Jo Ghar Bare Aapna #3

Two things need to be understood here. First: if a resolve is taken in order to suppress a tendency, that is a different matter. For example, a person has a habit of overeating. If, to get rid of this habit, he takes a vow of fasting, then there will be repression. But if there is no habit of overeating, nor any idea of fighting overeating, and he takes a vow to fast, then it is simply a resolve; there is no repression in it.

In this meditation camp the resolve I have spoken of is not to suppress any tendency, but to expand resolve itself. Resolve can be used to suppress a tendency—it can be, it is, it has been. But that is the negative form of resolve.

I go out of this room: two possibilities are there. I go out because being outside feels joyous, or I go out because this room feels miserable. In both cases you will see me going out, but the inner state is different. In one, I am merely running away from the room; in the other, I am going out. One is negative, the other is positive.

If you use resolve to suppress a tendency there will be suppression and repression, which are harmful. If you use it to expand resolve itself, it is very supportive, very meaningful, very significant. In this camp we are not at all eager to suppress anything. The whole process is to bring things out, not to push them down. This entire meditation experiment is to throw out whatever is repressed in the mind.

So the way we are using resolve is this: say a person talks too much—if he takes a vow of silence to get rid of that, it is repression. But if he takes a vow of silence simply to see, for three days, whether he can fulfill the resolve to remain silent or not—there is no question of being for or against speaking—then it is purely the practice of resolve.

No. In fact, it is only so long as there is no resolve that we fight with ourselves. The lack of resolve splits us in two. It can even split us into ten. What does a resolve-less person really mean? Not that he has no resolve, but that within him many self-contradictory resolves coexist. Resolve-less means: at the same time many self-contradictory resolves are inside him. He is not without resolve; he is multi-willed—filled with mutually opposing resolves. A person of resolve means that within him, at a given moment, there is only one resolve, and upon that resolve his whole consciousness is united, total, gathered.

Even regarding a small matter, if the mind gathers completely—becomes total—then we cannot fight with ourselves, because no other remains within us to fight against. I can make these two hands of mine fight; they are both my hands. Half my body can side with one hand, half with the other. But I can also make them cooperate. They are both my hands—and then there is no quarrel between them; they come together.

Resolve means this: inside us the “multi-wills,” the many, opposing resolves, have fragmented us, disintegrated us. The very moment a single resolve is fulfilled, crystallization—an integration—begins within.

Whenever a person fulfills even a small resolve, he becomes a person—at least for that while, he truly becomes a person. The English word “individual” is very apt; it means “indivisible”—that which cannot be divided, un-split, gathered.

Resolve is not a struggle with oneself.
Resolve is the dissolution of self-conflict—the becoming one of oneself.

In sadhana there is no place at all for repression. There is place only for catharsis. The truth is, we do not have to attain the divine—we have lost it. We have to regain it. It is not a new achievement. In one sense, what is continuously present within us simply has to be uncovered. So all the junk of tendencies we have piled up by repressing them will have to be separated and thrown out. If no layer of any tendency remains as a covering on the mind, what remains is the divine.

But with repression the covering increases; it does not lessen. Whatever we push down settles inside us. If we repress anger, a layer of anger settles within. Repress sex, a layer of sex settles within. Repress greed, a layer of greed settles within. If someone cannot even cry…

Just two or three days ago I was in Delhi. A friend came and said, “My wife passed away. It’s been a year, but my sadness has no end—my whole life has become gloomy. What should I do?” I told him the likelihood is this: when your wife died, you did not cry, you did not grieve. You suppressed the sorrow and swallowed it. Having swallowed it, that sorrow has now spread into every nerve and every drop of your blood. It could not be released; it was pushed down inside, and then it spread everywhere.

If pus is forming somewhere, no physician would say, “Suppress it; don’t drain it.” If there is a boil, if there is pus, it should be let out and the place cleaned. But someone might say, “Press it back inside! If so much of the body’s substance goes out, that will be a great loss. Your weight will surely decrease a little. So let’s push it inside, apply ointment and bandages on top, and drive the pus inward.”

Then remember: that pus will turn the rest of the blood into pus. Remember also: it will rot the whole body. And remember this too: you will not become healthy; you will grow more and more ill.

Exactly so are the mind’s tendencies. What should be thrown out, we are pushing in. We push anger inside. We push sex inside. We push greed, fear, inside.

But you will say, then should we flare up at anyone? The matter of pus is different, you say, because it concerns only me, not someone else—my foot has a boil, I drain the pus. But anger—I will take it out on someone.

This needs a little understanding. It is not necessary to take anger out on another. There could be a society where, whenever anyone drains pus, they throw it on someone else—then that society would be in great trouble. Anger, too, need not be thrown at another. Anger can be released in meditation. Sorrow, too, need not be thrown at another. Sorrow can be released in meditation—released alone. If anger is mine, what need is there of another? It can be released alone.

What I want to tell you is this: sex, anger, attachment—whatever is within us—if we do not throw it at others but release it in meditation, a transformation happens. If you throw it at others, trouble is bound to follow. Express anger at someone and there will be turmoil. You abuse, and abuse will come back. Then the other will also vent anger. Where will it end?

So those who looked after society taught everyone: do not express anger; swallow your anger. They saved society, they saved the other—but you got trapped. If I do not get angry at you, you are saved; but what about me? I am full of anger inside. Where will it go? It will make my personality sick, ill, and disturbed. And if many such illnesses accumulate, I will go mad.

That is why, the more civilization grows, the more madness grows—because the more civilization grows, the more we keep stopping all those things which an uncivilized person would do naturally. Then they accumulate, and then they begin to burst forth.

No—I am saying something altogether different: neither throw it at others, nor bottle it up within; let it be released. This is something entirely other. In this meditation experiment of ours, the second phase is release. In that second phase, let whatever has to come out, come out. If there is crying, laughing, shouting—whatever fire is within you—let it fall out. We are not throwing it at anyone; we are throwing it into the trash heap, into the refuse. It is inside us; we are bringing it out.

If a person does this experiment for forty minutes daily, within three months he will become incapable of anger. Incapable—there will be no need to suppress it. Laughter will begin to arise at what madness that was. And from within, the tendencies will stop arising—because for tendencies to arise, old repression is necessary.

The amusing thing is: if someone is mad and can do this meditation, he will not remain mad. The difficulty, of course, is explaining—to a mad person. Among us too there are many who are a bit mad; even explaining to them how to do it is difficult. It is very hard to explain to the mad how to meditate. But if even a mad person can be shown how, he too will be freed from madness—because when what he has suppressed drops, his mind becomes light.

Through this meditation experiment no one can go mad, because this meditation is a throwing out of madness. The way to become mad is to push things inside. Throwing them out is not the way to madness. We are taking the garbage out of the house; we are not storing it within.

So through this method no one can go mad. Yes, because we have not done such an experiment, a great deal of madness has accumulated inside us; it will come out here, it will be visible. Then you may suspect: this decent fellow, whom we have never seen screaming and dancing like this—why is he screaming and dancing? Has he gone mad?

He was mad! By the kindness of your society he has collected so much madness, and now it is coming out. This man is mad—and don’t think he alone is; you are too. You are standing there holding your madness in; he is letting it out. Beware: in the end, you will pay the higher price. His will be discharged; yours will remain.

Madness is within us! Its release is necessary so we become light. No one can reach the divine while remaining mad. One has to be light. Madness is a burden, like heavy stones on our chest. With stones tied on, how can we fly, even if we have wings? All these stones have to be removed.

And now, when someone begins to remove them, we say, “What are you doing?” Because till yesterday he was hiding his stones in ornaments, wrapping them in velvet, so we mistook them for parts of his body. Today he takes them out and throws them away, and we say, “Have you gone mad?”

And the irony is, we too are clutching the same stones. When you see a man dancing, you think, “Has he gone mad?” Have you ever asked your own mind whether you too want to dance? Have you ever, alone in the bathroom, found yourself dancing? Ever seen yourself making faces in the bathroom mirror?

If there’s no mirror in the bathroom, that’s another matter. But in the bathroom we all let out a little. In front of others we hold ourselves in. That holding is dangerous. Something keeps accumulating inside. Everything has a limit; beyond it, things begin to burst. Those whom we call mad are not different from us—they are just like us. The only difference is a little in quantity. Their amount is a bit more, ours a bit less. They have gone a little ahead; we are a little behind. But the road is the same. How long will they remain ahead? We will arrive too. We are the normal sort of mad, the common kind; there are many like us, so we manage. They become the poor solitary kind of mad, so they get into trouble.

No, through this meditation experiment no one can go mad. But in this experiment, madness does come out. Its coming out is not madness. To become mad means: when you don’t want it to come out and it begins to, then know you have gone mad—when it is no longer in your control and it erupts.

A man is walking along the road and cannot stop himself and starts laughing there—then understand, he has gone mad. Now even if he tries hard, it is beyond him. He has suppressed so much that a force greater than his control has gathered; it breaks the control and bursts out. But here, the experiment we are doing is voluntary—we are releasing it, that’s why it comes out. And the very moment we choose, it will stop. The moment we wish, it stops. Madness simply means losing control over oneself. In this meditation there is full control.

Second, it is very difficult to explain things to people who are mad, because the very intelligence to understand is lost. Among us too a few people just stand there—ten or five of them—just standing and watching others. Now, they should be considered the mad ones. For there is no purpose in watching others. There is a vast world to watch others; there was no need to come here for that. If you have traveled so far just to watch others, the trip is wasted. And what will you do by watching others? What is the benefit? Try to watch yourself. But some people keep looking at others to escape themselves. It is a trick, an escape, a flight. By looking at others they are saving themselves from having to look at their own.

Today at noon, in the silence, I saw two or four people busy watching others. These are the mad ones. In a good world they would be treated; as yet, they are not. In fact, it may be that in their minds they are thinking, “All these mad people have gathered here; we, an intelligent one, are sitting here. We are just observing who all are mad.”

Remember this: except for the mad—only the mad never know they are mad. Except for them, everyone has at least a little suspicion that “I may be mad.” Only the mad never suspect it. If you go to a mental asylum, not one madman will say, “I am mad.” You can check it. In fact, the first proof of madness is that the person never doubts, “I am mad.” The mad are always suspicious that others have gone mad.

Kahlil Gibran has written a little incident. A friend of his went mad. So, out of compassion, he went to the asylum. Inside the high walls, in the garden of the asylum, his friend was sitting. He went and sat beside him. He wondered how to begin the conversation, and then he asked, “Everything all right here?” The friend said, “Perfectly all right. Since we escaped the madhouse outside, there has been great joy.” He said, “Since we escaped the madhouse outside, there has been great joy.”

He was astonished; he had come to show sympathy. He looked closely at the madman—and the madman was looking at him with great sympathy. The madman said, “So you too have come inside? Good that you did! May God grant that whoever has any intelligence comes inside. Outside, everyone has gone mad.”

The mad never for a moment suspect that they are mad. Their suspicion is always about others. The intelligent person first raises the doubt about himself: What is my state?

This much I say: this experiment is one of purgation, of catharsis. Therefore there is no possibility of going mad through it. Yes, if you don’t do it, there is every possibility you will preserve your madness.

In truth, in its deepest sense, meditation is total nakedness. Not only the nakedness of the body’s garments, but of the mind’s garments as well. Meditation is complete sky-cladness. Yet, when for the first time one begins to enter within through meditation, even the clothes on the body, for several reasons, become an obstruction. They will not remain an obstruction forever, but in the beginning they do. A moment comes when they are felt as a hindrance. For two or three reasons:

1) The clothes we wear are not only to cover the body. If someone wore clothes merely to cover the body, perhaps they would not become an obstacle in meditation. But we wear clothes for many other reasons too. Clothing carries our various inhibitions, our many repressed impulses, our taboos. We let small children run about naked; as soon as their intelligence develops a little, we begin to wrap them in clothing. In fact, we harbor a certain ill-feeling toward the naked body; with the naked body our mind entertains some sense of impropriety; somewhere in our consciousness nakedness is linked with lust. We go about hiding our lust in our clothes. So when the mind becomes quiet and lust begins to fall away, in that very moment there arises a desire to throw off the clothes as well. And it is a curious thing: the day someone drops their clothes in meditation, they suddenly find as if they have been freed from lust—at once the mind feels light. Clothes sit upon us like symbols of lust.

2) This is why we also get uneasy on seeing someone else naked. If the other person is naked, if they feel cold it is they who will feel it, and if the sun is hot it is they who will feel it—why are you getting disturbed? You are disturbed because their nakedness is not merely nakedness; in the deeper mind it becomes a symbol of lust. It throws our own lust into turmoil. So when your mind grows lighter, the symbolic garments of lust will want to fall away. Do not resist at that time—let them fall. As they fall, the mind enters a new movement.

3) Either we wear clothes to hide lust, or we wear clothes to display lust. Here there is some difference between men and women. Generally, men wear clothes to conceal lust, and generally, women wear clothes to reveal it. Therefore it is always easier for men to give up clothing; for women it is more difficult. A woman’s garments often serve less to conceal and more to highlight the body. In fact, no woman is as beautiful without clothes as she appears with them—the whole use of clothing is to accentuate the body. Women’s clothing is very aggressive. Hence it becomes even more difficult for a woman to abandon it. But a moment also comes in a woman’s consciousness when the urge to display the body drops; when that moment comes, her clothes can fall too.

The meaning of nudity is tied to the meaning you give to clothes. If for you clothes are merely a means of covering the body, then there is no issue; you will not feel the question of dropping them in meditation. But it is not so simple—deep feelings are bound up with our clothing. We have not accepted the naked body, though the naked body is our very own. However many garments we wear, the body remains naked. Yet we have become frightened of the naked body.

I am not saying that you, of your own accord, should give up clothing.

This afternoon, among those who were present in silence, four or six had come to the point where Shaktipat could have happened to them. But small, trivial things become obstacles.

Shaktipat simply means that an immense energy is spread all around us—the infinite power of the divine is spread. In a certain moment you are in such a state that that power can enter within you. Sometimes it can even enter directly. But if it enters directly, you may find yourself in great difficulty. You may or may not be able to understand its impact. You might become delirious under its impact. You might be so frightened by its blow that you do not go to that door again. Because the power is vast, and the first encounter can deliver a very severe shock—precisely because it is the first time. You may have touched electricity sometime—accidentally perhaps—but that is not a great power; it is very ordinary voltage. The divine’s voltage is infinite. When that power descends for the first time into a vessel, anything can happen—inside there can be a gale, a storm, an earthquake; a volcano—everything can happen.

That power can descend directly, but there are many dangers in that. Therefore it is always easier if it descends through a person as a medium. Then it becomes very simple. That person can function like a regulator. Just as in your house a regulator is fitted, by which you can bring into the house exactly as much electrical voltage as you wish.

So sometimes a person who has become available to that power can become a medium for you. If you are ready, through that medium the power of the vast can descend into you. It is not that person’s power; the power is of the vast. The person only comes into use as a medium, like a flute in between. He is the flute; you are the listener; the singer is someone else. Lips of someone else, song of someone else, flute of someone else, ears of someone else.

Shaktipat is possible. And in this regard, let me tell you two or three things for tomorrow’s silence; if you keep them in mind, then instead of trying to understand what it is, just do it and see what it is. When you come to me tomorrow, whatever arises within you, allow it to happen with your full energy. If a scream wants to come, if dancing happens, if shouting happens, if jumping happens—whatever happens as you come near me—let it happen with your full energy. And when I place my hand on your head, do not suppress whatever is happening within you—not even a little. Let it express itself fully and openly. Then you will immediately experience that some other energy has descended within you. Something from above has entered you. Something within has awakened, something has descended from above, and the two have met. Shaktipat is a very simple and possible thing.

But as I said, sometimes very small things become obstacles. Today a sannyasin, Swami Kriyanand, came to me in the afternoon in silence. If there had been no clothes on his body, Shaktipat would have been possible. It got stuck—over such a small thing! The inner readiness was complete; a slight snag remained. A Japanese woman seeker has come; if there had been no clothes on her body, Shaktipat would have been possible. She was fully ready. Just a tiny hitch, and the whole thing stopped.

Shaktipat means only this: the power of the vast is present all around us; we connect ourselves with it. That connection can happen in many ways. You may have seen that when large buildings are made—temples and churches—they install an iron rod on the top. If lightning flashes and strikes from the sky, it should not destroy the whole building; it passes through the iron rod and goes down into the earth. If the full force of the lightning were to fall, the building could collapse. That iron rod—just a little rod, which doesn’t seem to have much value—saves the building. Lightning takes its path through it and goes into the ground.

Power from the vast can also descend directly upon a person. But then nothing can be said about what might happen. If it descends through a person as a medium, however, much of the journey becomes assured. The person has only as much value as that iron rod on the roof has for the building—no more than that. There is not even any need to go and thank him afterward. But there is that much value.

One more question, and then at night we are going to begin a new experiment. It will continue for three nights. So one more question, then I will tell you a few things regarding that new experiment, and then we will sit for the experiment.

No, you don’t actually get tired; the thought of being tired arises. The thought of tiredness is a big thing. When you feel, “I’m utterly exhausted,” if at that very moment someone were to come after you with a gun, threatening to kill you, you would discover you’re not tired at all. You’d run for miles, and the fatigue would vanish. What happened? You were tired, weren’t you? Someone is chasing you with a gun—how are you running now?

In truth, we have no idea how much power lies within us. We live using only the small amount of energy that floats on the surface. When that little portion gets a bit weary, we conclude, “Now I’m tired; that’s the end of it.”

The moment you feel fatigue, begin again with even more intensity. Within two minutes you will find the tiredness has disappeared and a great energy has surged from within. The moment of fatigue is very precious—it tells you how much energy you are accustomed to using. That’s all it’s saying, nothing more. It marks your limit. You use energy only up to that point. Up to now you’ve been breathing only as much as you’re used to breathing in two minutes—just a habit-bound limit. There you get tired; the mind says, “That’s it—my limit. Now I’m tired.”

If you’re going to get tired from breathing in two minutes, how will you stay alive? No—this is only the limit of habit. Don’t panic; at that very point apply more vigor to your breathing. Within a minute you’ll find that boundary has been crossed and energy has begun to flow from a new level. The moment of fatigue is the moment of the boundary. And if someone crosses his moment of fatigue, he will be amazed.

You may have noticed: if you usually go to sleep at ten, you start feeling sleepy at ten. But if you stay awake till eleven, then at eleven you don’t feel sleepy. What happened? If sleep came at ten, shouldn’t it come even more at eleven? In fact, the limit has been crossed. You stayed up an extra hour. The energy that kept you awake till ten is finished, but the energy by which you can stay awake further has begun to come into use.

We have a reservoir of energy. We can draw as much as we wish from it. And that source of energy never runs dry, because ultimately it is connected to the Divine. For infinite lifetimes you have been breathing—you didn’t get tired then; will you get tired from breathing for two minutes now? You will not. When you feel tired, exert yourself even more. In fact, do not accept your fatigue. Break your fatigue.

It will happen. If you get tired in two minutes, what else but pain will happen!
No—don’t get tired in two minutes. Put in your total energy. The one who puts in total energy for thirty minutes will be the least tired. I say this to you from my daily hundreds of experiences. The person who gives his total energy for thirty minutes will be the least tired. And if you truly give your total energy, after thirty minutes you will suddenly feel light and fresh, not tired.

We get tired because we don’t put our total energy—one. We do put energy, and all the while keep thinking inside, “I might get tired”—two. We do put energy and at the same time we hold ourselves back so that we don’t overdo it—three. That’s where the whole disturbance happens.

Now, as you say there is pain in the back, or for someone the arm hurts. It means the hands wanted to dance—you didn’t let them; there will be pain. The back wanted to bend—you didn’t let it; there will be pain. The feet wanted to jump—you didn’t let them; there will be pain.

Just now a friend came to me and said that all day long a mood of crying remains.
So I asked, “Did you cry in the meditation?”
He said, “No, in meditation crying doesn’t come.”
Now he is holding back crying in meditation; so all day the mood to cry will remain.

No, cry in meditation—then see how it becomes impossible to cry during the day! We are repressing somewhere; therefore the obstruction. And if you are doing exactly as I am saying and still you feel fatigue, then understand that your body is not used to exercise. In three–four–five days it will get used to it. Whenever any new exercise is begun, for three–four–five days the body aches a little. In three–four–five days it settles; there is no need to worry much about it. But don’t stop; let it ache and you continue.

It is separate, yes—but that does not mean you will not know. Even when it is separate, you will know. Even when there is a sense of oneness, you still know. What changes is how the knowing appears; the knowing is there in any case.

When the body is felt as separate and hunger arises, it will seem that the body is hungry. And when the body is felt as one with you, it will seem that I am hungry. That is the only difference; there will be no other difference. If there is pain in the body, then when the body is separate it will feel as though somewhere at a distance the body is in pain and I am aware of it. And if you take yourself to be one with the body, it will feel as if I am in pain.

In the illusion of unity, in identification, when you take yourself to be one with the body, you become the experiencer. And when in meditation you see yourself as distinct from the body, you become the witness. That is the only difference.

Do not be frightened: “I feel separate from the body—then why does the body’s pain still register?” Pain should be known. You are not unconscious; you are fully aware. And I do not want you to be unconscious. If you become unconscious, meditation is lost. Then you are no longer in meditation; it has turned into hypnosis if you become unconscious.

Many people have this notion.

That is exactly the difference. The process is exactly the same! This is the process of hypnosis, and this is the process of meditation—the procedure of both is one. The difference is very deep. It is not in the process; the difference is in the inner being. The difference is this: in hypnosis, sleep will come, sushupti—unconsciousness—will come; and in meditation, alertness and awareness remain complete, awareness remains total. If you become unconscious, understand that you have slipped into hypnosis. If awareness within remains—and remains of everything—then understand that you are in meditation.

Those who do not know will, poor fellows, call it hypnosis when they see it. They will say, this is hypnosis.

The process of hypnosis and of meditation is exactly the same. Hypnosis is a method of going into sushupti, deep sleep; meditation is a method of going into samadhi. It is like stairs in a house. With those stairs, if we wish, we can go down into the basement—the same stairs. And with those same stairs, if we wish, we can go up to the terrace—the same stairs. Seeing the stairs, someone might say, “Where are you going—to the basement?” One who knows only the basement will even see a man climbing up and say, “You’re on the stairs—going to the basement?” That man will say, “The stairs are the same, but the direction is different, the back is turned differently. When we go to the basement our face is toward the basement; when we go to the roof our back is toward the basement. That is all the difference; the stairs are the same.”

The stairs of hypnosis and meditation are the same. Hypnosis takes you down—into the unconscious, into sushupti, into faintness. And meditation? Meditation takes you up—into the superconscious, the supraconscious, into awakening, into awareness. If a person becomes totally hypnotized, he becomes part of nature. And if he becomes totally meditative, he becomes part of the divine. But the process and the stairs are exactly the same.

As for the questions that remain, I will speak tomorrow. Now let us understand the night’s experiment a little, and then we will do this experiment.

A few things must be understood. First, know that this experiment is of the witness. It has two or three small steps; the rest will be the meditative state, but there are two or three points.

First: usually for forty minutes in meditation we keep the eyes closed; in this we will keep the eyes open, for forty minutes. Do not close the eyes on your own. Even if the eyes begin to burn, tears start to flow, the lids become heavy like stone—keep stopping, stopping, stopping. Do not close the eyes. Yes, if the eyes close by themselves and you cannot prevent it—while you keep trying to prevent it—then that is another matter. But you yourself do not close them; keep them open, open, open. And look toward me. Do not look at anyone else; keep looking at me, with the eyes fully open.

Meanwhile, whatever happens to your body, let it happen. If it starts shouting, let it shout; if it begins to cry, let it cry; if it begins to laugh, let it laugh; if it stands up and starts dancing, let it dance. Whatever happens to the body, let it happen. You keep only one attention: keep the eyes toward me. And for forty minutes you are not to close the eyes. You are not to look at anyone else; you have to forget that there is anyone else in the hall—there is only me and you.

I will give no instructions. I will simply sit here; you will keep looking at me. And whatever happens to you, allow it. Much will happen; allow it. If the eyes close by themselves, they will close; even then, whatever happens, let it happen.

Those who have come only to listen, please go outside; here no one can sit without doing the experiment. Anyone who wishes to look around here and there should go out now. Whoever does not want to do the experiment should go out. His presence proves very harmful—for him and for others. The whole atmosphere here gets spoiled.

So nothing has gone wrong yet. Let the lights be turned on. Friends who wish to go out, please do so absolutely quietly; do not feel any hesitation about what someone might say—just slip out silently. This morning, during meditation, three gentlemen stood up in the middle and started talking; it becomes very troublesome. For me to tell them in between also feels painful. Please go out quietly. Those who came only to listen should leave.