Jin Khoja Tin Paiyan #4

It is useful to understand this a little. Much confusion has arisen from it. Countless people have sat back thinking that if it is to be attained by God’s grace, then we need do nothing. If you take divine grace to mean you need do nothing, you are in great delusion. Another delusion in this is the notion that God’s grace is not the same on everyone.

But God’s grace cannot be more on some and less on others. God has no favorites, no “chosen” ones. And if even God had favorites, then there would be no way for justice to exist in this world.

If grace is taken to mean he is gracious to some and ungracious to others, that meaning is wrong. But in another sense, it is right. “It is attained by God’s grace” is not said by those who have not yet attained; it is said by those who have. And they say so because when it happens, one’s own efforts appear utterly irrelevant, out of all proportion. What we did seems so petty, and what comes is so vast that how can we say it came because of what we did?

When it comes it feels: how could it come through me? What had I done? What had I given? What stake had I placed in the bargain? What did I have to do or to give? When that infinite shower of bliss descends, in that moment it feels that only by your grace, your gift, your grace it has been received. What power have we, what say is ours!

But this is the talk of those who have received. If those who have not yet received catch hold of it, they will wander astray forever. One must make effort. Certainly, what happens upon making effort is like this: the door of a house is closed, the sun has risen, and the house is dark. Open the doors and wait; the sun will come in. You cannot tie the sun up in bundles and bring it in; it comes in by its own grace.

Curiously, we cannot bring the sun in by our effort, but by our effort we can certainly prevent it from coming in. We can sit with doors closed and eyes shut. Then even the sun’s majesty will not cross our closed eyes. We can hold the sun’s rays outside the door. We have the power to block, not to bring. When the door opens, the sun comes in. When the sun comes in we cannot say, “We brought it”; we can only say, “By its grace, it came.” And we can say only this much: that by our own grace we did not keep the doors closed.

A person can only become an opening for its arrival. Our efforts only open the door; the coming is by his grace. And his grace manifests at every door. But some doors are closed—what can he do? God knocks at many doors and turns back; those doors are shut. We have shut them tight. And when he knocks, we concoct who knows how many explanations to reassure ourselves.

There is a little story I am fond of—let me tell it.

A great temple; in that great temple, a hundred priests. One night the head priest dreamed that the Lord had sent word in the dream, “Tomorrow I am coming.” The priest did not believe it, because it is always hard to find anyone more unbelieving than priests. He did not believe also because those who run a shop in the name of religion never really believe in religion. They exploit religion; it is not their devotion. And no one is more faithless than one who has turned devotion into exploitation.

It seemed a dream. He told himself, “Since when do dreams come true?” Yet he was afraid too—what if it does come true? Sometimes dreams do come true; sometimes what we call true turns out to be a dream; sometimes what we call a dream turns out to be true.

So he told the priests close to him, “Listen, it sounds like a joke, but let me say it. Last night I saw a dream—the Lord says he is coming tomorrow.” The other priests laughed: “You’ve gone mad! Don’t tell anyone else about a dream, or people will think you are crazy.” But the head priest said, “And if he does come! At least let us prepare! If he doesn’t, no harm done; if he does, we will be ready.”

So the temple was washed and cleaned; flowers were placed, lamps were lit; fragrance was sprinkled, incense and lights; offerings were prepared, meals cooked. By evening the priests were tired. Many times they looked toward the road, but no one appeared. And each time they looked they returned saying, “A dream is a dream—who comes! We went mad needlessly. Good we didn’t tell the village, or people would laugh.”

Evening fell. Then they said, “Now let us take the offering ourselves. As always, the offering kept for God came to us; this too we will have to take.” Does anyone ever come! We got caught in a dream and made fools of ourselves—knowingly fools. Others become fools unknowingly; we—we know very well: God never comes. Where is God? This is just the idol in the temple, we are the priests, this is our worship; this is a business. So in the evening they ate the offering, and tired from the day they slept early.

Near midnight a chariot stopped at the temple gate. The sound of its wheels was heard. In his sleep, one priest felt: it seems his chariot has arrived. He shouted, “Listen, wake up! It seems the one we waited for all day has come! You can hear the wheels loudly!”

The other priests said, “Fool, be quiet now. You made us fools all day; at least let us sleep at night. That is not the sound of wheels, it is thunder.” And they slept again; they had made their explanation.

Then someone climbed the temple steps, the chariot stood at the gate; someone knocked on the door. Another priest’s sleep opened; he said, “It seems the guest we waited for has arrived! Someone is knocking at the door!”

But the others said, “How crazy you are—will you let us sleep or not? It is the gusts of wind, no one is knocking.” They again explained it away, and slept again.

In the morning they rose and went to the gate. There were footprints—someone had climbed the steps, and the prints were wholly unfamiliar. Someone had indeed knocked on the door. And along the road a chariot had come—the marks of its wheels were there. They beat their chests and wept. They fell at the gate. The village crowd gathered. People asked, “What has happened to you?” The priests said, “Don’t ask. We rationalized—and we perished. He knocked at the door; we thought it was the wind. His chariot came; we thought it was thunder. And the truth is, we understood nothing; we only wanted to sleep—and so we made up explanations.”

So he does knock at everyone’s door. His grace comes to every door. But our doors are shut. And even when he knocks at our door, we make some explanation.

In olden days people said, “The guest is God.” Slightly wrong. God is the guest. Every day the divine stands like a guest. But the door must be open! His grace is on all.

So do not ask whether it is attained by his grace. And yet, it is attained only by his grace; our efforts merely open the door, merely remove the obstacles on the path. When he comes, he comes on his own.

Preparation for meditation in the first three stages

First, understand this clearly: three are only steps, not meditation; meditation is the fourth. The gateway is the fourth; the first three are only steps. Steps are not the door; they lead to the door. The fourth alone is the door—rest, pause, emptiness, surrender, dying, dissolving—that is the door. And the three steps lead you to that door. The fundamental basis of those three steps is one: if you want to enter rest, it becomes very easy after going into total tension.

Just as a person who labors all day can sleep at night. The more the labor, the deeper the sleep. Someone may ask, “But labor and sleep are opposites; how can labor lead to sleep? The one who has worked all day should not be able to sleep!” And the one who has lazed on the bed all day should sleep! But the one who stayed in bed all day will not be able to sleep at night. That’s why, as comfort increases in the world, sleep keeps departing. The more comfort, the more difficult sleep becomes. And the irony is that we add comforts so that we can sleep peacefully. No: add comfort and sleep goes—because sleep requires labor. The more the labor, the deeper the sleep.

From extreme tension to extreme relaxation
Exactly so: the more the tension—if it can reach a climax—the deeper the relaxation! So those three steps seem, on the surface, to be the very opposite. It will look as if in those three we exert greatly—we use energy, we create much tension, we tire ourselves, we throw ourselves into a storm, become almost deranged—and then how from this will relaxation come? From this very thing it will come. The higher the mountain you fall from, the deeper the abyss you enter. Remember: every mountain has deep gorges at its side. In fact, a mountain cannot arise without a deep valley forming below. When the mountain rises, a deep valley forms beneath. When you go into tension, right at its edge the power for relaxation begins to gather. The higher you rise into tension… That’s why I say: put in your total energy, keep nothing back, spend yourself completely, put in everything in every way, be utterly spent—then when you fall from that height you will drown in a bottomless depth. That will be pause and rest. In that moment of rest, meditation flowers. The basic strategy is to take you into total tension and then drop the tension in a single stroke.

People come to me and ask, “If we don’t do this work of building tension, can we not enter directly into relaxation?” It won’t happen. And if it happens, it will be very shallow, very superficial. If you want to dive deep into water, first climb high. The higher the bank you jump from, the deeper you will go into the water.

Here are cypress trees—forty feet tall. Their roots have gone down just as deep. The higher a tree wishes to rise, the deeper its roots must go. As roots go down, the tree goes up. The cypress could ask, “Would it matter if I sent roots only six inches deep?” Not a problem at all—then it will also rise only six inches. Go ahead—why even send six inches? Send none at all, then it won’t rise at all.

Nietzsche wrote somewhere a sentence of great insight: those who wish to touch the heights of heaven must also touch the depths of hell. Profound indeed: those who wish to touch the heights of heaven must also touch the depths of hell. That’s why ordinary people never touch the heights of religion; sinners often do—because one who goes down into the depths of sin can also rise to the heights of virtue.

This is the method of transformation through extremes. All change happens at the extreme. One extreme—and then transformation happens. Have you seen the pendulum of a clock? It goes, goes—left, left, left! And then it reaches the end and begins to go right. You may never have noticed: when the pendulum goes to the left, it is gathering the power to go to the right. It goes leftward but accumulates energy to swing rightward. The higher it climbs to the left, the wider it can swing to the right. So the pendulum of your consciousness—the more it is taken into tension, then when the moment of pause comes, the deeper the relaxation will be. If you don’t take it into tension, it will not go into rest either.

People ask very strange questions. It seems they don’t want to plant trees, they only want to pluck flowers; they don’t want to sow the crop, only to harvest the fruit.

A friend came and said, “If we don’t move the body, if there is no trembling in the body, is that okay?” No difficulty at all. In fact, if you do nothing at all, there is never any difficulty. But if you are so frightened by the body trembling, what will happen when the inner tremors arise? If you want to suppress the body’s trembling, then when the inner energy quivers, what will you do?

No—they want something to happen inside, while outwardly they remain civil, cultured, well-mannered, keep the face they have crafted, the statue they have set up of themselves, standing made of wax—while something happens inside. That will not happen. When inner energy rises, this wax image will melt completely. It must be moved aside; it must make space.

Strive to let tension reach its peak, so that relaxation can reach its peak. Then relaxation will happen by itself. You build the tension; relaxation will descend by the grace of the divine. You raise the wave; then it will fall, and peace will spread. The kind of peace that comes after a storm never comes otherwise. The storm is necessary. And the peace after the storm is alive, because it is born out of the storm. For a living peace, no step can be omitted from what I am saying. So don’t come asking me again and again, “Can we drop this? Can we drop that? Not shake the body, only breathe; not breathe, only ask ‘Who am I?’” No. All three stages are arranged, scientific procedures to carry you from one extreme of tension to the other.

And that’s why I say: only when one stage reaches its full extreme should you change to the next. As you shift the gears in a car: if you drive in first gear, you must bring the car up to speed. Once first gear runs to its proper speed, you shift to second. If the car is slow in second, you cannot shift to third. All transformation happens in intensity. The mind’s transformation also happens in intensity.

The secret of the shock of intense breathing
What do the three mean? Understand that as well. The first stage—which continues throughout—is to take the breath deeply and intensely. Deep and fast—both. As deep as possible, and as rapid as possible, inhaling and exhaling. Why? What will breath do?

Breath is the most mysterious element in human life. Through breath, as a bridge, the soul and the body are joined. That is why as long as breath is moving we say a person is alive. Breath goes, and the person is gone.

Just now I went to a house where a woman has been unconscious for nine months—she is in a coma. Doctors say she will never regain consciousness. But she can live at least three more years. She is being kept alive with medicine, injections, glucose—unconscious. I asked her mother, “Now she is almost gone.” The old woman said, “No—jab tak shwaas tab tak aas—as long as there is breath, there is hope.” The doctors may say what they like—who knows! They say someone will not die, and he dies. Who knows—she might regain consciousness once; breath is still there. The bridge has not fallen yet; the bridge remains. Return may still be possible.

Dis-identification from body and breath
Breath is the bridge linking our soul and body. When you breathe very intensely and very deeply, not only the body trembles; the inner fibers of the self also begin to quiver. It is like a bottle in which something has been stored for a long time, never shaken. You can’t tell the bottle and the contents are two. Shake it hard! The bottle moves; the contents move—their separateness becomes evident.

When you take breath with your total energy, a whirlwind is created that shakes the body and vibrates the inner threads of awareness. In that moment of vibration, the separateness of the two is felt.

Now you come and ask me, “If we don’t take deep breaths, is there any harm?” No harm—except this: you may never come to know you are separate from the body. That is why one more thread is added to it: breathe deeply and keep watching within—breath coming, breath going. When you watch the breath coming and going, not only will it be seen that the body is separate; you will also see that breath is separate—I am the watcher, other than it. The body’s separateness will be known by deep breathing; but that I am also different from breath will be known by witnessing the breath. So in the first stage there are two things. Both continue to the very end, through the third stage.

In the second stage, the dissolution of mental knots
In the second stage I say: let the body be—leave it completely. Breathing remains deep. Why let the body go? There are many implications; I will mention two or three.

First, you have accumulated thousands of tensions in the body without even knowing it. Civilization has made us so unnatural that even when you feel anger, you keep smiling. The body doesn’t know that: the body says, “Grab his neck,” the fists clench. But you keep smiling; you don’t clench the fists. The nerves prepared for clenching find themselves in difficulty; they don’t know what’s happening. A very restless condition arises in the body. The fist wanted to clench. Those who understand anger deeply would even advise: if you feel anger, instead of fake smiling, clench your fists hard under the table for five minutes—then release. The laughter that comes then will be of a very different quality.

The body doesn’t know that man has become civilized. The body functions mechanically. But man has imposed repression on everything. Because of that repression, thousands of tensions have gathered in the body. And when too many tensions collect, complexes form, knots form. So when I say let the body go completely, the thousands of knots you have gathered since childhood begin to loosen and melt. Their melting is necessary; otherwise you will never become bodiless, beyond the body. When the body becomes light like a flower, free of all knots…

Perhaps you have heard one of Mahavira’s names: Nirgrantha. It is a wondrous name: it means “free of knots,” free of complexes—one in whom all knots and entanglements have disappeared; who has become utterly simple, guileless.

But you don’t let this web of bodily knots be released. Your civility, propriety, conditioning, inhibitions—someone is a woman, someone holds a high position—this and that—hold it all so tightly that it won’t let go.

Today a woman told me she is constantly afraid someone might touch her hand. So she must have gone to sit far away. But after a few turns someone rolled near her—then disturbance again. She asked me, “Should I go sit even farther away?” I said, “The One who sends can send someone there too. It’s good someone comes. He will come there as well. Sit where you are. If someone’s hand touches you, what will happen?”

Women’s condition has become such that even if God were to appear, they would slip by, holding their sari tight—lest he touch them. Their whole body is knot-ridden. Since childhood their training is such that the body is a disease. They carry the body; they do not live in it. It is a shell to be kept safe and carried all the time—though there is nothing in it worth such guarding. These small insistences block so much.

Then someone educated thinks… Today a gentleman told me, “This must happen to emotional people. How can it happen to an intellectual?” Someone studies two classes and becomes an intellectual! Will he not cry when his mother dies? Will he not love someone? He is intellectual! He has a university certificate. So when he loves he will calculate whether to kiss or not—how many germs will get transferred. He will read a book, go and do accounting: to be emotional or not.

Intellect has become like a disease for us. Intellect has not become our fragrance or dignity; it has become an illness. Someone thinks, “We are intellectuals, rationalists; this cannot happen to us. It happens to the sentimental.”

Feeling reaches deeper than intellect
But is being emotional something bad? Whatever is highest in life comes through feeling. No real greatness has ever been born from intellect, nor will it ever be. Yes, mathematics can be done, accounts can be totaled—that all happens. But whatever is truly great—and the wonder is, even in science, which we take to be the peak of intellectual process, the greatest discoveries have come through feeling, not intellect.

If you ask Einstein, “How did you discover relativity?” he will say, “I don’t know—it came.” That is profoundly religious language: it came. It happened.

If you ask Madame Curie, “How did you discover radium?” she will say, “I don’t know—something happened; it was not in my control.” Ask great scientists, they too will say: “Something beyond us happened; not through our searching. We were only instruments, mediums.” This is the language of religion.

Feeling is very deep; intellect is on the surface. Intellect is utilitarian. It is like the pilot car that goes ahead of the governor’s car—don’t mistake the pilot for the governor. Intellect is no more than the pilot—it clears the road, keeps accounts, prevents collisions. But the master comes far behind; that is emotion. Whatever is beautiful and noble in life is born of feeling.

But some people bow to the pilot, calling themselves intellectuals, rationalists—they take the pilot as the governor. Let them; the pilot himself stands laughing.

The self-deception of rationalists
Some think only the weak experience such things; the strong do not. They know nothing. It happens to the strong; the weak remain stuck. To remain in any chosen state for one hour with total resolve is possible only for the strong-willed, not the weak. The weak take deep breaths for two minutes, then sit down. Those for whom it is happening, they say, “It happens to the weak.” They cannot breathe deeply for an hour; they cannot inquire “Who am I?” for ten minutes. Do not fall into such ideas.

These are our rationalizations—intellectual tricks with which we save face. We say it happens to the weak. We are strong—how can it happen to us?

It is astonishing: in this world all things are achieved by the strong; nothing by the weak. And meditation? Meditation demands the ultimate strength. They will say, “It is happening to the weak”—and it isn’t happening to them because the man next to them is crying loudly; that’s why they can’t. But for the one to whom it is happening, he is unaware of crying; he does not know who is watching or thinking. He is absorbed in his own rhythm. Such continuity of absorption requires great strength. It does not happen to the weak.

So don’t try to protect your ego by saying, “We are strong-willed, we are intellectual; that’s why it isn’t happening.” If it isn’t happening, just know it isn’t; why sugarcoat it? Then even the “not happening” will begin to taste sweet—and happening will become impossible. Simply know: it is not happening to me. If it isn’t, then there is some weakness—recognize it, understand it, remedy it. Don’t mistake it for bravery that “it isn’t happening to me because I am strong.”

A friend came and said, “This is hysteric; someone gets hysterical.” They don’t know what is hidden within life! By calling it hysteric they will protect themselves. They understand: it happens to the deranged. We are not deranged; it won’t happen to us. Then Buddha was deranged, and Mahavira, and Jesus, and Socrates, and Rumi, and Mansoor—all mad? Then better join the caste of these madmen than the caste of your so-called healthy. Join the company of these mad ones, for what they received did not come to the clever.

When energy rises within very intensely, a storm sweeps the whole personality. That is not derangement—because if it were, it could not become silent. And after the three stages, in a single instant, we become silent—then it is not hysteria. Tell a hysterical person to be quiet, to rest—he cannot. Whatever is happening here is within our control; it happens with our cooperation. The moment we withdraw our cooperation, it departs.

The inner insanity of the civilized
There is one criterion distinguishing derangement from health: call that health which remains in your mastery, and that derangement which is not in your hands. This is a delightful criterion. To those in whom things are happening—when I say, “Be still,” they become still instantly. And those sitting “calmly”—if I say, “Quiet your thoughts,” they reply, “It just doesn’t happen; no matter what we do, thoughts do not stop.” You are deranged, you are mad! Whatever is not in your control is madness; whatever is in your control is health. The day you can switch your thoughts on and off—say to the mind “Enough,” and it stops right there—know you have become healthy. But you say “Stop,” and the mind says, “Keep saying it; I’m going where I wish; doing what I wish.” You bang your head, but the mind keeps doing its thing. You chant God’s name while the mind sits in a cinema hall and says, “We will sit here, we will watch; keep chanting as much as you like!”

Man is very cunning; he cloaks his weaknesses in fine words and labels others’ strengths with ugly ones to feel at ease. Avoid this. The truth is: don’t think about others at all. It is very difficult to say what is happening in another’s life. Life is so mysterious—don’t think about the other. Think only about yourself; that is enough—be sure at least, “I am not mad.” Am I weak, strong, what am I? Think about yourself. But we are always thinking about the other—what is happening to whom? That is wrong.

When you let the body go completely, firstly—as I said—catharsis happens: the blocked obstructions flow out. Secondly, when the body moves of its own accord—you don’t move it, it moves by itself—then the separateness of the body becomes very clear. You are watching and the body is revolving; you are watching and the body has stood still; you are watching and the hand is trembling. You see: I am not trembling; the hand is. Then for the first time you realize that my being and the body’s being are different matters. Then you will realize: I did not become young—the body did; I will not become old—the body will. And if this penetrates deeply, you will know: the body will die; I will not. The separateness of the body becomes very evident when it begins to move mechanically. Only by leaving it totally can this be known.

The arrow of “Who am I?”
The third question we ask is “Who am I?” Because even if it is known that I am not the body, and not the breath—that is still negative. What about the positive? Who am I? Hence the third step: we ask “Who am I?” To whom do we ask? There is no one to ask—we ask ourselves. We fill ourselves completely with the question, “Who am I?” The day this question fills you totally within, you will find the answer has come—from within you. It cannot be that at your deepest layer you do not know who you are. Since you are, it must also be known who you are. But it is necessary to take the question to that depth.

It is like water in the ground. You stand above, thirsty; water is in the earth. You must dig thirty feet. If those thirty feet are dug, water springs. Our question is “Who am I?” The answer too is somewhere thirty feet deep within us, but there are many layers in between. If they are cut through, the answer is found. “Who am I?” works like a pickaxe. The faster you inquire, the faster the digging.

But often we cannot inquire. A very strange thing happened—one friend has had an unusual occurrence two mornings now, worth understanding. He asks with great intensity, puts in his full effort—no lack in effort or resolve—but how many layers the mind has! From the top he keeps asking “Who am I?” so intensely that it begins to spill outward: “Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?” And in between, now and then, another voice intrudes: “What will come of this? What will come of this?” He continues to ask “Who am I?” and in between it slips out of his mouth, “What will come of this?” Who is saying that? One layer of mind asks “Who am I?” another says, “Nothing will come—why ask? Keep quiet.”

If the mind remains fragmented, you will not be able to enter within. That is why I say: ask with total energy, so that gradually the entire mind becomes involved, so that the whole mind asks “Who am I?” The moment only the question remains—just the question, entering within like an arrow—the answer will not delay. It will come. The answer is within.

You will do the three stages; the fourth will happen
Knowledge is within. We have never asked; we have never stirred it. It is ready to awaken. That is why there are these three stages. But they concern only outside the door; they leave you at the threshold. Entry within the door happens in the fourth stage. But one who has not climbed the three steps will not enter the door.

So remember: tomorrow is our last day; tomorrow it is essential to put in your total energy. Pour your whole strength into these three stages, and the fourth will happen. The fourth you will not do; it will happen. You will do the three; the fourth will happen.

Then there is no question. If the fourth happens, then there is no question. Then whatever is needed will be seen. If it feels right to continue, it will continue; if it feels right not to do, it will drop. But even that cannot be said in advance. And precisely because it cannot be said in advance: when we ask, “Once the fourth happens, the first three will drop, won’t they?” our mind even now does not want to do those three—hence the question. There is a great desire to get rid of those three!

So I will not say they will drop. Because if I say they will drop, you will fail to catch hold of them right now. They will drop—but that is a matter after the fourth; it should not be raised beforehand.

Our mind deceives us in many ways; it cheats us. When you ask, you are not aware why you are asking. You are asking precisely to find a way to be rid of those three. If you get rid of these three, the fourth will never be born! And why is there fear of these three? There is fear. And it is precisely to dissolve that fear that those three are there.

The Courage for the Catharsis of Repressed Tendencies
There is fear that the body might do anything. The body can do anything—who knows what it may do! But what will the body do? You may dance, you may cry, you may scream, you may fall.

The real difficulty is this: in the first stage, keep the breathing going. In the second stage, keep the breathing going and let the body loose. There is no conflict between breathing and letting the body go loose, no obstruction whatsoever. The breath will remain deep; the body... It is not that you have to dance. If you dance deliberately, then the breathing will be obstructed. But if dancing happens, the breathing will not be obstructed. You are not to dance; if dancing happens, let it happen. Whatever happens, let it happen.

Our difficulty is that either we will stop it or we will do it; we will not allow it to happen. We are ready to do either of the two: either we will stop the dancing, or we can dance. But we will not allow the happening. There is fear in that too, a great fear. The whole civilization of man is suppressive. We have repressed many things and we are afraid they may all come out. We are very frightened. We are sitting on a volcano. It is not only a question of dancing; the fears are very deep.

We have suppressed ourselves so much that we know very well what all could come out. A son has wanted to kill his father; he is afraid that this thought might surface. A husband has wanted to throttle his wife; even when he wanted to strangle her, he kept saying, “I cannot live a single moment without you.” And yet he wanted to squeeze her neck. He has pushed that down inside; he fears it might erupt at any moment.

Gurdjieff was a fakir, one of the precious few of this age. If you went to him, the first thing he would do was this: for fifteen days he would give you wine, night after night. And until those fifteen days of pouring wine and studying you were over, he would not take you into practice. Because in those fifteen days, by giving you wine, he would bring out all your suppressed illnesses, and recognize what kind of person you are—what all you have repressed; only then would he put you into sadhana. And if someone said, “No, I am not willing to drink for these fifteen days,” he would say: “The door is open—out you go.”

Hardly any fakir in the world has served wine. But he was wise; his understanding was precious; and he was doing the right thing. Because we have suppressed so much; there is no measure to our repression; there is no end to it.

Because of that repression we fear that something might be revealed, something might slip out of the mouth; that what was not to be said, not to be told, might come out.

Now, someone has stolen; he will be afraid to inquire, “Who am I?” Because the mind will say, “You are a thief.” It may blurt out loudly: “You are a thief, you are dishonest, you are a black-marketeer.” It might come out. So he will say, “Shall I ask or not? Ask very, very softly, ‘Who am I?’” Because he knows who he is—“I am a thief.” So he is repressing it. He is afraid; he asks softly so the person next to him will not hear. Lest it slip out of his mouth, “I have stolen!” It can come out; there is not much difficulty in that.

So we have our reasons—reasons behind our asking—why we want these to drop quickly, not to have to do them. But no, not by dropping. They will have to be done. They can drop, but they will drop by doing. And whatever comes from within, let it come. A lot of filth is hidden there; it will come out. We have made a face on top; it is not our real face. Hence the fear.

The Unmasking of the Fake Faces
Now a person has plastered and painted his face and is somehow holding it together. He fears that if he lets go, the face will become ugly. He is afraid someone might see that ugly face. He prepared himself so carefully before the mirror at home. Now he fears that if he totally drops the face, it may be ugly. And when he lets go, powder and lipstick will be of no use; they will go completely awry. The real face might emerge. So he will be afraid; he will say, “No, everything else can be let go, but not the face. Somehow keep it made up.” And all our faces are make-up faces, not real faces. And don’t think that those who don’t apply powder have no make-up; the make-up is very deep; it works even without powder.

So the real face will come out. And when the real face comes out there may be panic—someone might see it. Hence our fears. But these fears are dangerous. Carrying these fears, one cannot go within. These fears will have to be dropped.

Shaktipat and the Egoless Medium
One last question: a friend asks that…

No one can do it, but it can happen through someone. No one can do it. And if anyone says, “I perform shaktipat,” then it’s all deception. No one can do it, but in a certain moment it can happen through someone. If someone is a very empty person—utterly surrendered, empty in every way—then in his presence shaktipat can happen. He can serve as a conductor—not knowingly. The vast power of the divine can enter another through him as a medium.

But no one can become a conductor knowingly, because the first condition for being a conductor is that you should not know; there should be no ego. Otherwise, instantly you become a non-conductor. Wherever ego comes in between, a person becomes a non-conductor; from there the energy does not flow. So if you are near such a person who is totally empty within, and who does not want to do anything for you—he does nothing—the power of the divine can reach you through his vacuum, through his emptiness, through his doorway, through his passage; and the movement can be very swift. Keep this in mind in tomorrow afternoon’s silence.

So let me also give two announcements for tomorrow along with this.

Shaktipat means that the power of the divine has descended upon you. Power is possible in two ways—either energy rises from you and meets the divine, or energy comes from the divine and meets you. It is the same thing; two ways of looking at it. Just like a glass half-filled with water: someone says it is half empty, and someone says it is half full. And if they are pundits they will argue, and it will never be settled what the matter is—because both statements are true.

Energy descends from above and energy also ascends from below. And when they meet—when the sleeping energy within you meets the vast energy of the cosmos—then there is an explosion. No prediction can be made about that explosion. What will happen from that explosion cannot be said; what will be after that explosion cannot be said. Yet, after that explosion, those to whom it has happened in the world have spent their whole lives crying out, “Come, and you too pass through that explosion.” Something has happened that is ineffable.

Shaktipat means energy descends from above. It can descend. It descends every day. And it can take the medium of a person who is empty in every way. Then he becomes a conductor, and nothing else. But if there is even a little ego—even this much, that “I will do shaktipat”—then that person has become a non-conductor; energy will not flow through him.

Standing for the experiment brings the utmost intensity
For the morning and evening, keep two things in mind. Tomorrow is the last day, and much can become possible. And we must do the morning experiment filled with many possibilities.

First, those to whom anything at all is happening will do the experiment standing in the morning tomorrow. Those to whom anything is happening, even a little something anywhere in the body, tomorrow morning they will do the experiment standing, because standing the utmost intensity is possible. You may not know that Mahavira did all his meditation standing. In the standing posture, the flow is at its most intense. I have not asked you to stand until now because you could not gather the courage even to sit; how would you gather the courage to stand? When you stand, the impact of energy is very strong. So what I have been saying—that you may start dancing, you may dance like mad—becomes possible when standing.

So tomorrow, since it is the last day, and some ten to twenty-five friends have gone very deep, they should stand tomorrow. I will not take names; you stand on your own. And from the very beginning do it standing. Some people, who feel it in the middle, may also stand up. And standing, whatever happens, let it happen.

And for the afternoon, when we sit in tomorrow afternoon’s silence, leave a little more space near me. And whoever comes to me, when I place my hand on their head, then whatever happens to them, let it happen. If a scream comes from their mouth, if their hands and feet begin to move, if they fall, if they stand up—whatever happens to them, let it happen. What we are doing in the morning meditations—the same, in the afternoon silence, for those who come to meet me, when I place my hand, whatever happens to them, let it happen. Therefore tomorrow afternoon sit leaving a little extra space near me.

And in the morning, whoever has the courage should do the morning experiment standing. Even before I arrive, you just stand quietly. No one will stand taking support—do not stand leaning against a tree or taking any support; stand straight on your own.

You have asked about shaktipat. In the standing posture many people may come into a state of shaktipat. And the atmosphere has been created; it can be utilized fully. So tomorrow, since it will be the last day of the camp, tomorrow we must put our total energy into it.

Physical and mental effects of this experiment

There are many effects.

Those friends ask: what results will there be?
Many—there will be many results. From meditation, the experiment I am calling meditation, there will be many physiological effects on the body. Many illnesses can bid farewell, the body’s lifespan can increase, there will be significant chemical changes. Many glands in the body that lie almost dormant can all become active.
As we don’t realize, psychologists now say—and physiologists too—that in anger, special kinds of poisons are released in the body. But so far psychologists and physiologists are not able to say what happens in love. In anger, specific chemicals are released—poisons are released. The whole body becomes toxic. In love too, nectar is released. But because it is so rarely released, the person has not yet reached the physiologist’s laboratory; therefore they have not been able to find out.
If the full result of meditation happens, then just as in anger poisons are released, so in love the nectar-essence begins to be released. The chemical consequences are even deeper. For example, those who go a little deeper into meditation begin to see wondrous colors, to sense marvelous fragrances, to hear extraordinary sounds; streams of light begin to flow, the inner sound—nada—begins to be heard. All of these are chemical effects. Colors you have never seen begin to appear. The body’s entire chemistry changes. The body begins to see, think, and recognize in a different way. All the electrical currents flowing within the body change; all the circuits of those currents are altered.
A great deal happens within the body. A great deal happens on the mental plane too. But that is a matter of elaboration. Those friends who ask—I will speak to them separately sometime. There are many possibilities.
The chemical effect of deep breathing.

As soon as you begin deep breathing, the ratio of carbon dioxide and oxygen in the body changes. The very first thing that shifts is this proportion of carbon dioxide and oxygen within us. And the moment the proportion of carbon dioxide changes, transformation begins throughout the brain, the entire body, the blood, and the nerves—everywhere. For the entire basis of our being rests on specific ratios of oxygen and carbon dioxide. A change in those ratios brings about a total change.

That is why I suggested you come separately; that is a technical matter. It may not interest everyone, so I will talk with you about it.

Meditation practice and self-hypnosis

There is a great deal of similarity to self-hypnosis; at the final point the path diverges. For a long stretch there is a connection with hypnosis. All three stages are of hypnosis; only the witnessing state is not. That which must remain in the background the whole time—the witnessing: that I know, I see that the breath has come and gone; I know, I see that the body is trembling, spinning. I know, I see—this very sense is not of hypnosis. That is the difference. And it is a very fundamental difference. The rest is all the process of hypnosis.

The process of hypnosis is very precious: if it is joined to witnessing, it becomes meditation; if it is separated from witnessing, it becomes stupor. If you use only hypnosis, you will become unconscious; if you also use the witnessing, you will become awakened. The difference between the two is great, but the road is the same for a long way; at the final point it separates.

And a few questions remain—we will talk about them tomorrow night.