Jin Khoja Tin Paiyan #3

There is a great deal of danger. In fact, the danger is of losing the very life we have taken to be life. As we are now, we will not remain the same if the Kundalini awakens; everything will change—everything—our relationships, our tendencies, our world; all that we knew until yesterday will be transformed. The danger is precisely that total change.

But if coal is to become a diamond, the coalness has to disappear. The danger is great—for the coal. If a diamond is to be formed, the coal must vanish; only then can it become a diamond. Perhaps it has not occurred to you that there is no racial difference between diamond and coal; they are the same element. Over long stretches of time, coal becomes diamond. Chemically there is no fundamental difference. But if coal wishes to become diamond, it can no longer remain coal. The danger is great—for the coal. Likewise, the human being is in danger—if one walks the path of becoming the Divine, the human dissolves.

A river runs toward the ocean. There is great danger in meeting the ocean: the river will vanish; the river will not remain. And what does danger mean? Danger means dissolution.

So only those who are ready to dissolve can journey toward the Divine. Death does not annihilate you as radically as meditation does. For death merely releases you from one body and ties you to another. You do not change in death. You remain the same as you were; only the garments change. Therefore death is not a very great danger. And yet we all consider death to be the great danger. Meditation is a greater danger than death, because death only strips away your clothes, while meditation takes away you yourself. Meditation is the great death.

In the old days, those who knew put it exactly this way: meditation is death—total death. Not only the clothes change; everything changes. But the stream that wants to become the ocean must accept the risk. In truth, she loses nothing; when the stream falls into the ocean, she loses nothing—she becomes the ocean. And when coal becomes diamond, it loses nothing—it becomes a diamond. But as long as coal remains coal, it fears, “I may be lost.” And as long as the river remains a river, it trembles, “I may be lost.” How can it know that in meeting the ocean it will not be lost; it will become the ocean? This is the same danger for man.

And friends ask: if there is danger, then why take the risk?

This too must be understood a little. We are alive to the extent that we take risks; we are dead to the extent that we are afraid of danger. In truth, the dead face no danger. For one thing, the dead cannot die again. Only the living can die. And the more alive one is, the more intensely one can die.

A stone lies on the ground, and a flower blossoms beside it. The stone can say to the flower, “You are foolish! Why do you take the risk of becoming a flower? By evening you will wither. There is great danger in being a flower; there is no danger in being a stone. The stone was here in the morning; when you fall in the evening, it will still be here.” The stone runs little risk, because it has little life. The more life, the more danger.

Therefore, the more vibrant a person is, the more living, the more he is in danger.

Meditation is the greatest danger, because meditation is the door to the deepest attainment of life.

No—the friends ask: if there is danger, why go at all? I say, go precisely because there is danger. If there were no danger, there would be little point in going. Do not go where there is no danger, because there you will find nothing but death. Go where there is danger, because there the possibility of life exists.

But we are all lovers of security.

When there is insecurity, danger, we flee in fear, we hide. Thus we lose life. Many people lose life trying to save it. Only those live who do not try to save life, but move through it with a leap. There is danger. That is precisely why you should go—because there is danger. And it is the greatest danger. There is not so much danger in climbing to the summit of Gaurishankar (Everest). Nor in going to the moon. Recently some travelers lost their way—great danger—but the danger was only to their garments. Only bodies could be exchanged. But the danger in meditation is greater—greater than going to the moon.

Why are we so afraid of danger? Have you ever thought why we fear it so? Behind the fear of every kind of danger is ignorance. We fear we might dissolve. We fear we might be lost. We fear we might come to an end. So we protect, we secure, we raise walls, we build forts, we hide. We try to save ourselves from all dangers.

I have heard an incident. An emperor built a palace, and he kept only one gate so that there would be no danger—no enemy slipping in through a window or door. Only one door; all others sealed. It was no palace at all; it had become a tomb. There remained only one small flaw: there was a single door. Through it one could enter and leave. He posted a thousand soldiers at that door.

A neighboring emperor came to see this palace. He had heard that his friend had arranged security such as no one ever had. He saw it and was pleased. “No enemy can enter; there can be no danger. I too will build such a palace.”

They came out. The owner sent him off with great joy. As the visiting emperor mounted his chariot, he repeated again and again, “Beautifully made, very secure; I will build one just like it—many, many thanks.” But a beggar sitting by the roadside burst into loud laughter. The owner asked, “Madman, why are you laughing?”

The beggar said, “I see a mistake in your palace. I’ve been sitting here since it was being built. I’ve been waiting for a chance to tell you: there is one flaw.” The emperor asked, “What flaw?” He said, “This one door—this is the danger. Even if no other can enter, someday death will walk in. Do this: go inside and have this door bricked up too. You will be absolutely secure. Then even death will not be able to enter.”

The emperor said, “Madman, then there would be no need for death to come. If this door is closed, I am already dead; the palace will become a grave.” The beggar said, “It is already a grave; only one door is lacking. So you agree,” the beggar continued, “that if one more door is closed, the house will become a tomb?” The emperor said, “I agree.” “Then,” said the beggar, “as many doors as you have closed, by that much it has already become a tomb; only one door remains.”

The beggar said, “I too once hid inside houses. Then I saw that to hide is to die. And just as you say that if one more door is closed it will become a tomb, I had all my walls taken down. Now I live under the open sky. Now—as you say, closing everything brings death—opening everything has brought life. I tell you: with everything open, life has happened. There is great danger, but everything has become life.”

Because there is danger, there is an invitation; therefore, go. And the danger is to the coal, not to the diamond; to the river, not to the ocean; to you, not to the Divine within you. Now decide: if you want to save yourself, you will have to lose the Divine; if you want to attain the Divine, you will have to lose yourself.

One night someone asked Jesus, “What should I do to attain that God of whom you speak?” Jesus said, “Do nothing else—just lose yourself. Do not try to save yourself.” The man said, “What are you saying! What will I gain by losing?” Jesus said, “He who loses, finds himself; and he who saves himself, loses himself forever.”

If there are any other questions, we can talk.

Progress obstructed by lack of resolve
It is being asked that…

The reason is nothing but one: we do not call with our total energy, and we do not awaken it with our total energy. We are always incomplete and partial. Whatever we do, we do it by halves—half-heartedly. We never quite do anything fully. Beyond this there is no other obstacle. If we can be total, there is no obstacle.

But throughout our lives we have the habit of doing everything halfway. Even when we love, we love half. And the very person we love, we also hate. It seems very strange that the one we love, we also hate. And the one we love and live for, at times we even want to kill. It is difficult to find a lover who has never had the thought of his beloved’s death. Such is our mind—half-and-half. And the opposite half is always running alongside. Just as our body has a left and a right leg that move in the same direction, the left and right legs of our mind move in opposite directions. That is our tension. What is the restlessness of our life? That we are half in everything.

Now, a young man once came to me and said, “For twenty years I have been thinking of committing suicide.” So I said, “Fool, why don’t you do it? Twenty years is a very long time. If you have been harboring the thought of suicide for twenty years, when will you do it? You’ll die first anyway—then will you do it?” He was very startled. He said, “What are you saying? I had come so that you would explain to me not to commit suicide.” I said, “Do I need to explain? For twenty years you haven’t done it!” And he said, “Whoever I go to tells me never to do such a thing.” I said, “Because of those explainers you are neither able to live nor able to die; you have become split in half. Either die or live. If you wish to live, then drop the idea of suicide and live. And if you wish to die, then die—drop the idea of living.”

He stayed with me for two or three days. Each day I kept saying to him, “Now don’t think about life; you’ve been thinking of dying for twenty years—so go ahead and die.” On the third day he said to me, “What are you saying? I want to live.” So I said, “When did I say you should die? You were the one who said you had wanted to die for twenty years.”

Now this is something to ponder: if a man thinks of dying for twenty years, then he has not died, of course—but neither has he managed to live. For how can one who is thinking of dying live? We are half-and-half. And in our entire lives we have the habit of being half. We become neither anyone’s friend nor anyone’s enemy; we cannot be complete in anything.

And it is a surprise that even if we are a total enemy, it is more blissful than being a half friend. In fact, totality in anything is blissful. Because whenever the personality descends in its wholeness, all the dormant energies within it come together. And when the personality is divided within, split into two pieces, then we go on fighting inside ourselves.

So if the kundalini does not awaken, if it gets stuck in the middle, it only means one thing: within you there is both the idea of awakening it and the fear of what will happen if it awakens. You are walking towards the temple, and yet you do not have the courage to enter the temple. You are doing both things. You are preparing for meditation, and yet you cannot gather the courage to step into it, to take the plunge. You feel like swimming, you have reached the riverbank, and there you stand thinking. You want to swim, and you do not want to enter the water! Your intention is something like this: if only it were possible to put a mattress and pillows on the floor of a room, lie on them and flap your arms and legs and somehow have the fun of swimming—then you would do it. No, but the joy of swimming cannot come on mattresses and pillows. The joy of swimming is linked to danger.

If there is half-heartedness, there will be great obstruction in the kundalini. That is why many friends will have the experience that at some point the thing goes and comes to a stop. If it stops, keep only one thing in mind—don’t look for excuses. We search for all sorts of excuses: that karmas of the past life must be obstructing, fate must be obstructing, the time has not yet come. We think all these things; none of them is true. Only one thing is true: you are not engaged in awakening it totally. If anywhere there is an obstruction, understand that you are not taking the leap in full. Then jump with strength, put your whole being into it, let yourself be wholly integrated. Then at no center, at no chakra, will the kundalini stop. It can traverse the whole journey in a single moment—or it can take years. It is a matter of our incompleteness. If our mind is total, then everything can happen this very moment.

If it stops anywhere, understand that we are not total; so give your whole support and pour in your energy. And the energy within us has an endless, endless capacity. We have never brought great energy to any work. We all live on the surface. We have never called out to our roots. That is why there can be obstruction. And remember: there is no other obstruction.

If there is any other question, ask.

The absence of thirst for the Divine
A friend asks that…

It is useful to understand this a little. The thirst for God too is there from birth; it just takes a long time to be recognized. For example: all children are born with sex, but it takes fourteen years to recognize it. The hunger for sex is present at birth, yet it takes fourteen or fifteen years for its recognition to arrive. And why does it take fourteen or fifteen years? The thirst is within, but the body is not ready. Around fourteen the body becomes ready; then the thirst can awaken. Otherwise it lies dormant.

The thirst for the divine is also there with birth, but the body is not yet prepared. And whenever the body does become prepared, it awakens instantly. Kundalini is the body’s preparation.

But you will ask: why doesn’t it happen by itself? Sometimes it does. But—understand this—throughout human evolution certain things happen first to individuals, and only later to the group. For example, it appears—if you read the Vedas, the Rigveda in full—that there is no sense of fragrance there. Flowers are mentioned, but not fragrance. Those who study these things say that up to the time of the Rigveda, the human thirst for fragrance had not yet awakened. Later it awakened in some people.

Even now fragrance means something only to very few. In many, the sense of smell has not fully awakened. And the more developed the peoples, the more it has awakened; the less developed, the less it has. There are still tribes that have no word for fragrance. First, a few people awakened to scent; then slowly it gathered momentum and became part of the collective mind.

Many things have awakened slowly that once were not there at all. Our sense of color is also surprising. Aristotle, in his books, speaks of only three colors. Up to Aristotle’s time the Greeks sensed only three colors; the rest were not perceived. Then, gradually, other colors began to be seen. And don’t assume that the colors we see now are all that exist. There are more colors, but our perception has not awakened to them. Under the influence of LSD, mescaline, bhang, or hashish, many more colors start appearing that we have never seen. Colors are infinite. Our sense of color too is awakening slowly.

Even now many people are color-blind. If a thousand friends were gathered here, at least fifty would turn out to be blind to some color. They themselves might not know it. Some cannot tell green from yellow. Not just ordinary people—sometimes quite extraordinary ones. Bernard Shaw himself could not distinguish green from yellow; and until the age of sixty he hadn’t realized it. He discovered it on his sixtieth birthday when someone gifted him a suit. It was green. The giver forgot to include a tie. Shaw went to buy a tie and picked a yellow one. The shopkeeper said, “It won’t look good—yellow with green.” Shaw said, “What are you talking about? They’re exactly the same.” “The same?” said the shopkeeper. “You must be joking, sir, as you usually do. You’re calling these two the same color! This is yellow, that is green.” Shaw said, “They’re both green. And what do you mean ‘yellow’?” Shaw then had his eyes examined and it turned out he could not see yellow; he was blind to yellow.

There was a time when no one could see yellow. Yellow is a new color in human consciousness. Many colors have appeared new in human awareness. Music too is not meaningful for everyone; for some it is deeply meaningful in its subtleties, while for others it is just head-banging. Their sense for sound has not deepened yet. Music has not yet become a collective human experience. And God is a very distant, final, transcendental experience. So very few awaken to it. But the capacity to awaken is in everyone from birth.

Whenever even a single person awakens among us, just seeing him, being in his presence, begins to awaken what sleeps within us. Whenever a Krishna rises among us, merely beholding him starts to stir what is dormant within.

A religion-opposed, benumbed society
That thirst, that hunger, is within all of us from birth, yet it does not awaken. There are many reasons. The biggest reason is simply this: the vast crowd around us has no such thirst. And if it arises in someone, he suppresses it, because it feels like madness. Where everyone around is consumed by the thirst for wealth and fame, the thirst for religion looks like insanity. Those around become suspicious: “Has he gone off his head?” The person presses it down. It cannot rise, it cannot wake; suppression comes from all sides. And the world we have made leaves no place for God—for, as I said, it is dangerous to leave room for God; we have left no room for him.

A wife fears that God might enter her husband’s life—for with God’s arrival the wife may be eclipsed. The husband fears God might enter the wife’s life—for if God arrives, what will become of the husband? Where will this substitute god go? Where will be his place?

In the world we have created, we have not kept a place for God. And God would prove disturbing there. If he comes, there will be upheaval; disruption is certain. Something or other will get unsettled. Sleep will be broken; some things will have to change. We will not remain just as we were. So we have left him outside the house. And lest the thirst for him awaken at all, we have made false gods for our homes—so that if it does awaken, here is the “god” at hand. A stone idol stands—worship that. So that the thirst does not turn toward the real God. These substitute gods we have produced are man’s greatest cunning, the greatest trick, the greatest conspiracy. The biggest conspiracy against God is man-made gods.

Because of them, the thirst that would have gone seeking him does not seek him; it begins to wander around temples and mosques, where there is nothing. And when nothing is found there, a person feels his home is better than that—what is there in these temples and mosques? He visits temple and mosque and returns home. He does not realize that temples and mosques are great inventions of deception.

I have heard: one day the devil returned home and said to his wife, “Now I am utterly useless. I’ve no work left.” His wife was astonished—as wives are when someone becomes useless. She said, “You—useless? How could you be useless? Your work is eternal! The work of leading people astray will go on forever; it cannot stop. How has it stopped? How did you become useless?” The devil said, “I have, with great difficulty, in a strange way. The work I used to do is now done by temples and mosques, by priests and pundits; I am no longer needed. After all, I only diverted people from God. Now no one even goes toward God! Standing between are the temples; people get lost there. No one comes to us anymore, so we don’t even get the chance to turn them away from God.”

The thirst for God is there. But from childhood onward we start teaching children about God; that does harm. Before any knowing, the illusion arises that one knows. Everyone “knows” God! The thirst doesn’t even get a chance to arise, and we offer water. This breeds boredom and aversion. Because of our “religious” education, God becomes uninteresting; there remains no zest. We stuff the head so badly—with the Gita, the Quran, the Bible; with “great souls,” sadhus and saints; with their utterances—that the mind only wishes to be rid of it. Then the question of journeying toward God does not arise.

The system we have built is anti-God; therefore the thirst has become difficult. And if it ever arises, the person is immediately seen as mad—because he becomes different from us. He lives differently; he breathes differently; all his ways change. He no longer remains one of us; he becomes a stranger, an outsider.

The world we have made is anti-God. It is a firm conspiracy. And so far we have succeeded. We have kept God entirely outside—outside his very own world. We have woven a net within which we have left no door for him to enter. How then can the thirst awaken? Yet, whether or not the thirst is recognized, a restlessness keeps circling within all life long. You gain fame, yet something feels empty. You acquire wealth, yet something remains unacquired. You find love, and still you feel something is missing, that could not be attained.

What is it that seems to be missing every time?

A directionless thirst
It is a thirst within us that we have blocked from ripening, growing, awakening in every way. That thirst rises up at every turn, becoming a question mark on every road. It says: you got so much wealth, but nothing was gained; so much fame, but nothing was gained; you have everything, yet you are empty. That thirst prods us from every side, digs at us, pierces us. But we refute it and throw ourselves even more forcefully into our pursuits, so that the voice is not heard. Hence the money-maker begins to earn with even greater intensity; the fame-runner runs even faster. He closes his ears so as not to hear that nothing has been gained.

Our entire arrangement prevents the thirst from awakening. Otherwise… a day will surely come on earth when, just as children are born with hunger and thirst, and with sex, they will be felt to be born with a divine thirst too. Such a world can come into being; it is worth creating. Who will create it? Very thirsty people who seek God can create that world. But as it is now, the entire conspiracy has to be broken for it to happen.

The thirst is there. But man can devise artificial measures. In China for thousands of years iron shoes were put on women’s feet so their feet would remain small. A small foot was a sign of beauty. The smaller the foot, the higher the family. Women could hardly walk; the feet remained so small. Their bodies grew, the feet stayed small. They could not walk at all. The woman who could not walk at all—that was the woman of a royal household! A poor woman could not afford that; she had to keep her feet large, had to walk, had to work. Only royal women could avoid walking. They walked leaning on someone’s arm. They were crippled—but it was considered beauty. It was crippling.

Today no Chinese girl would agree to it; she would say, “Those people were mad.” Yet it went on for thousands of years. When something becomes a convention, you do not notice. When thousands, when the crowd does it, you do not notice. When the entire crowd is putting iron shoes on feet, all the girls wore them. If one did not, people said, “You’re crazy.” She would not get a good, handsome husband, not get a wealthy family; she would be considered low and poor. If her foot was seen anywhere, she was branded uncouth—uneducated, uncultured. “Your foot is so big!” In China only the uncouth had big feet; the cultured had small feet.

For thousands of years this idea kept the women crippled. It did not even occur to them what madness it was! Only when it broke did it become clear that it had been madness.

Similarly, the mind of all humanity has been crippled with regard to God. The thirst to go toward God is cut off from all sides; it is given no chance to grow. And even if it does arise, false substitutes are set up, and we are told: “You want God? Go to the temple!” “You want God? Read the Gita, read the Quran, read the Vedas—you will get him.”

You get nothing there—only words. In the temple you get stone. Then a man thinks perhaps his thirst was false. And thirst is such a thing that it comes—and goes. By the time you reach the temple, the thirst has passed. By the time you read the Gita, the thirst has passed. Slowly the thirst becomes blunted. And when a thirst is not given a chance to be quenched, it dies. It dies gradually.

If you stay hungry for three days, the hunger will be very strong on the first day; stronger on the second; stronger on the third; on the fourth it will lessen, on the fifth still less, on the sixth less yet; after fifteen days the hunger stops. If you remain hungry for a month, you will no longer even know what hunger is. You will grow weaker and weaker, more emaciated day by day; you will digest your own flesh—but the hunger will cease. If for a month you do not give hunger a chance to grow, it will die.

I have heard—Kafka wrote a short story. There was a great circus, with all kinds of performers and acts. The circus owner had also hired a man who fasted. He performed fasting. He had his own stall. People came to see many things in the circus—wild animals, strange creatures. They also came to see this strange man who could stay without food for months. He had demonstrated that he could go three months without eating. Naturally, people came to see him. But how many times will they come? In one town the circus stayed for six or seven months. People came for a month or fifteen days. Then—fine, if he stays hungry, he stays hungry. How long will people keep coming?

Circuses and sadhus should keep moving; staying too long in one town is trouble. How many days will people keep coming? Move on in two or three days and it’s fine; in the next town people come again; then again.

This circus stayed too long. People stopped coming to see the hunger artist. They forgot about his stall. He became so weak that he couldn’t even go inform the manager; he couldn’t get up; he just lay there. It was a big circus; people simply forgot. After four or five months someone suddenly asked, “What happened to the man who used to fast?”

The manager ran, fearing the man might have died. He had no idea. He went and saw that in the heap of straw where the man used to lie there was only straw; the man seemed gone. He called out; the man’s voice would not come. They cleared the straw aside—there remained only skin and bones. Only his eyes were still there.

The manager said, “We forgot—forgive us! But how foolish of you—if people had stopped coming, you should have started eating!” He said, “But the habit of eating has left me; there is no hunger now. I am not doing a stunt anymore; I am trapped in the stunt. There is no hunger now. I no longer even know what hunger is. That thing no longer happens within me.”

What happened to him? Prolonged, deliberate suppression can kill hunger. We do not let the hunger for God awaken—because nothing could be more disturbing than God. So we have made arrangements. We have, with great organization and plan, blocked it from every side so that it does not enter from anywhere. Otherwise every person is born with that thirst. And if it is given the right environment to awaken, the thirst for wealth and fame would disappear; only that thirst would remain.

Revolution through spiritual thirst
There is another reason: either the thirst for God remains, or the other thirsts remain; they cannot all remain together. So to preserve the thirsts for wealth, fame, and sex, the thirst for God has had to be suppressed. If his thirst awakens, it will dissolve all the others into itself. It alone will remain.

God is very jealous. When he comes, he remains alone; he lets no one else stay there. When he makes you his temple, the small household deities will not be allowed to remain—“I keep Hanumanji there too, I keep other gods enthroned as well”—God will not allow that. When he arrives, he will throw all the gods out. He alone enthrones himself—very jealous indeed.

The delusion of being the doer

As long as you are the doer, it is not. As long as a person feels, “I am doing,” it is not. The day one feels, “I am not; it is happening,” that day it becomes the Divine’s. As long as the idea of “doing” is there—“I am doing”—it is not. The day there is a “happening”—“it is happening”—then ask the winds, “Are you blowing?” The winds will say, “No, we are being blown.” Ask the trees, “Are you growing?” They will say, “No, we are being grown.” Ask the waves of the ocean, “Are you yourself crashing upon the shore?” They will say, “No, crashing is simply happening.” Then it belongs to the Divine. Man says, “I am doing!” From that very point the door separates; from there the ego encircles you; from there man stands apart, considering himself separate.

The day man also comes to know that just as the winds are blowing, as the ocean’s waves are moving, as the trees are growing, as flowers are blossoming, as stars are traveling in the sky—so too I am being moved; there is One who moves within me, One who speaks within me; I am not anything apart—on that day only the Divine is.

Our sense of being the doer is a delusion. That very delusion gives us misery; that very delusion becomes a wall. The day we are not the doer, no delusion remains; that day only That remains.

Even now only That is. It is not that because you think you are the doer, you have become the doer. I am not saying that. When you think, “I am the doer,” it is only a delusion. Even now only That is. But you have no inkling of it. The situation is exactly like this: you fall asleep tonight in Nargol and in the night you dream you have reached Calcutta. You have not reached Calcutta—no matter how much you dream, you are still in Nargol. But in the dream you have reached Calcutta. And now in Calcutta you are asking, “I want to go back to Nargol—what train should I catch? Should I go by plane, by rail, or on foot? How will I reach? Where is the route? What is the path? Who will take me there? Who is the guide?” You are looking at maps, making inquiries. And just then your sleep breaks. Upon waking you realize, “I never went anywhere, I was right there.” Then you don’t look for maps. You don’t look for a guide. And if someone even asks you, “What’s your plan—won’t you return from Calcutta?” you laugh and say, “I never went; I never went to Calcutta at all—there was only the idea of going.”

When a person thinks himself the doer, even then he is not the doer; even then it is only an idea, only a dream, that “I am doing.” Everything is happening. If only this dream breaks, what is called knowing, awakening, happens. And when we say, “He is making me do it,” even then the delusion continues, because even then you are maintaining a distance—you are maintaining that I am also there and He is also there; He is the one who makes me do, I am the one who does. No. When you truly awaken, you won’t say, “Yes, I have just now returned from Calcutta.” You won’t say that; you will say, “I never went.” The day you wake up from this sleep of doership—the sleep of ‘I-am-ness,’ the sleep of ego—on that day you won’t say, “He is making me do and I am the doer.” That day you will say: Only He is; where am I! I never was at all; a dream was seen, which has now broken.

And we can keep seeing dreams for lifetimes—through countless births. There is no end to dreaming. You can see as many dreams as you like. And the greatest charm of dreams is this: when you see them, they appear absolutely true. You have seen dreams many times. Every night you see them. And every morning you know it was a dream, it was false. Yet when you dream again tonight, the thought will not arise that “this is a dream, this is false.” Again it will seem perfectly real. Then tomorrow morning, upon waking, you will say it was false. How weak is memory! In the morning you say, “All the dreams were false!” At night you dream again, and within the dream they become true again. All the comprehension that came in the morning is lost again. Surely it was not a deep comprehension; it happened only on the surface. Deep within, the same delusion continues.

In this way, superficial insights occur to us. Someone reads a book and in it reads that everything is done by the Divine. For a moment, from above, an insight happens: “I am not the doer; the Divine is doing.” But still he says, “I am not the doer; the Divine is doing.” Yet that “I” still persists. It is still saying, “I am not the doer.” In a single instant it will be lost. Give him a hard shove and he will be filled with anger and say, “Don’t you know who I am?” He will forget that just now he was saying, “I am not the doer; I am not; I am nobody; only the Divine is.” One hard shove and he will forget everything; in a moment it will all be lost. He will say, “You pushed me—don’t you know who I am?” The Divine and all that will bid farewell in an instant! The “I” will be back.

I have heard: a sannyasin lived in the Himalayas for thirty years. He was in peace, in solitude. He forgot; the ego remained no more. For the ego, the presence of the other is necessary. Because if the other is not there, where will the ego stand? The other is necessary. Only when you glare with stiffness into the eyes of the other does it stand up. If there is no one else, into whose stiffness will you glare? Where will you declare, “I am!” For that, you need a “you.” To erect the “I,” another falsehood is needed—that “you.” Without it, it doesn’t stand. Falsehood requires a whole system of many falsehoods for one falsehood to stand. Truth stands alone; falsehood never stands alone. For falsehood you have to prop it up with other falsehoods. If you want to erect the false “I,” you must erect the false “you,” “he,” “they,” “we”—only then can the “I” stand in the middle.

That man was alone in the jungle, on the mountain; there was no “you,” no “he,” no “they,” no “we.” He forgot the “I.” Thirty long years—he became quiet. People began to come up from the plains. Then they prayed, “A fair is being held below, the mountain is high; many people won’t be able to come up here, and we request you to come down and give darshan.”

He thought, “Now that my ‘I’ is gone, what harm is there in going!”

Often the mind deceives like this: “Now my ‘I’ is gone; what harm in going!” He came down. There was a huge crowd, a fair of hundreds of thousands. They were unfamiliar people; no one knew him. Thirty years ago the man had gone; people had even forgotten him. As he walked into the crowd, someone’s shoe landed on his foot. The shoe hit his foot; he grabbed the man’s neck and said, “Don’t you know who I am?” Those thirty years vanished at once, as if a dream had departed. Those thirty years—the mountain, the peace, the emptiness, the absence of the “I,” the Divine being—all disappeared. In a single second; as if they had never been. His hand tightened on the neck and he said, “Don’t you know who I am?”

Then suddenly it struck him, “What am I saying! I had forgotten that I am. How has it come back?” Then he asked the people’s pardon and said, “Now let me go.” They said, “Where are you going?” He said, “I won’t go to the mountain now; I am going toward the plains. What has happened?” they asked. He said, “What I couldn’t find out in thirty years of mountain solitude, I found out in contact with one person. Now I am going to the marketplace; there I will live; there I will find out whether the ‘I’ is or is not. Thirty years became a dream. I thought everything had been lost; everything remains as it was—nothing has been lost.”

So delusions arise. But delusions won’t do.

Now let us sit for meditation, because from tomorrow it will be different. From tomorrow morning we will only meditate, and at night only discourse. But today, according to today. Sit at a little distance from one another—but not too far; because I noticed in the morning that those who went too far missed the benefit of the psychic atmosphere that forms here. So don’t go too far. Sit with some space, but not too much; don’t leave large gaps in between. Otherwise you fall outside the field of the atmosphere created here and cannot take advantage of it. So come closer from too far. Keep only so much space. Those who wish to lie down, make your place and lie down; those who wish to sit, sit; but don’t go too far. And do not talk at all.

Do not talk even a little. If something can be done without talking, why talk!

What is the matter?
A stone has been thrown.
Was it a stone? All right, no problem—keep it carefully; someone must have thrown it out of love.
Yes—those at the back who are talking, do not talk. Either sit quietly if you are sitting, or else leave. No one should sit in the capacity of a spectator; and if you do sit as a spectator, at least sit quietly. Let no one be disturbed by anyone else. And some friend, it seems, is throwing stones. Two or three stones have been thrown. If stones must be thrown, they should be thrown toward me, not toward anyone else.

All right, sit down. Sit wherever you are. Close your eyes.

First stage:
For one hour, put in your total energy. Close your eyes. Close your eyes. Begin to breathe deeply. See: the ocean breathes so forcefully, the forest breathes so forcefully. Breathe strongly. Take the breath fully in; throw it fully out. For ten minutes let only one work remain—breathing in, breathing out; breathing in, breathing out. And inside, become a witness; watch within—the breath came in, the breath went out. For ten minutes go deep into the process of breathing. Begin! Deep inhalation, deep exhalation. Deep inhalation, deep exhalation. Deep inhalation, deep exhalation. Deep inhalation, deep exhalation. Put in your entire strength.

We have been given this night, this opportunity—we may get it again, we may not. Put in your whole energy. Whatever can happen will happen only with your total energy. If you save even an inch, it won’t happen. Deep, deep breathing. Let the body be only an instrument, breathing. Like a mechanism, the breath is moving. You have become only a mechanism. And don’t be inhibited; don’t worry about the other, care about yourself. Deep breathing. Become only an instrument. The body is an instrument.

For ten minutes take the deepest breaths in and out; become only the one who breathes. Breathing in, breathing out; in, out. And keep watching within—just witnessing: the breath came in, the breath went out; the breath came in, the breath went out. Put in your power. Put in your power.

For ten minutes I will be silent; you put in your total energy. Not that when I speak you take one or two deep breaths and then begin shallow ones. For ten minutes, total intensity. Pour all your energy into the breathing—deep inhalation, deep exhalation. Let the whole body tremble, every hair tremble. An electricity will arise in the whole body; inside, some energy will begin to rise and spread into every pore. Give yourself fully—deep breathing in, breathing out; deep breathing in, breathing out; deep breathing in, breathing out; deep breathing in, breathing out; deeper and deeper. Deep inhalation, deep exhalation. Let the body be only a mechanism—only a breathing mechanism. Merge with the roar of the ocean, with the waves of the wind. Only breathing—that’s all. Nothing else to do—deeply in, deeply out; in, out; in, out. And within, remain a witness.

Put in full energy. Mindfully breathe deeply in, deeply out. Deep in, deep out. Deep in, deep out. Mindfully breathe deeply in, deeply out. Stay awake within and watch—the breath came in, the breath went out; the breath came in, the breath went out. Do not hold back even a little. Don’t protect yourself—give yourself totally: deeper, and deeper, and deeper. Let nothing remain except inhaling and exhaling. Nothing remain except breathing in and out. Deep breath—deeper, and deeper, and deeper, and deeper, and deeper.

See that nothing remains to be said later that “I did less,” nothing for me to be told that “we did not give our all.” Don’t let anything stop—put in your total power. Exhaust yourself before going to the second step. Total effort. Deep breath, deep breath, deep breath, deep breath, deep breath. Only breath remains; we have become only breath, we are only breath. Deep breath, deep breath, deep breath, deep breath, deep breath, deep breath, deep breath, deep breath, deep breath, deep breath, deep breath. And within, keep watching—breath came, breath went—remain a witness. You will see the breath coming in; you will see the breath going out. Keep watching within; more intense, and more intense, and still more intense.

(People dancing, trembling, making sounds.)

To move to the second step—more intensity! Only when you are at your full intensity will I take you to the second step. Put in your total energy. Total energy. Total energy. In every way, pour in all your strength. Deep breath, deep breath, deep breath, deep breath. Now only breath remains—only breath, nothing else—pour all your energy into it. Deeper. And deeper. And deeper. And deeper. And deeper.

(Sounds of crying and shouting.)

You can go deeper—don’t hold back. Deeper. And deeper. And deeper. And deeper you can go. Deeper. Let the body tremble. If it sways, let it sway. If it whirls, let it whirl. Breathe deeply. Take the deepest breaths. Deep breath, deep breath, deep breath. We are to enter the second stage. Deep breath. One last minute—deep breath.

(Many kinds of sounds.)

Deep breath, deep breath. The last minute—give your total energy. Deep breath, deep breath. The change is best at the climax. One minute—total force. Deep breath, deep breath, deep breath, deep breath, deep breath, deep breath. Deeper. And deeper. And deeper. And deeper. And deeper. And deeper. Only breath remains, only breath remains. Let all your energy vibrate in the breath. Only breath remains. Only breath remains.

Second stage:
Now we enter the second step. Keep the breathing deep, and let the body do whatever it wants—leave it to itself. Let the body make mudras, make postures; if the body starts trembling, whirling, crying—let it. Let the body go completely—breathing will remain deep, and you will let the body go. If the body falls, let it fall. If it rises, let it rise. If it begins to dance, don’t worry—let the body go. Let the body go completely. Breathing will remain deep, and the body will be left completely free. Let the body do whatever it wants. Do not stop it even a little; cooperate with it. Whatever the body wants to do, cooperate—if it whirls, let it whirl; if it sways, let it sway; if it falls, let it fall; if it cries, let it cry; if it laughs, let it laugh—let go—whatever happens, let it happen. Keep the breath deep and let the body go. Keep the breath deep and let the body go.

(People continued crying, screaming, shouting, dancing, and the body engaged in many intense activities.)

For about ten minutes let the body go completely. Deep breath, deep breath. And let the body go—if it cries, let it cry; if it screams, let it scream. You exercise no control and cooperate with the body—whatever it is doing, let it do; whatever is happening, let it happen—mudras will form, the body will spin. When energy awakens within, many things will happen in the body—sound may come, crying may come. Don’t worry. Let go. Let the body go.

Tonight we must completely tire ourselves out. Before sleep, expend all effort. Let the body go; cooperate. Deep breath, deep breath, deep breath, deep breath, deep breath, deep breath, deep breath, deep breath, deep breath, deep breath, deep breath, deep breath, deep breath, deep breath.
After this, the tape recorder was jostled and stopped, but Osho continued giving instructions and the meditation experiment went on. For the second ten minutes the seekers kept taking deep breaths and, by cooperating with the reactions arising in the body, kept intensifying them.
Then, in the third stage, for ten minutes the rapid breathing continued; the body kept dancing, shouting, singing. Along with this, the seekers were advised to keep asking intensely within, “Who am I? Who am I?” The many yogic processes that were happening spontaneously in the seekers kept intensifying. It reached its peak.
In the fourth ten minutes they were told to drop everything and only rest—no deep breathing, no asking “Who am I?” Just rest, peace, silence, emptiness—as if dead, as if one is not. Hundreds of seekers entered deep meditation; the whole Saruvan was filled with waves of meditation. It began to seem as if all the seekers had become one with the vast Nature.
As soon as the forty minutes were completed, the meditation sitting was dissolved; even so, many seekers remained immersed within themselves for a long time—their movement continued in some unknown inner world. Slowly people began returning to their dwellings—many seekers remained in meditation for half an hour, one hour, two hours; later they rose and departed slowly.