should they be quiet!
Question:
Will the mind not drift a little toward them?
It drifts only because you are not able to go into meditation. Do you understand what it means to go into meditation? I have said: be a witness. If a child is crying, be the witness of it: the child is crying; we are the witness. But you do not remain a witness—you become the doer. You say, “I will twist this child’s neck—what a nuisance!” Then trouble begins. You are no longer a witness—you have become a doer. You say, “Remove this child—I do not want to hear him.”
Remain the witness—if the child is crying, he is crying; if he is laughing, he is laughing; if he is not crying, he is not crying. If you remain the witness, then whether a child cries, someone talks, a horn blares—nothing matters. Because the process I am explaining is the process of witnessing.
Yes, in other kinds of meditation there is a difference. If a man is chanting “Rama-Rama, Rama-Rama,” and someone else loudly starts saying something, hindrance occurs—because that one is speaking and this one is also speaking. Speaking obstructs speaking.
But I am not talking about speaking at all. I am not saying chant Om or anything. I am saying: become a witness—of whatever is. If unrest arises within, be a witness of that too. Go on becoming a witness of whatever is. Its final result will be meditation. Therefore you can do it at the shop, you can do it on the bus. No need to go to the Himalayas. You can do it sitting on the roadside. In fact, it is great fun to do it on the roadside. You will see how strange your mind is—it cannot be a witness even for a moment! Instantly it says, “Twist his neck! Stop him! We will not let him speak!”—that is what the mind says.
Question:
At some place, can it happen?
It can happen—absolutely. It can happen right now. A little effort is needed.
I was once staying in a rest-house in a village. Along with me a minister from that state was also staying. At night we both returned to sleep. I went to sleep. After about fifteen minutes he came, shook me, and said, “You have gone to sleep; I cannot sleep. I am in great trouble.”
Around that rest-house all the village dogs had gathered—creating a great uproar. Perhaps it was their nightly habit to gather. He had gone two or three times to drive them away. But having driven them away, they returned with two or three more. Will dogs be driven away by driving? Even men do not get driven away—how will dogs? They came back again. He was now restless. He said, “I will not be able to sleep; these dogs are barking so much, making such a noise.”
I said to him, “What do dogs know that you are staying here? What relation is there? What have dogs to do with you? Sleep at ease. What relation have you with dogs?”
He said, “It is not a matter of relation. They make noise—I cannot sleep.”
I said, “There is no hindrance from dogs barking. The hindrance comes from the thought that dogs should not bark. It is this opinion of ours that creates the obstacle. Dogs are dogs—they will bark. Your work is to sleep—sleep.”
He said, “What should I do?”
I said, “Do only this: ‘Dogs are barking’—listen to this with a witnessing attitude. Just keep listening: dogs are barking; I am listening. We will talk in the morning.”
Perhaps in fifteen minutes he fell asleep. In the morning he told me, astonished: “A wonder! When I assumed the feeling that ‘dogs are barking and I am listening,’ their barking began to affect me like a music that induces sleep.” It will do so. “I slept through the night; I do not know when they stopped barking.”
I said, “Why would they stop? They have no relation with you—to know when you slept or not. They must have gone on barking. But your chitta dropped its resistance. When there was the opposition ‘they must not bark,’ there was trouble. Now if they bark—let them bark.”
I am calling the witnessing of whatever is happening around us—meditation. In that, nothing is a hindrance.
Question:
Is it necessary to close the eyes?
No—not at all necessary. But in the beginning it usually helps to practice with eyes closed, because then you have to be a witness only at the doorway of the ears. If the eyes remain open, you will have to be a witness at two doors—the ears and the eyes. And to be a witness at the eyes is a little more difficult than at the ears, because the impressions on the eyes fall more deeply.
Yet if you can keep them open, it is very good. Gently I say: once the practice at the ears is steady, then open the eyes too. But if closing the eyes causes trouble, then from the start keep them as is. For some, closing the eyes itself creates difficulty—then keep them open. But then you will have to keep witnessing at two doors: we are witness to what is seen as well—we are witness to that, too. Who is passing by—we will keep no account of whether the person is friend or foe, or whether it is one’s wife passing. No such accounts—because the moment you keep accounts, witnessing is gone. We are only witnesses—knowing that someone is going. We take no decision; we only know, we only see.
So to avoid doubling the work, I suggest closing the eyes. In truth, the best is both open. But if there is difficulty, first master the ear-door. Then master the eye-door. When both are mastered, there is great joy. Then with open eyes a man walks on the road as a witness. Then there is no need to sit. Then in all actions he remains a witness. For then closing the eyes is no longer a question. But so that there is no difficulty in the beginning, I said: work at one door. If it can be done at both, there is no hindrance in that either.
Question:
It happens—one day I did, and the next day I did not. Then it becomes sorrow, it becomes repentance.
It will become so if you make it so. If one day you do and the next day you do not—if you make that into sorrow, it will become sorrow. Otherwise, there is no need to make sorrow out of it. For what you could do—be thankful. For what you could not do—there is no need to repent. Why? Because repentance will become a hindrance in tomorrow’s meditation, and gratitude will become a support for it.
If today I sat for meditation and could meditate, then be grateful toward the Divine—that today I could meditate. Great grace! If this feeling is in the mind, it will support tomorrow’s meditation. Because the feeling of grace calms the chitta. And if one day you could not meditate and you regret—“How bad it was; a great mess; a big loss, a great harm”—and sadden the mind, then not only did you not meditate today, tomorrow this mood of sorrow will not allow you to go deep either.
When we understand that repentance becomes a hindrance in meditation, then repenting is meaningless. And secondly, keep witnessing of everything. Be the witness that today it happened; be the witness that today it did not. What quarrel is there? Two facts—both seen: yesterday it happened; today it did not.
Swami Ram used to speak of himself only in the third person. He would not say “I.” He would not say, “I am thirsty.” He would say, “Ram is thirsty.” He would say, “Today, Ram was walking on a road, some people met and began to abuse Ram; we stood and laughed that Ram is getting good abuse.”
When he first went to America, people asked, “What is this puzzle? We don’t understand. What do you mean? You are Ram, aren’t you?”
He said, “Where am I Ram? People call this one ‘Ram.’ We are behind this, and far away. We went to a place, Ram got entangled—some people began to quarrel— we stood laughing: ‘Ah, Ram is nicely trapped! Boy, now you are in trouble. Now you cannot get out.’”
The meaning of witnessing is that it becomes so deep that we see: today we sat for meditation—this was known; today we did not—this was known. Then we have adopted the witnessing attitude toward meditation itself. Then even greater benefit comes than from meditation, because witnessing has become even more inner. Now we have not taken the doer’s posture—“I meditated; I did not meditate.” That is the doer’s posture again—the ‘I’ has entered and taken hold.
No—today we saw that meditation happened; today we saw that it did not. And we are only the seer; we are not the doer. Then the movement that begins will be very deep. On that plane there is no repentance, no sorrow, no questions. Whatever happens—we see it.
(The audio recording of the question is not clear.)
Gratitude means: gratitude to the Whole. Because this entire expanse—without it nothing is possible. We could not even breathe. If I am breathing, it is gratitude toward all the winds; gratitude toward the trees that create oxygen; gratitude toward the sky, the stars, the sun; gratitude toward all of you. By “God” I mean: the Whole—not Rama, not Krishna, not Buddha—no one in particular.
This vast spread of life, this expanse—without it we cannot exist even for a moment. Whatever we are, we are through This. Whatever happens through us, happens through Its cooperation—otherwise it would not happen. So gratitude is toward That.
And in the feeling of gratitude, the emphasis is not on whom we have thanked—that is irrelevant. We have kept the feeling of gratitude—that brings the benefit. Whether there is someone there or not is not the point. That is not what is valuable!
(The audio recording of the question is not clear.)
Witnessing is not something to be repeated; it is something to be kept. Since I am explaining, I say, “Keep the feeling: I am a witness.” In this there are two things.