Jevan Rahasya #1

This question is precious and very important. Important because as long as any kind of greed exists, no one can truly engage in God-realization—even if the greed is for God-realization. A mind filled with greed is restless. Where greed is, the mind is restless. And as long as the mind is restless, what relationship can there be with God?

What does greed mean?
Greed means that what I am is not satisfying; something else should be. Whether that “something else” is wealth, health, fame, pleasure, or God—it makes no difference. Greed means a tension, a strain: not what I am, but what I should be. What I am is present; what I should be is tomorrow. So I am stretched toward tomorrow. This stretched mind is a greedy mind. Therefore all kinds of greed, all kinds of craving, create unrest. And where there is unrest, how can there be God-realization?

There is simply no way for a restless mind to relate to God. Restlessness itself is the barrier. Yet we ask for some lure, because our mind understands only the language of lures—the language of greed. We run for wealth, we run for fame. Then, tired of all that, we ask: how do we run for God?

Understand this: you can run only toward that which is away from you. But that which is within you cannot be reached by running. Try to run and you will miss.

Some things can indeed be attained by running, because they are not our nature, they are separate from us. If you want wealth, you will have to run. Fame requires running.

Curiously, in the realm of money, greed seems natural—because without greed you cannot get money; without running, how will money come? Money is somewhere else; you are elsewhere; you must run, and even then there is no guarantee you will arrive.

But God is not far—not even an inch away. If there were even an inch of distance, we could run that inch. There is not even an inch. We stand where God is. We are that which He is. Where will you run? Where will you search? You can search for what has been lost. If it has never been lost, to go searching is only to go astray.

I’ve heard: A man got drunk and passed out at night. Out of habit his legs brought him home, but he was unconscious and didn’t recognize the house. Standing on the steps, he asked the neighbors, “I’ve forgotten my home—please tell me where it is.” They said, “This is your home.” He said, “Don’t mislead me. My old mother must be waiting. Please, someone take me home.” Hearing the commotion, his old mother opened the door, saw her son crying, “Take me to my home.” She placed her hand on his head: “Son, this is your home, and I am your mother.” He said, “Old woman, my mother is just like you. She must be waiting. Show me the way. Everyone’s laughing; no one tells me my way home. Where shall I go? How will I find my home?”

A companion who had been drinking with him said, “Wait, I’ll bring a bullock cart and take you home.” People said, “Are you mad? Don’t sit in his cart—you’ll go farther away, because you’re standing at home. You don’t need to go anywhere; you only need to wake up. Do not sit in anyone’s cart. The more you search, the farther you will go.”

We are all standing exactly where we need not go anywhere.

But our mind knows only one language—going, running, craving, getting, searching, achieving. The mind that understands the language of getting, reaching, seeking—that mind is called “householder.” “Householder” has nothing to do with social status; it names the mind that understands only the language of acquisition and achievement. The one who drops that language and understands “I am already arrived, already attained”—that one is a sannyasin, a renunciate. And if even a renunciate speaks of reaching and attaining God, he is still a householder—maybe the clothes have changed, but if he says “I have to attain God,” he remains a householder; he has not yet learned what sannyas means.

To be a sannyasin means: there is nothing to attain. Whatever is to be attained is already attained. Greed has no place because that which you would desire sits within you. If you desire, you will be distracted from within and wander away. It is the same greed that is leading you astray.

Often a householder becomes a renunciate out of greed. He says, “I didn’t find joy in family life; I’ll find it in renunciation. I didn’t find God in the world; without God I cannot live, so I’ll renounce.” But his language remains the language of the householder. He hasn’t stepped outside the householder’s mental framework; he has merely shifted to a new strategy—worship, prayer, mantra, austerity—still all efforts to get. But what is already attained cannot be rightly “gotten.” It is not to be attained but to be known. Understand this difference: it is to be known, not acquired. It is already with you—like something lying in your pocket that you’ve forgotten while searching everywhere else.

All search for truth, for God, for bliss—futile. Do not search, not even for a moment. If for a single instant all seeking stops, all greed ceases, the mind’s traffic halts.

You say your mind wanders here, there, everywhere. It will wander as long as there is greed; it goes wherever it sees a lure. It won’t settle where it needs to—within—because there it sees nothing to gain. What will you get inside? All the “gains” appear outside—big houses, piles of money; even God is imagined far away in the sky. Inside, nothing appears to be gained. So the mind goes everywhere and leaves only one place—the one place that matters.

I’ve heard a story: God created the world and then made man. He became troubled—humans arrived with complaints, questions, problems. He told the gods, “I’ll get no sleep, no peace. Find a way to save me from man.” One god said, “Sit on the Himalayas.” God said, “How long? Sooner or later some Hillary, some Tenzing will climb.” Another said, “Sit on the moon.” “Not far either; man will get there too.” They suggested distant stars. “No,” he said, “that won’t work. Tell me a place man will never reach.” An old god said, “Then there’s only one place: sit inside man. He will go to the moon but never within.” And God agreed.

It’s a story—but the truth is the same. Greed drives us outward—into distance, into the future. The God you speak of is here, now—this very moment. Not tomorrow or the day after; not in the future. Here, now, in you, as you.

The one who asks, “Where should I search?”—that itself is the one to be known. To know that one requires no lure, no greed, no running, no search, no method, no effort. It requires effortlessness—the dropping of all efforts, the ending of all running, the nullifying of greed, becoming zero. Then where will you go? What will you do? You will simply be where you are. Nothing is needed there; if you “do,” you miss.

Therefore there is no way, no technique, no method, no path to attain That. No guru can take you there, no support can carry you. The day these illusions drop, that day you will find it attained.

So don’t ask me for a lure. I cannot tell you, “There you will find bliss; you will be liberated; you will become immortal.” These lures hook our mind because we fear death, we fear suffering, we fear life slipping away—so we want assurances. We start running—and it is precisely because we run that we cannot arrive.

If this contradiction is seen, the language of running will drop. Then the language of stopping. Not the thought of escaping, but of abiding. Not “What will I get there?” Rather: know it because you are there—whether anything is gained or not. Know the place where you already are, otherwise life may run entirely opposite to what you truly are.

There are only two kinds of possibilities:
- Some things can be obtained by trying.
- Some things can be lost by trying.

For example, if you can’t sleep at night and you “try” to bring sleep—count, chant, get up, wash your feet, change sides—you say, “Without effort how will sleep come?” Then sleep will not come all night, because every effort obstructs sleep. Sleep is rest—effortlessness. Try, and you invert it. If sleep doesn’t come, stop trying; lie quietly. Drop the very idea of bringing sleep. Then sleep may come. If you try, you go farther away.

Some things come; we cannot bring them. God is the ultimate of such things—He comes; we cannot bring Him.

You’ll ask, “Then should we do nothing?” That’s not what I’m saying.

The sun rises; your door is closed. The light cannot enter; it will remain at the threshold. You cannot wrap sunlight in a bundle and carry it in. At most, open the door, sit in readiness—remove your side of the obstacle. Positively, you can do nothing to bring the sun in; negatively, you can ensure no hindrance remains. You can open doors and windows and wait.

The sun will come; you cannot make it come. But you can prevent it. Understand this well. You cannot bring the sun, but you can stop it. If you stop it, it will not enter. Remove your obstruction—the door closed from your side—and it enters. Even then you cannot say, “I brought it.” If you say that, you err.

Thus the one who “attains” God cannot even say, “I attained.” He can only say, “His grace.” Not “I got,” but “It was given—His prasad, His grace, His compassion.” Ego cannot function there, because ego functions only where our effort succeeds. Where no effort of ours can succeed, ego has no foothold. At most, we can say, “I did not obstruct. I was ready. My door was open.” He came; we did not bring Him.

Understand this. My fist is clenched tight and I ask, “How do I open it? What effort should I make?” No one teaches you how to “open” the fist; they simply say, “Don’t keep clenching.” Stop doing what you do to clench, and it opens. Opening isn’t an act; clenching is. Opening happens when you cease the act. The open state is the fist’s nature; clenching requires your effort.

Nature means what happens without our doing. Contrivance means what happens by our doing. God is our nature, so He does not happen by doing. But by doing we can lose Him; by devices we can block Him.

We say, “I open my fist.” In truth, “opening” is a misnomer. Opening is not an act; clenching is the act. In opening, there is non-action—you simply stop clenching, and the fist is open.

If you grasp this, then you won’t search for God; you will understand how you lost Him—by what tricks, what devices you raised walls and doors, making it hard to meet That which is inseparable from you.

So the question is not “How do I attain?” but “How did I lose?”

Do you see the difference? Once this is understood, the entire complexion of practice changes.

Ask: By what device did I become distant from That from which no distance is possible? By what trick have I kept the sun outside? How am I living in darkness? Which doors have I shut, which locks have I fastened?

We ordinarily ask, “How to attain God?” That question is wrong. Ask, “How did we lose God? How have we lost Him?” To lose God is to lose oneself. How did we lose ourselves? How did the impossible become possible—that we don’t know who we are? Can anything be more miraculous?

I am, I even know that I am, and yet I don’t know who I am. If there is any miracle, it is not magic tricks—it is this: we are, we know we are, and yet we don’t know who we are, where from, where to. This is the miracle. Understand how this became possible, and then it is not difficult to stop clenching the fist; it opens.

The mind has certain tricks. The first: it never lets you live in the present. Never! You are never here-now. You are always in the past—which is gone—or in the future—which has not yet come. You are never in what is. The mind keeps you missing the present. Miss the present and the door closes, because the present is the door—to truth, to existence.

Understand that in existence there is neither past nor future; existence is eternally present. You cannot use the past or future tense for God. You cannot say “God was” or “God will be.” You can only say “God is.” Strictly speaking, even “is” is inadequate, because we say “is” of things that also “are not.” We say, “The table is,” because it may not be tomorrow. God is is-ness—the very beingness itself.

He is eternally present; never past or future. And we are never present. The door is closed.

I’ve heard a story: A blind man is confined in a palace with thousands of doors. All are closed except one. He feels each door: closed, closed, closed. He comes to the open door—but feels an itch, scratches his head, and misses it. He moves on, checks more doors—closed, closed—gets tired, skips a few, again misses the open door. The story says he keeps missing the one open door.

Whether or not the story is literally true, we continually miss the door of the present. Only that door is open. It is very narrow: at any instant only a hair’s breadth of the moment is in your hand—less than a thousandth of a second. That fine line is existence. We miss it because the mind thinks of the past or the future.

So I am telling you how you miss. I’m not telling you how to get. I am saying: this is how you miss. To the blind man I would say: you scratched your head and missed; you got bored and skipped a few doors—don’t do that again.

To be in the present is to stand at the door.

It has never happened that one who stood in the present was deprived of God even for a moment—never.

Bringing the mind into the present is meditation, samadhi. Keeping it wandering away from the present is restlessness and trouble. Why do we miss the present? Greed makes us miss—greed always speaks of the future. Whatever is to be “got” cannot be got now. So greed speaks the language of tomorrow.

And ego makes us miss—the ego speaks of the past: what I have done, achieved, possessed—that is past. Ego claims, “I am the son of so-and-so,” “I have so many crores,” “I sat on such a high chair.” The sense of being “somebody” arises from the past; it is the heap we have accumulated. Ego pulls us backward; greed pulls us forward. Look closely: they are two halves of one thing. Fulfilled greed becomes ego; greed to be fulfilled is future ego.

The whole accumulation of greed is ego; it makes you wander in the past.

So the old will be past-centered, because the future shows death; there is less scope for greed, so he looks backward—memories of youth. Children and youth are future-centered; their ego is unformed and waits to be; they live in greed. As we age, ego grows hard—hence irritability and anger.

Understand: ego pulls to the past, greed to the future—two halves of one thing. Dead greed is called ego; unborn ego is called greed. And because of this, we miss the present where truth is. Greed is cunning: when it exhausts all other objects, it says, “Now attain God.” Ego is cunning, with endless ambitions: after wealth, fame, love, respect—“Now God, now immortality, bliss, liberation.” Then it thinks of moksha in the language of greed.

Missed again. He doesn’t see this very language has always made him miss.

He may change his outer habits—temple instead of tavern, bhajans instead of films—but his inner tension of greed and ego continues, and with it the missing.

So how can I tell you what to crave? I will tell you: understand greed—it makes you miss. Understand ego—it makes you miss. Understand that past and future make you miss; the present unites—you with existence.

If even for a single moment you can be where you can say, “I have no past, no future—only I am,” in that very moment you enter God. In an instant. It is not a matter of lifetimes. Yes, missing can last lifetimes. The door may be shut for years, and light won’t enter. But it cannot happen that the door opens and light delays even for a moment. Light never delays; it has been knocking all along. You kept the door closed.

So a man may live all his life in darkness with the door closed, but it is impossible that he open it even for a moment and still live in darkness. Nor can anyone say, “Because my door was closed for so long, how can light come in an instant?” It does.

Those who say “karmas of many lifetimes” speak in ignorance. The sins of a thousand lifetimes cannot stop one who stands in the present from God. What was “sin”? Only this: you were not present; you ran into past or future.

A room may have been dark for a thousand years; light the lamp and darkness cannot say, “I am a thousand years old; I won’t leave so quickly. Keep the lamp lit for a thousand years.” Darkness has no layers. One flame ends it.

Sin has no layers either; it is darkness, ignorance. Only one thing matters: standing where the door opens.

Yes, there is habit, not layers. One who has lived long in darkness may open the door and light will rush in immediately—but his eyes may shut. Habits can be unlearned. Slowly the eyes adjust; sometimes they close, sometimes open; gradually the fear of light fades.

The experience of God happens in a moment. To bear God may take a little time. Such power, such vast light descends; sometimes we tremble, even turn back. Bliss too, descending suddenly, can shake the life within.

The door to attainment is standing in the present.

Therefore begin a small practice in this direction. For fifteen to thirty minutes a day, close the door, sit silently in the dark, and do nothing. Do nothing; just sit.

In speech it feels as if “sitting” is also doing, as “opening the fist” seems like doing. In truth, sitting means: do not do what you usually do. Sit silently, like a dry leaf fallen from the tree—if the winds take it east, it goes east; if west, then west; if not, it rests on the ground. Do not go anywhere by your own will.

Understand this image of the dry leaf: no wish, nowhere to reach, nothing to become. Surrendered to the winds.

This does not mean nothing will happen. Thoughts will arise—consider them gusts of wind, no more. Let them go here or there. Neither restrain nor follow. Do no work at all—neither to carry them nor to stop them. Be only a witness. Whatever is happening is happening by God’s will. If “bad” thoughts arise, they arise; if “good,” they arise. We have nothing to do with good or bad. We are not deciding, not choosing. We are nobody—only sitting.

This is difficult, because the “religious” training is: drop bad thoughts, cultivate good thoughts. Then you are back to doing, entangled again. You cannot be present, because you must remove what is now and bring what is future.

In meditation one does not even think of good and bad. One does not think. Whatever comes, one silently watches. Like a man watching the road—good people, bad people—he just watches.

For half an hour, quietly watch. Do not block, because blocking is your act. Do not do—do not chant even Ram-Ram, because that too is your act.

Do nothing at all from your side; be utterly empty. Whatever appears on the screen of the mind, let it pass. Do not interfere. Remain uninvolved—just see.

It will be hard, because our habit is to get entangled with everything. Silence will be hard. Silence does not mean absence of thoughts; it means you are silent while thoughts move—like a film on a screen. The brain has its projector; the film runs. Understand it like that.

Difficult today, difficult tomorrow; the day after, not so difficult—if you persist and don’t jump up, “Oh, a bad thought—get rid of it!” The witness has nothing to do with good or bad. Thorns have the same worth as flowers. We label; the witness does not.

Soon, an amazing thing begins: now and then a gap appears—an interval. A thought comes, then the next does not; a space remains. In that empty space, the first glimpses begin. In that emptiness, even you are not—there is only emptiness. That is the door. Keep at it, and thoughts lessen; spaces grow.

It’s like a road where a person passes, then for an hour no one—emptiness. A thought appears on the screen, then none for a long while; the screen is blank. From that blankness, your first contacts with God begin—because in that moment you are present. Thought can take you to past or future; where there is no thought, you cannot go anywhere—you remain where you are. Thoughtless, you are in the present.

But do not try to be thoughtless, otherwise you will never be thoughtless. Just watch thoughts; they leave by themselves. Proportionately: the more witnessing, the fewer thoughts. The day you are totally awake within, thoughts are gone. Where thought is absent and awareness is total, where are you? You are exactly where you are—standing at the door where union happens.

Therefore, do not understand this in the language of greed. Bliss will come, but do not make bliss the goal. Immortality will be, but do not strive for it. God-realization will happen, but you cannot “do” God-realization. Grasp this subtle difference. It will happen, but it cannot be done. The doer—ego—cannot function there. Hence I said: greed and temptation have not even an inch of scope in this direction.

“But one must make effort, sir, mustn’t one?”
No. That’s what I am explaining.
No effort at all.

“Then just surrender?”
Utter surrender. Because if you “do” effort, surrender cannot happen. Surrender means: What can “I” do?

(Question audio unclear.)
Understand it however you like.

“That I hand myself over to you?”
To whose “you”? You don’t even know yourself yet. And saying “I hand over” is again an act; tomorrow you may say, “I take it back.” What can he do?

“So become zero?”
Yes, that’s what I am saying. Even “I surrender” is still your act; you are the doer. My point is: you cannot surrender; you can only be surrendered.

(Question audio unclear.)
Yes, you see? If that subtle distance isn’t seen, mistake will continue.

We cannot do surrender. If we do it, we can undo it. (Question audio unclear.) The difficulty is, we try to understand Krishna in the language of doing.

In truth, surrender means: you do nothing. When you do nothing, surrender happens. Surrender cannot be done. Do nothing, and surrender happens as the ultimate fruit of non-doing. If you “do” surrender, you miss. If “I will surrender” arises, ego has returned—and all is spoiled. Then how will surrender be? Understand: I am surrendered; I have always been surrendered. Consider this: have you ever “taken” a breath? We say, “I breathe,” but breath only comes and goes. If you took it, when death comes you would say, “Wait, I’ll continue breathing.” But when death arrives, the breath that has gone out does not return.

We say all our life, “I breathe.” It’s a mistaken way of speaking. Have I ever truly taken a breath? It has just happened. I am not born, nor will I die—birth happened, death will happen; breath came and went; thoughts came; life happened. We did nothing. If this dawns—that all happens without me—then what can I do? I do nothing; whatever happens, happens.

In that state, surrender happens; you don’t do it. And when it happens, you cannot take it back—because you didn’t do it.

In America there is an art movement called “happening.” At exhibitions, beside each painting they place a blank canvas with paints and brushes. Viewers look around; if suddenly someone feels it “happening,” he picks up the brush and paints. The point is: don’t paint from your side; if it happens, let it happen. Those are called “happening” paintings—no one’s name is on them; they occurred.

Among Christians there is a sect, the Quakers. In their meetings no one is invited to speak. They gather and sit. The rule: if someone feels moved to speak, they stand and speak; others listen and quietly disperse. Many times months pass and no one speaks—because the rule is, don’t speak from your side. If you even feel “I am speaking,” don’t speak—it’s a sin. If someday you feel, “God is speaking; I am not,” then stand and speak; we will listen and depart. The recorded talks are wondrous—because then it is not a man speaking; it is a happening. One must wait for it.

So sit and be empty; let whatever happens, happen. Outside there will be the dog’s bark, horns, children—let them come. Thoughts will move—let them. Emotions will rise—let them. You do not be the doer. Be the witness. See: this is happening, that is happening. Keep seeing.

In that very seeing, a moment comes when suddenly nothing is happening; all is still. That moment is not brought by you. In that moment, surrender has already happened and you are at the temple you could never have reached by searching. The temple is before you; the door is open. The God for whom you thought a thousand times “I must meet, I must meet,” and didn’t—without thinking He is present, you have met. The bliss for which you tried a thousand methods and never received a drop—now it is raining unceasingly. The music for which your soul was thirsty now resounds on all sides and doesn’t cease.

This event happens; it cannot be made to happen by you. Therefore, remove yourself and let the happening happen. Step aside; do not stand in the way. This I call the spirit of devotion, or the seeker’s endeavor. Strictly speaking, it is not an endeavor—but language leaves us no other way to say it.