Jevan Rahasya #4

If you have understood the meaning of witnessing, then whether it is through the knowledge-senses or through the action-senses, witnessing is possible. Witnessing means: whatever is happening—whether in thought or in action—at the very moment it is happening we can remain within, centered at a point of attention, a merely neutral onlooker.

Alexander was returning from India. As he was about to leave the frontier, he remembered: before coming to India he had asked people in Greece, “What shall I bring you from India?” There was wealth, property, gold, jewels—India was famous for many great things—people said, “Bring those.” A madman also said, “Bring back a sannyasin from India. Sannyasins are not to be found elsewhere; this creature is born only there. Bring one—it will be a strange thing; let us see what it is. What is a sannyasin?”

When Alexander was leaving with all his loot, at the border he thought, “One thing remains. People will ask for a sannyasin.” He told his soldiers, “Go, find out if there is a sannyasin nearby, and bring him.”

The soldiers went to a village and asked the elders. They were told there was a sannyasin outside the village. But the villagers added, “If you can catch him and take him, know that he is not a sannyasin. And if he is a sannyasin, taking him will be very difficult. Still, go and meet him.” The soldiers went, swords drawn. A naked fakir was standing by the river. “Is this the one? What strength has he? Tie him and take him!” they said. They addressed him: “There is a command from the great Alexander that you must come with us to Greece! We will give you wealth, honor, comfort; you will have no hardship there.”

The sannyasin laughed and said, “You don’t know how to talk to sannyasins. First: from the very day one becomes a sannyasin one stops obeying anyone’s command; otherwise sannyas has no meaning. Now I obey only my own command in this world, no one else’s. Second: you say you will give respect and comforts. The day one becomes a sannyasin means temptation has been dropped. You cannot influence me.”

The soldiers said, “Then remember: if you won’t be influenced by temptation, you will be influenced by punishment.”

The sannyasin laughed. “You don’t know—only the one who is influenced by temptation is influenced by punishment. Punishment is just the reverse form of temptation.”

The soldiers were astonished. “Then what shall we tell the great Alexander?”

“Go and tell him: a sannyasin walks by his own will and sits by his own will. No other will can be imposed upon him. No authority can be exercised over a sannyasin. Tell him: authority cannot be exercised over a sannyasin because a sannyasin, in truth, is not living. If one is alive, he can be frightened with, ‘We will kill you.’ So go, tell him that.”

Alexander himself came and said, “You are mistaken. If I command you—and even your whole land—to come, you will have to come. What is your worth? Do you see this sword? Your head can be severed.”

The sannyasin laughed and said, “If you sever the head, just as you will see the head fall, in exactly the same way I too will see the head falling. I too! Because neither are you this head, nor am I the head. So you will be a witness, and I will be a witness. This is how I am a witness. You can cut off the head, but that head will not be mine; I will remain the witness, looking on from behind—now the head is being cut, now the blow has landed, now the head has fallen.”

One can be a witness to the body, because inside, consciousness is separate and distinct. I raise this hand—at that moment an action is occurring: I have raised the hand. Ordinarily we only know that I am the doer of the hand’s raising. But look within: while I am raising the hand there is a consciousness inside that is seeing the hand being raised. When you are walking on the road there is someone within who is seeing that you are walking. When you are doing anything there is someone within who is seeing that you are doing something. Twenty-four hours a day there is a seeing point within you. But you are not aware of it.

Witnessing means: we gradually come to remember that point; its remembrance keeps returning; its awareness dawns. As awareness of that point grows, as awakening happens there, the coverings fall away; you will find that you are a witness to every action—even to sleep. When you fall asleep, within you one point still remains awake.

Have you noticed? You are asleep; your name is Ram. If someone outside shouts, “Vishnu! Vishnu!” you won’t notice. But if someone says, “Ram!” you will sit up. Even in sleep someone is hearing what your name is. Let another person’s name be called—you will sleep on. Let your name be called—you will wake even from sleep. A mother sleeps with her child—outside, engines may run, cars may pass, but if the child cries even a little, or stirs slightly, the mother immediately tends to him. Someone within is holding the thread of awareness. Sometimes at night, go to sleep after addressing yourself by name: your name is Ram, so say as you go to sleep, “Ram, wake up exactly at five o’clock.” You will be amazed—exactly at five, your sleep will break. Someone within you is awake who will wake you at five.

You will be astonished—experiments in hypnosis have established very wondrous things. If a person is hypnotized into trance and told, “After seventeen thousand minutes you will do such-and-such,” and then brought back to waking, he will remember nothing. Even awake, you cannot count off seventeen thousand minutes to know when that time will come. It was told to him in unconsciousness; on coming to consciousness he knows nothing of it. Yet exactly after seventeen thousand minutes, that person will do that very act. There is someone within who is awake, who keeps account down to the minute, who is aware of this.

Within us, at a certain point, there is a great witnessing point. And so, one whose witness has awakened sleeps at night and yet does not sleep; within him an awareness remains. The body sleeps; within, someone stays awake.

It is said of Buddha: ten thousand bhikshus always moved with him. They watched his rising, sitting, sleeping—everything. The monks were amazed: whichever side Buddha lay on, he remained on that side the whole night; he did not turn over. The leg he placed stayed where it was all night; he did not move it. The hand he placed remained where it was all night; he did not move it. Many wondered again and again: what is this? How does Buddha sleep the whole night in one posture, just so with the leg, just so with the hand? So his disciple Ananda one day asked, “Will you permit us to ask: all night even your leg does not tremble, your hand does not move; the posture in which you sleep remains the same?”

Buddha said, “I sleep mindfully.” Buddha said, “I sleep mindfully. The witnessing remains even then. Therefore, hands and feet cannot of themselves go here and there unless I choose, unless I want to change. Someone within me is awake and watching.”

Thus, in waking bodily actions witnessing can certainly be; even at the time of sleep it happens. But to the extent consciousness awakens, to that extent it will be so. Right now we have no witnessing. Right now we go on doing everything. Only after anger has come and gone do we realize that we became angry. When a man murders someone, seeing the fountains of blood he thinks, “What have I done!” There was no awareness when it was done. There was no awareness when anger happened. Therefore afterward we repent. After getting angry, the angry person repents: “What have I done! I did very badly!”

But it is a great wonder—where were you? When you did it, where were you? Then tomorrow—today he will repent; tomorrow he will be angry again, then repent again, saying, “This turned out very bad. How many times I resolve not to be angry, and still I don’t know what happens!”

In truth, what happens is: there is no awareness. So we make resolutions, and then unconsciousness seizes us. Resolution has no result; intention has no result. Intention can have no result until there is awakening within—awareness, witnessing.

Certainly, the feeling of the witness can be toward the actions of the body—toward any action. When you eat, eat with witnessing—watchfully; keep the awareness, “I am eating.” Let each step of the action be seen: the morsel is prepared, lifted, taken to the mouth; the water is lifted and drunk. Do each tiny point knowingly; let inner awareness remain, inner remembrance, wakefulness remain. Then there will be awakening in the body’s actions. There will be awakening in the mind’s actions too. And when in the actions of both body and mind there is awakening, you will continually experience a wondrous awakened state of consciousness. Right now we are like a house whose lamp is extinguished. Then we will be like a house whose lamp is lit. If there is witnessing, the lamp is lit. And when the lamp is lit within, sin dissolves from life.

Second question.

If the inner lamp of awareness is lit, then whatever actions happen are virtue. If the inner lamp is extinguished, then whatever actions happen are sin. Understand this! No act in itself is sin or virtue. Sin and virtue depend on the doer. No act is intrinsically sin or virtue. Generally we believe that acts are good or bad—this act is bad, that act is good. That is not the case.

A person whose inner lamp is out cannot truly do a good act—it is impossible. It may look as if he is doing good. He can imitate the actions of those whose lamps are lit. But even in imitation his motive will be contrary. If he builds a temple, it won’t be for the Divine; it will be for his own name or his father’s—he will get the name inscribed. If he gives charity, he will be anxious whether reporters are around or not, whether the news will be printed or not. That gift will not be love or compassion; it will be a display of ego. If he serves someone, that service will not be service; he will sing its praises himself and want others to sing them. He will declare, “I am a servant!” He will want people to acknowledge that he has served. Whatever he does—since the inner lamp is not lit—even if the deeds appear good, they will be sin. If the inner lamp is not lit, whatever happens can only be sin. For me, sin is a state of consciousness, not a classification of actions.

And if the inner lamp is lit, then whatever he does will be virtue. It may be that outwardly it does not look like virtue; but it will be virtue. It is impossible that sin should happen through one whose awareness is awakened. It cannot.

But we weigh and measure things at the level of conduct. As I said the other day, conduct is not of great value; the inner is what has value. The inner can be in a state of sin if it is filled with darkness; the inner is in a state of virtue if it is filled with light. A light-filled consciousness is in the state of virtue; a darkened consciousness is in the state of sin. These are not qualities of actions. They are not at all qualities of action. The qualities of an act decide nothing—because a person can be utterly wicked within and yet outwardly behave like a gentleman—for many reasons.

We who sit here may think, “We do not steal; so we are very virtuous.” But if today it were announced that the government has collapsed, there is no policeman at the crossroads, no courts remain, no constables, no law—then we would see how many people do not steal. You may think, “We do not steal, so we are doing a great virtuous deed.” Not stealing is not enough; the question is whether “stealing” is absent in the consciousness. If all convenience and full opportunity were granted to everyone, hardly anyone would be left who would not steal. Then this “non-stealing” is not virtue; it is fear, terror, anxiety, weakness, and many other things that prevent you from stealing. You have no opportunity; you are frightened, weak, afraid. To hide that fear—afraid of courts, afraid of hell—you say, “I do not steal; stealing is very bad. I do not do the bad work of stealing.”

Between you and the person who steals, the difference may only be of capacity and courage. He may simply be more daring—or perhaps undiscriminating! The undiscriminating often appear more daring, because they do not understand what they are doing or what the consequences will be; you keep calculating.

But if all the conveniences for stealing were present, all inner favorable conditions were present, and even then a person did not steal—that would be a very different matter, altogether different. If someone even proclaimed, “From now on thieves will not go to hell but to heaven; the divine law has changed,” if the scriptures said, “Now thieves will be sent to heaven”—and still a person did not steal. If it became known that thieves will not be punished but honored, that the president will award them and give them titles, and even God will now welcome them—and still a person did not steal. If it were said, “Whoever does not steal will be thrown into hell and roasted”—and still he could not steal—then understand that his consciousness has entered the state of non-stealing. Otherwise, his consciousness is not in the state of non-stealing. That is the whole point.

Take the India–Pakistan dispute, the partition. When the partition happened, neighbors who were “good people,” who went to temples and to mosques, began stabbing each other because the opportunity arose. Before that there was no chance, so they went to the mosque; once the chance arose, they took to stabbing. When there was no opportunity, they prayed in temples; when the opportunity came, they set houses on fire. Do you think they were different people when they were going to the temple yesterday? The man who stabbed was present then too; the circumstance was not there, so it had not surfaced—he was hidden. Today the circumstance made expression possible, so it surfaced. Yesterday it seemed that going to the temple was virtue; today it turns out he can cut down ten thousand Hindus, or set Muslims on fire. It is the same man.

In my village, when Hindu–Muslim riots broke out, I saw the very people we considered good, who read the Gita every morning, planning together how to kill Muslims. So I say: when they were reading the Gita, they were the very same people. They were reading the Gita outwardly; within, the impulse to cut and kill was present, hidden. The circumstance was absent. Then came the opportunity, a slogan arose—“Hindus and Muslims are at war.” A mere line printed in the newspaper—and the man changed! He began to think of arson! He is the same man; only the opportunity was missing. Now he had a pretext: to display his violence under the cover of a slogan—“I am a Hindu, Hinduism is in danger, finish the Muslim!” Now a pretext is in hand; now he can act on his violence.

Give them any pretext—Gujarati versus Marathi, Hindi speakers versus non-Hindi speakers—and they will start arson, start killing. All their religion, all their nonviolence, all their morality will be put aside. So the morality they lived by was utterly false and valueless. Their so-called nonviolence was hollow; it has no value. All these tendencies were hidden within them, waiting for their chance.

Give the world an opportunity, and this earth can become hell this very moment. You are fully prepared for hell. And yet you go to temples, give to charity, read scriptures, bow at the feet of the satguru. All that is there—and still, with one slogan, you can turn this place into hell at once. You can throttle the very person next to you with whom you have been sitting piously. So I hold that even when you are not throttling, you are in the condition to do it; otherwise how would the condition arise all of a sudden?

Sin is a condition; it is not an act. It is a state of mind. And as long as we take it to be about acts, there cannot be any great revolution in the world. Because acts appear now and then, and they appear with very fine excuses. They take up very fine pretexts and appear. That is why it has been possible that any devil, any regime, any politician, at any moment can plunge the world into war—because everyone is ready to commit sin, absolutely ready. Only the opportunity is missing. Any moment, any pretext—democracy, communism, India, Pakistan, Hindu, Muslim—any slogan; just a spark is needed, and you can fill the world with sin. Then you can slaughter millions—and enjoy it.

These are the same people who strain water before drinking it; they are pleased to read the news that such-and-such village in Pakistan has been destroyed—or such-and-such village in India. The very person who says his namaz daily is happy that it happened. I cannot understand how the man who strains water, who, on reading the paper, refuses to eat at night, can read that so many Pakistanis have died and think, “Very good.” Is this man nonviolent? His straining of water is deceit, dishonesty. His not eating at night is hollow talk. It has no meaning or value. The state of his mind is sinful. Whatever he does in terms of acts, the state of his consciousness is sinful.

Hence the world can be thrown into any earthquake at any time, into any upheaval. People’s actions look very good, but their state of mind is only skin-deep—peel off a little skin and inside sin is present. And yet they are doing very fine deeds.

Tolstoy wrote: One morning I went to church. It was dark; winter, snowing; no one was there. I went in. Another man was there, making confession before God. He didn’t know anyone else was in the darkness; otherwise he would not have confessed. There he was saying, “O Heavenly Father, I am a very bad man; many sins arise in my mind; forgive me! The impulse to steal arises, the desire for another’s wife arises, the tendency to usurp another’s wealth arises; forgive me!” He did not know someone else was standing there. He came out of the church; Tolstoy followed behind him. When they reached the marketplace, dawn had come, people were moving about; Tolstoy shouted, “O sinner, thief, stand there!”

The man said, “Hey! Who calls me sinner and thief?”

Tolstoy said, “I was in the church; I heard you.”

The man said, “If you say that again I will sue you in court for defamation. I am a highly respected person in this town. What I said, I said before God, not before you.”

Tolstoy said, “I thought you had accepted that you are a sinner, a thief. But you are not ready to accept. You will file a case?”

This is the condition of our minds. Within, it is hidden; and outwardly, if someone calls us a thief, we will take him to court and complain, “How dare you say that to me!” Our actions, our outer covering, have no value. The value lies in the inner. The talk is of the revolution of the inner.

So I hold that sin and virtue are not in actions; sin and virtue are states of consciousness. If a person’s consciousness is in a state of sin, in darkness, then whatever he does—however much he strains his water, however many times he strains it—his violence will not be erased. Whether he eats at night or not, fasts or not, worships or not, prays or not—whatever he does, a hundred thousand times—if within, the state of consciousness is dark, all his doing will be sinful. The inner state of sin will remain. It cannot go in any other way.

A direct blow is needed by other means so that change happens within, darkness dissolves and light comes. Then his actions will be transformed. Then it may happen that he eats at night and yet is nonviolent; it may happen that he drinks water without straining it and yet is nonviolent. It is a matter of inner transformation—there the change must occur. Then the actions of life naturally begin to be right; they do not have to be corrected. They start becoming right on their own. As soon as the inner light begins to dawn, the darkness around action starts falling away, and actions become virtue.

I believe you will understand me. The act is not valuable; the inner state is valuable. And we are considering the path by which the inner state is changed. But keep this vision in mind. Do not blame actions; the blame always lies with the person within. But we create delusion for ourselves. We think: What is the harm? If a little sin happens, we will do a little virtue too!

This is impossible. It is not possible that you say, “Let it be—if we commit this much sin, we will do one or two virtuous deeds too; something will be entered on the other side of the ledger.” Impossible. Either there is sin, or there is no sin. There is no middle state. It is not possible to do a little sin and a little not; it cannot be. Because the consciousness is indivisible; it has no compartments. It is not that half the mind is filled with sin, half with virtue—there is no such partition. Consciousness is one. Therefore, from the unified consciousness out of which a little sin is arising, virtue can never arise in any situation. That consciousness is sinful. And if virtue begins to arise from it, then sin cannot arise from it.

My view is like this: when you light a lamp, it cannot be that a little darkness is coming from it and a little light as well. It cannot be. Either light will come, or if the flame is extinguished, only darkness will come.

Do not stay in the illusion that you can keep doing a little here and there. There is no “little.” A total transformation is needed; there is no such thing as a little bit. It creates delusion, deception. In the same way, the world’s murderers, the dishonest, the exploiters keep accumulating wealth—and give a little charity too, thinking that this will make for merit.

Let no one remain in this delusion! To accumulate wealth is such a great sin that no amount of charity can create virtue. Hoarding wealth is a very great sin, very deep, at the very root—and no charity can create virtue from it. However much someone is called a great donor, do not be deceived; all that calling someone a “great donor,” all that praise—“he donated so much, he donated so much”—these are tricks to extract donations. Those labels and praises are techniques to empty your pocket. But do not fall into the delusion that you will become charitable. Your entire tendency is toward accumulation. Out of a tendency of accumulation, charity cannot arise. And if something like it does happen, there will certainly be a motive behind it—“Give a little; if God exists, he will take note. If there is a heaven, perhaps I will get a higher seat.” There will be some hidden calculation. Because it is impossible that one and the same person is killing people on one side and building hospitals on the other. Impossible! It means the person is utterly confused; he does not know what he is doing. It cannot be. It is absolutely impossible that both things keep happening together through the same person. One of the two will be false—only a covering.

But we keep deceiving ourselves, because it gives us a little comfort. No one wants to consider himself a sinner. To accept oneself as a sinner brings great self-reproach. So we do a few works that people call virtue; then we escape our self-reproach. The self-reproach eases a little; it feels as if, after all, we too do some virtue; no worry, we do a little—someday we will increase it; gradually we will do more and more virtue. No one wants to see his own image utterly dark, completely blackened. We want a little white to show somewhere. To show that little white, we do a few things which we call virtue.

All this is false. Until there is a radical revolution in our consciousness, no real change is possible. Either there is sin, or there is virtue. Sin and virtue cannot exist together in the same person.

This is my vision. This is my understanding. This is how it appears to me—that the coexistence is impossible, absolutely impossible. Yes: if a person’s inner being becomes illumined, then sin is impossible for him—utterly impossible. If it even appears to you that something sinful has happened, you are mistaken; from such a person sin cannot happen.

Let me tell a short story, and then I will complete this discussion, and we will sit for the night’s meditation.

Outside a small village a monk was staying. He was young, very handsome, very talented, very impactful. The villagers honored him, loved him, respected him—everyone did.

One day suddenly the whole wind changed. A girl in the village had a child, and she said it was the monk’s child. The entire village turned. Respect turns into disrespect very quickly—because behind those who give respect, the preparation for disrespect is complete; if the chance comes, they will immediately disrespect. So when someone shows you respect, be very alert—he is also preparing for disrespect at any moment. Because the reasons for respect are very subtle; if even slightly different reasons appear, everything will go wrong. Therefore one must always be wary of those who give respect; they can also dishonor.

The whole village turned. They fell upon his hut and set it on fire. He was sitting outside in the morning, taking the sun. It was cold. He asked, “What is the matter?”

They threw the baby onto him and said, “You ask what the matter is? Recognize—this is your child!”

He said, “Is it so? Is that so? The child is mine?” He looked at the baby carefully, held him to his shoulder. The child was crying; he comforted him. The villagers hurled abuses and went away.

Then the monk went begging. Until yesterday the big people came and said, “Set your feet in our house and it will become purified,” and those very people shut their doors. He stood at the door asking for two pieces of bread; those very doors that said, “If your feet fall here, our home will be purified,” now were shut. “Move on! Never cast your shadow on this threshold again.” Behind him, children and people gathered, abusing him, throwing stones.

He came to the door of the house whose daughter’s child it was. He called out, “It may be my fault to be his father—but in his being my son he can have no fault. It may be my mistake that I am his father, but he has no mistake. At least let him have some milk.”

The girl was standing at the door. Her life trembled! Seeing the fakir surrounded by the crowd, being pelted with stones—he shielding the child, blood flowing from his forehead—the truth became difficult to hide. She caught her father’s feet and said, “Forgive me. I do not even know this fakir. To save the real father, I falsely took this fakir’s name.”

Her father fell at the monk’s feet, tried to snatch the child, and said, “Forgive us.”

The monk asked, “But what is the matter? Why are you snatching the child?”

The girl’s father said, “How naive you are! Why didn’t you say in the morning that the child is not yours? Leave him; he is not yours. We made a mistake.”

The monk said, “Is it so? The child is not mine? But in the morning you were saying he is mine. And the crowd never lies. Now you say he is not mine—then he will not be.”

People said, “How mad you are! Why didn’t you say in the morning that the child was not yours? Why were you willing to endure such condemnation and insult?”

The monk said, “I have never bothered about what you think—whether you respect or disrespect, whether you offer reverence or abuse. I have stopped looking into your eyes. Should I look into myself or into your eyes? And as long as I looked into your eyes, it was difficult to look into myself. Your gaze changes every moment, and each person’s gaze is different—these are a thousand mirrors; into which should I look? I began to look within. Now I do not care what you say. If you say the child is mine, fine—then he is mine. He must be someone’s—mine will do. Now you say he is not. As you wish—then he is not mine. But I have stopped looking into your eyes.

“And I say this to you as well: when will the day come when you will stop looking into the eyes of others and begin to look into your own?”