Jin Sutra #46

Man is seeking something. Man is a search. Whatever name we give the search—call it bliss, call it the great life, call it Paramatma, Nirvana, Moksha—these are only differences of names. One thing is certain: whatever kind of person he may be, man is searching. It may not be clear at all what he is searching for—still he searches. As if the innermost core of man is search. Without seeking, man cannot be. In seeking lies man's humanity.
Animals and birds are. They do not seek. Trees are, rocks and mountains are. They do not seek. They go nowhere; there is no curiosity. Existence as it is is accepted. There is no desire to transform. No tone of revolution. In nature there is development; in man there is revolution. There man is different.
Darwin's theory is right in relation to all of nature—except man. Nature evolves. To say it is doing so is not even correct; it is happening. Evolution means: what happens without you doing it. Man alone is such that he does something. In that doing there is revolution. What happens is evolution; what is done is revolution.
It is necessary to grasp very deeply this perspective of revolution: man cannot remain without doing. He will do something, he will change something. Something he will erase, something he will create. The quest for the more beautiful, the more true, keeps on. Some on a small scale, some on a vast scale. Some run, some drag themselves. But all are included in this journey.
Man is not standing like trees stand. Man is not stopped like the animals and birds are stopped. He gropes—even in the dark. He falls and rises again. Somewhere, deep within, there is an indomitable trust that there is something to attain. Life as it appears on the surface is not all. Something is hidden. It has to be uncovered; it has to be discovered. What appears is only the outer form. Within, diamonds must be concealed. If there is a circumference, there will be a center. If there is an outer wall of the house, there will be an inner sanctum, an inner temple. So man is uncovering, lifting the veils, removing the ghunghat. This search can take two forms. One form gives birth to science. Then we certainly lift the veil, but not from ourselves; we lift it from the other. Science also removes veils—but the scientist himself remains veiled. Einstein may have discovered some truth of relativity in nature, in existence, but he himself remained behind a curtain, behind a veil.
At the time of dying someone asked Einstein: If you were to be born again, what would you want to become? He said: One thing is sure, I would not want to become a scientist. I would even become a plumber, that would be fine—but I would not want to be a scientist. What made Einstein say such a thing—that he would not want to be a scientist? He was asked, What would you like to become? In answer he said what he would not like to become. Slowly, a thing had begun to be seen by that sage of intelligence: even if all veils are lifted from others and you remain in darkness, what is the essence of it? If the sun rises in the whole universe and your inner world remains pressed by darkness, what is the point? If you know everything and cannot know yourself, what is the value of such knowing? All that knowing becomes futile before the ignorance within.
Science also lifts veils; religion does too. Religion lifts the veil from the knower, from the subject. Science lifts the veil from the known, from the object, from the visible. Science removes the veil from the seen; religion removes the veil from the seer—the one who sees, the one who knows, the one I am. And religion understands thus: he who has known himself has known all. If one's own home fills with rejoicing, with light, then the whole world is filled with light.
If you are happy, have you noticed, because of your happiness the flowers too seem to be laughing. If you are sad, the flowers too seem sad. What do the flowers have to do with your sadness! If you are miserable, pained, even the moon seems to weep. If you are ecstatic, dancing—your beloved has returned home, the friend you were seeking has been found—the moon too seems to dance. The same moon. Thousands look at the moon, yet they do not see the same moon. Each person has his own moon—because each person has his own seeing eyes. Someone sees with joy—someone's loved one has returned. Someone sees with grief—someone's beloved is lost. One dances in good fortune; one weeps and sheds tears. Seen through the veil of tears the moon is pressed in tears. Seen through the veil of song, even in the moon a song begins to arise.
Take note of this: as you are, so becomes your world. As you are not, such a world cannot be yours. Because fundamentally you are the creator of your world. Your eyes, your ears, your hands are ceaselessly creating the world. If a woodcutter enters this garden, he will see which trees are fit to be cut—unconsciously so! He will not see the flowers! He will not see the greenery of the trees. He will only see timber that can be sold in the market. If a poet arrives, he will see colors that you do not see. You see all trees as green; a poet sees each green as a distinct greenness. The green of each tree is unique. You say, The flowers have blossomed; but with intensity the flowers do not manifest before your consciousness, for there is no intensity within. If a painter comes, if a musician comes, the musician will hear the cooing of the koel, the chorus of these birds. As we are, so we begin to perceive the world. Religion says: he who has known himself has known all. Ik sadhe sab sadhe. And that one is within you.
Religion and science are two aspects of the same search. Science is an outward search; religion is inward. Science goes far away from oneself; religion comes nearer and nearer. The very coming near is what we call meditation.
These sutras of Mahavira are sutras of meditation. Let these sutras sink very deep. For meditation is the essence of religion, the key. He who has understood meditation has understood religion. And he who, leaving meditation aside, understands all the scriptures, has not understood religion at all. His religious knowing is like a hungry man reading cookbooks, or sitting with pictures of sweets. That will not quench hunger. Meditation is the life of religion. Meditation is its reality, its meaning and intention. These are sutras of meditation. The first sutra—
'Just as the head in the human body and the root in a tree are the highest, the principal, so is meditation the root of all a monk's virtues.'
'Sisam jaha sarirassa'—as the head in the body. Cut off the feet, a man can live. Cut off the hands, he can live. Cut off the head—he cannot live. By now scientists have performed such experiments that the head, cut off, can be kept alive alone—with machines. A mechanical heart keeps the blood moving, and mechanical lungs keep breathing. The solitary head can be kept alive even with the whole body removed. But once the head is removed—even if the whole body is present—it cannot be kept alive. And even if it could be kept alive, such life would have no meaning. Because all meaning and purpose are in man's intelligence, in awareness. The meaning of life is hidden in the innermost layers of the brain.
So Mahavira says: 'Sisam jaha sarirassa'—as the head is in the body: supremely central, the master, the king, seated on the throne. 'Jaha mulam dumasassa ya'—and as the roots are in a tree. Cut the tree, a new sprout will arise—if only the roots are saved. Cut the roots, even the mightiest tree will come to an end. That is why the Upanishads say man is an inverted tree. His roots are upward, in the head. Man is a tree hanging upside down.
A very significant symbol in the Upanishads. All other trees have roots in the earth; man's roots are in the sky. His legs are branches and sub-branches. His roots are in his head—subtle roots. Say this: man's roots are in the sky, the infinite sky. Or in Paramatma, if the religious word is dear. But one thing is certain: in a deep sense man is connected to the cosmos through the head—not through the feet.
That is why the Brahmins wanted to say: We are the head and the shudra are the feet. In that the tone is of arrogance—but the thing is not wrong. If a Brahmin is a Brahmin, then he is indeed the head. For Brahmin means one who has known Brahman. And that event of knowing happens in the sahasrar, in the head. He who has known Brahman, he alone is a Brahmin. Then it is right that the Brahmin is the head. To say that the shudra is the feet sounds crude—and in today's democratic age very crude indeed—but the point is right. Invert it and the point becomes proper: those who are still only feet, they are shudra. To say 'the shudra is the feet' is uncouth; but those who are still at the level of feet and whose thousand-petaled lotus has not opened, whose brain-lotus remains closed—such are shudra. The ancient perspective was that all are born shudra—everyone—even a Brahmin; by birth all are shudra. Then, sometime, through sadhana, someone becomes a Brahmin.
This was an essential part of the revolution of Mahavira. Mahavira and Buddha both labored tirelessly so that the relation of Brahminhood be freed from birth. No one is a Brahmin by birth—cannot be. Brahminhood has to be earned; it is not free. By birth all are shudra; then sometime, one here and there, some rare awakened one, becomes a Brahmin. One becomes a Brahmin only when the memory of one's roots arises—when one discovers the roots spreading from his head into the sky. He who has reached the sahasrar alone is a Brahmin; otherwise he is something else.
Mahavira says: 'As the head is in man's body and as the roots are in trees,' the same is meditation as the root of all virtues.
Cut off the roots, and however powerful the tree, it will die; or keep cutting the roots and the tree will become poor and mean.
In Tokyo, in a great garden, there is a four-hundred-year-old plant. If it had been a tree, it would have covered acres of land. But it is planted in a tiny cup—a teacup. The man who planted it four hundred years ago—just a strip of soil an inch or so thin, in a teacup—and beneath the cup there are holes; from those holes the gardener kept cutting the roots. So the plant is four hundred years old, yet only a few inches tall. Ancient, decrepit. Very old. A four-hundred-year-long journey. Yet it is as if only four days old. The roots below were cut again and again; daily the gardener pruned them. Then generation after generation they continued this work. The plant is unique. Because the roots were not allowed to grow downward, the tree did not grow upward. Cut the tree, and it can become new; cut the root, and the tree is finished. Its life is in the roots.
Where are man's roots? They must be somewhere—for no one can live without roots. In existence we must be spreading our roots in some fashion, whether we know it or not. Trees too do not know that they have roots. They have no awareness that deep in the bottomless dark their roots spread. Man's roots are—spread in the bottomless light, spread in the sky. The Upanishads are right: man is an inverted banyan. Roots above, branches below.
You have heard perhaps—among the seven wonders of the world there was a wonder in Babylon: an inverted garden. Trees were planted in such a way that they hung below. A great bridge was built, soil placed over the bridge, and the trees were made to hang beneath it. Now only the story remains, a few ruins—but in the past it was among the great wonders of the world.
Whenever I have read of that Babylonian garden, or seen pictures of its ruins, a thought has occurred: surely this idea drifted from the Upanishads to Babylon. Because the Upanishads alone in the world dared to say: man is a tree hanging upside down. That garden was not only a garden—it could not have been. It must have been a symbol of man, a school of teaching. Man is such a tree whose roots are above.
'Jaha mulam dumasassa ya. Savvassa sadhudhamassa, taha jhanam vidhiyate.' In the same way, meditation is the root of all virtues of the monks. This can be translated in two ways. Jain monks translate it in the way I read—just as in the human body the head and in the tree its roots are excellent, in the same way meditation is the root of all the virtues of a monk. Take care to notice the last part: in the same way meditation is the root of all the virtues of the monk. 'Root' can be translated another way too—but the Jain monks did not favor it. 'Savvassa sadhudhamassa'—of all the monks' dharma. Either we can say: meditation is the root of all the virtues of the monk; or: meditation is the root of the dharma of all monks.
Savvassa sadhudhamassa, taha jhanam vidhiyate.
I would much prefer the latter. Meditation is the root of the dharma of all monks. And also because Mahavira insisted much that all religions are true. The dharma of all monks is true. That is why Mahavira—in his famous great mantra—has saluted all monks: 'Namo loe savva sahunam'—my obeisance to all sages of the world.
But the Jain monk translates in a way that cuts others out. He says: meditation is the root of all the virtues of the monk—because the Jain monk considers only the Jain monk to be a monk. Another's monk is not a monk. Mahavira could not be so miserly; such stinginess would not suit him. Surely Mahavira said: meditation is the root of the dharma of all monks. Then the meaning of the sutra becomes even more profound. Whether they be Christian, Muslim, Jew, Hindu, or Buddhist—it makes no difference.
And this is a fact: wherever religion has arisen, in whatever form or hue it may have been born, in whatever language it may have chosen, wherever a monk has been born, there meditation is the root. He may call it meditation or not—he may call it prayer, worship, meditation, or something else—it makes no difference. Meditation will remain the root. Whether the tree is cedar or chinar, whether it is a sky-touching tree or a small plant, whether it is a rose or jasmine or champa, what difference does it make! One thing is certain: the root of all trees is in their roots. There is much difference between a Jain monk, a Buddhist monk, a Hindu monk, a Christian monk—but all the differences are on the surface. In the root there can be no difference. Roots there must be—without roots there is no tree; without meditation there is no monk; without meditation there is no religion.
Therefore the first translation is right; there is no obstacle in accepting that meaning: meditation is the root of all the virtues of the monk. But the second is even more right: meditation is the root of the dharma of all monks.
Let us understand what meditation is.
O humming rivers,
where, unconscious, are you rushing?
The flute-call
is within you!
The first sutra of meditation is: that which you have set out to seek is hidden in the seeker. Kasturi kundal base! That is the beginning of the lesson of meditation: first search your own home. You have set out to seek bliss? The world is vast. First search in the home; if it is not found there, then search in the world. Lest it be that the treasure of bliss is lying in the house and you go on searching in the world. Often this is so. This is what has happened.
We search; it is not found there; so we go farther and farther in search. The more we find that we are not finding, the more our search becomes restless and distracted. The more we find that by running we are not reaching, the more we increase the running. The mind's logic says: perhaps we are not running correctly; perhaps we are not running with sufficient force. Run more; do more. Everyone is running outside; so it must be outside—so many people cannot be wrong!
We are born into a crowd; from birth we find the crowd running after someone or other. We too become part of the crowd. Someone is seeking wealth, someone position, someone fame. But the search is outward—everyone's search is outward—so we too become occupied, engaged. The human mind moves with the crowd. The crowd has its own psychology. Where you see many people going, you too begin to walk. Unknowingly it has been accepted that where so many are going, they must be going rightly.
That is why many deluded beliefs also continue for centuries. Even when it is known they are wrong they continue—until the crowd drops them, new people come and keep taking hold of the old beliefs. As long as the crowd holds them, the new child will also hold them—because children imitate. We all live by imitation.
Therefore in different cultures, different societies, different things become valuable. In some society wealth has great value—as in America. So there the crowd is mad for wealth. Everything else is secondary; wealth is primary. Everything can be bought with money—so get money. In societies where renunciation had great value, for centuries people renounced—because renunciation was honored. From childhood the person hears the glory of renunciation; feelings arise in his mind: I too will do this.
In India this happened. For centuries renunciation was glorified. Because of that glory, millions became renouncers. But whether you become a renouncer, or you join the race for money—it makes no difference; imitation continues. As in old days the influence was of the mahatma and everyone wanted to become a saint, so now the influence is of the actor and everyone wants to become an actor. No difference has occurred in man.
Do not think that those who earlier wanted to become saints were great saints. There is no difference. That was the psychology of that crowd; this is the psychology of this crowd. Then the saint was worshiped, honored; prestige was his. In becoming a saint the ego was gratified. Now in becoming an actor the ego is gratified. The thing is the same.
Revolution happens only when you step out of the crowd. When you say: I will not imitate now. Now I will think from my own being. You may repeat millions of times; you may be millions—no matter—I will listen to myself, I will listen to my conscience. I will walk by the voice of my own heart.
The moment someone begins to listen to his own voice, the meaning of the sutra of meditation begins to dawn. The meaning of the sutra of meditation is: whatever we are seeking—let it be what it may—first let us seek it in our own home.
It is told: a Sufi fakir, a woman, Rabia. One evening she was searching for something in front of her house. Two or four people came and asked, What is lost? She said, My needle has fallen. Those two or four began to help her—the old woman, eyes weak! But then one of them had the sense to ask: A needle is a very small thing; unless we know where it fell, how will we search on so big a road? He asked, Mother, tell us where it fell. Then we will search nearby; otherwise on such a big road! She said, Son, do not ask that—the needle fell inside the house. All four threw up their hands: You are mad! The needle is lost inside the house—you turned yourself mad and made us mad too. If it is lost inside, search inside. She said, That I also know. But inside it is dark; outside there is light—the sun has not yet set—how can I search in the dark? One can only search in the light.
They laughed. They said, It seems in old age your head has gone! If there is no lamp inside, even then you must search inside. Then take the lamp inside. Borrow a lamp from the neighbor if you do not have one.
Now it was the old woman's turn to laugh. She was a great Sufi. She laughed and said: I thought you were not as intelligent as you are speaking. I am following the very logic you all follow. You too are searching outside without asking where the lost thing is. It is lost inside; you search outside. And the reason I gave is the same as yours: because the eyes see outside, the eyes look outward; outside everything is neat and clear—inside there is dense darkness.
Have you ever looked within with closed eyes? Read Kabir, Dadu, Nanak—they say, light like a thousand suns! You close the eyes—and only darkness. No light of any sun can be seen. Not even an earthen lamp flickers. In a moment you open your eyes and come out again. At least there is light! At least the paths are familiar. Things are visible. Again you begin to search.
Within—one who has become habituated to the outside, when for the first time he goes in, he finds darkness. Just as when you come home from the blazing noon, suddenly the house looks dark. Sit a little. After a while the eyes get accustomed. The eyes grow bigger and smaller moment to moment. After coming from the sunlight, if you look in a mirror, you will see the pupil has become very small—because it cannot let so much light in, it becomes small. When you sit in darkness, the pupil grows large. As a camera lens works, so do the eyes. Sit a while: where first the house seemed dark, the darkness disappears, and light begins to be seen.
If a person practices seeing in the dark—thieves do so—then even in someone else's house, where it is absolutely dark—the owner himself cannot walk without bumping into things—the thief can move deftly, nothing falls, no sound is made, even if it is a house he has never entered. The eyes of the thief have become trained in darkness. He has slowly attained artistry in seeing in the dark; his eyes have adjusted to darkness. You come from the sunlight into the house, it seems dark. In the same way you have been wandering outside for lives; when you close the eyes, it seems dark within. This is quite natural.
Kabir and Nanak and Dadu are not wrong. A thousand suns wait there—but a little practice!
Meditation means: the practice of being within. Meditation means: the practice of withdrawing from the outside. Meditation means: the practice of drawing a curtain over the outer. Draw the curtain on the outside—and the inner veil rises. There is no other trick to lift the inner veil—just draw the veil over the outer.
'As the head in the human body and the root in the tree are supreme, so the root of all dharmas is meditation.'
Ask a Jain monk about meditation. He has forgotten it. He has practiced everything else, and has completely forgotten meditation. He practices nonviolence, non-stealing, non-possession, celibacy—practices all—but forgets meditation. How did this misfortune happen? Because Mahavira cried out again and again that the root of all dharmas is meditation.
Jain monks come to me and say: How shall we meditate? How did you become a monk? For no one can be a monk without meditation! Muni means: one whose mind has become silent. How will the mind be silent without meditation? Now you come to ask what meditation is! How many years have you been a monk? One says thirty years, another forty years. Then you have forgotten even the meaning of the word muni. Muni means a meditator—moun—one whose mind no longer raises waves of thought; who has become without thought, without alternatives.
But the very idea has been forgotten. The meaning of the word muni has been forgotten. Meditation has begun to seem as though it has nothing to do with Jainism. And Jainism stands fundamentally on meditation. All religions stand fundamentally on meditation—there is no other way. Jainism began to die the very day the connection with meditation snapped. Now you may practice small vows and great vows; you may practice nonviolence—but your nonviolence will be hypocrisy, because it will be imposed from above. It will not arise from within.
The meditator becomes nonviolent; he does not have to become so. In the meditator great compassion is born. Knowing oneself, compassion begins to arise for the other—because knowing oneself one sees that the other is just like me. Knowing oneself, it becomes clear: all seek happiness as I do. Knowing oneself, it becomes clear: as pain is unpleasant to me, so it is to all. He who has known himself—if he is not nonviolent, impossible! He who has not known himself—if he becomes nonviolent, that is impossible!
Yesterday I was reading the biography of Maharshi Mahesh Yogi's guru, Brahmananda Saraswati. He was young then—evidently a deep seeker. He was searching for a guru. He heard that some person had attained knowledge, and he ran to the Himalayas. That man sat on a deerskin, looked exactly as a yogi should look—impressive, powerful. This youth, Brahmananda, asked, Maharaj, might I get a little fire in your hut? Fire! A Hindu sannyasin does not keep fire; he does not touch fire. The yogi said, You do not even know that a sannyasin does not touch fire! Still the youth said, Even so, Maharaj, perhaps you have hidden some somewhere. The yogi became inflamed and angry, shouted: Fool! Do you think we steal and hide fire? What have you taken us for! Brahmananda said, Maharaj, if there is no fire, if you have not hidden it, then from where are these flames coming? The flames had come out.
One can impose an act from the outside. This story delights me. The secret of hiding fire is clear: it is not a matter of outer fire; keeping or not keeping outer fire makes no difference; the inner fire the sannyasin must not touch. Unless there is a shower of meditation, the inner fire does not go out. Until the stream of meditation flows, some ember within keeps burning, keeps pricking.
Mahavira has said: the root of dharma is meditation. He who has mastered meditation has mastered all.
Let us understand: What is this meditation? First thing: it is an inner journey. Turn the gaze inward. Call home the energy rushing out. Like the bird at dusk that returns to the nest—so return to your own nest. Meditation is a practice of coming back, back again.
Whenever you find it convenient, gather your energies back from the world—even for a moment—morning or night; whenever convenient, close yourself off a little. Forget the world for a while. Consider it is not. Consider it dreamlike. Pull yourself away. Disengage from the outer. Try to look within: Who am I? Who am I? Only this one question. Not in words—in your very life-energy. Not repeating the question like a mantra, but holding it within as awareness. Let a question-mark stand within your being—Who am I?—and remain with this question for a while. The answer will not come at once. And whatever answer comes at once, know it is superficial. An immediate answer can only be a learned one. You ask, Who am I? From within the answer will come: You are the Atman. That you have read in the scriptures. Atman is not so cheap. You have heard it from someone. Or within will come: Aham Brahmasmi. That too you have read in the Upanishads or heard from someone.
After years of effort—after living with the question for years—and to live with the question means: do not accept superficial, borrowed answers; otherwise the answer will throw you out again. See: This comes from the Katha Upanishad—fine; this from the Gita—fine; but forgive me, Mother Gita! release me a little—let me know something of my own! The Gita is outside; the real Gita is within. Your Gita is about to happen—it has not yet happened. Your Mahabharata is only beginning. Your Arjuna has not yet tired. Your Arjuna has not yet trembled. Your Arjuna has not yet put down his Gandiva and said, My limbs are weakening. Your Arjuna has not yet asked the question—how can your Krishna speak?
So leave the outer Krishna and the outer Arjuna outside for a while. Become the question—then you will become Arjuna. And remember: wherever an Arjuna appears, there a Krishna will certainly appear. Where there is a question, the answer will come. You only prepare the question—but the question must be true, deep, full of light; you must be ready to stake yourself. If Arjuna had asked casually—to impress Krishna, to show how religious he was—if he had asked just to gratify Krishna: See what a great disciple I am, what a great companion—then the Gita would not be. Arjuna was not acting. That is the reality of the Gita. His very life trembled seeing what was.
If you have opened your eyes and seen the world, your very life too should tremble. If you have looked attentively, the battle lines are drawn. Thousands of wars are going on, conflicts are raging, violence is happening—and you are a participant. Arjuna saw at least this much: Let me step aside; let what happens, happen; at least let this stain not fall upon me. He sat exhausted. He said, I will run away. I will leave it all. There is no meaning here. So much death! So much violence! What will be gained? Even if I sit on a throne, what will happen? A throne placed upon so many corpses? No, this competition is not for me. In that moment the readiness was born. In that moment inquiry arose—and it was not mere curiosity; it was not a question asked in passing; behind it was the readiness to stake one’s very life. Unless you become Arjuna, your Gita cannot be born.
So when the outer Gita begins to answer, say: Lord Krishna, remain outside for now! Let me live my question—Arjuna is not yet born and you have come before time. Whatever you have learned from outside—whatever junk you have piled up in the intellect—leave it aside.
The process of meditation is the process of being freed from superficial knowledge. And when someone is free of the superficial, the real is born—perhaps it was always there; the superficial was hiding it.
There was a Buddhist monk—Arya Asanga—most precious. An unusual story is told of his life. He was an acharya in Nalanda. Then understanding dawned that the world is futile—and he left everything. He decided: now I will only drown in meditation. I have known much, and yet have known nothing. I have read the scriptures, but my hands are empty. He left and went to the mountains. Sat in a cave. For three years he meditated tirelessly—but the goal did not come any nearer.
Filled with discouragement and despair he came out of the cave. He thought to return. Then he saw a bird plucking leaves from trees to build a nest; the leaves kept falling; the nest was not made. Yet the bird flew again, brought more leaves, again and again. He thought: Is my courage weaker than this bird’s hope and faith? The nest is not forming, and yet its hope does not break, despair does not come. He returned to the cave, meditated courageously for three years more—nothing happened. He poured all his effort into it, yet nothing. Then frightened one day he came out and said: Enough now!
He sat beneath that tree and saw a spider weaving a web. It fell again and again; the strand would not hold; yet again and again it began. Then it occurred to him: It is strange—things like this I see each time I come out. Even the spider has not given up—why should I? Let me make one more attempt. Again for three years he meditated—nothing happened. He was deeply troubled. He thought: If I go out, who knows what I will see again—this time I must go with my eyes closed. Whatever is happening or not happening outside—spider or bird or anything—let God give any hints He wishes—enough is enough; nine years is no small time, the whole life is gone!
With eyes closed he ran. As he was descending the mountain he saw a dog; its back was rotting, worms had infested the wound. He could not bear it. He stopped and began to remove the worms, and as he washed its wound—meditation happened. What had not happened in nine years happened. Suddenly, as if he were drawn into depth within. The eyes closed, he reached inside. The light he had sought stood before him. The Buddhahood he sought blossomed. He said, O Lord! For so many days I searched—nine long years I labored—then you did not appear; this light was not attained—now! It is said the light answered: I was within you then as well—but your effort in meditation was full of ego. Your ego was the obstruction. While washing this dog’s wound, for a moment your ego was absent. When there is compassion, the ego cannot be; when there is love, the ego dissolves. I was always with you—for nine months and for nine years, for nine births as well. I am within; I am your very nature; but you could not enter within. Even when you meditated there was stiffness in it—an announcement of the ego: I will attain.
Those who want to go within must leave the outer race—and must also break the subtle thread of that race: the ego. Without dissolving oneself, no one attains meditation; and without dissolving oneself, no one attains oneself. What we are presently calling 'I', 'mine'—this is not our Atman. If it were the Atman, we would be filled with supreme bliss. This is the ego.
The meaning of ego is: it is collected from outside. In some school you got a gold medal, you added it on; your name appeared in the newspaper, you clipped it and added it; someone smiled and said, You are very handsome—you added that too; someone said, You are very renounced; someone said, You are very virtuous; somewhere you got a Padma Shri, somewhere a Bharat Ratna; you collected all these insanities and sat making a patchwork called ego.
Just reflect sometime: Who am I? Whatever answers come, you will be surprised—these are answers given from outside. Some were given by your mother, some by your father, some by your friends, some by your wife, some by your enemies, some by those close, some by those far. Gathering all these you erected a false effigy of straw. Naturally it trembles every moment—because it is utterly false. It can fall and scatter at any time. There is no strength in it, no life.
Meditation means: first turn from the outer to the inner. And while going within you will find a lock stuck on the door—that lock is the ego.
'As salt dissolves upon meeting water, so one whose mind is absorbed in nirvikalpa Samadhi—within him the fire of the self appears which burns to ashes the accumulated good and bad karmas.'
'As salt dissolves upon meeting water'—drop a lump of salt in water, at once it is lost. Dissolved. In the same way, one whose mind is absorbed in nirvikalpa meditation—who has left the outer, left the ego made of reflections from outside, become without alternatives, without thorns, rested in his solitude—instantly the hoarded mass of karmas—good and bad—of birth upon birth, dissolves.
Mahavira makes a revolutionary declaration: Do not think that to erase the chain of karmas of many births you will need many births of good actions now, cutting one action at a time—that would be impossible. Because for how long have we been acting! If we must cut each action one by one, eternity will not suffice. Then liberation is impossible.
Mahavira says: The event can happen in a single instant—what is needed is urgency, intensity, a depth of fire. In a single instant the entire past can be reduced to ash—and you can become as fresh as if you were born this very moment, as if you never were before. Your whole history can vanish in a single deep glimpse of meditation. The dust of many births on your mirror can be blown away by one strong gust of wind. The gust must be powerful.
Let meditation become a torch—burning from both ends.
Germany’s deeply thoughtful woman, Rosa Luxemburg, used to say: I have found one thing in life—if you light your torch from both ends at once, if you live with urgency, with density, Paramatma is not far. We live loosely, lazily—lukewarm. The moment never comes when our waters vaporize. We want to live long, not deep. We give blessings: May you live a hundred years. What will happen in a hundred years! If you live like a corpse, then even a thousand years mean nothing. This blessing is mistaken, not auspicious. What is the point of living a hundred years! Even if you live one day—live! What is the use of dragging a hundred years?
If one night is lived less, so be it—
Enough it is that we lived with our torches aflame.
What does it matter how long we lived! How deep we lived!
Remember, the one who moves outward insists on quantity and measure—'Live a hundred years.' The one who turns inward says, Even if you live one instant, live it with such fullness, such totality that the eternal is contained within that one instant. And the eternal is contained in one instant. A small instant can become an infinity. The question is of depth, not of length.
Consider a man swimming on the surface of water. He swims from one shore to the other—this is one way. This is how we all are—floating on the surface. And another man dives—goes deep into the water. Going into depth is meditation; floating on the surface is the world. Those who remain on the surface are in politics; those who go deep are in religion.
'As salt dissolves on meeting water, so in nirvikalpa Samadhi...'
Nirvikalpa Samadhi means: when meditation is mastered; when meditation is no longer practice but attainment; when remaining without thought has become your natural wealth—you close your eyes whenever you wish and you are without thought. In the beginning it will be very difficult. In the beginning the contrary happens: when you close your eyes, thoughts attack. More than at the shop—have you noticed?—more than at the shop, in the temple. At the shop you are engaged in work, entangled; no special attack of thoughts is felt. But when you go to the temple and sit thinking, Let me sit quietly for a while, the moment you close your eyes, who knows from where thoughts stand up—relevant or irrelevant, good or bad, meaningful or meaningless, having nothing to do with you—everything raises its head. What happens?
People come to me and say: When we meditate, more thoughts come. Without meditation fewer come. Without meditation they come less because when you are without meditation your mind is engaged somewhere; then thoughts arise within that boundary, from that direction alone. When you sit in meditation—unengaged, unoccupied—thoughts come from all directions. Then you are frightened; meditation does not seem to happen. In the beginning this is natural. Many thoughts are lying within that you have suppressed—they will surface. First there will be catharsis in meditation. All the garbage will arise. As if a house has not been swept for years—then one day you enter and dust begins to rise. Layers upon layers of dust have settled. Yes, if you sit outside in the porch, inside all is quiet; no dust rises. Enter within—the dust rises. In the same way for births and births we have allowed the dust of thoughts to settle. We have not gone in, have not swept. We have not allowed the inner to be washed, to be bathed. Now when you go in, the rubbish of ages will rise.
It must be cleaned. And when someone cleans, the dust rises greatly. In the same way, in meditation thoughts rise strongly. But this is only transitional. The cleaning will be done, the thoughts will go.
If someone patiently continues, then slowly, slowly—nothing is to be done except to remain a witness to your thoughts; to be a sakshi, a drashta; keep watching—uninvolved. Fine, thoughts come and go; let them come, let them go. Do not stop them, do not push them away. Do not take interest. Dry, indifferent, on the bank—watching—as if you have nothing to do with them. Watching in this way you will find that slowly, slowly gaps begin to come: a few moments arrive when there is no thought. In those very gaps, for the first time, the clouds will part and the sun’s light will descend. In those very intervals, for the first time, there will be little experiences of thoughtlessness—small, fleeting—but those moments are precious. Those who have known those moments, know that they have traveled into heaven. For a while only—but they have entered another world. Then the moments grow. Slowly, freedom from thoughts happens. Thoughts go far away. And one becomes absorbed in oneself. This absorption is called nirvikalpa. This state is called samadhan, Samadhi. Then the fire of the self appears which burns to ashes the accumulated karmas, good and bad.
'Where there is no raga-dwesha and no moha, and where the activities of the yogas of mind-speech-body have ceased, in that one arises the fire of meditation that burns all good and bad karmas.'
Meditation is fire—because it burns the rubbish, burns the unnecessary, the insubstantial. Meditation is fire—because it burns the ego. Meditation is like death—because it kills you as you are, and gives birth to that which you ought to be. It reveals your future and bids farewell to your past. It takes you out of the grip of the world and lets you enter the domain of Paramatma. Through the gate of meditation one must seek one's true nature.
Where do you come from? What is your name?
Do not tell me that calling-name,
which is your covering.
Tell me that name
which the flower and the stars do not utter—
that name becomes helpless, dies that very day
when we are born upon the earth.
Zen fakirs say: Show me your original face—the face you had before you were born, and the face you will have even after you die—show that original face. The faces we carry now are all borrowed masks.
Where do you come from?
What is your name?
Do not tell me that calling-name,
which is your covering.
To someone we say Ram, to someone Krishna, to someone something, to someone else something. These are calling-names. When you came, you did not bring a name; when you came, you were empty, nameless; when you came, no label was on you. You were neither Hindu nor Muslim nor Jain nor Christian. When you came you were neither beautiful nor ugly. When you came you were neither foolish nor intelligent. When you came there was no adjective on you—adjective-free. Who were you then?
In meditation we must again seek that one. In meditation we must touch that point from where the world began, from where society began—from where you were given a name, given adjectives; where you were educated, conditioned; where you were given a form, a framework. Beyond that framework—who were you? One day death will come; this body will be taken away. When your body burns on the funeral pyre, fire will not care whether you are Hindu or Muslim or Jain, Sikh or Christian. Beautiful or ugly, male or female, rich or poor—fire will not care; it will reduce you to ashes. The earth will absorb you. Then who will you be? All that you knew and accepted in this world will be snatched away. After all that is taken away, that which still remains—this is you.
In meditation we seek that which was before birth and will be after death. Meditation means: to recognize your own nature by passing through all the layers of social conditioning given by society. To recognize your swabhava is meditation. Therefore Mahavira defined dharma as swabhava: Vatthu sahavo dhammo. To know the nature of the thing is dharma. To know who you are—beyond Jain, Hindu, Muslim—this is dharma.
Am I a drop of water
or the boundless ocean?
I am my own shadow and my own ground.
Bound, I am in a little circle of dream;
otherwise I am the vast expanse of the sky.
These bonds upon you—
Bound, I am in a little circle of dream—
a small boundary has formed;
otherwise I am the vast expanse of the sky.
Am I a drop of water
or the boundless ocean?
I am my own shadow and my own ground.
That lute which longs to merge in the heart—
I am the tremor of the void that makes it restless.
I wander seeking light in darkness;
I have heard I am the abode of light.
But how long will you only hear? When will you know?
I have heard I am the abode of light—
I have heard I am Paramatma, I have heard I am Atman, I have heard that Moksha abides within me—
I have heard I am the abode of light—
When will you know? Meditation is the process of knowing.
Lavan va saliljoe, jhane chittam viliyaye jassa;
Tassa suhasuhadahanam, appaanalo payasei.
'As salt melts away, so in the fire of meditation all past karmas are burned.'
Jassa na vijjadi rago, doso moho va joga-parikkamo;
Tassa suhasuhadahanam, jhanamao jayayai aggi.
'In that fire the destruction of all good and bad karmas occurs—where neither raga remains nor dwesha, and the business of the yogas of mind-speech-body remains no more.'
Keep this in mind: this is the indispensable condition of meditation: 'Let there remain no commerce of mind, speech, body.'
This is an essential piece of Mahavira’s method of meditation. There are many methods of meditation; Mahavira has his distinctive method. Its first sutra is: let the activities of the yogas of mind-speech-body cease.
When you sit to meditate, the first thing, Mahavira says: let the body be still, unmoving. Behind this is a great science. Because body and mind are connected. When the body trembles, the mind trembles; when the mind trembles, the body trembles. You have seen—when you are filled with anger, the hands and feet begin to shake. The mind trembled—the body trembled. When you are filled with fear, the limbs tremble. The mind trembled—the body trembled. When your body is ill, tremulous, the mind becomes poor and mean; courage is lost, self-confidence is lost, inferiority arises. Body and mind act and react upon each other continuously. When the body is healthy, the mind too is healthy. When the mind is healthy, the body too is healthy.
Scientists say body and mind are not two things—they are two aspects of one thing. They are right. In the West, science has almost stopped saying 'body and mind'—they have made one word: bodymind. To say two is not right; it is one.
Mahavira must have seen this clearly. So the first thing he says is: when you sit in meditation, make the body absolutely still. Try it. As the body becomes still you will find the mind also begins to calm. Then still the speech—thought. First the body, because it is gross. Then slowly calm the waves of thought—say to them, Be quiet. Then, when body, speech and mind begin to calm—first body, then speech, then mind—and by 'mind' is meant the subtle waves that have not yet become thoughts; what Freud calls the unconscious. What Freud calls the conscious mind Mahavira calls speech.
What has arisen within you at the level of thought, become manifest—that is thought, speech. What is still unmanifest, on the way to becoming manifest, still preparing, still hidden in the womb—that is mind. The most manifest is the body; less manifest is thought; even less manifest is mind. Move in order from the gross to the subtle, stilling each step by step. When the commerce of these three ceases, the event that happens is called meditation. 'No raga, no dwesha, no moha.' Raga, dwesha, moha belong to the outward journey. Within, you are alone—whom to be attached to? whom to hate? whom to be deluded by? Within there is none other than you. So on their own raga, dwesha, moha wither away. In meditation there is no 'mine' and 'thine'. In meditation there is no possession. In meditation no ownership remains. And the wonder is this: in meditation, for the first time, you are the owner. No ownership remains; all empire is lost—and you are emperor.
Swami Ramtirtha used to call himself the emperor. He possessed nothing. When he went to America, he still called himself emperor. They say the American President met him and asked: Everything else I can understand, but I do not understand your emperorship. Except a loincloth you have nothing—how are you an emperor? Even when Ram spoke he would say, 'Emperor Ram says this.' He wrote a book: 'Six Edicts of Emperor Ram.' Ram laughed and said: That is exactly why I am emperor—because I possess nothing. Those who have something are anxious, worried; those who have something are slaves to that something. I am emperor because I am no one’s slave—I have nothing. Whether the American President understood, I do not know. Hardly likely—for politicians rarely understand religion.
Religion and politics move in opposite directions. If your path leads to the capital, you will never reach the sacred place. If you want the sacred place, turn your back on the capital.
Religion and politics are opposites. Even if a sinner reaches heaven, a politician—this is doubtful.
I have heard: Once two people reached the gate of heaven together—a fakir and a politician. The gate opened; the fakir was stopped outside by the gatekeeper; the politician was taken in with great fanfare—band and music, garlands, an arch of welcome. The fakir was distressed. He said: This is the limit of injustice! There, on earth, this man kept winning; we thought at least in heaven we would be welcomed. That consolation too is gone. Here also this man was taken in first, and I am told to wait outside. What kind of heaven is this! Here too the politician goes first! When all the noise ended, the gate opened again and the gatekeeper said, Now you... you too may come in. He thought perhaps some arrangement would be made for him as well—but there was no one, no band, no music. He was puzzled. He said, Pardon me—but what is this matter? All my life I worshiped and prayed, and this is the welcome! And that man never took the name of God even by mistake! The gatekeeper said: You did not understand. Fakirs like you come all the time; a politician has come for the first time—and perhaps centuries will pass before another comes! They never come this way.
The outer world is where raga and dwesha and competition and moha are—friends and enemies. In the inner world you are utterly alone—pure solitude. In that pure solitude raga and dwesha vanish; moha vanishes. But you must fulfill these conditions—body, speech, mind. All three must be stilled. Enter this endeavor. In the beginning it is difficult—like someone with weak eyes trying to thread a needle. Our eyes are weak, our vision is not clear, our hands tremble. The needle’s eye is small, the thread thin. But if the effort continues—today no, tomorrow yes; tomorrow no, the day after yes—the thread can be passed. Difficult, but not impossible.
Mahavira says: The needle threaded does not get lost even if it falls; the needle unthreaded—if it falls, it is lost.
This thread of meditation must be passed through the needle of your life. It must be inserted. This sutra of meditation alone will save you from going astray. Even if you fall, you will not be lost—you will rise again. It is very difficult. Those who tell you it is easy deceive you; those who tell you it is easy exploit you. It is certainly not easy—it is difficult—but the difficulty is not because of meditation; it is because of you.
In itself, meditation is very simple, straightforward: let all be still, let all be quiet—and meditation happens. But you have practiced trembling so long that you will need a little practice in not trembling. You have trained your mind to run in competition; your entire education and conditioning has been to run the mind. You have learned much about mind; you have not learned meditation—that is the only obstacle. Your whole life-business has been driven by mind, and meditation has had no place. So you have forgotten; your capacity for meditation has rusted. Only that much difficulty is there. The day you begin to pay attention, remove a little of the rust, your nature will shine again.
'Let that meditation, that meditator, sit with posture bound, and having stopped the commerce of mind-speech-body, let him fix his gaze upon the tip of the nose and breathe gently and softly.'
First the body is stilled; then the commerce of mind-speech-body is stilled; then, seated in a quiet, steady posture, the gaze is placed on the tip of the nose. This has a use—only that much, remember. If in meditation you sit with the eyes open—fully open—there will be a thousand disturbances. Someone passes, someone comes; a bird flies; someone moves on the street—something or other keeps happening. When the scenes before the eyes keep changing, then inner ripples arise in the mind. So we think it is better to close the eyes. But when you close the eyes, dreams begin—because the only time you have closed the eyes is when you go to sleep; you never close them otherwise. Thus an association is formed: close the eyes and dreams begin. Sit in a chair, close the eyes; soon you will find daydreams beginning—you are awake and dreaming.
So if you keep the eyes open, the changing scenes of the real world disturb you; if you close the eyes, the scenes of dreams disturb you. To be free of both, all meditators have emphasized nasikagra—gazing at the tip of the nose. Keep the eyes in the middle—neither open to the outer, nor closed to the inner. Neither fully open so that the outer world of objects is seen, nor fully closed so that the inner world of dreams is seen—keep your eyes resting upon the nose-tip. With half-open eyes, dreams find it difficult to come; with half-open eyes outside things are also not clearly seen. Slowly, when practice becomes dense, when in nose-tip gazing the mind begins to be steady, when a current of joy begins to flow, when a tremor of delight arises, then you can close your eyes also; no dreams will come. And when with closed eyes no dreams come, then you can meditate with open eyes as well—even if people move and events happen outside, within you nothing will be affected. But for the novice, like a child entering the world of meditation, nose-tip gazing is most useful.
'And let him breathe gently and softly.' Have you noticed that your breath is tied to the states of your mind? When you are angry, the breath becomes rough, as if you were traveling on a broken road—up and down; the rhythm breaks, the meter shatters. When you are joyous, there is a rhythm in the breath, a music. When you are filled with lust, the breath becomes deranged, moves with great speed. When your mind is free of lust, the breath is very peaceful, slow, steady.
The speed of the mind affects the breath; the reverse is also true: changes in the breath affect the mind. Try it. Let anger come—and try slowly breathing; you will be in great difficulty. You will find that if the breath moves slowly, anger does not happen; if anger happens, the breath does not remain slow. Try entering sexual intercourse with very slow breath—you will be in trouble. The sexual energy will not seem to arise—because the breath needs to strike, to heat. Entering lust is a kind of fever. Unless the breath produces heat, unless more oxygen than needed rushes through the body, the body’s energy is not ready to be thrown out; it needs the inner pushes of breath. Man’s breath steadies or unsteadies his mind.
So Mahavira is right: let the gaze be on the nose-tip and the breath slow, blissful—soft, soft. Because the state of meditation is the exact opposite of sex; the state of meditation is the opposite of anger; the state of meditation is the opposite of running. When you run, breath becomes fast; meditation is stillness—running is to be utterly stopped. The body is not to be allowed even a little trembling, thus breath is scarcely needed. Sometimes while meditating you will be frightened that perhaps the breath has stopped! Do not be alarmed. These are precious moments—when you feel, Is the breath stopping? You are coming close to meditation—close to home. Do not be startled and panic then; panic will break the rhythm of the breath again. When it begins to feel as though breath is stopping, be delighted, be grateful—say, O Lord, thank you! Home is coming near.
When one reaches very deep in meditation, the breath remains in name only. It is not evident whether it is moving or not—because now no motion is happening, so breath is hardly needed. All movements have stilled. There is only so much breath as keeps the thread between body and soul joined—no more. It is very slow. That is why yogis can sit for months under the ground. No miracle—only the art of slow breathing. They reduce the need for oxygen so much that in that small cavity under the earth the oxygen is enough for months.
Our need for oxygen is great because we breathe heavily; there are a thousand bodily processes running. The yogi underground does exactly what Mahavira says: body stilled, speech stilled, mind stilled; nose-tip gaze; breath made slower and slower. Then a moment comes when breath almost stops. In that almost-stopped state, a yogi can remain for months in a small place; the air there is sufficient.
You may know: frogs, after the rains, hide in the earth and stop breathing. Scientists have been amazed. In Siberia the white bears also do this: for six months when there is night—six months day, six months night—during night they lie sleeping in ice, with breath stopped; they do not die—for six months! Science calls it hibernation.
The yogis discovered this art long ago: if frogs can do it, if bears can do it, why not man? The body’s physiology is the same.
If all is still, the need for prana is minimal. Therefore if in meditation it happens that breath becomes still—do not be frightened; fear will throw you out. With difficulty what was gained will be lost. Then rejoice even more, and tell the breath: You may go away entirely—if even death comes, it is fine; I am ready to die. For what greater fortune than to die in meditation? Die you must anyway. But greater than life is the fortune of dying in meditation. Yet, in the moment of meditation no one dies; the door of supreme life opens.
'Let him censure the bad conduct done in the past, ask forgiveness from all beings, remove negligence, and having stilled the mind let him meditate until the previously accumulated karmas are destroyed.'
Meditation is not to be done forever. Meditation is medicine. When the illness goes, even meditation is to be dropped. As long as there is illness, there is medicine. When the need for meditation does not remain, then Samadhi blossoms.
Samadhi means: the health of the soul—returned, restored. A thorn had pricked; with another thorn it was removed; then both thorns were thrown away. The thorn of thought has pricked—draw it out with the thorn of meditation. Then throw both thorns away. So meditation is not for always; it is a ladder, a medicine. Use the means; the work is done; meditation also goes.
So Mahavira says: meditate until the previously accumulated karmas are destroyed—until you see the whole garbage of the past ending. When you see that the past has ended—as if I never was before; all the past has been wiped—when you are so new as the morning dew, as if you were born just now; when you are so fresh and new—then there is no need for meditation. Now you can live in Samadhi. Now your getting up, sitting, walking—all is Samadhi.
'Censure your bad conduct in the past. Seek forgiveness from all beings.' These help; they are supportive to meditation. What bad has been done—now I will not repeat it. What was done was bad. Have you noticed? Usually we do wrong, we know it was wrong, yet we rationalize. We gather a thousand arguments. We say it was compulsion; there was no other alternative; or we try to prove that what we did was right. Man gathers great arguments to prove the wrong to be right. But Mahavira says: If you are busy trying to prove the wrong right, one thing is certain—you will never reach meditation. Accept the wrong as wrong; acknowledge it; ask forgiveness—because the moment you know the wrong as wrong, there is no cause to repeat it.
'Let him censure his past wrong conduct; let him seek forgiveness from all beings.' From all beings. Mahavira says: Do not worry about who it was you wronged; if forgiveness is to be sought, why be miserly? Behind this is a great secret: Mahavira says we have been on this earth so many births that we have done ill and good with nearly everyone. The journey is so long that we have met nearly all. It is impossible that there is anyone on earth with whom you have never met on some road or some crossing in some birth. So Mahavira says: The past is so long—how will you calculate from whom to seek forgiveness and from whom not? And then, if forgiveness is to be sought, why keep accounts? Seek forgiveness from all.
'Let him seek forgiveness from all beings. Remove negligence.' Break torpor. Break sleep, give up laziness. The more radiant, the more alert you become, the sooner home will come near, the sooner the goal will come near. Staggering in sleep you will not reach; you will fall asleep on the path.
'And having stilled the mind let him meditate until the previously bound karmas are destroyed.' It is a struggle. There are a thousand obstacles—old arguments of the mind, old habits, conditioning. To try to make the wrong right is the effort of the ego. Even if another points out the wrong we are ready to resist; even when we do wrong we try to prove it right. These are all nuisances. Only by passing through these nuisances does one reach meditation.
In the air the dark shadows of death tremble;
The cold gusts of wind draw knives upon the heart;
The dreams of past pleasures show me the mirror—
Yet I go on, step by step, toward my goal.
In the air the dark shadows of death tremble—
All around is the dark shadow of death. At every instant death can arrive—any moment it can come.
The cold gusts of wind draw knives upon the heart—
and the heart is weakening at each instant, as if each gust of wind were a blade. Moment by moment we die. One hour goes—an hour of life goes. One hour goes—death comes closer.
The dreams of bygone pleasures hold up mirrors—
and the senses with their lusts, the desires of enjoyment, are weaving new dreams. On one side life slips from the hand; on the other lust keeps pulling. It says: One more night!
The dreams of bygone pleasures hold up mirrors—
Yet I go on, step by step, toward my goal.
The earth is torn; the foreheads of the sky are inclined to ruin;
Among my fellow travelers some are dying, some are wounded;
Bandits are in pursuit; rocks block the way—
Yet I go on, step by step, toward my goal.
Great rocks are there; great obstacles. A thousand disturbances. Some are killers, some are wounded, some are in sorrow, some are causing sorrow. The sky seems angry, the earth seems enraged; it seems we are strangers and everything is our enemy—yet man must keep going.
The temple's lamp, the Kaaba's chandelier, the monk’s lantern—
for ages these have been without the light of gnosis;
there is no conch of the Brahmin, no ringing of Qur'an recitation—
Yet I go on, step by step, toward my goal.
And even above all this another difficulty has arisen:
The temple’s lamp is long extinguished; the Kaaba’s chandelier is dead; the church’s candle bears no light now.
For who knows how many centuries their link with God has been broken—the light of the divine no longer shines in them.
There is no conch of the Brahmin—no call to awaken;
no recitation of the Qur'an, no dawn azan. No one to wake us. There are a thousand means to sleep; those who should awaken us are themselves in deep sleep.
Yet I go on, step by step, toward my goal.
The meditator must keep moving beyond all these difficulties. Do not make difficulties an excuse. Do not say, I could not do it because of this.
People come and say, What to do? There is no time. When should we meditate? These are the same people who sit in the cinema; who are seen in hotels; who every morning read the newspaper with great absorption; who listen to the radio and watch television; who play cards—and when caught playing cards say, What to do? We are killing time. Tell them to meditate—they say, There is no time. And it does not occur to them what they are saying—what kind of excuse it is! Say 'meditate'—and they say, There are so many entanglements in the world. When will the entanglements lessen? Have they ever lessened? They go on increasing. Tell them to meditate—and immediately a trick is found. Tricks only show that they do not yet know what they are losing. The difficulty is: how would they know? One knows only by attaining. On the day meditation happens, it is known what was being lost. Then it is known: If only all time had been devoted to this! For the time given to meditation alone proves saved; the time spent without meditation is lost—like a river lost in the desert. Time given to meditation reaches the ocean; all else wanders in the desert.
'For those monks who have stilled their yogas—mind, speech, and body—and whose minds in meditation have become entirely unmoving, for them there remains no difference whether in a densely populated village or in an empty forest.'
For one whose meditation is accomplished, the Himalaya is accomplished within—the Gaurishankar stands within. Then whether you sit in the marketplace or not—no difference. For one whose meditation is accomplished, there is no obstacle, no hindrance. Meditation is the greatest wealth—the only base of peace and bliss.
You are disturbed quickly by others—because you have not learned the lesson of being at ease. The other quickly perturbs you. Although you say: This man is responsible—he abused me, so I became angry. The truth is different: you have no meditation—that is why his abuse worked. If you had meditation, however fiery the abuse, coming to you it would be extinguished. Throw a live coal into a river—until it touches the river, it is a coal; the moment it touches the river, it becomes ash.
If there is the river of meditation within you, then no abuse can wound—nor anger, nor insult, nor honor, nor success, nor failure, nor fame, nor defamation—nothing touches you. If meditation is within, then Mahavira says whether you live on a mountain or in a crowded bazaar—it is all the same.
Pores thrilled with Nandan’s joy;
In each breath, life—hundreds upon hundreds;
In each dream, a world unacquainted—
within me endlessly arising and dissolving, beloved!
What is heaven to me—or dull extinction!
What is heaven to me—or dull extinction!
In the one within whom the alchemy of meditation has appeared, he begins to create his heaven himself. He touches clay—it becomes gold. You touch gold—it becomes clay. You meet the dearest person—soon bitterness arises. Find the most beloved—and soon conflict begins. The meditator touches even clay—it becomes gold. If the meditator lives in a hut—it becomes a palace. There is some secret in the being of the meditator. He has the inner magic. That magic is meditation.
What is heaven to me—or dull extinction!
Even in the void a melody plays. Throw a knower, a meditator, into hell—he will make it heaven.
Think a little: even if by some trick—through a back door, by bribe, by some means—you were sent to heaven, would you be able to enjoy heaven? You would create hell—because you carry your hell within.
You know everything;
be it day or midnight,
I keep awake waiting
for the tinkle of anklets—
when in my lotus-pond will arise
that auspicious dawn;
in what constellation, when will happen
the grace of God!
Meditation means only this much: to remain awake. To remain constantly awake—no darkness within, no sleep.
You know everything;
be it day or midnight,
I keep awake waiting
for the tinkle of anklets—
Who knows when God will call! Who knows in which moment existence will rain! Who knows in which moment the sky will break!
You know everything;
be it day or midnight,
I keep awake waiting
for the tinkle of anklets—
when in my lotus-pond will arise
that auspicious dawn;
in what constellation, when will happen
the grace of God!
A story of Jesus: A rich man set out on pilgrimage. He told his servants: Stay awake. I may return at any time. Let me not find the house careless; let me not find you asleep. Stay awake. The date of my return is not fixed—I may come tomorrow, the day after, a month later, a year later.
The old scriptures call God 'Atithi'—the guest. Atithi means: one who comes without telling the date. The word 'atithi' is wondrous. The word 'guest' lacks that flavor; 'mehmaan' lacks it. Now we should not even say 'atithi' because now everyone comes by telling a date. First letters and telegrams are sent: We are coming. Now there are no atithis. Atithi means: one who arrives suddenly—unexpectedly. You had no idea; no hint in dream—and he arrives.
God is Atithi. One must remain awake. He may arrive at any time. In what moment your inner veena will begin to play with his veena—in what moment you will begin to dance with him—in what moment his hand will come into your hand—there is no certainty. No announcement is possible. There is only one device: remain awake. Let us not miss even a moment. Whenever he may come, let him find us awake; whenever he may come, let him find us ready to welcome.
Awake, O deathless one!
Awake, O radiant, lunar-throned one,
dweller of the moon’s realm,
Awake, O deathless one!
Awake, O traveler on jeweled paths,
awakener of constellations, walker of star-ways,
Awake, O connoisseur of the dispassionate realm,
sannyasin of the madhuban,
Awake, O deathless one!
The art of awakening is called meditation. To remain asleep is worldly; to remain awake is sannyas. It is an inner happening. Whether you sit or stand, walk or move—do not lose the wakefulness.
Awake, O deathless one!
Awake, O sannyasin of the madhuban!!
Awake, O deathless one!!!
Enough for today.