Jevan Rahasya #7

There isn’t all that much to “understand” here. Even that the human body comes from the monkey—how do you understand that? It seems understandable only because Darwin worked very hard to explain that the human body is simply a further link in the chain of bodily evolution that includes the monkey. This body has evolved from that. But that is only half the story. If man were only body, the matter would end there. But if man is also soul—as he is—then what kind of evolutionary journey has the soul been on?

In nature, evolution is going on at many levels, in many ways. Just as the body’s link is connected to the monkey, if we try to enter a person’s past lives—if we try to know your previous lives—it is a very astonishing experience that if ten or a dozen people are led into the memory of their past births, ten or so births may indeed be human; but if one turns the pages of memory further back, the last link found is the cow. That is, if one helps you remember, perhaps your last ten births were human; but the eleventh will turn out to be a cow. If anyone’s past-life memory is excavated, the birth just before becoming human will be as a cow. This is the soul’s lineage—not the body’s. The body’s chain has come from the monkey. But if we investigate which animal womb an individual soul passes through before becoming human, I say that, before becoming human, the soul passes through the cow’s species. And since, in this field, no great work has been done—nothing like Darwin did for the body—there’s much scope for research. If we try to take ten to twenty-five people into their past lives, the point at which their human series begins will be found to start after the cow. Hence there is a certain spiritual closeness to the cow—that’s what I meant by gau mata.

There is also a closeness to the monkey—from the bodily chain. Which means: before a human is born, the soul that was evolving through the journey of the cow, and the body that was evolving through the journey of the monkey, both are utilized to make a human being—the monkey’s body and the cow’s soul.

“This doesn’t make sense.”
It isn’t a matter of intellectual understanding at all. It’s a matter of experiment. If you try to awaken the memory of past lives, it becomes understandable.

“Have you done the experiment?”
Yes—that’s why I say it; otherwise how could I?

“Tell us about the experiment you did—perhaps that will help us understand.”
Even that won’t help much. It only makes sense when you yourself are led into the experiment.

As far as the soul is concerned, nothing can really be understood without experimentation. One can say “It is so, it is like this,” but words change nothing. Someone must feel a genuine curiosity. That’s why, just as I conduct meditation camps, I slowly awaken curiosity in a few people: those who wish to travel into the memory of past lives—we will arrange separate camps for them. Let twenty-five people live with me for twenty-one days; we’ll try to take them into the journey of past lives. If you work with twenty-one people, five to seven will go deep. Only then can it be understood where our previous link is connected. Otherwise, it won’t be understood.

And the difficulty is that hardly anyone is prepared for deep experiments. Because deep experiments are also dangerous. If the memory of past lives returns, you can never again be the person you were before that memory—never! It becomes impossible. Your whole, total personality changes instantly. You may find that if you are deeply in love with your wife, you have loved many such wives many times—and found no essential meaning. After that, you cannot love this wife in the same way you did before. That becomes impossible; that story ends. If you are dying for your son—wanting to make him this or that—and you recover the memory of five lives and see you’ve already labored over many such sons, all of which proved futile, and you died anyway—then the madness you have for this son will suddenly become feeble.

Buddha and Mahavira both led their seekers into past lives. If one understands carefully, their greatest gift is not nonviolence and the like—nonviolence had long been around. Their most precious gift is jati-smaran, the method by which a person can be made to remember his previous births. And the hundreds of thousands who became monks and renunciates did not do so through doctrine. The moment past-life memory arose, everything seemed meaningless; nothing remained worthwhile except renunciation. The reason so many became renunciates at once was not that Mahavira explained “Renunciation leads to liberation.” The whole reason was simply that, when their memory was stirred, they felt: we’ve done all this so many times—there is no essence in it, none at all. This wheel has turned again and again; it has no meaning. Then the idea arises to do something else.

That is what I want. I say these things to stir such a longing in you. But nothing will come of mere intellectual curiosity. The curiosity should ripen to the point that some people are ready to experiment. And now I want that even our meditation camps should no longer be general camps where anyone can come. Either we divide the camps—general camps open to all—and then deeper camps for those who have the courage to go deep and are ready to stake their whole energy.

I maintain that with twenty-one days of deep experiment you can become an entirely different person; your whole life can be transformed. What you used to think will fall away; what you used to live will fall away; and you will never again be able to return to what you were.

But with intellectual curiosity nothing much will be resolved. Because whatever you ask, I will say something; that will raise ten more questions; and the matter will keep circling there. It leads nowhere.

Yes—of the past, of the past indeed. But if it occurs to you what all you did in the past, how many times you did it, then a fundamental difference will arise in what you are doing today. If it becomes clear that I have earned wealth many times—again and again—and found nothing in it, then today’s race to earn money will at once grow faint. Its force will drain away. The difference will be basic, immediate. If it becomes clear to you that this body has been had many times and each time it perished, then living centered around the body has no meaning—the body will perish again. So the center of my living should not be the body, because the body comes many times and dies, and nothing really changes. For the first time, the center of your living will become the soul, not the body.

Yes, it is of the past. But the remembrance will make it clear that what you are doing now is like the labor of a bullock at the oil press—done countless times already. If you succeeded, you still attained nothing; if you failed, you still lost nothing. If this is seen, success and failure lose all value. Then we will not be able to go on doing the same thing again, will we!

In one past life I gathered a million rupees—and then I died. In this life I am again busy gathering a million. It will become clear that even if I gather a million, again I will die. So should I waste my life in the race to gather millions? Or should I think of earning something else?

And it is nature’s device that it keeps the memories of your past births completely suppressed. And rightly so; otherwise you would go mad. If memory came back without cause, you would be in trouble. So only the one who musters courage and searches comes to know; otherwise not.

All the memories—however many births there have been, and each person has had hundreds of thousands—none of them are lost; they are all present within you. One has to search for them in deeper layers. As it is, ordinarily, we even forget what you did eight years ago.

I used to experiment for a long time with a girl, for her past-life recollection. If I were to ask you what you did on the first of January, 1951, you would not be able to tell anything. You know there was a first of January, and 1951 occurred—that much you know. It is not a matter of a past life; it is of this very life. But what did you do from morning to evening on the first of January, 1951? There is no memory at all. Whether the first of January, 1951 even happened—it's all as good as gone. But if you are hypnotically put into a trance and prompted to remember, you will report the first of January, 1951 as if it is passing before your eyes right now. You will report the whole day: this happened—I got up in the morning—this happened—this is what I had for breakfast—it didn’t taste good—there was too much salt in the dal—the entire day you will report. My difficulty then was how to tally whether this truly happened or is only a dream.

So I began to keep notes. For a whole day, from morning to evening, I would note what was happening—whom she abused, with whom she quarreled, upon whom she became angry—I made ten or fifteen notes for the day. Three years later I put her into trance and asked about that day. She reported exactly in a way that left nothing unaccounted. The things I had noted were, of course, reported; and those I could not note—because a thousand events happen in a day—those too were all reported.

So even of this life only a very workable, minimal memory remains with us; the rest is pressed below. Even here, the painful memories are immediately repressed; the mind pushes them down, and it keeps the pleasant ones above. That is why the time gone by seems good to us.

An old person says, “Childhood was very good.” There is no other reason: whatever painful memories of childhood there were, the mind pushes them down; the few pleasant ones, it keeps above and remembers.

An old person says, “Youth was great fun.” He has simply kept the little that was pleasant in youth on top and repressed the rest. And if his whole mind could be opened, he would be astonished to see that out of a hundred events, ninety-nine are of suffering; only once in a while is there a faint glimmer of pleasure. But the mind deceives like this. And if two or four births can be opened, then your life changes completely—because then you will think in a different way and set a different center.

Yes, they belong to the past—but they make a difference, a decisive, immediate difference.

By “animal,” you mean?
Any animal, like a cow.
No, they are not the same; they are different. They are different.

Chakras? Yes. If we understand closely, chakras are the fields of contact between the subtle body and this gross body. Wherever your gross body and that subtle body touch, those points are chakras. So they are the same in everyone; there is no difference— in all creatures, in everyone. Wherever the body is touched—even in a cow—there a chakra will form. And those touching sites are fixed. For example, understand that at the sex center there will be a chakra. Whether the being is of any species—a dog, a cat, a man, a woman—it makes no difference; there will be a very forceful chakra at the sex center. So that chakra will be present in all bodies; whatever their form, there will be a chakra at that place. Yes, that chakra may be smaller or larger, weaker or stronger.

“Are there seven chakras?”
Yes, there will be seven chakras.

(Question inaudible on the recording.)
Yes, yes, I understand. It only means that their other chakras are lying inactive. Whenever they become active, that many senses will begin to manifest. Chakras can be inactive.

We too have seven chakras within, but all seven are not active. If all seven become active, a very wondrous event has happened. In us too all seven are not active. Typically, if you examine a hundred people, the sex chakra will be active in all; among the remaining six chakras, in some one or two may be active, in some two may be active, otherwise not.

Those chakras which nature has made active remain active; but those which become active through sadhana are not active. They are within us, but they lie dormant. Just as the switch is there and the bulb is there, but if the switch is off the bulb remains unlit; if it is turned on, the bulb lights up. The chakras are fully present, but they are not in the “on” state; they are in the “off” state.

So our higher chakras are all in the off state. And through meditation and yoga, the whole effort is to bring them into the on state so they become active. And as the higher chakras begin to be active, the lower chakras naturally start becoming inactive—because the energy we have is the same; it gradually begins to move into the higher chakras, and the lower chakras slacken.

It would be good to speak on this at length sometime. I would like there to be a whole series of talks on it, if possible.

“You gave a lecture on this in Gujarat.”
There is much to be said—much to be said. Because the matter is not as simple as it is commonly taken to be; there is quite a complexity behind it.

No—if you come, I will have you do it; an outline is a bit difficult. No, an outline won’t work. And an outline cannot even be given. When you complete one step, then the outline for the next can be given. Otherwise you will get into trouble, and there is no point in that. And if you start doing this and that, it won’t help. It only makes sense to talk about the next step once one step has been completed.

Between the two there is a fundamental difference. This is not a scientific experiment in that sense; because the basic difference between the experiments of science and of religion is that the scientific experiment is objective.
Someone makes an electric fan. It’s not that only the maker can see the fan; those who didn’t make it can also come and see it. If you switch it on, they can see it running; they agree, yes, the fan runs, it throws air.
Science conducts its experiments with objects, while religion conducts its experiments with the subject. The experiments I have done with myself cannot, under any circumstances, be visible to you. There is no reason they should be. In truth, beyond my body nothing of me is visible to you. How could it be? The body is an object. But I can never become an object for you, nor can you become an object for me. And all the experiments of religion are connected with the subject—the one who is within.
So even if a Mahavira or a Buddha were to perform countless experiments, still, if Mahavira were brought out and seated among you in ordinary clothes, you would not even know that Mahavira is sitting here. Because the happening is so inward, so inner, that only for Mahavira can it be self-evident. Its direct realization cannot be from the outside. From the outside it is possible only in one condition: if the very same happening has occurred within you, then an inner recognition may arise—that in Mahavira’s eyes you begin to see that which you experience in your own eyes; in Mahavira’s walking you begin to notice that which has changed in your own walking. Then perhaps you will get some inkling: might something similar have happened within this man as has happened within me? Otherwise, it is an exceedingly difficult matter.
And even to give an outline is extremely difficult. Because the matter is like this: suppose a student has just entered first grade and says, “At least give me an outline of the matriculation syllabus; it will make studying in first grade a little easier.” The teacher will say, “Since you are not even familiar with first grade, the question of an outline of matriculation does not arise. How are we to give it to you? And how will you understand it? What will you do with knowing it? You cannot even recognize it. The language in which that outline could be given will be yours only after you have passed through these classes.” Even that outline which is to be given…
Consider a five- or seven-year-old child: if you sit down to explain sex to him, great difficulty is bound to arise. Because the child has no inner ground from which he could understand the language of sex. The question does not even arise—how is he to understand? What you are saying—how is he to grasp it? Even if you give him an outline, it will seem as if you are talking about some unknown realm with which he has no acquaintance. What is being said?
So regarding the deeper inner truths, at most one can speak of the very basics, the very beginning. And as one moves step by step, the next step can be spoken of; and after a certain point, the whole can be spoken. Otherwise, it cannot be.
And our difficulty is that very few among us gather the courage to experiment. Some things can never enter experience without experiment. Even to attempt a small, minor experiment feels hard to us. And these experiments, so to speak, create a total disturbance. Your whole life gets uprooted; it becomes of a different kind. Some things you never knew become visible; and some things you never even thought of come before you. Therefore, it is appropriate to take them one step at a time.

Not even that does anyone do! Not even that—sit for fifteen minutes—no one even does that. Even that, when I say it, someone will sit and do it for a day or two. Not even that does anyone do. Because if even that someone were to do with effort for two or three months, his whole inquiry would immediately change. The questions he would ask would be entirely different—ones you cannot even ask. Because some things would begin to be seen to him, and about those he would begin to ask—things you could never ask. That is, by what a person asks I can tell where he is. He will ask from exactly where he is thinking, where his whole mind is standing.

No one even bothers to put in strength for three or four months. Even that much is not happening. If even that little were done, then further talk could be had—certainly it could.

And now I am choosing in this direction: I would like to call a few camps in which I will invite some people to come. Not everyone will be able to come; only those whom I invite should come. In my view, a few such people have begun to appear who are doing a little work. And with those few, further labor is necessary. So I am thinking in that direction.

(The audio recording of the question is not clear.)

Yes, there are reasons—there are reasons. The big reason is this: for thousands of years it has been taught that by someone’s grace it will happen; someone will do it and it will happen; you will find a guru and he will do it. For thousands of years this has been taught: someone else will do it, it will happen; you have nothing to do. This has settled deep in the mind—one.

Second: no one wants to go through much toil, especially for things that don’t show themselves clearly. Wealth is visible, so a man will labor; fame is visible, so he will labor; position is visible, so he will labor. The spiritual matter is such—nothing is visible at all, and it demands a great deal of labor: do this much and something will happen; do this much and something will be seen.

So only a few can muster the capacity to labor for the invisible. To labor for the visible is very easy.

Then all around us—what people around us are doing, that is what we do. As a rule we do nothing on our own; we imitate what is happening around us. The clothes people wear, we will wear; what people study, we will study; the picture they are watching, we will watch. The strings of our mind get pulled in whatever direction the surroundings tug them. If you are born in India, you will do one kind of things; if in Japan, another; if in France, yet another—according to the air there, what is happening all around.

Buddha and Mahavira gathered ten thousand monks each. And the reason for gathering was not that collecting ten thousand has some inherent benefit. The sole utility was that the ordinary man, in the midst of ten thousand, becomes active instantly—something that cannot happen in aloneness. When ten thousand monks are engaged in practice, and from morning to evening speak only of practice—when ten thousand monks from dawn to dusk are speaking of inner experiences—if you arrive there, it is very unlikely you will escape entering that current; you are going to be drowned in it.

So the use of great ashrams and great institutions was only this: that the entire air there—as in the world the whole air is worldly and you start doing what others are doing—there the whole air is spiritual, and you start doing what is happening all around there. And once a little momentum arises, so much juice begins to flow that it no longer matters whether anyone else is doing it or not. Your own joy begins to draw you. But that first step should be taken—that is needed.

And in these times, with the distance grown so long, a man has begun to feel about spirituality—who knows! It doesn’t fit into the fist; you can’t catch what it is. Who wants to get into a hassle? Even if it could be grasped in a day or two, still one hesitates to get into the hassle. Our journey of many births runs counter, and opposite conditionings are piled up. Without crossing them, without breaking them, no movement can happen. It looks so long and hard that one thinks—alright: listen, talk a bit, read a bit; don’t get into more hassle than that.

Now, there is a very good man, one of Vinoba-ji’s close companions. He used to come to me many times. Now he has grown old, so I said to him: You have talked enough. You have spent your life with Gandhi-ji many times, with Vinoba-ji, stayed at the Aurobindo ashram, at Ramana’s place—everything; in the last fifty years whatever has happened in India, he is familiar with it all, has been everywhere. So you have talked plenty; now do something, because you are quite old. I said to him: I will tell you a twenty-one-day experiment—first do this and come, then I will talk further. Otherwise it is useless; you have talked with so many people that there is no point anymore.

He understood my entire experiment and said to me, “This I will not do, because with this I will go mad.”

So I said to him: You are close to dying now—one year, two years, how many days you will live cannot be said. Gather this much courage! You won’t go mad or anything. You are mad! A man who has been roaming for fifty years constantly listening to spiritual talk and has not done a single experiment—if he is not mad, what is he? Then don’t roam at all, if that is the case.

But he began to say, “No, I cannot do this. I have understood your whole thing—after seven days in this I will not be someone who can return; I will be gone.”

From that day he did not come to inquire of me again, because he understood that I would say, “Do that, then further talk will happen; otherwise there will be no talk.”

Inquiry has become intellectual—purely intellectual. A man comes and asks: Is there a God or not? He has no stake at all. If there is, fine; if there isn’t, fine. Not even that much matters. There is no substance even in the asking.

Just recently there was Gurdjieff, a fakir in France. Whoever would come, he would put him through great ordeals before allowing inquiry. And when he agreed to show that much courage, he could inquire; otherwise he would not let him. He would say there is no point in futile inquiry.

Here too, the reason I talk so much is with this thought: that out of it a few people will come to true inquiry. A thousand people ask; perhaps one will agree to do. So I will roam for one, two, three years, and then, as people come into my view, I will call those people and do what has to be done. Then I will sit in a corner; whoever wants to do can come there. Then I need not wander; there is no purpose.

And remember this much: only if you do will anything happen; nothing will happen by another’s doing. But there is neither courage nor desire. There isn’t even that kind of longing. And the notion forms that while doing everything else, once in a while for half an hour to talk of such things is good. There isn’t anything more than that.

That’s all.