Jin Khoja Tin Paiyan #6

First, note this: when Vivekananda asked Ramakrishna, he did not first ask whether he could ask or not. Vivekananda simply asked. And you are not asking; you are asking whether you may ask. To ask such a question, a Vivekananda is needed. And Ramakrishna would not have given that answer to just anyone else. Remember this: the answer Ramakrishna gave was given to Vivekananda; it would not have been given to another.

In the realm of the spiritual, all answers are utterly personal. The giver is important, yes—but no less important is the one to whom the answer is given; the one who can understand is equally essential. I don’t know how many people come to me saying, “Vivekananda had an experience when Ramakrishna touched him; so touch us and we too will have the experience!” They do not ask: apart from Vivekananda, Ramakrishna touched thousands—why did they not have the experience? In that touch which produced an experience, Ramakrishna was fifty percent and Vivekananda was fifty percent. The experience is half-and-half. And it is not even necessary that if Ramakrishna had touched Vivekananda on some other day, it would have happened. It occurred in a very particular moment.

You are not the same person for all twenty-four hours; within those twenty-four hours you are many different persons. At some special moment...

Now, Vivekananda asks, “Have you seen God?” The words are very simple. We feel we understand what Vivekananda is asking. We do not. “Have you seen God?”—the words are not simple at all. A first-grader could “understand” such simple words. But they are very difficult words. And Ramakrishna is not answering Vivekananda’s question, he is answering Vivekananda’s thirst. Answers are not to questions; they are to thirsts. Behind the question stands the person who has become the question; it is that person who is being answered.

Buddha goes to a village. A man asks, “Is there God?” Buddha says, “No.” At noon another man says, “I think there is no God; what is your view?” Buddha says, “There is.” In the evening a third man says, “I don’t know anything—whether there is God or not.” Buddha says, “It is best if you remain silent—neither yes nor no.”

The monk who was with him got very disturbed; he had heard all three answers. At night he said to Buddha, “I will go mad! In the morning you said yes; in the afternoon you said no; by evening you said neither yes nor no. What am I to make of this?” Buddha said, “I did not give you a single answer. The answers were for those to whom they were given; they have nothing to do with you. Why did you listen? Since you did not ask, how can an answer be given to you? The day you ask, that day you will get an answer.” The monk said, “But I heard them!” Buddha said, “Those answers were given to others, and they were given according to their needs. The man in the morning who asked, ‘Is there God?’ was a theist; he wanted me to say yes to support him. He knew nothing of God’s being—he had merely come to gratify his ego that Buddha too believes what he believes. He had come seeking confirmation from me. So I said, ‘No.’ I shook his roots. Had he known, why would he come to ask? One who knows does not seek confirmation. Even if the whole world denies, he says, ‘Deny if you will—He is; denial does not arise.’ Since he was still asking, still trying to find out whether there is, I had to say there isn’t—to restart his search that had stalled. The man at noon was an atheist; he believed there is no God. I had to tell him, ‘There is,’ because his search, too, had stopped; he had come for confirmation of his atheism. The man in the evening was neither theist nor atheist; to bind him in any belief would not be right—for yes binds and no binds. To him I said, ‘Remain silent—neither yes nor no; you will arrive.’ And as for you,” Buddha told the monk, “you have no question yet.”

Religion is a very private matter—like love. If a man whispers something to his beloved, it is not for the marketplace; it is utterly personal, and if shouted in the bazaar, it loses all meaning. Likewise, truths spoken in religion are just as personal—spoken by one person to another, not flung to the winds.

So become a Vivekananda, and then by all means come and ask. But a Vivekananda does not come to ask whether he may ask.

I was in a village recently; a young man came and said, “I have come to ask whether I should take sannyas.” I said, “So long as it still feels like a question you must ask, do not take it—otherwise you will repent. And why drag me into your mess? If you want to take it, take it; if you don’t, don’t. The day it is clear to you that even if the whole world tries to stop you, you cannot be stopped—take it that day; only then can sannyas become a joy, not before.”

He said, “And you?” I said, “I have never gone to ask anyone—at least not in this life. If there is asking to be done, I ask within; why go to anyone? And even if someone says something, how will trust arise? Trust never really arises in the other—try as you may.”

Even if I say, “Yes, God is,” what difference will it make? It will be the same as reading in a book that Ramakrishna said, “Yes, He is! And I see Him even more clearly than I see you.” What difference has that made to you? You will write another book: “I asked and he said, ‘Yes, He is! And I see Him more clearly than I see you.’” What difference will it make? Whether one book, two books, or a thousand books declare that He is—it is useless until the knowing arises from within. In relation to God, borrowed knowledge will not do. Borrowing may work in all other matters—never in the matter of God.

So why ask me? What is the value of my yes or no? Ask yourself. And if no answer comes, understand: for now, this is your lot—that there is no answer. Then be silent and wait; live with that which is without answer. Some day it will come; some day it will descend. And if the asking itself becomes right—if right questioning arises—then all answers are within. If right questioning does not arise, you can go on asking the whole world; no answer will be of any use.

And when a man like Vivekananda asks Ramakrishna, the answer Ramakrishna gives is not Ramakrishna’s answer that helps Vivekananda. Vivekananda asks with such thirst that when the answer comes through Ramakrishna it no longer seems to be Ramakrishna’s; it seems to arise from within himself. That is why it works; otherwise it could not. When we ask someone from the very depths—so deep that our whole life is at stake—then the answer that comes becomes our own; it is not the other’s. The other is only a mirror. If Ramakrishna said, “Yes, He is,” that answer is not Ramakrishna’s. It became authentic to Vivekananda because Ramakrishna seemed nothing more than a mirror; there he heard the echo, the tone, of his own deepest life.

Before asking Ramakrishna, Vivekananda had asked another man—Devendranath, Rabindranath’s grandfather—known as Maharshi Devendranath. He stayed at night on a barge, meditating in solitude. On a dark new-moon midnight, Vivekananda plunged into the Ganges, swam across, and climbed onto the barge. The barge shook. He went in, shoved open a stuck door, entered. It was dark. Devendranath sat with eyes closed in contemplation. Vivekananda grabbed his coat by the collar and shook him. His eyes opened; he was startled—so late at night, soaked to the skin, who has swum the river and come? The whole barge was trembling. As soon as he opened his eyes, Vivekananda said, “I have come to ask—Is there God?” Devendranath said, “Sit down for a bit.” He hesitated. At such a midnight, in the dark, someone swims the Ganges and, as if pressing a dagger to your chest, asks, “Is there God?” He said, “Wait a little, sit—who are you, brother? What is the matter? How did you come?” Vivekananda let go of the collar and jumped back into the river. Devendranath cried out, “Young man, wait!” Vivekananda said, “Your hesitation has said everything. I am going.”

Hesitation said it all! He hesitated so much that the real question was dropped. He should have said simply, “Yes—or no.”

Later Devendranath said, “I really did get frightened, because no one had ever asked me in such an out-of-the-way, outlandish manner—suddenly, grabbing my neck. In assemblies, in meetings, in temples, in mosques people would ask, ‘Is there God?’ and I would explain the Upanishads, the Gita, the Vedas. No one had ever asked like that. So I was certainly shaken; nothing came to my mind. And that youth leapt back into the river. From my very hesitation I came to know for the first time—I do not yet know either.”

By all means, ask. On the day you are ready to ask, do ask. But come with the readiness to ask—because with an answer, the matter is not over. Ramakrishna’s answer: before it, the one who came to ask was Narendra; after it, he became Vivekananda. Ask, certainly—but then be prepared for your whole life to change. An answer can be given. And then Narendra did not return home as Narendra. Because Ramakrishna said, “He is—and I see Him more clearly than I see you! I can say once that you are untrue, but I cannot call Him untrue!” It is not that Vivekananda then said, “All right, Master; wonderful answer—now I will go and write it down for the exam,” and returned home. For him, the answer swept him away. The boy never returned.

An answer can be given; I have no difficulty in giving it—you will be in difficulty. So the day you feel like asking, come. Outlandish will be fine: one dark night come, seize me by the neck, and ask. But remember: you will clutch my neck, and yours will be caught; then you will not be able to run.

These are not scholarly matters; this is not scriptural pedantry—ask, understand, go away, and nothing happens. This is a matter of staking your whole life.

The Divine is a leap.
Another friend asks: that…

I certainly say so. When you sow a seed, it takes time. The time is taken in the breaking of the seed, not in the sprouting. The sprout bursts forth in a single instant—an explosion. But the seed’s breaking takes time. Your breaking can take time—I don’t deny that. But the coming of the Divine takes no time; it happens in a single moment.

It is like heating water. Heating can take time. To reach a hundred degrees takes time. But becoming steam takes no time—a leap! The water reaches a hundred degrees—the jump—and it has leapt, become steam. It is not that steam takes time to form—half water, half steam; one corner steaming, another not. No, when steam happens, it happens in a jump. Yes, reaching the point of steam takes time. But until it becomes steam, it is still water—whether at a hundred degrees, ninety-nine, or ninety-eight.

The Divine is an explosion, a leap. Before that, you are only a man—whether you are heated to ninety-eight or ninety-nine degrees. At a hundred degrees you become steam—the Divine begins, and you disappear.

So I say, it can happen this very moment. What does “this very moment” mean? It means: if we are ready to be heated. And hasn’t enough time already passed for the heating? The pot has been on the stove for so long—how many births! For lifetimes you have been heating up, and still you have not reached a hundred degrees! Birth after birth, heating and heating, and still not at a hundred! How much time do you need? Isn’t this enough?

No, plenty of time has passed; we simply don’t know the art of heating. Even if we reach ninety-nine, we quickly retreat—we cool down; we return chilled, too afraid of a hundred. I watch it: in meditation so many people turn back from ninety-nine! And what trivial excuses carry them back that it is astonishing—they must have wanted to go back. Otherwise, were those reasons enough to turn back?

A man wants to go to Bombay, boards a train, meets two people talking loudly on the way, and returns home saying, “Those two disturbed me; they were talking loudly, so I couldn’t get to Bombay.” Then you would say, he never wanted Bombay. The road is full of disturbances; who turns back? One who truly wants Bombay goes on. In fact, if there are disturbances, he walks a little faster so as not to be distracted by idle chatter.

But in meditation people turn back for the easiest, silliest reasons. “Someone bumped into me, someone’s hand touched me, someone in the next row fell over, someone started crying—so I went back.” No, it seems you wanted to go back; you were only waiting for an excuse so you could cool down. Just give me a pretext: “So-and-so shouted loudly, therefore I had to stop.”

What has someone else’s shouting to do with you? What’s your concern? And what you are losing under that pretext—you have no idea; you don’t even know what you’re saying.

Just now a friend met me on the way. He said, “Please explain to people, cool them down a little; because two people have stood up naked, an explosive situation has arisen.” With great affection he asked me to explain; some people have become very restless because two people became naked.

In meditation, the dropping of garments
Everyone is naked under their clothes and nobody is disturbed! Under the clothes all are naked, and no one is perturbed. Two people drop their clothes and everyone is disturbed! How strange. If someone had stripped you, your restlessness would be understandable. If someone had snatched your clothes, some agitation could be understood—though even that is meaningless. Jesus said, if someone takes your coat, give him your shirt as well; perhaps the poor fellow is too shy to ask for it. If someone snatched your coat, that might be comprehensible. But someone removes his own coat, and you are upset. It looks as if you were only waiting for someone to remove a coat so you could cool down and declare, “My meditation was ruined.”

How astonishing: someone becomes naked, and how does that spoil your meditation? And were you sitting there watching who is naked? Were you meditating—or what? You should not even have known who dropped clothes and who did what. You should have been within yourself. Who are you—some launderer, some tailor? Why worry about clothes? Your agitation is baseless, meaningless.

And as for the one who dropped clothes—do you not think? If someone asked you to drop yours, you would understand that something big must have arisen within that person to make him drop them. If someone offered you a hundred thousand rupees, you’d say, “Take the money—but the clothes I won’t drop.” That poor fellow was offered nothing, and he dropped his clothes! Why are you perturbed? Some deep cause must have arisen within him.

But we have no habit of understanding life with sympathy.

When Mahavira first stood naked, stones were thrown. Now he is worshiped! And those who worship him sell clothes. Mahavira’s followers are all cloth merchants. Astonishing! And these are the very people who must have thrown stones at that man. In exchange, they now sell clothes so that no one becomes naked; they keep selling clothes. When Mahavira became naked, people drove him out of village after village. He was not allowed to stay anywhere. Wherever he stopped, they pushed him out: “This man is naked.” Now worship goes on, but in his time we would not let him lodge in the village, not even in a rest house, not even in the cremation ground outside. Lest he approach the village at all, people set packs of wild dogs on him to drive him far away. What trouble did Mahavira cause? Only this: he dropped his clothes. But how strange! Someone else drops his clothes—and what is the reason for your turmoil?

The fear is something else, something terrible. We are so naked within that on seeing a naked person we panic: trouble!—we are reminded of our own nakedness. There is no other reason.

And remember, nakedness and vulgar nudity are two different things. No one looking at Mahavira could say he stood “naked” in that sense; and even if someone looks at us swaddled in clothes, he can still say: however much they wear, they are naked within—no difference.

Have you looked carefully at those who stood naked? You didn’t have the courage to look, probably. Though you must have stolen glances now and then—otherwise how did you become restless? How did an “explosive” situation arise?

Now that friend wrote: “The women are very upset.”

What concern is that of the women? Did they come so that if anyone became naked they could keep watching? They had their own meditation to do.

No—but they must have been peeking from the corners of their eyes. Then, dropping everything—self-attention, watching oneself—they must have watched only that. Then of course it becomes “explosive.” Who asked you to look? Your eyes were closed. Someone was standing naked—let him stand. He was not looking at you at all. If that naked person came and told me, “Because of the women, it has become very explosive for me,” that might make some sense. But that the women’s situation has become explosive because of him!

If you had looked with a little care, your heart would have felt light. Seeing him stand naked, you would have felt how simple, straightforward, innocent he is. The mind would have been relieved—a difference would have happened, a gain. But we are adamant on losing the gain. We are so eager to clutch at loss. And we have such deranged notions, beyond counting.

Nakedness: an innocent state of consciousness
A stage comes in meditation—necessarily for some—when there arises an urge to drop clothing. They became naked after asking me. So do not explode at them; if you must, explode at me. Whoever has become naked here has done so with my permission. They came and asked: “Our state sometimes becomes such that if we don’t drop the clothes, something seems to be held back.” I told them: drop them.

That is their affair. Why are you upset? So whoever said anything to them did very wrong. You have no right to say anything to anyone. Understand a little: there is an innocent state of mind, and there are moments when many things can become obstacles. Clothing is the deepest inhibition of man. Clothing is the deepest taboo, the most deep-seated conditioning that holds man. And a moment comes when clothes become a symbol of our whole civilization. And a moment comes in the mind—sometimes for someone, not necessarily for all.

Buddha lived wearing clothes; Jesus lived wearing clothes; Mahavira dropped them. One woman too had the courage. In Mahavira’s time, women could not muster it. Mahavira’s women disciples were not few; they were more than the men. He had ten thousand male disciples and forty thousand women disciples. But the women could not gather courage to drop clothes. So Mahavira had to say that these women would have to be born again as men. Until they are men once, they cannot be liberated. Because one who fears dropping clothes—how will she not fear dropping the body? Thus Mahavira had to make a rule: from the female womb liberation is not possible; one must once come in the male form. There was no other reason.

But courageous women have been. If Kashmir’s Lalla had met Mahavira, he would not have made that doctrine. A woman like Mahavira arose in Kashmir—Lalla. Ask a Kashmiri and he’ll say: “We know only two words—Allah and Lalla.” Only two words. There was a woman who lived naked. And all of Kashmir honored her. Because in her nakedness they saw for the first time another kind of beauty, another kind of innocence, another kind of bliss—the feel of a child. If Lalla had met Mahavira, the blot upon him would not have been there. There is a blot upon Mahavira: that liberation cannot be from the female form. And the cause is not Mahavira; the cause is the women around him. They said, “This is impossible.” Then Mahavira said, “If you cannot drop clothes, how will you drop the body? If the outer hold is so strong, how will the inner hold go?”

The camp is for seekers, not spectators
I am not saying you should become naked, but if someone does, there is no question of stopping him. And if in a meditation camp we cannot allow so much freedom—that if someone wants to be that free he can be—then where will that freedom ever be found? A meditation camp is for seekers, not spectators. There, until someone is teasing or disturbing another, he has absolute freedom. Obstruction begins only when someone trespasses on another. If a naked person comes and starts pushing you, then it is right to stop him; if someone comes and injures you, it is right to stop him. But as long as a person is doing something with himself, and you are not involved, you have no grounds.

Strange things become obstacles for us. Some become naked and many people’s meditation is spoiled. If meditation is that cheap and still survives, it is of no use. What is its worth? Was it only worth this much—that since no one became naked, you could meditate? How will it ever happen?

No, such petty, utterly mean things will have to be dropped. Sadhana demands great courage; layer by layer you have to peel yourself off. Sadhana is a very deep inner nakedness. It is not necessary that anyone drop clothes, but at some moment someone’s state may be such that he does. And remember always: when it happens to someone, you cannot judge it from the outside, nor do you have any right to judge whether it was right or wrong, why it was dropped or not dropped. Who are you? Where do you come in? And how would you even know? Otherwise, were those who drove Mahavira out of their villages “bad” people? They were polite and respectable, just like you; the village gentlemen expelled him: “This man stands naked; we will not let him stay.” But we go on repeating the same mistakes.

So my friend met me just now on the way. With great love and understanding he said, “Please explain properly; otherwise in Bombay the numbers attending meditation will fall.”

Let them fall completely—even if not a single person comes. Wrong people are not needed. If not a single person comes, what is lost?

He said, “The women will not come to the camp at all now.”

Let them not come. Who asked them to? If they feel to come, then come. And if they come, it will be on my terms. The camp cannot be on their terms. And the day I run a camp on your terms, do not come; that day I am worth two pennies, and then I am of no use to you.

It will be on my terms. I do not come for you. Nor will I run by your account. That is why dead masters are so pleasing, because you can run them by your account. The living one is troublesome; when alive, you cannot bind him. Hence a living Mahavira must be stoned; a dead one can be worshiped. Perfectly natural. That is why the whole world worships the dead. The living is a great difficulty, because you cannot bind the living. And no other considerations have any value for me—who comes or does not come is utterly valueless. If someone comes, let him come with understanding—knowing why he is coming and what he has come to do.

Sahaj yoga is the most difficult
A friend is asking that…

Sahaj Yoga is the most difficult yoga; because nothing is harder than being spontaneous. What does sahaj mean? It means: let what is happening happen—don’t become an obstacle. A man can be naked and be at ease with it; yet that very “ease” becomes very hard. Sahaj means: be like air and water; don’t throw the mind in between as a barrier; let what is happening happen.

Mind interferes, and awkwardness begins. The moment we decide what should be and what should not be, we become ill-at-ease. Only when we are willing for whatever happens, to that we consent—only then can we be sahaj.

So first understand: Sahaj Yoga is the hardest of all. Don’t imagine it is very simple. There’s a common illusion that Sahaj Yoga is an easy path; people keep quoting Kabir, “Sadho, sahaj samadhi bhali.” It is indeed good, but very difficult. Because nothing is harder for man than being natural. Man has become so unnatural, has moved so far from naturalness, that being unnatural is easy and being natural difficult. Still, a few things must be understood, because what I am saying is precisely Sahaj Yoga.

To impose ideals on life is to distort it. Yet we all impose ideals. Someone is violent and tries to be nonviolent; someone is irascible and tries to be calm; someone is mean and tries to be compassionate; a thief tries to be charitable. Our whole life is arranged thus: on what we are, we are trying to graft something else. Whether we “succeed” or “fail,” we fail. For a thief, no matter what he does, he cannot become truly generous. He can give alms, yes—but he cannot become a generous heart. His almsgiving may create the illusion that the thief turned generous; yet even in giving, his thief-mind will find ways to steal.

I’ve heard: Eknath was setting out on pilgrimage. In the village there was a thief. He said, “May I also go with you on pilgrimage? I’ve sinned greatly; I, too, will bathe in the Ganges.” Eknath said, “No harm in coming; all sorts of thieves are going with me—you can come too. But there’s a condition: the other thieves going with me say, ‘Don’t bring that thief; he will create trouble on the way.’ So you must give a firm promise that you won’t steal from the pilgrims on the route.” He said, “I swear! From start to finish I won’t steal.”

The pilgrimage began; the thief joined. Others too were thieves—thieves of many kinds. Are there only one kind? Some thieves sit as magistrates; some as something else—thieves of every sort went, and he went too. But habit! He could pass the day, but nights were torment; others slept, and he grew restless—his working hours had arrived. A day, two days… he thought, “We’ll die like this—who knows, a three- or four-month journey! How will it be? And the worst danger—suppose I somehow survive the journey and in the process forget how to steal, then what? A pilgrimage isn’t for a lifetime!”

On the third night the mischief began—religiously, systematically. He did steal, but cleverly: he took goods from one bedding roll and put them into another; he kept nothing for himself. Morning came and the pilgrims were upset: someone’s belongings were found in someone else’s trunk, someone’s in another’s bedding. There were a hundred, a hundred and fifty people; it became hard to sort out. “What is happening? Things don’t disappear; they just move around!”

Eknath suspected it must be that thief-turned-pilgrim. So he stayed awake. Around two in the night he saw the thief get up and start moving one person’s goods to another’s place. Eknath caught him: “What are you doing?” He said, “I swore I would not steal. I am not stealing at all. But at least allow me to move things around! I don’t keep anything for myself—I just shift them here and there. I never promised I wouldn’t do that.”

Later Eknath used to say: even if a thief tries to reform, it makes no difference.

Live what you are
The whole awkwardness of our lives lies in this: we are constantly trying to be other than what we are. No—Sahaj Yoga says: do not try to be different from what you are; know what you are, and live that. If you are a thief, know you are a thief—and then live as a thief, totally.

Hard, isn’t it? Because even a thief finds comfort thinking, “I am trying to give up stealing.” It doesn’t stop, but there’s relief: “I’m a thief today perhaps—but tomorrow I won’t be.” The thief’s ego is gratified: “No matter; today I had to steal, but soon a time will come when I’ll be a donor, no longer a thief.” In the hope of tomorrow, he steals in comfort today.

Sahaj Yoga says: if you are a thief, know that you are a thief—steal with awareness, but not with the hope that tomorrow you’ll be a non-thief.

And if we truly know what we are and consent to live with that, revolution can happen today. If a thief truly knows “I am a thief,” he cannot remain a thief for long. His trick for remaining a thief is to say, “I’m not really a thief; circumstances forced me; today it’s difficult, tomorrow it will be easier; then I won’t steal.” Thus it becomes easy to go on stealing while maintaining the self-image of a non-thief. “I am not violent; circumstances made me violent. I am not angry; someone abused me, so anger came.” Then the angry man apologizes: “Forgive me, brother! I don’t know how that abuse slipped out; I’m not really an angry person.” He reinstates his ego. All repentance is a device to reinstall the ego. He has set it back in its place.

No—Sahaj Yoga says: whatever you are, know you are exactly that—don’t move an inch, don’t try to escape. Then from that pain, that sting, that sorrow, that sin, that fire, that hell—which you are—if you become fully aware, you will leap out instantly. You won’t need to “become” out.

If someone is a thief and knows himself wholly as a thief, and leaves no corner of the mind to harbor “someday I won’t be a thief”—rather, “If I am a thief today, tomorrow I’ll be a bigger thief; twenty-four hours more practice”—if he fully grasps and accepts this thieving, thinking, “All right, this is my being,” do you think he can remain a thief? The sword of “I am a thief” will pierce his chest so sharply that living with it becomes impossible even for a moment. Revolution happens here and now.

Ideals as shock absorbers
But we are clever; we’ve found devices—thieves that we are, and dreaming of non-stealing. These dreams help us remain thieves; they function like buffers. Like the buffers between train coaches—they absorb the shocks. The passenger inside doesn’t notice. In a car, springs—shock absorbers—drink the jolts; inside, the gentleman does not feel them. We have fitted buffers and shock absorbers of ideals.

I am a thief, and my ideal is non-stealing; I am violent, and I carry the placard “Ahimsa paramo dharma”—nonviolence is the supreme virtue. That placard is my buffer; it will help me remain violent. Whenever I recall my violence, I’ll say, “Violent? Not me! I hold nonviolence as my religion. It’s not working today—I’m weak; tomorrow it will. If not in this life, then next life.” The ideal is nonviolence; I’ll plant its flag everywhere, and remain violent within. The flag becomes my ally. Where you see “Ahimsa Paramo Dharma” hung up, know that violent folks likely live nearby—what else would be the reason? The violent put up that sign. Man has invented such devices that only devices remain; the man is lost.

To be sahaj means: that which is, is. Outside of that being, there is no way. One must remain in it. But that being hurts so much we don’t stay in it. If you are put into hell, you’ll be surprised: in hell, only dreams help you survive; you keep your eyes closed and dream. Fast for a day—it is the dreams of food that help you through. On a fast day, dreams of food are your aid; within, the thought of food keeps running. If you stop the dreaming, the fast would end right then—“Tomorrow morning I’ll eat.”

A professor colleague of mine—after a long time I noticed… sometimes he’d suddenly start talking of sweets and such. I asked, “What’s the matter? You do this sometimes.” Observing, I found it was always on Saturdays. I said one Saturday, “Now you’ll surely talk about sweets.” He asked why. I said, “I’ve been keeping a record these two months—you always do it on Saturdays. Do you fast on Saturdays?” He said, “Who told you?” I said, “No one; I calculated.” He said, “I do. How did you catch it?” I said, “What’s to catch? I see a healthy man who eats well—why would he talk about sweets? But you look well-fed.” On Saturdays he would find some excuse and begin on sweets. He said, “You’ve caught it well—on Saturdays I think all day, ‘Tomorrow I’ll eat this and that.’ Only by that can I drag myself through the day. I fast on Saturdays.” I told him, “One day, don’t indulge the dreams—fast.” He said, “Then the fast will break; it is precisely by those dreams that I manage.”

Hope of tomorrow lets today pass. The violent are passing their violence in the hope of nonviolence; the angry, their anger in the hope of compassion; the thief, his theft in the hope of charity; the sinner, his sins in the hope of becoming virtuous. These hopes are deeply irreligious. Break them. What is, is—know it, and live with it. Live with the fact. It is hard, harsh, painful; it hurts to know, “This is the kind of person I am!”

Here’s a man full of sexuality; he gets by reading books on celibacy. He is full of lust; he reads texts on brahmacharya, and thinks himself a great aspirant of celibacy. That book becomes a prop to remain sexual: “No harm today—let it pass; indulge a bit more; from tomorrow for sure!”

I was a guest in a home. An old man told me, “A monk made me take the vow of brahmacharya three times.” “Three times?” I said. “A vow of celibacy once should be enough; how the second?” He said, “It broke. Then I took it again.” I asked, “And not a fourth time?” He said, “No, then I lost the courage.” But by the time he had taken it thrice, he was sixty. He got through his sexuality by repeatedly taking vows of celibacy.

We are astonishing. This is our ongoing yoga of non-spontaneity. We remain lustful yet read books of celibacy. The book becomes a buffer, a shock absorber. We read it, tell ourselves, “Who says I’m lustful? I read celibacy texts. I’m just a bit weak—past-life karmas obstruct; time hasn’t come; so a little goes on, but essentially I am a celibate; my ideal is celibacy.” Sex goes on here, celibacy goes on there—both together. Celibacy becomes the buffer; a cushion lines sex within; no jolts reach there; the journey continues smoothly. This is the unnatural state.

Sahaj means: remove the buffers; know there are potholes on the road; drive the car without springs, without shock absorbers. At the first pothole you’ll give up the ghost; your back will break; you’ll jump out of the car: “Enough—I won’t ride in this car again.” Pull out the springs and drive—at the first pothole, bones will crack; you’ll get out: “No more!” Shock absorbers hide the potholes.

Sahaj Yoga means: what is, is. Don’t strive to be unnatural; know what is, accept it, recognize it, and consent to live with it. Then revolution is certain. Whoever lives with what is, changes. Because there is no way to spend sixty years in lust. How many times will you take vows? Vows become a device.

If I have shouted at you and do not go to ask forgiveness—and instead go tomorrow and say, “I am a wrong sort of man; if you keep friendship with me, know I will get angry again; what am I to apologize for? I am the kind of man who gets angry”—all friends will fall away. All relationships will snap. Then I will have to live with my anger alone—anger as my only companion. No one to be angry at, no one to bear it. Then you will have to live with anger itself. Can you? You’ll leap out: “What madness is this?”

But we have our trick. In the morning the husband gets angry with the wife; an hour later he soothes her, brings a sari. The wife thinks he is full of love. Poor fellow—by repentance he is reinstating himself back to the position from which the quarrel started. The sari comes, the wife returns, the old line stands again; by evening the same will happen as in the morning. At night, again the same explanations; next morning again the same. Life repeats. Neither will see the truth: what is this? What web? What dishonesty? We keep deceiving each other. Worse—we keep deceiving ourselves.

Sahaj Yoga means: don’t deceive yourself. Know what you are: “This is me; exactly this.” And in that very seeing, change happens—instantly; you need not wait for tomorrow. If someone knows the house is on fire, will he delay till tomorrow? He will leap out now. The day we fully see our life as it is, that very day the leap happens.

But the house is on fire, and we have arranged flowers inside. We don’t see the fire; we see the flowers. Chains bind our hands, but we have gilded them; we don’t see chains, we see ornaments. The body is full of wounds; we have wrapped bandages and painted them; we see the colors, not the wounds.

Untruth binds; truth frees
The deception is long; a whole life passes, and the moment of transformation does not arrive. We keep postponing it. Death comes first; the postponed moment never comes. We die without changing.

Change can happen any time. Sahaj Yoga is a wondrous process of change. It means: live with what is—and you will change. There is no need to try to change. Truth changes you.

Jesus said: “Truth liberates.” That truth frees.

But we don’t know truth. We whitewash falsehood and set it up. Untruth binds; truth frees. Even a painful truth is better than a pleasant falsehood, because pleasant falsehood is dangerous; it will bind. Painful truth will free. Its pain, too, is liberating. So live with painful truth; don’t foster pleasant lies. Sahaj Yoga is just this. And then samadhi comes—you won’t have to seek it; it will arrive.

When tears come, cry—don’t stop; when laughter comes, laugh—don’t hold it back. Let whatever happens, happen; say, “This is happening.”

I’ve heard: In Japan a fakir died. At his death, hundreds of thousands gathered; he was renowned. But his disciple was even more famous—indeed the guru was known because of him. People came and saw that this disciple was sitting outside, beating his chest, weeping. They said, “You—and you’re crying? We thought you had attained knowledge! And you weep?” The disciple said, “Fools! For the sake of your ‘knowledge’ I should quit crying? Keep your knowledge—guard it—I don’t want it.” They said, “What will people say? Go inside! There will be disgrace. We thought you were sthitaprajna, steadfast in wisdom; we thought nothing could touch you.” He said, “You thought wrong. Earlier little touched me—I was less sensitive, I was hard. Now everything touches me and passes right through. I will weep—I will weep my heart out. Throw away your ‘knowledge.’” But as devotees are, they said, “Bad name will spread; make a crowd, form a circle, stop him; don’t let anyone see. It will be a disgrace—the enlightened…” Someone said, “You always taught the soul is immortal; why are you crying?” The fakir said, “Who is crying for the soul? I weep for the body. That body was very dear; it will never again be on this earth. Who weeps for the soul? It will always be. I’m not weeping for that. But the body was a lovely temple in which that soul dwelt; it will never be again. I weep for that.” They said, “Fool! You cry for a body?” He said, “Will you put conditions even on crying? Will you not let me cry?”

Transformation through authenticity
A free mind can only be one that has become truthful. Truthfulness means: whatever is happening—if it is crying, cry; if it is laughter, laugh. If it is anger—be authentic; be utterly authentic even in anger. And when you are angry, be only anger—so that you know what anger is, and those around you know what anger is. That will liberate. Rather than doing inch-by-inch anger lifelong, do it wholly once and know. Let it scorch you and scorch those around you—so it becomes known what anger is.

We never really know anger. We do it half—and even that inauthentically. We take one step forward and one step back; we neither go nor return, we just dance in place. Nowhere to go or come.

Sahaj Yoga simply means: whatever is in your life, accept it, know it, and live it. From this knowing, living, and acceptance will come change—mutation, transformation. And that transformation will take you where the Divine is.

What I call meditation is the very process of Sahaj Yoga. In it you accept what is happening; you let go of yourself and accept. Otherwise you may think—educated, sophisticated—“Standing there crying, shouting, flailing, dancing like a madman! That’s not normal.” It is precious though uncommon. So the onlooker doesn’t understand and laughs: “What is happening?” He doesn’t know that if he stands there and does authentically what is being suggested, the same will happen to him. Perhaps his laughter is just a defense—he’s protecting himself by laughing, saying, “I can’t do that.” But his laughter reveals there is a connection; if he stood there, he too would do the same. He too has held himself back; he hasn’t cried, hasn’t laughed, hasn’t danced.

Bertrand Russell once said that civilization has robbed man of some precious things—dancing is one. He said, “Today I cannot dance in Trafalgar Square in London. We say we are free, but if I dance in the square, the traffic policeman will seize me and send me to the station—you are obstructing traffic; you seem mad; a crossroads is not for dancing.” Russell said, “Often among tribals I watch them dance at night under the stars, and I wonder—has civilization gained or lost?” Much has been lost. Simplicity lost, spontaneity lost, nature lost—and many distortions embraced. Meditation is the process that takes you back to the sahaj state.

Provisions for the seeker
Lastly: what happened here in these three days matters. Some had wondrous glimpses; some got a taste; some tried but could not wholly manage—yet they tried and came close; entry was possible. Almost all did something, except a few—those laboring under the illusion of being “intellectual,” with much book-learning and little intelligence. Apart from them, everyone engaged. Despite many obstacles, the whole atmosphere took on a special energy, and much happened. But it is only a beginning.

Continue the experiment at home
At home, give an hour out of twenty-four to this experiment. A door may open in your life. For home: shut the room, and tell the family that for one hour, whatever happens in that room, there is no cause for concern. Inside, be naked—throw off all clothes. Stand and do the experiment. Spread a cushion so if you fall, you won’t be hurt. Do it standing. Inform the family in advance that many things may happen—sounds may come, crying may happen—anything can happen inside; but they must not interfere. Say this beforehand. Repeat the experiment an hour a day until we meet again in camp. If those who have done it here repeat it at home, I can hold a separate camp for them and give them further momentum.

There is great possibility—endless possibilities—but you must do something. You take one step; existence is always ready to take a hundred toward you. If you won’t take even one, nothing can be done.

Continue the experiment. Many inhibitions will surround you. The small children at home will say, “What’s happened to father? He was always grave and serious. Now he dances, jumps, shouts! When we children danced and jumped, he scolded us—what’s happened to him now?” They will laugh. Ask their pardon. Tell them, “We were mistaken. You keep dancing and jumping—preserve that capacity; it will be needed.”

We make children old too soon.

Tell everyone at home: for this one hour, whatever happens, there will be no commentary, no questioning. Say it once; in two or three days the family will understand: this is how it is. Not only you—results will begin in the whole house.

An energized meditation room
If possible, reserve the room only for this experiment. Do nothing else in it. Even a small cell—lock it, and use it only for this. If others in the house want to enter, let it be only to do the experiment; otherwise keep it closed. If not possible, fine. If possible, the benefits are great. The room will get charged.

Each day when you enter, you’ll sense it isn’t an ordinary room. We constantly radiate our mind-states around us; rooms and places absorb those radiations.

That’s why some places remain sacred for thousands of years. If a Mahavira, a Buddha, a Krishna once sat there, the place takes on a different impact for millennia. Standing there, entry into another world becomes easy.

Who is wealthy? I call only that person wealthy who can afford a temple room at home; the rest are poor. May there be one room that is a gateway to another world. Do nothing else there. Go in silence; only meditate there. Family members will grow curious as the changes in you become visible.

Already, a few here who had precious changes were asked by others, “What happened to you?” They asked me, “What shall we answer?” Your children, spouse, parents, friends will ask too. They’ll be curious. If you continue, the moment is not far when the event can happen in your life—the event for which one travels through countless births, and which we can miss for countless births.

The need for a vast meditation movement
The coming years in human history are very important. If a great spirituality does not arise—not just spiritual individuals, but a spiritual movement touching millions—then it will be impossible to save the world from the pit of materialism. The next fifty years are momentous; destiny will be decided—either religion will remain, or bare irreligion. In these fifty years, Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Mohammed, Rama, Jesus—all are on one pan of the scale; on the other are the frenzied politicians, materialists, the confused crowds pushing themselves and others into ignorance. On one side are very few. The eternal struggle has come to a decisive point. As things stand, hope doesn’t arise easily. Yet I am not hopeless, because I feel very soon a simple, natural path can be found that becomes a ray of revolution in millions of lives.

Now it won’t do that one or two individuals awaken, as in the old days. Not anymore. One individual is too weak when the crowd is so huge—population has exploded. Now only on a large, broad scale—if millions are impacted—can something be done.

I see that millions can be impacted. If a few start working as a nucleus, this India—however poor, downtrodden, enslaved, astray—can play a precious role in that decisive battle. This land still holds preserved treasures. Here walked such beings that their rays, their light, their longings are engraved in every leaf. Man has gone wrong, but the very dust remembers Buddha’s feet. Man has gone wrong, but trees recognize that once Mahavira stood beneath them. Man has gone wrong, but the oceans have heard other kinds of sounds. The sky still holds hope. If only man returns, the rest of the arrangements are ready.

So I pray ceaselessly for a way for an explosion to happen together in the lives of millions. You can be collaborators. Your own explosion can be precious—for you, and for all humankind. With this hope and prayer I bid you farewell from this camp: may you light your own lamp, and may your lamp become a light for other extinguished lamps.

You have listened to my words with such peace and love—I am deeply grateful; and finally I bow to the Divine seated within each of you. Please accept my pranam.