Jin Khoja Tin Paiyan #7

First, one must understand the meaning of Tao. In its original sense, Tao means what dharma means: intrinsic nature. Fire burns—that is its dharma. Air is invisible—that is its nature, its dharma. Except for the human being, the whole universe abides within dharma; it does not step outside its nature. In the world—leaving man aside—everything moves within its own nature. Nothing moves outside its nature. If we remove man, only nature remains. Water will fall as rain; sunlight will strike; water will turn to vapor, to clouds, cool, and fall again. Fire will go on burning; winds will keep blowing; seeds will split and become trees. Birds will go on laying eggs. Everything will happen by nature. Nowhere in nature will any contradiction arise.

Freedom—man’s dignity as well as his misfortune
With the coming of man, an astonishing event occurred in life—the greatest event in this world: man has the power and capacity to go against nature, to move opposite to it. This is man’s dignity—and his misfortune. It is his glory; hence he is the highest of beings. Because he can choose to live in nature—or he can choose to go against it. The inescapable necessity of nature does not bind man. Man is a free being.

In this known world, man alone is free. Free means he can do what does not occur in nature. He can make fire cool. He can make air visible. He can make water flow upward instead of downward. And the reason for all this is that man can think; he has intelligence. Intelligence is his deciding principle—what to do, what not to do; whether to do this or to do that; whether this will be right or not. Intelligence is the thread of freedom within man, and the possibility of rising above nature. There is transcendence in him.

Freedom is not license
But though man can go against nature, the sufferings that arise from going against nature—those he will have to endure.

This is exactly what adharma means. Adharma means doing what is not in one’s nature; doing what ought not be done; doing that which produces suffering. All these are one and the same. Whatever action leads to painful results is adharma—because there is no room for sorrow within svabhava, the intrinsic nature. Hence, except for man, nothing else in existence is miserable, anxious, or tense. No other creature, except man, has the capacity to go insane, because every other creature lives in its nature. In nature there is ease; to go against nature is to suffer.

But no other creature can go against nature at all. Living in its nature is not its choice; it is its compulsion. That is why there is nothing glorious in it. Man can go against his nature—that is the glory. But this does not guarantee good fortune; misfortune can follow. If he goes contrary, he will suffer.

Happiness + freedom = bliss
Understand one more thing here: if remaining in nature is a compulsion, there is happiness, but there is never bliss. In human life a new formula opens—the formula of bliss. Bliss means: one could have gone against nature, but did not. If one had gone, one would have suffered; if one could not go at all and stayed within nature, one would have found happiness; but when one could have gone and did not, the happiness that arises is bliss. When happiness is joined with freedom, it becomes bliss. Happiness + freedom becomes bliss.

Tao means: as the whole of existence lives in nature by compulsion, so we live in our nature by freedom. When freely, out of our own choice, we live in our nature, Tao is realized. For Tao, the word dharma is marvelous; but since “dharma” has been overused among us—and misused, made to stand for Hindu or Muslim—that creates difficulty. There is another Vedic word: Rta. Rta means the Law, the order. Tao too means Rta—the Law.

But the Law can be of two kinds, as I said. As compulsion—then you remain in nature, where all is pleasant but there is no choice. The possibility of breaking the Law begins with man. Man is one who has gone beyond nature but has not entered the divine. He stands at God’s door: he can enter, or he can turn back. There is no compulsion. If he turns back, he will have to bear the suffering that follows. If he enters, he will receive the bliss that follows. One who, by choice and in freedom, agrees to live in svabhava, attains Tao.

In nature there is nothing auspicious or inauspicious
Based on this, a few more things about Tao. In svabhava there is nothing good or bad; what happens, happens. We cannot say water flows downward and is committing a sin. Water flows downward—this is its nature. There is no sin or merit in it, no good or bad. Fire burns; we cannot say fire sins much because it burns. However much pain someone may feel, there is no sin on fire’s part; it is its nature; it must burn because it is fire. To be fire and to burn are two ways of saying the same thing. Therefore, in nature there is neither sin nor merit.

Man tries to impose. We call the lion a sinner because he eats the cow. So the virtuous draw pictures where a cow and a lion drink water together. That does great good to the cow—but what about the lion? These same virtuous folks never show a cow and grass standing side by side, because then to the grass what happens to the cow would also happen. The grass too is being killed in the mouth of the cow. The cow grazes happily, and the lion is made to sit beside the cow and not eat it.

We impose our notions. In nature there is nothing auspicious or inauspicious; there is no talk of good and bad because there is no option there, no choice. The lion does not knowingly eat the cow; the cow does not knowingly eat the grass. No one intends to hurt another; it simply happens.

With man, infinite possibilities
With man, for the first time, the question arises—what is good and what is bad? Because man can choose. Nothing with man is such that it must happen; anything can happen—there are infinite possibilities. Man can eat the cow, or he can eat the grass. He can refrain from both. He can even fast and die. With man, infinite possibilities open; hence the question: what is right and what is wrong?

The story is that Confucius went to Lao Tzu. He said, “We must tell people what is right and what is wrong.” Lao Tzu replied, “One needs to say what is right only when the right has been lost. Only when the right is lost must one say what is right and what is wrong.” Confucius said, “But people must be taught dharma.” Lao Tzu said, “One teaches dharma only when no trace of dharma remains—when dharma is lost.”

With man it has been lost. He has no clear formulae given at birth to walk by. He must discover, while living, the very principles by which to live.

Hence there is immense freedom—and an equal possibility of going against nature. We can do what leads us into suffering. And we are doing so daily.

Tao means returning to that point from where things are seen clearly, where we need not decide what is right or wrong, but from where it is simply seen: this is right, that is wrong. Where we do not have to think, but we see.

The practice of Tao—thought-free seeing
First I defined what Tao means. Now the second thing: what is the practice of Tao? The practice of Tao is the method of standing at that point from where it is seen what is right and what is wrong—where we do not have to think about it.

For who is it that will think? I. And if I truly could, what need was there to say anything? It is precisely because I do not know that I think. And what I do not know, I cannot arrive at by thinking. We can only think about what we already in some way know. The unknown cannot be thought.

It is clear that I do not know what is right or wrong, what is svabhava and what is contrivance. Yet we say, “We will think.” From the moment thinking begins, philosophy begins. That is why I say Tao has no philosophy. Tao is not a philosophy. Wherever one thinks, “What is right, what is wrong? What to do, what not to do? What is merit, what is sin? What brings happiness, what brings sorrow?”—wherever there is thinking, there is philosophy. No—Tao is thoroughly anti-philosophy, doctrine-less. Tao says: by thinking, how will you find? If you knew, you would not think. If you do not know, how will you think? Thinking can only ruminate on what you already know. Thinking never yields the new; it only rearranges the old in new combinations. Never has the new come through thinking, nor can it.

Whether a new insight in science or a new realization in religion—both happen outside thinking, never within it. Even scientific breakthroughs do not happen within thought. The new comes when you are outside thought. It may be that by thinking and thinking you become exhausted and fall outside. A man toils in his lab all day, thinking hard, trying every experiment, finding nothing. Tired out, he sleeps. Suddenly an idea comes in a dream, or he wakes in the morning and sees it. He will say, “It came from my thinking.” It did not. It came when thinking tired and stilled—then he came to Tao. When one drops out of thought, one instantly returns to nature—there is nowhere else to go. Thought is the one device by which we wander outside our nature.

As if I sleep in this room and dream, I can, in the dream, roam outside. But if the dream breaks, I find myself standing here. I will not ask, “How did I come back in?” for I never left. I only thought I had gone out; even while I was seeing myself outside, I was here.

Tao says: however much you think you are going here and there, you cannot leave Tao. You remain where you are, because how can you go outside your nature? Svabhava means that outside which you cannot go—your very being. But you can think that you have.

Hence, understand this: human freedom, too, is the freedom to think. In thinking he has gone “out.” In thought he wanders. If all thought comes to a halt, he will stand upon Tao. What we call meditation, what in Japan they call Zen, Lao Tzu calls Tao: standing where there is no thought. From there, that which is, is seen—what ought to be, what will bring happiness and bliss is seen. And then there is no need to choose to do it—it begins to happen.

We are already in the state of Tao—where animals and trees abide—but we have wandered in thought. We do not know our real state, though we know everything else.

Thought is a leap outside nature
Therefore the basic process—the sadhana—of Tao is meditation: to come to where there is no thought. Lao Tzu says: you think a single grain of thought, and heaven and hell fall apart—the distance becomes infinite.

Someone comes to Lao Tzu and asks a question. As Lao Tzu answers, the man begins to think. Lao Tzu says, “Stop! Do not think. If you think, you will never understand what I have said. Do not think. Just listen. If you can hear, it will happen; if you think—you are lost. If you wanted to think, why ask me at all? Who stopped you from thinking for yourself!”

The moment we think, we are instantly outside our nature. Thought is a leap outside nature—but only in thought. Essentially we have gone nowhere; it only seems so.

Thus, the practice of Tao means: drop thought and stand. Where there is no thought, only consciousness remains, only awareness. From there, not only will the right be seen—it will begin to happen.

Therefore one who lives Tao is neither moral nor immoral; neither sinner nor saint. He says, “What can happen, happens. I do not do anything.”

A Tao mystic was asked, “What is your practice?” He said, “When sleep breaks, I get up. When sleep comes, I lie down. When I am hungry, I eat.”

The questioner said, “But we all do that.”

He replied, “You do not. When sleep comes, when do you actually lie down? You do thousands of other things. When sleep does not come, you try to bring it. When have you risen only when sleep broke? You usually break your sleep and get up—or sleep is gone and you still don’t rise. When have you eaten only when hungry?”

An Eskimo from Siberia visited England for the first time. He was astonished—most of all that people sleep by the clock! And eat by the clock! He was bewildered how a whole household eats together—how is it possible they all feel hungry at once? “Where I come from, whoever is hungry eats. Someone at one time, someone at another. That a whole family sits at a table and eats together is a miracle—because all feeling hungry at once is most unlikely!” And people say, “It’s twelve o’clock,” and go to sleep. It made no sense to him. Naturally—one from Siberia is still closer to Tao. He eats when hungry, does not when not. Sleeps when sleep comes, rises when it breaks.

Tao will not say, “Rise in brahma-muhurta.” Tao will say, “Whenever you rise, that is brahma-muhurta.” That fakir is right: “Whatever happens, we let it happen. We do nothing—what happens, we allow.” If man lives again like nature, he attains Tao—when he lets what is happening happen. And this to the deepest depths. Not only eating and sleeping—if anger arises, he allows anger to arise; if sex-energy arises, he allows it too. “Who am I to intervene? In truth,” says Tao, “let what happens happen. Who are you to come in the middle? With what right do you interfere?”

The ultimate flowering of Tao—witnessing
If one lets everything that happens happen, only the witness remains within, nothing else. He will see anger arise. He will see hunger come. He will see sleep come. He becomes a witness. The deepest grip of Tao is in witnessing. He keeps watching, and one day he will even see death arrive—and he will keep watching. For one who has seen all of life, he can see death too. We do not even see life; we always step in the middle. So at death we again step in the middle and fail to see what is happening.

He will see death. One who has seen sleep come and go, sickness come and go, anger come and go, will one day see death too. He will see birth as well. He will be the seer of all. And the moment we become the seer of all, no karmic bondage remains—because bondage lies in our sense of being the doer: “I am doing.” Whether doing anger or practicing celibacy; whether worshiping or eating—the doer is present.

In Tao’s ultimate event, the “I” is lost, the doer disappears, and the witness remains. Now, what happens, happens. There is no doer. Such a state of consciousness—where there is no auspicious or inauspicious, no good or bad; where there is only svabhava and a wholehearted willingness to live with it; where there is no conflict, no quarrel, no “this should be, that should be,” no option—there is a readiness to let what happens happen. Then the explosion—what I call the explosion—occurs instantly.

The whole of spirituality is contained in Tao
In the small word Tao, all that is best in sadhana is contained—all that is great in man’s spiritual quest. Whatever has been found in meditation and samadhi is folded into this small word. It is a precious word—and untranslatable. One could have used “dharma,” but it has been distorted; its associations have gone wrong. One could have used “Rta,” but it has fallen out of use and never entered the common mind. Yet the meaning is the same: living in the original nature is the greatest power. Then there is neither scope for blame nor for praise—there is no scope for anything.

Lao Tzu has stopped being anything
Lao Tzu sat by a riverbank. The emperor sent a man to find him: “Bring Lao Tzu. I hear he is very wise. We will make him our minister.” With great difficulty the man found Lao Tzu. Wherever he asked, people said, “Lao Tzu himself never knows where he is going. He goes wherever his feet take him. He cannot say in advance, so we cannot tell you where he will be. But search—you might find him nearby. He was seen this morning in this village. He wouldn’t have gone far—he never walks fast. He has nowhere to go, nowhere to reach. You will find him close by.”

They found him sitting by the river. The envoy said, “We have found you after searching village to village. The emperor has called you. He wants you to take charge as a minister.” Lao Tzu sat silently. Then he said, “Do you see that turtle there? It is enjoying the mud.” “Yes, we see.” Lao Tzu said, “We have heard that your emperor has a golden turtle—an ancestor of some past turtle became worshipful in that family. They plated it with gold and enshrined it. Is that true?” “It is true. Gilded and most revered—the emperor himself bows to it.” Lao Tzu said, “Tell me: if you asked this turtle, ‘We will plate you in gold and lock you in a precious chest and worship you,’ would the turtle prefer to be gilded or to roll in the mud?” They said, “The turtle would prefer the mud.” Lao Tzu said, “So do I. Namaskar! Go. If even a turtle is so wise, do you think Lao Tzu is more foolish than a turtle? Go. Being a minister is of no use to me.” In truth, Lao Tzu has stopped being anything. Lao Tzu simply is.

This kind of man is not what we ordinarily call a “seeker.” The seeker we speak of is usually a reaction to the householder. If the householder runs a shop, the seeker does not; if the householder earns wealth, the seeker renounces it; if the householder marries, the seeker does not. But his rules are derived from the householder—he is only a reaction.

Lao Tzu says, “I am no one’s reaction. It does not matter what others do. I neither follow anyone to do as he does, nor go against anyone to do the opposite. I let happen what arises from within.”

Allowing nature to happen means not imitating anyone, not copying anyone, not building one’s personality in opposition to anyone. Whatever can happen from within, whatever wants to happen—we allow it. No obstruction, no condemnation, no opposition, no struggle, no conflict. Let what happens, happen. This means dropping notions of good and bad immediately—because good-bad is what drives you to condemn and obstruct: do this, not that. Dropping all ideas of good-bad, auspicious-inauspicious, stand at that point and watch where life wants to flow—a point where there is no thought.

How thought even alters breathing
If all your brain’s capacity to think were taken away, you would still breathe. You are breathing even now—but even in breathing there is a difference. At night you breathe differently than in the day. We usually pay no attention to breath, yet the process of thought puts impediments on it. If a sick person stops sleeping at night, his sickness becomes hard to cure, because wakefulness feeds the idea of illness. First it is necessary that the sick person sleep—treatment comes second—so that in sleep he drops the idea of illness and his nature can do its work without his interference.

The beauty of Tao
That is why children are so delightful. It is rare to find an ugly child; children are simply beautiful—truly, a child is never ugly. You will hardly ever have looked at a child and felt, “How ugly.” Yet these same children, growing up, many become ugly; most do—and beautiful adults become hard to find. What happens? From where does the child’s beauty come?

From Tao. He is living exactly as he is. The greatest ugliness is born of the effort to be beautiful. Then what we are ceases to be important; we begin imposing what we think we should look like. That is why women rarely become truly beautiful. The overconcern with being beautiful fills deep, hidden ugliness within. Hence very few women have any depth of beauty. After one or two days of living with a very beautiful woman, her beauty ceases to appear—because it was on the surface, it fades. It doesn’t show in depth.

Children seem beautiful because they are as they are. If they are “ugly,” they are willing to be ugly—no obstruction even to that. Then another kind of beauty appears in them—the beauty of Tao.

Tao has its own intelligence
So with all aspects of life. There is a very “intelligent” man who knows answers to all questions. But there will surely be questions whose answers he does not know. As long as you ask what he knows, he replies; ask one he does not, and he is instantly ignorant—because his intelligence is cultivated. It is prepared. Such a man does not welcome new questions; he clings to the old ones, because the old answers work only so long as no new questions arise. When a new question comes, the “intelligent” man is finished.

But Tao has no ready answers. Therefore for one who has the intelligence of Tao, no question is new or old. As a question arises, he grapples with it. Nothing is pre-made. Nothing is kept in readiness.

When Confucius met Lao Tzu—Confucius had met many—but when he returned and his friends asked, “What happened?” he said, “You sent me to a dragon, not a man. He will devour me! My whole intelligence was shattered. In front of him I saw my ‘intelligence’ is only cunning—a cleverness with a few prepared answers. He asked questions whose answers I did not know. I did not even know they were questions. He laughed much. I shall not go to him again, for before him my intelligence proved nothing more than trickery I had rehearsed.”

Tao’s intelligence has nothing prepared. Things come and are accepted. Whatever happens is allowed to happen.

Tao’s conduct is hard to predict
Hence it is very hard to predict the behavior of one established in Tao. You may ask a question and instead of answering he may give you a slap—because he will say, “That is what happened.” He will not say you must not slap back; you may do whatever you like. But he will say, “What could happen, happened.” And perhaps, if understood, that slap was the precise answer you needed.

Not every question is such that it should be answered in words. Many questions deserve a slap. It will not occur to us how a slap could be good.

A young man went to a Tao mystic and asked, “What is God? What is religion?” The mystic lifted him up, slapped him, and threw him out. The youth was furious. He had traveled far, climbed mountains to come here. Opposite, another mystic’s hut stood. He went there and complained, “What kind of man is that?” This mystic picked up a stick. “What are you doing?” asked the youth. The mystic said, “You went to a very compassionate man. Had you come to me, I would have beaten you with a stick. He is ever compassionate. Go back to him. He has great compassion; even what he did was no small grace.”

The youth returned, baffled. He knocked. The first mystic brought him in and seated him with great love. “Ask,” he said. The youth said, “When I came before, you hit me—and now you seat me so lovingly!” The mystic replied, “One who cannot bear a slap will not be able to bear love. The blows of love are harder. But you returned—so now we can proceed.” The youth said, “I might have fled—thanks to the compassion of the man opposite.” “He is very gracious,” said the mystic. “More gracious than I. Had you gone to him, he would have beaten you.”

When this tale spread, it became impossible for people to understand what it meant. But things have their inner laws—the inner Tao of things.

It is not necessary that when you come to ask me a question, you have truly come to ask a question. It is not necessary you need an answer. It is not necessary that what you ask is what you have come to ask. It is not necessary that what you utter is what you really wish to ask—because you have many faces. You decide to ask one thing, something else happens on the way, and you ask yet another after arriving.

Many come to me; if I let two minutes pass, speak of something else, and then ask, “Now tell me,” they sit an hour and never ask what they came to ask. A man who came with an urgent question—when I asked only, “How are you? All well?” and later, “Tell me,” he went away. How deep could that question have been? How many roots? How much did his being need it? Not at all. Yet he came as if it were essential to ask—as if without asking he could not live.

Tao’s intelligence—like a mirror
Tao has its own intelligence: immediate, direct action. You cannot say what a man established in Tao will do. He may remain silent.

Lao Tzu goes for a walk daily. A friend goes with him. They walk two hours in the hills and return. A guest arrives; the friend brings him along: “Our guest will come today.” All are silent—Lao Tzu, the friend, the guest. As the sun rises, the guest says only, “What a beautiful morning!” Lao Tzu looks at his friend with great anger for bringing this guest. The friend is startled; the guest even more—he had said nothing bad. Two hours of silence, and all he said was, “What a beautiful morning.”

They return. At the door Lao Tzu says to his friend, “Do not bring this man again. He seems a great babbler.” The guest protests, “I did not babble. In two hours I only said, ‘What a beautiful morning.’” Lao Tzu says, “We could see that too. It was sheer babble. When what is seen by all is being seen, what need to say it? And what should not be said—you are able to say. You are not the right sort; do not come from tomorrow.”

Consider it. When you say, “What a beautiful morning,” in truth you are not concerned with the morning; you want to start a conversation. The morning is visible to all. If it is beautiful, be silent. You are just looking for a peg to hang talk upon. Lao Tzu catches the whole consequence: “He is a babbler. He has started the train; we were barely decent enough not to let it gather steam. He fixed the peg; had we cooperated, more stuff would have been hung. He is a talker.”

Such a small remark can be proof of a babbling mind. We may feel Lao Tzu is excessive. I do not. He is right. He caught the trick. Tao’s intelligence is like a mirror—things appear as they are. He grasped the device: the man had been restless for an hour, tried many ways, but both were silent; he blurted, “Morning is beautiful”—thinking none could deny that, the talk would start. Once talk begins, there is no end. Lao Tzu said, “He is a babbler; do not bring him. He sowed the seed; we saved the crop.”

Tao has a mirror of its own. How things will appear in that mirror cannot be known by merely looking at things. Since he has no fixed answer, there is great freedom—no ready-made talk, things are simple and straightforward, without guile. But this all depends on standing at that point.

Lao Tzu is closest to me
What I call meditation, call it Tao—no difference. I have a very close affinity with Tao. If I feel close to anyone, it is Lao Tzu. The purest! He never wrote a book in his life. Many urged him, “Write, write.” In his last years he was leaving the country. The king had him stopped at the customs post: “Pay your debt; I will not let you go otherwise.” He said, “I have nothing with me. What tax can I pay?” The tax collector said, “What is in your head we will not let go. Write it down. You are escaping with great wealth.” Lao Tzu then wrote a small book—the Tao Te Ching. An amazing book. Few write saying at the outset: “What I am going to say cannot be said; and what I do say will be untrue, because the moment it is said it becomes untrue. Truth cannot be said, and what I say will be false by virtue of saying.”

Such a man has something, has known something, has arrived somewhere.

Meditation + Tao = Zen
Zen was born of the crossbreeding of Tao and Buddha—Lao Tzu and Buddha met in it. That is why Zen is incomparable. Zen is not Buddhism alone. Indian monks carried the method of meditation to China, but India did not have the full vision, the wide embrace of Tao. The method that stills one in svabhava was there; the vast vision of living in nature was with Lao Tzu. When Buddhist monks took meditation to China and encountered Tao’s full vision, meditation and Tao became one. Their offspring is Zen. Hence Zen is neither merely Buddha nor merely Lao Tzu; Zen is something utterly unique. Today Zen’s beauty is unmatched because it is the child of two wondrous treasures—Buddha and Lao Tzu. No other meeting birthed anything like it. In Zen there is Tao’s vastness and meditation’s depth.

It is difficult, as you say—and also simple. Difficult because it runs contrary to our structures of thinking; simple because nature can only be simple—there is nothing difficult in it.

The relation between rapid breathing and kundalini

There is a relationship—and a very deep one. In fact, breath itself is the bridge between our soul and our body; breath is the link. When breath goes, life force goes. The brain could stop and one might still go on; the eyes could go, the limbs could be cut off—still one could survive. But if breath is cut, one is gone; breath is the bond between soul and body. And the very point where soul and body meet is where kundalini is—right there! That is the locus of the energy we call kundalini. Call it by any name; the energy is there.

Two forms of kundalini energy
Therefore this energy has two directions. If the kundalini energy flows toward the body, it becomes sexual energy; if it flows toward the soul, it becomes kundalini—call it by any other name if you like. Flowing toward the body it becomes downward-going; flowing toward the soul it becomes upward-going. But wherever it abides, the “blow” that sets it in motion comes through breath.
So you will be surprised: during sexual intercourse one cannot keep the breath quiet—the rhythm changes instantly. As soon as lust arises, the mind quickens the breath, because only when breath strikes that point will sexual energy begin to flow. Without the blow of breath, intercourse is impossible—and without the blow of breath, samadhi is also impossible. Samadhi is the name of its upward point; intercourse is the name of its downward point. But the blow of breath strikes in both cases.

The intimate link between breath and desire
So if the mind is filled with sexuality, slow the breath, relax the breath. When the mind is seized by lust, or anger, or any craving, relax the breath—make it slower and gentler. Then lust and anger will depart; they cannot persist, because they cannot get the energy they need without the blow of breath.
Hence, no one can truly be angry while breathing slowly. And if he can, it is a miracle. It is simply not possible: let the breath slow down and anger goes. Nor can one remain sexually aroused while keeping the breath calm; let the breath be quiet and sexual arousal subsides.
So when the mind is aroused by sex or filled with anger, keep the breath slow; and when the mind is filled with the urge for meditation, then strike the breath intensely. Because when the inner aspiration for meditation is there and the breath delivers its blow, the energy sets off on the journey of meditation.

Awakening through the sharp strike of breath
Breath has a profound effect upon kundalini. Pranayama was not discovered without reason. Through long experiment and experience it became known that much can be done through the blow of breath; breath-impact can do much. The more intense the blow, the swifter the movement. And for all of us ordinary people, whose kundalini has slept for lifetimes, a very strong blow is needed—dense blows are needed; we must gather our total energy and deliver the blow.
Through breath the strike begins to fall upon kundalini, upon the root center. And as experience grows, you will be able to see, eyes closed, exactly where the blow of breath is falling. Therefore it will often happen that when the breath strikes sharply you may also feel sexual arousal. That is because your body has only one familiar association with a sharp breath and an impact upon that energy—sex. So the body instantly starts working along the well-worn track of that memory. Hence many seekers, men and women, suddenly feel the blow at the sexual center.
Many women felt—quite naturally—around Gurdjieff that as soon as they came near him, their sexual center was struck. This is entirely natural. It earned Gurdjieff a bad name, without his fault. It was not his fault at all. In truth, in the presence of such a person, whose own kundalini is awakened, your kundalini begins to be struck by the waves around him. But because your kundalini is still fast asleep near the sex center, that is where the first blow lands.

When kundalini awakens, the chakras are activated
Breath brings very deep results for kundalini. All the chakras you speak of are stations on kundalini’s journey—places through which it passes. There are many such places; one could count many chakras. But if we divide roughly, they are places where kundalini will pause for a while, where it will rest.
So there will be effects upon all the chakras. And whichever chakra is most active in a person, that is where the first effect will be felt. For example, if someone works day and night from the head, then after fast breathing his head will suddenly feel heavy, because his brain-center is the active one. The breath’s first blow will strike the active chakra. If someone is very sexual, his sexual arousal will increase; if someone is very loving, his love will increase; if someone is very emotional, his emotion will increase. The blow first strikes the center that is most active in the personality.
But very soon the blows begin on other centers as well. Therefore a transformation in personality is experienced quite immediately—“I am changing; I am not the same person I was until yesterday.” This is because we do not know how many we are; we only know the chakra upon which we live. When another chakra opens within, it seems our personality has gone—we are another person; we are no longer who we were. It is like living in a house and knowing only one room. Suddenly a door opens and another room is revealed—the whole map changes. What you had taken as your house becomes something else; a new arrangement has to be made.

From activated centers, a new personality emerges
Wherever blows land upon your centers, from there new facets of personality will emerge. And when all the centers become active together—when energy flows evenly through all of them—for the first time you live as your whole personality. Usually none of us lives as our total being; our higher centers remain untouched. Breath will strike those centers as well.
And the question “Who am I?” also delivers a blow—but from another direction. Understand this a little. Breath is clear enough; but how does “Who am I?” strike kundalini?

How “Who am I?” strikes the centers
Close your eyes and imagine a naked woman. Your sex center will become active immediately. Why? You are only imagining; why should your sex center be activated?
In fact, every center has its own imagination—its own imagery. If you begin to imagine in the neighborhood of a center’s imagery, that center is activated instantly. Therefore, as soon as you think of sexuality, the sex center starts working.
And you will be surprised: a naked woman herself may not be as effective as the thought of a naked woman. The reason is that the thought carries you into imagination, and imagination delivers the blow from within. The actual woman does not lead you into imagination; she stands before you outwardly. So the impact from the outer cannot go as deep as the blow from within.
Therefore many people will prove impotent before a woman, yet in imagination they are very potent—immeasurably potent. Because the blow of imagination touches the center from within; the blow of the actual woman touches you from without. And since man lives in the mind, he delivers deeper blows through the mind.

“Who am I?”—an existential question
When you ask, “Who am I?” you are arousing an inquiry, envisioning a knowing, raising a question. Which center will it touch? It will touch a center in you. When you ask it with longing, when your every pore begins to ask “Who am I?”, you start moving within; and a blow will begin to land upon some inner center. “Who am I?” is a question you have never asked before; therefore it will not strike any of your familiar, active centers. You have never desired this; you have asked, “Who is she? What is that?”—all those questions. But “Who am I?” is unasked. It will strike an unknown center, one you have never touched. And that unknown center upon which “Who am I?” strikes is very basic—because the question is basic, foundational. It is profoundly existential: Who am I, at the depth of being?
It can carry me to where I was before births began; it can carry me to where I was in the beginning. The depth of this question is measureless; its journey is very deep. Therefore its impact will fall immediately upon the deepest root center of kundalini.

Different ways to deliver the blow
Breath delivers a physiological blow; “Who am I?” delivers a mental blow. One strikes with your body energy, the other with your mind energy. And if both blows land with full force—then ordinarily you have only these two direct routes to strike there. There are other methods, but they are a bit involved. Another person can help. If you do it in my presence, the blow reaches more quickly because a third direction of impact begins—astral. Breath is bodily; “Who am I?” is mental. And if you sit near someone who can touch your astral, your subtle body, then a third journey begins. Hence if fifty people meditate here, it will happen more intensely than for one alone, because the intense aspiration and intense breathing of fifty people will fill the room with an astral atmosphere—new kinds of electric currents will begin to circulate all around—and they too will strike you.
But ordinarily you have two straightforward means: body and mind. “Who am I?” will strike deeply—deeper even than breath. We begin with breath because it belongs to the body; it is easier to do. “Who am I?” is a little more difficult; it belongs to the mind. Start with the body. When the body begins to vibrate fully, the mind becomes capable of asking; and the right situation is needed for the asking.
You cannot ask “Who am I?” anytime and have it work. Every question has its right situation. For example, when your whole body begins to tremble and sway, the question arises on its own: What is happening? Am I doing this? I am not moving my head; I am not lifting my feet; I am not dancing—and yet it is happening. If it is happening, then your constant identity—“this body is me”—has loosened. A new question arises: Then who am I? If the body is doing it and I am not, then who is the doer? Who are you then?
This is the right situation, the opening through which your “Who am I?” can descend deeply. It must be asked at the right moment. Truly, every question has its right time. Finding the right time is precious. If you ask now, it will just wander in the air; it will strike nowhere. There must be an opening within—an aperture through which it can enter.

Transcendent experiences with kundalini awakening
From the blows of both, kundalini will awaken; when it awakens, extraordinary experiences will begin. All the experiences of your many births are linked with kundalini—when you were a tree, a fish, a bird. The experiences of your endless wombs are imprinted along that whole path. Your kundalini has assimilated them all.
Therefore many kinds of happenings can occur. You may identify with those experiences; anything can happen. So many subtle impressions are woven into you. A tree stands outside; the wind blows, rain falls—how a tree knows rain, we will never be able to know, not in that way. Even if we stand next to the tree, we will not know as the tree knows; we will only know as humans know. But you have been a tree in some life-journey. If kundalini reaches the locus where the tree’s experience is stored, suddenly you will find that rain is falling and you are knowing what a tree knows. You will be startled—what is happening! Then you will understand that what the ocean experiences, you can experience; what the winds know, you can know. Your aesthetic possibilities will open unimaginably—far beyond anything you had considered.
Gogh has a painting: a tree reaching to the sky; the stars have been left below; the tree keeps growing up and up; the moon is below, the sun is below—small—and the tree goes on rising. Someone said, “You have gone mad! Trees are not like that. The moon and stars below and the tree above!” Gogh said, “You have never really known a tree; you have never looked inside a tree. I know it from within. That it cannot actually grow beyond moon and stars is another matter; but it longs to. It cannot, that is another matter; but the aspiration is there. I cannot even think otherwise. It is compulsion that it cannot grow—but its life-breath crosses the moon and stars.”
Gogh used to say: a tree is the earth’s aspiration to touch the sky; the earth’s desire—Earth stretching out her hands and limbs to touch the heavens. You can see like that—yet even then you will not see exactly as the tree sees.
But we have been all these; so anything can occur. And what we can yet become—those possibilities will also begin to appear. What we have been will come into experience; what we can be tomorrow will begin to show itself.
Once you enter the path of kundalini, your story is no longer a personal story; it becomes the story of consciousness itself. Aurobindo spoke in this language—that is why it was not so clear to many. It is no longer the tale of a person; it is the tale of consciousness. You are not alone. Countless beings who have been are within you; countless who will be are within you. A seed that keeps opening and manifesting, with no end in sight. When you see your expanse without shores—endless behind and endless ahead—then all is transformed. And all that is hidden lies in kundalini.
Many hues will open that you have never seen. In truth, there are not so many colors outside as can appear within you. You have known them before, and known them in other ways. When an eagle wheels high in the sky it sees colors differently; we see differently. Walk among the trees and you see only “green”; but a painter sees a thousand kinds of green. Green is not one color; it has thousands of shades, none identical—each with its own personality. To us it is just “green”—a crude idea and the matter is closed. But each color contains thousands of colors. As you enter within, you will discover thousands of fine experiences.
The realm of subtle experiences
In terms of the senses, man is a weak creature; animals and birds are far more powerful—the depth and height of their sensations are great. Their lack is that they cannot gather all that into reflective consciousness. But their felt experience is profound.
In Japan there is a common little bird that will leave the village twenty-four hours before an earthquake. If that bird is not to be seen, the village can be certain an earthquake will come within a day. Our instruments cannot give such sure notice—often not even six hours ahead. But the bird’s warning is certain. This means the ultra-subtle vibrations that precede an earthquake are felt by that bird at some level; it leaves.
If you have ever been that bird, then along kundalini’s path you will begin to feel such vibrations. Colors will appear that you have never seen; sounds will be heard—what Kabir calls nada. Kabir says, “Amrit is raining, O seekers—dance!” The seekers ask, “Where is the nectar raining?” It is not raining outside. Kabir says, “Do you hear? The great drums are sounding.” The seekers ask, “Where?” Kabir says, “You do not hear?”
What Kabir heard, you too will hear—the inner sounds. Tastes will arise that you had never imagined could exist.
A vast world of subtle sensations is linked with kundalini. All that will awaken; it will assault you from every side. Therefore in such states a person often appears mad—when all sit solemnly, he starts laughing, because he sees what others do not; and when all are laughing, he may begin to weep, because something is happening in him that is not happening in others.

Controlled descent of energy through shaktipat
Ordinarily, man has two ways to deliver such blows; exceptionally there is a third, which we call shaktipat—the astral route. It requires a medium. If another person is present as a helper, your inner intensity can increase. In that case the other person does nothing; his presence is enough. He becomes a medium. Infinite energy is all around. We put a lightning rod atop a house so that if lightning strikes it will go to ground; even without a rod, lightning can strike—but then the whole house may be shattered. With the rod it passes. Lightning has been falling from the beginning; only recently did we think of the rod.
Likewise, infinite energies surround man; they can be used for his spiritual growth—if there is a medium. You yourself can become a medium, but at first this can be dangerous. The descent may be so great you cannot bear it; some of your nerves may jam or even break. Every energy has a voltage; it must accord with your capacity to bear it. Through another person as medium, it can be moderated to suit you. If such a one in whom the descent has already taken place allows it to be channeled to you, he can let it reach you in the degree you need.
Nothing needs to be done for this—only presence is required. He functions like a catalytic agent. He does not do anything. So if anyone says, “I do shaktipat,” he is mistaken; no one does shaktipat. But in someone’s presence, shaktipat can happen.

The difference between kundalini rising and shaktipat
I feel that if seekers here go a little deeper, it will begin to happen very strongly—there is no difficulty in it. You will suddenly find a different kind of energy entering you from outside—one that has not arisen from within you.
Whenever you experience kundalini, it will feel as if it is rising from within—like standing in a river whose waters are rising from below, and you are being drowned as it swells upward. Kundalini always feels like submergence—something rising from below and engulfing you.
But whenever you experience shaktipat, it will feel like rain from above—what Kabir calls the raining of nectar. It will feel as if it is descending from above and you are being soaked in it. If both can happen together, the speed becomes tremendous—rain from above and flood from below; the river swells and the rain pours, and from both sides you are drowned and dissolved. This can happen from both directions; there is no difficulty in it.

Shaktipat is not private property

The real point is: whatever is arising within you, that alone will be long-lasting; shaktipat can only be a support, it can never become the root. It cannot become the root. What is already within you will become the root. That alone is your wealth, your real wealth. Shaktipat will not increase your wealth; shaktipat will increase the capacity of your wealth to grow. Understand this distinction clearly. Shaktipat will not increase your wealth, but the pace at which your wealth grows, the speed at which it expands, will become more intense.

Therefore shaktipat is not your wealth. It is like this: you are running, and I come after you with a gun. My carrying a gun behind you is not going to become part of your running’s wealth, but because of my gun you will run faster. You will still be the one who runs; the energy will still be yours, but what in you was not being used will now start being used. The gun, in itself, has no hand in it. Not an inch of power will be lost from the gun. If you measure it afterwards it will be exactly as it was; nothing has gone out or come in. But under the influence of that gun you will become intense: where you were walking slowly, you will begin to run.

Encouragement to the inner journey through shaktipat
So shaktipat does not increase your wealth, but the capacity of your wealth to grow becomes immediately dynamic. Because once you have the experience—once a flash of lightning happens—the lightning does not illumine a path for you permanently; it does not become a lamp in your hand. It is only a glimpse. But the glimpse becomes of great value—your legs become firm, your desire becomes strong, the longing to arrive becomes decided, the path becomes visible—you see there is a path; you are not wandering in the dark for nothing. In that one flash of lightning all this becomes clear: you see the path, and in the distance you see the temple of your destination.

Then the lightning is gone, again it is pitch-dark, but now you are a different person. You stand where you were, but your run will increase. The goal is near, the path is clear—even if it is not visible in the darkness, still it is there. Now you are assured. Your assurance grows. And the growth of your assurance strengthens your resolve.

So the results are indirect. And that is why there is often a need again and again; one time does not solve it. If lightning flashes a second time, there will be even more benefit; if it flashes a third time, even more. The first time something may have been missed, you may not have seen; the second time it may be seen, the third time it may be seen! And at least this much: the assurance will go on deepening.

Therefore shaktipat does not settle the final result; you have to reach the final result yourself. And without shaktipat you can still reach. There will be a little delay—that’s all. There will be some delay; in the dark there will be less assurance, you will have to gather more courage to walk, you will have to exert more strength—fear will catch hold, doubts and alternatives will catch hold: who knows whether there is a path or not? All this will happen, but even so, you will arrive.

But shaktipat can become a support.

Collective shaktipat is also possible
So here I would like your pace to increase a little—not one or two persons, but together, collectively! Why do the work with one or two? Gather ten thousand people together and let shaktipat happen—there is no difficulty in it. Because the time it takes for one is the same for ten thousand; it makes no difference.

Shaktipat is not permanent.

It will certainly lessen. All influences are destined to wane. In fact, the very meaning of influence is that whatever has come from the outside will fade. What has arisen from within will not fade; it is your own. Influences are bound to diminish—they do diminish; but what comes from within you does not. Even when something comes in the wake of influence, once it has arisen within you, it does not lessen; it remains. Your fundamental wealth does not diminish; influence does.

In the evolutionary process, going back is impossible.

No, there is no way to go downward. In fact, this should be understood well. It is quite delightful—very delightful—that there is no method for going down. Wherever you have reached, you can be helped to go higher; you can also be obstructed and kept where you are; but you cannot be taken below that. The reason is that in going higher you have already changed, instantly.
(The audio recording of the question is unclear.)
No, no, no. The question simply does not arise. If someone has moved even an inch higher in their being, they cannot return; returning is impossible. It is like this: we can help a child move from first grade to second grade. You can hire a tutor who helps him with first grade and gets him into second. But finding a tutor who can make him forget what he learned in first—“Now we must make him forget first grade”—that is very difficult.
And if a child, after reaching second grade, keeps the company of foolish boys, the worst that can happen is that he keeps failing in second. Those foolish boys won’t be able to push him back into first; there is no way. Do you understand what I mean? It may happen that he remains stuck in second, remains there his whole life, and never reaches third. But there is no way to push him below second. He will get stuck there.
So in spiritual life there is no going back; either one goes on or one stops. Only stopping amounts to going back. Companions can block you, but they cannot pull you backward. There is no way to pull you back.
There is a difference between shaktipat and prasad.

There is a great difference; a great difference. There is a great difference between shaktipat and grace. Shaktipat is a technique, and it is organized. It has to be arranged. It won’t happen just anytime, anywhere. You understand? The seeker must be in the right state for it to happen to him, and the medium must be in the right state to become a medium. When these two things are in order, when they come into harmony, when at a single point in a moment the two meet, then it happens. This is a matter of technique. Grace is an uncalled-for descent; there is never a summons for it, never any arrangement. It simply happens.

The difference is like the difference between our pressing a button to light a bulb and the lightning that flashes in the sky—just that much difference. You understand? This is technique. It is the same electricity that flashes in the sky, but here it is bound by technique. We press the button, it lights up; we switch it off, it goes out. The lightning in the sky is not in our hands.

So grace is the lightning of the sky; it flashes in some moment. And if at that moment you too are in the right state, the happening takes place. But then it is not shaktipat. It is the same happening, but it is grace. There is no medium in it. There is no mediator in between; it happens directly to you. And it is accidental; it is always sudden; it cannot be arranged. Shaktipat can be arranged: “Come tomorrow at five o’clock, come with this much preparation, with these arrangements, and it will happen.” But for grace there is no meaning in coming and sitting at five. If it happens, it happens; if it doesn’t, it doesn’t. We cannot take it into our hands. The happening is the same, but this much is the difference. This much is the difference.

Only in an egoless state is shaktipat possible.

Planning can happen in an egoless state. The ego has nothing to do with planning—no connection whatsoever.

Yes, certainly there can be; it has nothing to do with ego. Ego is quite another matter. Ego is quite another matter. For example, we have decided that at five o’clock we will all sit with such-and-such preparations. In this, there is no question of the seeker’s being egoless; the only question is that the one who is to become the medium be egoless. And egolessness is not such a thing that you can sometimes be it and sometimes not. If it has happened, it has happened; if it hasn’t, it hasn’t—isn’t that so! If I am egoless, I am; if I am not, I am not. It is not that tomorrow morning at five I will become egoless. Do you understand what I am saying? How will I become? There is no method. If I am now, I will be at five as well—whether I make some arrangement or not; whether you come at five or not; whether I am awake or asleep—if I am, I am; if I am not, I am not.
Egolessness is not gradual.

Yes, yes, that’s how it goes. That’s how it goes. In fact, all our thinking is in degrees. It’s like this: at 98 degrees we say, “This person is perfectly fine,” and at 99 degrees we say, “There’s a fever.” 98 is also a “fever,” but it is the normal fever. At 99 it becomes abnormal. Then when it returns to 98, we say, “All right, normal again.” There is still fever—meaning the same fever that everyone has. As long as it is where everyone else’s is, we call it normal; just a little this side or that, and trouble starts. It is the same with the ego. It is our fever. As long as it is at the same degree as in everyone, we say, “He is perfectly humble, a good man.” If, compared to us, his degree goes to 99, we say, “He seems very egoistic.” If it slips to 97, we say, “A real mahatma, so humble—touch his feet.”

But ego and no-ego are entirely different things; they have nothing to do with degrees. Fever and the absence of fever is not a matter of 98 and 99 degrees. Only of a dead man can we say that he has no fever. As long as there is warmth, there is fever; the difference is only between normal and abnormal. That is why we get into trouble. That is why we get into trouble.

And then it is like this: if someone’s ego hurts our ego, he is an egoist; if someone’s ego gratifies our ego, then that person is egoless. How are we to measure? How to know? A man comes to me and shows off his stiffness toward me—we say, “Egoist.” He comes and touches my feet—we say, “Very humble.” What else—what other test is there? Our own ego is the instrument of examination; with it we test: is this man disturbing our ego or not? If he disturbs it, he is an egoist. If he cajoles it and says, “You are a great mahatma,” then we say, “This man is humble; there is no ego in him at all.” But whether there is ego or not—our own ego is the scale that weighs all this. The measurement behind it is our ego.

Therefore we cannot recognize the state of no-ego. How would we recognize it? We can only recognize degrees: “Tell us how many degrees.” When someone says, “There is none at all,” we are in great difficulty. But for the phenomenon of shaktipat, the medium must be egoless—no, to say “egoless” is not quite right; a medium of no-ego is needed.

A continuous shower of grace upon the egoless person.

And on such a person grace is raining twenty-four hours a day—keep that in mind. He will arrange it for you, but upon him nectar is pouring continuously. That is why he will also arrange for you to stand with your door open for a single moment. It is raining upon him anyway; perhaps a few drops may fall inside your doorway as well.

Direct grace is received only upon attainment, isn’t it! Before that it doesn’t come. Before that it doesn’t come. Before that it doesn’t come. Only when your ego is gone can grace descend. The ego itself is the obstacle.

That after which nothing remains to be attained.

Kundalini is psychic energy.

You know that eating is physical, yet if one does not eat, the soul’s presence in the body will very quickly come to an end. Even though food goes to the body, if the body is in a certain condition, the soul can remain in it.

So Kundalini is mental, psychic. But when Kundalini is in one state, there is movement toward the soul; in another state, there is no movement toward the soul. So it is psychic, but it becomes a step toward the spiritual. It is not spiritual in itself. If someone says Kundalini is spiritual, they are mistaken.

If someone says food is spiritual, they are mistaken. Food is physical. Yet it becomes a foundation for the spiritual. Breath is material, and thought is also material; everything is material. Their subtlest form we are calling “psychic”—the subtlest form of matter. But all these become the basis for taking a leap into the nonmaterial. They become, so to speak, jumping boards.

Like a man diving into a river: he stands on a board at the bank and jumps. The board is not the river. Someone could argue, “Why stand on the board? Since the board isn’t the river and you want to jump into the river, why stand on the board? If you want to jump into the river, go stand in the river!” But is anyone standing in the river? One has to stand on the board; the jump is into the river. You understand, don’t you? And the board is entirely different; it is not the river.

So the leap you have to make is from the body and from the mind—into that which is the soul. That will happen when it meets. For now, you have to prepare from where you are standing. So you will have to jump by means of body and mind; therefore the work has to be done here. Yes, when the leap happens, where you arrive will be spiritual; that will be the spiritual.

It is not a matter of good or bad here.

I understand, I understand. It’s not a question of good or bad. Care about whatever gives you more peace and momentum; because it will be different for everyone. It will be different for everyone. Some people can rest only after they have run and fallen. Some people can rest right now. But very few people—very few. To go straight into silence is difficult; it is possible for a few. For most people, first the running is necessary, the tension is necessary. In the end the meaning is the same, the purpose is the same. Shakti sadhana brings tension.

Absolutely, it is a practice of tension. Absolutely, it is a practice of tension. In fact, any practice of energy will be a practice of tension. Energy itself means tension. Where there is tension, there energy is produced. Just as we have generated such immense energy from the atom—because we put even the subtlest particle under tension; split it into two parts and put both under tension. So the entire practice of energy is a practice of tension. If you understand it rightly, tension itself is energy; what you call tension is energy.

It is positive—absolutely positive.

Yes, quickly.

No, you’re afraid. Don’t present your own case. You’re afraid of becoming silent: “What if I do become silent—then what?” It’s fear, so you devise tricks to keep just a little peace, lest there be too much. No, yours is a different case.

You ask why Buddha did not speak about chakras and kundalini?
In truth, not everything Buddha spoke was recorded. Do you see? That is the big problem. And of what was recorded, much was deliberately left out. What Buddha said was written down five hundred years after his death; it was not recorded at the time. For five hundred years the monks who held that knowledge refused to put it into writing. After five centuries a moment came when those monks who knew began to disappear. Then a great council was convened, and it was decided: Now it is difficult—if these few remaining monks are lost, the whole treasure of knowledge will vanish. So it should be written down. As long as it could be preserved in memory, they stubbornly refused to write it.

This happened with Jesus too, and with Mahavira. And it was necessary; there were reasons. These masters were speaking live, and among what they said were many things addressed to seekers on very different levels. For a beginner, those things are not necessarily helpful; they can even be harmful. Often, talk of steps you are not yet standing on won’t let you stand rightly on the step you must first take. Hearing of the higher steps gives you the itch to jump ahead while you are not even on the first step yet.

There is a further difficulty: many things that are right on the first step become wrong when you reach the second. If you learn about the second step too soon, then on the first step those same things will start to seem wrong to you, and you will never get past the first. On the first step, their being “right” is necessary; only then can you cross it.

We teach a small child: ga is for Ganesha. Now, strictly speaking, it means nothing. Ga is also for gadha (donkey). And there is no kinship between donkey and Ganesha—no relation at all. The letter ga is not intrinsically related to anything. But telling this to a first-grader would be dangerous. While he is learning “ga is for Ganesha,” suppose his father says, “You good-for-nothing, what has ga to do with Ganesha? Ga begins a thousand other words too—what has it to do with Ganesha?” Then the child will not be able to grasp ga at all.

For now, it is enough that he holds “ga is for Ganesha.” Let the knowledge that a thousand other words begin with ga wait. If for the time being even Ganesha comes under ga, that is enough. Tomorrow the thousand others will also come. When they do, he will himself see that there was no necessity tying ga to Ganesha; that was one relation—there are many others. And later, when he reads ga, he will not always say “ga is for Ganesha”; Ganesha will drop away, ga will remain.

The secrecy of esoteric practices
There are a thousand matters, on a thousand levels. And then there are some things that are absolutely private and secret. For example, the meditation I speak of is something that can be given collectively. But there are many things I cannot, and will not, do in a group. I will speak of them only when, from within the group, a few people appear to whom those things can be said.

So Buddha did say much; not all of it is recorded. The same will be true of me: not everything I say can be recorded. I will say publicly only what can be recorded. What cannot be recorded, I will not say in public; that will have to be carried in memory.

No, no, no. No—there are many more things to it, you see! What I have said has no difficulty in it. There is no difficulty in this. But there are many more things in it.

But the difficulty is this: between Buddha and today there is a gap of twenty-five hundred years; there has been a great change in human consciousness. What Buddha thought should not be told, I think can be told. In twenty-five hundred years very basic differences have come about. Of the things Buddha said should not be told, I say many of them can be told today. And what I say should not be told will be able to be told twenty-five hundred years from now. It should be possible, if evolution happens. Are you understanding what I am saying?

So even if Buddha were to return, many things... Buddha acted with great understanding. He had fixed eleven questions that no one would be allowed to ask. Because if you ask, he would have to give some answer. If he gave a wrong answer, it would not seem proper; if he gave the right answer, it should not be given. So he had set aside eleven questions as “undeclared,” not to be expounded. There was a public announcement in every village that no one should ask Buddha any of those eleven questions; because we must not put him in a fix; because he would not answer them. The reason for not answering: if he answered, there would be harm; and if he did not, he would feel as though, “I am hiding the truth.” So do not ask them at all. Therefore the monks would beat the drum from village to village: “Buddha is coming; do not ask these eleven questions.” Those caused him much trouble. So they were accepted as undeclared; those questions were not asked. They were not asked.

Sometimes an opponent would come and ask, and Buddha would say to him, “Wait—stay a few days. Stay a few days, do some practice; when you are worthy, I will answer.” But those answers were never given.

Therefore the big charge against him was precisely this—the Jains and the Hindus accused him that he did not know. The big accusation was that he does not answer those eleven questions; in our scriptures we give all the answers. It seems he does not know. But what is written in their scriptures—Buddha could have given that much of an answer too! In truth, the real answer is not written even in the scriptures. And the real one could not be given.

So therefore—no, this is not the question; the question is not “what might happen.”