My beloved Atman! We have reflected on three Mahavrats: ahimsa, aparigraha, and achourya. Today, the fourth vow: 'Akam.' Kama is the name of man’s most significant energy. Those three vows we spoke of—at their root, the power of kama is at work. If kama succeeds, it becomes possession, parigraha. If kama fails out of one’s inner inferiority, it turns into theft. If kama fails because of another, it turns into violence. On the path of kama, of longing, of desire, if anyone becomes an obstacle, kama becomes violent. If no one outside obstructs and only an inner incapacity becomes the barrier, kama becomes thievery. And if there is no outer barrier, no inner incapacity, and kama succeeds, it becomes accumulation, parigraha. It is essential to understand this kama deeply. Man is energy. In this universe there is nothing but energy. All life is energy. Gone are the days when some used to say that matter is. Those days are over. Nietzsche said at the beginning of this century, 'God is dead.' But the century has not yet finished; God has not died—matter has. Matter is dead. To say 'has died' is not exact either. Matter never was; it was our illusion, an appearance. Scientists say matter is only condensed energy. There is no such thing as matter. That stone—so hard, so clear, so substantial—even that is not. It too is a compacted form of electric currents. Today, in the view of science, the whole existence is a field of energy. In the view of religion, it has always been so. Religion called that power 'Paramatma.' Science, as yet, calls it simply energy. A little further and science will drop one more illusion. Fifty years ago science said: matter is the truth. Today it says: energy is the truth. Tomorrow science will have to say: consciousness is the truth. Just as science discovered that matter is condensed energy, so, if not today then tomorrow, it will discover that energy is condensed consciousness. This energy called life—each person is a spark of it, a small wave of it. You, I, everyone. If this energy flows outward, it becomes kama, craving. If it flows inward, it becomes akam; it becomes the soul. The whole difference is of direction. When kama turns back—returning home, back to its own source—kama becomes akam, desirelessness; it becomes Atman. And when energy keeps flowing outward, slowly a man grows depleted, weak, dull. Through desire he may gain many things in the world, but he remains deprived of filling himself. That which is to be attained is our own being; the power should move in that direction. If we want outer objects, energy must go out. If we want the inner Atman, energy must move within. Remember, by kama I mean energy flowing outward. By akam, energy flowing inward. The power has two modes: outward or inward. Flowing outward, a person may gain everything—except himself. And all the rest has no value if the self is lost. Even if we gain the whole world, of what use, if in gaining it I lose myself? When the energy turns within, it becomes akam. Kama simply means desire. Whenever we desire, we have to flow outward, because desire projects its fulfillment outside. Something is to be had outside—so we flow outward. We are all beings in outward flow. We are all desires. We are desires. Twenty-four hours, we flow out—someone for wealth, someone for fame, someone for love. And the great irony is, even if someone seeks the Paramatma, he also flows outward. He imagines God seated somewhere in the sky. Even for moksha, he imagines it somewhere above, to be reached. Religion has nothing to do with the outside. So, those whose God is outside—let them understand clearly: they have no relationship with religion. Those whose moksha is outside—let them know: they are not religious. If anything you seek lies outside, know that you are driven by kama. Only in one condition does freedom from kama happen: when we begin to flow within. Any outer object, anything to be attained out there, will carry our energy outward. And we grow empty, finished. Then another birth; again we come with energy, and again we flow outward and end. Then a third, again energy, again flowing outward—and again we end. We come with power at birth. With death, we return having lost power. The one who returns with power at death has no need to come again. At birth all arrive with energy. With death, most return exhausted, as empty cartridges—the shot long gone, only the shell remains. Whoever, like Kabir, can say at the last moment, 'As it was, so I return the cloth'—spent nothing, lost nothing, did not run about—'Take back the sheet exactly as given'—who returns at death as he came at birth, needs not be born again. Akam is liberation from birth and death; kama is return again and again. The simple reason is this… No desire is ever truly fulfilled; it cannot be. And the one addicted to running outward, by the time one desire nears fulfillment, he has already birthed a new one. How else will he keep running out? For the one whose life has become outward-running, no sooner is one desire fulfilled than many more are born—and the race begins again. We are outward-flowing energies. Outgoing energies. Hence we die like empty shells. Hence our death is not a beauty, not an experience of depth; it becomes a sorrow, a dull pain, an impotence. We collapse in many ways; so there is such pain at death. That pain is not death’s; it is the pain of the one emptied out, drained of all his juices—only an empty shell remains. So death hurts. Yet death grants bliss to the one who is not empty, but full. How to remain full—this is what akam is about. But before understanding akam, the whole journey of kama must be understood. How does kama move in us? How do we flow outward? Once this is understood, flowing inward is simple. For thousands of years we knew that matter is made of atoms, but we could not split the atom. In this century, we split it. At once a miraculous truth arose: in a tiny atom, in hydrogen or anything—unseen by the eye—such energy was hidden that in its rupture a terrible power was born. The explosion of a tiny atom killed a hundred thousand in Hiroshima instantly. So much power was concealed in a small atom that, once it burst, such a blast! By splitting the atom, science revealed a precious truth: infinite energy hides inside everything. If it is broken, there is an explosion and everything rushes outward. If it is sealed… But we never knew that so much energy was hidden in a closed atom. What science did by splitting, religion had done the opposite long ago—by joining. Therefore religion is called Yoga—union. Man’s consciousness too is an atom. If we leave it in a broken state, everything leaks away—our infinite energy drains out. If that atom is joined, sealed—not analyzed, not fragmented; synthesized, integrated, closed—if it becomes a point unto itself, if the leaking stops on all sides, then infinite energy becomes available within. The experience of this infinite energy is the experience of infinite Paramatma. The taste of this infinite energy is infinite bliss, infinite virya. After this, there remains nothing else to experience—everything is known. Understand this well: man is a broken atom of consciousness. It has holes, like a bucket with holes being filled in a well. When the bucket is submerged, it seems full; once lifted, it begins to empty. There are holes everywhere; by the time it reaches the top, there is only the noise of water falling, no water remains, and the empty bucket returns. At the moment of birth, we are filled with energy. Before birth we are a full bucket. With birth, the bucket is lifted and the leaking begins. Truly, with birth our dying begins; we begin to empty. Like a cracked bucket, we start draining. The first moment of birth is the beginning of death. The emptiness begins. Hence, from the first moment after birth, each person is eligible to die—he may die any time. When he will fulfill the eligibility is another matter. All life long we keep emptying. Whatever little sense of freshness we feel is perhaps in the morning, after the night, because at night the senses close. Eyes shut, hands go limp, ears do not hear, lips do not speak, nose does not smell; all doors close. Therefore, morning brings a tang of freshness; it is the little energy collected at night. If one could let the whole life’s energy collect, the freshness he would know cannot be imagined. Even if we gathered every morning’s freshness of our entire life, it would tell us nothing of that. If a person loses sleep, living becomes difficult, for even the small nightly accumulation ceases. Fifteen days without sleep and a man goes insane. Fifteen days without food may be manageable; fifteen without sleep—difficult. If someone is ill and cannot sleep, the physician first worries to bring sleep—illness can be handled later—because the energy needed for healing must be collected. We are only losing energy. And kama is the method of losing energy. Kama has many forms; the densest is sex. Hence gradually kama and sex became synonymous. Food provides energy, sleep conserves it, exercise awakens it—and then we spend it. Much is spent just on the arrangement of living. Much is spent so that we can produce energy again tomorrow. Much is spent converting inner matter—when you take food, a great miracle happens: you bring in dead matter and your life-energy makes it living, turning the non-organic into the organic—and energy is expended there too. Walking spends energy, sitting spends it, even sleeping uses energy though it also stores it. After this whole process, the small surplus left we tend to use for nothing but turning kama into sex. We use it only for sex. So understand this: whatever remains after everything, how do we use it? If only for sex, then sex is just relief—a throwing off of the burden of energy. The strange thing is: we spend twenty-four hours gathering energy, sleep eight hours to conserve it, toil a lifetime to earn food. But when energy comes, it becomes a weight; we try to throw it away. Like a man who earns all day and at dusk throws his earnings into the river because the money has made his pouch heavy—so he gets rid of the load. We labor to gather energy, and when it is with us it feels burdensome, heavy on the mind—then we must discard it. Sex is the method we use to throw energy. It is only relief. Again we are empty. What an absurd life: tomorrow morning he will again gather energy till evening, and when it accumulates, he will again throw it to feel relief. Madness! Gathering and throwing, gathering and throwing—what meaning can such a life have? What is the purpose? What will be gained? We do not see it. If food is lacking, we are troubled; if food is found, we are troubled. If energy is lacking, we feel weak; if it arrives, we hasten to be weak again. Man, as he is, is an absurdity. As he is, reason seems unrelated to him. Like a reservoir only being built so its walls can be broken, and after breaking, rebuilt—throughout life collecting and losing. This cannot be life; something is amiss. To gather energy is right—but to gather only to lose is meaningless. If someone said: I am born only to die, we would call him mad. If someone said: I collect only to throw, we would call him mad. If someone said: I build a house only to demolish it, we would say: you are unwell. But what about us? What are we doing? Whatever we collect is for losing. Perhaps we never thought of it like this. That whatever we collect is meant to be lost! Hence monks begin the reverse: they lessen collecting so there remains no chance to lose. But nothing changes by this. One man earns two coins and throws them in the river at dusk. Another, fearing the evening’s throwing, does not earn at all. At dusk, both are equally poor. The thrower has two coins no more; the non-earner also has none. Both destitute. You earn your energy and spend it in kama, in sex. The sannyasin, out of fear, stops producing energy: he fasts, eats little, keeps only enough power for daily routine so that no surplus remains; otherwise he will have to do what you do. But this also changes nothing. You earn and lose; he avoids earning so as not to lose. Still, no energy remains. Recently, in an American laboratory, they conducted an experiment—Indian sannyasins should understand it. Thirty students were kept hungry for a month to observe the relationship between hunger and sex. Surprising results: in the first seven days, their sexual drive intensified. After seven days it diminished. By the fifteenth day, even when shown nude pictures of women, there was no interest; provoke them as you might, nothing stirred. By the thirtieth day, all thirty had no sexual urge left; they were cold, frozen. No way to arouse them; sex seemed to have departed. Then they were fed. In seven days, the drive began to return. By fifteen it was back to its place. By thirty days they were normal—the same taste, the same sexuality seized them again. What happened? Sex was not destroyed; only the surplus energy needed for sex was unavailable. The serpent lived, but had no strength to crawl—so it lay unconscious, waiting for power to return. When energy came, it moved again. This experiment shows that sannyasins have deceived themselves for ages. Yes, if these youths were kept permanently on such minimal food that their daily movement consumes all energy, they could live without sex. But that is not akam; it is dead kama—dead sex. It is not desirelessness, only a frozen desire. Those who saw that energy is gathered, and then to be relieved we go into sex, stopped gathering. They too are in the same illusion as everyone else. Householder and monk occupy opposite ends of the same mistake. Akam does not mean this. Akam means: let energy be generated, but do not dissipate it through sex—let it be conserved. And when power is conserved on a large scale and not vented sexually, it begins to move upward. Like a river whose flood is dammed—the depth may have been ten feet; with a dam it becomes a hundred feet. The more it is held, the higher the walls must rise, and the reservoir deepens—thousand feet even. Whenever energy is restrained, it rises, because it concentrates. When surplus energy begins to gather in you, piles of power form within and it moves upward. As of now, your energy never rises above the sex level. The moment it reaches that level, you expend it and return to your baseline. If conserved, it rises above the sex level. Remember, sex is man’s lowest center—the lowermost gate. Above it are higher doors. If energy rises, it begins to open the next door. Know this: within man there are six doors beyond sex. At each ascending door, the flavor of bliss deepens, and you are amazed. When the power rises to the second chakra above sex, you marvel: what a fool I was—where was I squandering energy! Spent here, it brings far greater joy than at the first center. Like a man digging a mine. He finds colored pebbles and carries them home. Someone says: foolish, these are stones; dig a little more. He digs and finds copper, gets a few coins, yet someone says: dig further. He digs; he finds silver, then gold, then diamonds and jewels—and he keeps digging. We live on the first layer of personality—the sexual layer—where little more than pebbles can be found. If from there energy is conserved and moved a little further, the second chakra begins to open, where the planes of joy change. And note, at the sex plane, another is necessary for your pleasure. At the second chakra, another is not needed—you are enough. The person begins to be free. When energy reaches the seventh chakra—when your power accumulates so much that it runs between the sex center and the sahasrar—call it kundalini if you will, or any other name—it doesn’t matter—the day your energy is so gathered that it sets the brain centers in motion, that day for the first time you are available to self-knowledge, to Brahman; that day you know where you have arrived. But we dissipate life at the first center; that leak empties everything. Does this mean I tell you to suppress sex? If you suppress it, you will never be able to stop it, because power has a law: a repressed energy becomes rebellious. The more forcefully you push it down, the more forcefully it reacts. No energy can be suppressed—only given new pathways. Two ways: give energy a new channel and it flows that way; or block the old path and it will hammer against it all the more. Thus those who fight sex remain sexual for life. No one has reached higher centers by fighting sex. But by setting the higher centers into motion, one certainly becomes free of sex. Brahmacharya is not a fight with sex; brahmacharya is the activation of centers higher than sex. So do not cling to the negative, as we have done for thousands of years. Long ago we understood that if this energy is contained, tremendous doors of bliss open. But how to contain it? We tried to force it. The more you force, the more it pushes back. And the very spot where you restrain it—that is where attention must remain. And wherever attention dwells, that center is kept active. Thus, those who clamp energy at the sexual point become hyperactive toward sex. Their whole personality becomes genitally fixated. Their awareness gets entangled there; the more it strikes, the more that center is inflamed. Then their only escape is to eat less, exercise less, live like the dead so that energy is not produced. This changes nothing; the ordinary householder is better—at least he produces energy. If there is energy, one day the upward journey may happen. The sannyasin is worse off; he produces none. Although his energy does not go out, he has none to go up either. Energy is needed. The energy that goes out can go in; but energy unfit even to go out can never go in. One who is incapable of the outer journey will never make the inner journey. So first thing: we do need surplus energy. Arrange to generate it—but also arrange to give it new directions. I will offer you two or three keys for how energy finds new pathways. First: if we can live in the present, energy gathers and begins to move upward. The first key: living in the present. Whoever thinks much of tomorrow and the day after and the future, his energy drains away—because the future is far, and our only relationship to the future can be desire. The future is not; it will be. And to what will be, our only relation is longing. Jesus was passing a village and said to his disciples: see these lilies in bloom! They said: we see them. Jesus said: look at their beauty, their blossoming, their joy! And he said: Solomon, at the height of his splendor—riches of the whole earth—was not as beautiful as these wild lilies! Someone asked: why is that so? Jesus said: Solomon was always in the future; these flowers live now. Their energy has no chance to become desire; their energy becomes life. Remember, whenever we turn energy into desire we do so because of the future. Desire means future-orientation. Longing means the wish to live in the future. And life is always here-now. He who strengthens the wish to live in the future will continue to flow outward and lose his energy. The future drinks our energy, absorbs it. In the present, energy is stored. Therefore, the one who wants to take his power toward akam, toward brahmacharya—toward truth, Brahman, toward oneself—must slowly thin out the wishes of the future. Live here and now. When you eat, only eat—do not enter the office at your meal. When you sit in the office, sit only there—do not eat in your head while at the desk. When you go to the cinema, be at the cinema—do not let the temple intrude there. When you go to the temple, be only there—do not bring the cinema into the shrine. At each moment, try to be where you are. It will be difficult at first, then it becomes simple. Difficult—because our habit is to be where we are not. When you are in Calcutta, the mind is in Bombay; when you are in Bombay, it is in Calcutta. In the very moment we are, our mind is not. So from where we are not, we extend desire and connect—that connection becomes the path of losing energy. If someone, slowly, slowly, learns to live here-now—you will be astonished: eating was never so blissful as when you are wholly present in eating, when you are only eating. An emperor once came to a Zen mystic who was digging a pit in his garden. The emperor said: I have come to learn wisdom. The mystic said: sit, watch, and learn. The emperor sat. The mystic kept digging. The emperor said: will you also say something? You just go on digging! The mystic said: look closely—I am not; only digging is. To say 'I am digging' is wrong. To say: 'I have become the act of digging' is right. You too become the act of seeing. Please do not think what I will say when I speak, or what you will understand—just become seeing here. The emperor said: that is hard—just seeing! I must also return. The mystic said: then return—but be only returning. The emperor said: I also want to ask you something. The mystic said: then ask—but become the question. Whatever we are doing, we are never that. If, while angry, you become totally anger, perhaps you will never be angry again. But while angry, inside you are asking forgiveness; while angry, you are repenting and saying: I am doing wrong. So you are not total in anger; not total in love. For a lover awaited for years—when he arrives, you think of something else. The wealth for which you labored for years—when it comes and you lock the safe, you sit outside thinking of something else. We miss the present, always. We spend our energy in the future. If power is to be conserved—and without it no inner journey is possible—we must learn to live in the present. The present has a special quality: it is circular. A river is one-dimensional—always moving toward the ocean. A lake cannot move, it is round; it only circles within itself. When you are in the present moment, you become like a lake—round, without direction. Energy begins to move inside you. It finds no chance to go out—its chance comes from the future. 'What will I do tomorrow?'—that opens the door for flight. 'What will happen tomorrow?'—another opening. 'I am here, now…' You are listening to me here. If you are only listening, you will not lose a drop of energy. You are a circular being now, non-dimensional—no direction, no flow outward. If listening with thinking, you will tire; your energy will be depleted. If I am only speaking, I will not tire; if I must also think while speaking, I will. Whenever an act is total, energy is not lost; it is gathered. Love, if total, brings energy. Anger, if total, does not drain. Whatever becomes total is not lost. And the strange surprise is: if anger becomes total, you are freed of anger, for it appears so utterly futile. If love becomes total, you are filled with love, for it feels utterly meaningful. Any act that can be done in totality, I call virtue. Any act that cannot be done in totality, I call sin. There is no other criterion for sin and virtue. If you can be totally angry and still do it again, then anger is not sin. But that never happens. You do anger half-heartedly, hence it recurs. If you become anger fully even once, the hell you read of in scriptures will gather around you—and then you will never want to enter it again; you won’t ask forgiveness, you will simply be beyond anger. The fire will burn so intensely there is no way but out. But we live in lukewarm fires. We do things in fragments—so it goes on and never finishes. If hell is completed, heaven is not far. But we build hell so slowly, it never completes and we never escape it. So the first key for the journey to akam and for the upward movement of kama: live moment to moment. Sannyas does not mean leaving home; sannyas means one who lives in the present, who does not live outside the moment, who lives here-now and nowhere else. Whoever comes to such a state of mind is a sannyasin. Sannyas means: to be in the present, to be in the living moment. If we are in the vibrant now, our energy will begin to rise. Now a very wonderful thing: if the living moment surrounds us—even in anger, if we are total, we will be free of anger; and even in sex, if we are total, we will be free of sex. For the person fully present in the moment of sex—in the very act—will not desire it again. The matter is finished. It becomes such ash that there is no point clenching a fist over it again. But even there we are not total. Man is frantic for union; he runs for it all his life. He earns money, builds houses—deep down, it is a race for sexual gratification, so that when all is ready he may be satisfied. And when the moment of sex comes, he is not present—he is thinking a thousand other thoughts: that brahmacharya is good, that celibacy is supreme. At the moment of sex he thinks so. And when he takes the vow of brahmacharya, he goes on thinking of sex. Man is insane. This madness never lets life’s energy move upward. Therefore, first key: live moment to moment—then akam will begin within, kama will wane, because kama needs the future. Desire needs tomorrow. Truly, tomorrow has no existence—only in desire does it exist. It is a by-product of desire. There is no 'tomorrow' anywhere. Tomorrow is born of longing. The future is nowhere. What is, is always the present. The future is born of desire. We keep saying time has three parts—future, present, past. We are wrong. Time has only one form: the present. Not three—only one. Time is always now. From where then the future and past? Past arises from our memory; future from our desires. The first key to release from kama: try to be in the present moment. I do not ask you to go to the forest; be fully where you are. Eat fully, sleep fully, bathe fully—and begin with very small things. Second key: be creative. One who is not creative, his energy will always seek to flow through sex, for he will become heavy—he will have power, but no play. And we are not creative at all; in our life there is hardly anything of creation. We have made nothing of which we can say: creative. You will say: we make chairs, we make furniture, houses, clothes—we are creative. No, that is not creation. Understand the difference between creation and construction. Construction means making something useful, utilitarian. A chair has use and price—so making a chair is not creation; it is production. But a man sings a song—that has no utility. A man paints a picture—no utilitarian value. A man dances—no purpose. Creation begins where utility ends. As long as there is utility, there is no creation. Do something in life that has no utility except your joy in doing it. Let something go on in your life that you do only for the joy of doing, with no concern for the end result. Van Gogh painted. In his life, not a single painting sold. His brother once thought: poor man, how he must suffer—let at least one painting sell. He gave money to someone and said: go and buy one painting from him. The man went. Van Gogh began showing him paintings. But the man was only an agent with someone else’s money; any painting would do. He picked one and said: here, take the money. Tears came to Van Gogh’s eyes; he returned the money and said: it seems my brother sent you—go back. The brother came to apologize and asked: if you do not even want to sell, why do you paint? Van Gogh said: in the very act of painting, that which is needed is received. In the painting itself, everything is found; nothing else is needed. When someone sings, everything is received in the singing. But if the singer longs for applause, he is market-oriented, not creative. If the painter paints to sell, that is construction, production—not creation. We say: God created the world. Whether he made it or not is not the point; we say 'created' because it is non-purposeful. We do not say 'produced by God.' We say 'created' because nothing is to be gained by him. Whatever is gained is in the very making; outside of it, nothing. Whoever has some moments in which he lives in joy and creation will slowly arrive at akam. For the second condition of kama is the result. The ultimate source of desire’s race, its power, is the question: what will I get? People come and say: we will meditate—but what will we get from meditation? They do not know that meditation is that work in which nothing will be gotten—meditation itself is the attainment. And the meaning of that attainment is its own being. When you buy shoes, the shopkeeper cannot say: just buy joyfully—you’ll get nothing. No one will buy; shoes are utilitarian. But if you go to the temple as you go to a shoe shop and ask: what will I get from prayer?—you are in the wrong place. In life, whatever is truly important has no result that is important; its being is important. And our life has hardly a single moment that is important in itself. One who wishes to enter religion and lead energy upward must find activities that are not 'work'—they are play, lila. Therefore we do not call Krishna’s life a 'character'; we call it lila. Rama’s life is character—very serious. Rama takes everything gravely; for him life is work. Krishna’s life is play. Dancing—nothing to be gained. Playing the flute—nothing to be gained. Rama, whatever he does, at least character, dignity, lineage, prestige will be gained—utility. Rama is utilitarian; therefore, at a washerman’s words, he can send his wife away: utility is in danger; dignity will be marred; the lineage will suffer. Krishna, in Rama’s place, could not have cast Sita away—perhaps he himself would have fled playing the flute! No fire test either—what a vulgar, utilitarian idea: does love have examinations? If love has to be tested, nothing will remain untested in life. Sita could have said to Rama: you too come through the fire; you too were alone—who knows? But Sita did not say so. For Sita, life is not seriousness—it is love; hence she agreed. Love does not demand tests; love can undergo all tests. For Krishna, such questions would not arise. That is why we call Krishna’s life lila—play. Life is creative, not utilitarian; life is a play. The religious man’s life is not serious. One who is serious will be burdened, and the burdened must seek release through sex. As life grows more serious, sexuality increases. Because seriousness breeds tension, and tension demands relief. In the country where tension is greater, sexuality will increase—there seems no other outlet. The mind becomes heavy; throw the energy outward and feel lighter—only one path remains. So the second key: do not take life seriously. Seriousness is a basic disease. But ordinarily our monk is very serious. In fact, unless the face is grave and weeping, the qualification for sainthood is incomplete. Therefore those who are already tearful become monks. Do not think they weep because of becoming monks—they were weeping, and in sannyas their weeping gains prestige. No, life is not seriousness. One who is serious cannot be free of kama. If life becomes play, one becomes free of kama. I am not saying make the whole of life a play—perhaps that is not possible—but let there be something playful. Children are so light—and notice, children are so desireless simply because their life is not serious; it is play. As they become serious, sex enters their world. Do you know the age of sexual maturity is dropping? In America, from fourteen to twelve and eleven; some girls mature at eleven. It is possible by the end of the century it may reach seven. Seven! Why? Because by seven, girls have become as serious as they used to be at fourteen. Life has grown heavy at seven. Education, etiquette, civilization—everyday heavier. The heavier small children become, the sooner they must find release through sex. The reverse is possible too: if we keep children light longer, perhaps at twenty or twenty-five… We tell stories of the ancient gurukuls, but even those who run them today do not understand. Because those who run gurukuls are generally serious people. But once upon a time, we could keep youths beyond kama, beyond sex, up to twenty-five. Why? Because we saved them from seriousness until twenty-five. No exams’ seriousness, no struggle with life’s seriousness, no responsibility’s seriousness. Life was a play in the forest—cutting wood, running in the jungle, planting trees, farming. Studying for an hour was not a serious matter—it was a leisure conversation sitting near the guru. So if they remained beyond sex until twenty-five, no wonder. If today your children, at fourteen or fifteen, demand full adult sexuality, again no wonder—because you have planned to make them serious. One who wants akam must remove seriousness from life, else there will be burden—and burden will push him into kama. How? Each man can find two or four things where he can be non-serious. Do you ever play with your children at home? You will say: what madness! But the father, if he meets the son, meets seriously—if at all he meets. The son too meets seriously—he also keeps his distance. The father meets only to preach; the son meets only to ask for money. Both avoid each other. No—play with your children. Try it. A family is no family if all do not play together for an hour. You will be surprised: after a month of such play you will feel the difference—your sexuality begins to change. One non-serious act is found. What do you do at home? Read newspapers—very serious stuff. After six hours at the office, what do you do at home? Paint? Do you take brush and color and paint your own walls? What absurdity—to hire another to paint our walls, as if we cannot paint our own! Do you draw on the wall? It is not necessary that your paintings be like great masters; what matters is that they flow from you. In truth, if my wall bears another painter’s work, what right have I to call it my wall? It is borrowed, stale. My wall should have my hand upon it. Do you ever dance at home—gather everyone and dance? You will say: what sort of talk is this! If one person in the home becomes 'religious,' he sets up such an atmosphere of sadness and tears that words fail. But if, for an hour, you dance—no formal method is needed; you need not learn Kathak or Bharatanatyam—at least you can jump! If for one hour at home you just jump, dance in delight—those who can sing, sing; those who can play, play; those who can paint, paint—you will find sexuality begins to diminish. What a thousand rules of celibacy could not do, creativity will begin to do—because play has begun. Every person is a small poet, a small painter, a small musician, a small dancer—and everyone should be. When you pass through these, you will be amazed: that burden on the mind—power pressing like a weight—turns creative. Once energy becomes creative, it begins to flow upward. The reverse also happens: if it cannot become creative, it becomes destructive. You may be surprised to know Hitler wanted to be a painter; his parents did not allow it. One day, in the court of the future, it may be hard to decide who is responsible for the great war—the death of millions—Hitler or his parents. If Hitler had become a painter, the Second World War would not have happened. But he could not paint; his energy, which could have been creative, got stuck and turned destructive. He could not make; he began to unmake. Remember: if you do not create, you will destroy. If you do not build, you will break. Between these two there is no third way—unless you choose impotence, no energy. If you have energy, it will do something—create or destroy. So, the second key toward akam: be creative. Find a few moments—anything—and plunge into creation. Garden, dance, sing. Set seriousness aside for a while; be non-serious, light. For a time, do not be old, do not be adult—be a child. One who can be a child for an hour even in old age—his life begins to change; his energy gathers as in childhood. And the third and final point: One, live moment to moment; be free of future and desire. Two, be creative; utility is not enough—meaningful works alone are not enough—work that is 'meaningless' is also needed. Do not only build character; allow lila too. Third: whenever you find the chance, consciously close all the senses and look within. Twenty-four hours we look outside. When the chance comes to look within, we are asleep—so inner seeing never happens. Either we look out, or we do not look—these are our two modes. By day, we look out; by night, we do not look. Or some watch dreams—that too is looking out. It is not inner seeing. For a little while, consciously, close the eyes and look within. What does 'look within' mean? Close the eyes and try to see—nothing more. Close the eyes and try to see. Do nothing else. With open eyes we see without trying; things appear. With eyes closed, nothing will appear—darkness will. Look at the darkness. Try only to see whatever appears. Perhaps a picture appears—see it. A dream appears—see it. Whatever happens within when the senses are closed—see. Begin with the eyes, for the eyes have become our most important sense. Then try to hear within—whatever is heard. Then smell within. Then taste within. Whatever you have done outwardly with the senses, try to do within. You will be amazed—within there are sounds of its own, colors of its own, tastes of its own, fragrances of its own. Slowly they arise. The day an inner color appears to you, outer colors begin to seem unreal. Then the wish to go out begins to drop. The day inner music is heard, outer music becomes meaningless noise. The day inner fragrance is touched, all perfumes of French markets appear worthless. The day inner beauty is known, outer beauty remains no more. So, the third key: whenever you find a chance, do something within. Do not spend all twenty-four hours only outside. Wherever we work, energy flows. Work outside—energy flows out. Work inside—energy flows in. Energy runs where work is. So, do a bit of work within—so that energy runs within. Fulfill these three keys and you will be astonished: kama will depart, akam will be available. Energy will gather within, rise upward; inner doors will open. The second chakra will awaken, then others—and the inner rasa, inner amrit will begin to flow. Akam ultimately becomes amrit. Kama ultimately becomes death. Kama is the search for death; akam is the search for amrit. Tomorrow I will speak with you on the fifth and final vow: 'Apramad.' Apramad means unmurchha—no unconsciousness. Apramad means awareness. Of the four days’ guidance, tomorrow we shall talk of the method by which those four become available. Tomorrow is about the means. What to do so that ahimsa happens? What to do so that asteya happens? What to do so that aparigraha happens? What to do so that akam happens? Which is the path? Which the door? Which the key? You have listened to these few words with such love and peace; I am deeply obliged. Finally, I bow to the Lord seated within each one. Please accept my pranam.
Osho's Commentary
We have reflected on three Mahavrats: ahimsa, aparigraha, and achourya. Today, the fourth vow: 'Akam.'
Kama is the name of man’s most significant energy. Those three vows we spoke of—at their root, the power of kama is at work. If kama succeeds, it becomes possession, parigraha. If kama fails out of one’s inner inferiority, it turns into theft. If kama fails because of another, it turns into violence. On the path of kama, of longing, of desire, if anyone becomes an obstacle, kama becomes violent. If no one outside obstructs and only an inner incapacity becomes the barrier, kama becomes thievery. And if there is no outer barrier, no inner incapacity, and kama succeeds, it becomes accumulation, parigraha. It is essential to understand this kama deeply.
Man is energy. In this universe there is nothing but energy. All life is energy. Gone are the days when some used to say that matter is. Those days are over.
Nietzsche said at the beginning of this century, 'God is dead.' But the century has not yet finished; God has not died—matter has. Matter is dead. To say 'has died' is not exact either. Matter never was; it was our illusion, an appearance. Scientists say matter is only condensed energy. There is no such thing as matter. That stone—so hard, so clear, so substantial—even that is not. It too is a compacted form of electric currents.
Today, in the view of science, the whole existence is a field of energy. In the view of religion, it has always been so. Religion called that power 'Paramatma.' Science, as yet, calls it simply energy. A little further and science will drop one more illusion. Fifty years ago science said: matter is the truth. Today it says: energy is the truth. Tomorrow science will have to say: consciousness is the truth. Just as science discovered that matter is condensed energy, so, if not today then tomorrow, it will discover that energy is condensed consciousness.
This energy called life—each person is a spark of it, a small wave of it. You, I, everyone. If this energy flows outward, it becomes kama, craving. If it flows inward, it becomes akam; it becomes the soul. The whole difference is of direction. When kama turns back—returning home, back to its own source—kama becomes akam, desirelessness; it becomes Atman. And when energy keeps flowing outward, slowly a man grows depleted, weak, dull. Through desire he may gain many things in the world, but he remains deprived of filling himself. That which is to be attained is our own being; the power should move in that direction. If we want outer objects, energy must go out. If we want the inner Atman, energy must move within.
Remember, by kama I mean energy flowing outward. By akam, energy flowing inward. The power has two modes: outward or inward. Flowing outward, a person may gain everything—except himself. And all the rest has no value if the self is lost. Even if we gain the whole world, of what use, if in gaining it I lose myself? When the energy turns within, it becomes akam.
Kama simply means desire. Whenever we desire, we have to flow outward, because desire projects its fulfillment outside. Something is to be had outside—so we flow outward. We are all beings in outward flow. We are all desires. We are desires. Twenty-four hours, we flow out—someone for wealth, someone for fame, someone for love. And the great irony is, even if someone seeks the Paramatma, he also flows outward. He imagines God seated somewhere in the sky. Even for moksha, he imagines it somewhere above, to be reached.
Religion has nothing to do with the outside. So, those whose God is outside—let them understand clearly: they have no relationship with religion. Those whose moksha is outside—let them know: they are not religious. If anything you seek lies outside, know that you are driven by kama. Only in one condition does freedom from kama happen: when we begin to flow within. Any outer object, anything to be attained out there, will carry our energy outward. And we grow empty, finished. Then another birth; again we come with energy, and again we flow outward and end. Then a third, again energy, again flowing outward—and again we end.
We come with power at birth. With death, we return having lost power. The one who returns with power at death has no need to come again. At birth all arrive with energy. With death, most return exhausted, as empty cartridges—the shot long gone, only the shell remains. Whoever, like Kabir, can say at the last moment, 'As it was, so I return the cloth'—spent nothing, lost nothing, did not run about—'Take back the sheet exactly as given'—who returns at death as he came at birth, needs not be born again. Akam is liberation from birth and death; kama is return again and again. The simple reason is this…
No desire is ever truly fulfilled; it cannot be. And the one addicted to running outward, by the time one desire nears fulfillment, he has already birthed a new one. How else will he keep running out? For the one whose life has become outward-running, no sooner is one desire fulfilled than many more are born—and the race begins again. We are outward-flowing energies. Outgoing energies. Hence we die like empty shells. Hence our death is not a beauty, not an experience of depth; it becomes a sorrow, a dull pain, an impotence. We collapse in many ways; so there is such pain at death. That pain is not death’s; it is the pain of the one emptied out, drained of all his juices—only an empty shell remains. So death hurts.
Yet death grants bliss to the one who is not empty, but full. How to remain full—this is what akam is about. But before understanding akam, the whole journey of kama must be understood. How does kama move in us? How do we flow outward? Once this is understood, flowing inward is simple.
For thousands of years we knew that matter is made of atoms, but we could not split the atom. In this century, we split it. At once a miraculous truth arose: in a tiny atom, in hydrogen or anything—unseen by the eye—such energy was hidden that in its rupture a terrible power was born. The explosion of a tiny atom killed a hundred thousand in Hiroshima instantly. So much power was concealed in a small atom that, once it burst, such a blast!
By splitting the atom, science revealed a precious truth: infinite energy hides inside everything. If it is broken, there is an explosion and everything rushes outward. If it is sealed… But we never knew that so much energy was hidden in a closed atom. What science did by splitting, religion had done the opposite long ago—by joining. Therefore religion is called Yoga—union.
Man’s consciousness too is an atom. If we leave it in a broken state, everything leaks away—our infinite energy drains out. If that atom is joined, sealed—not analyzed, not fragmented; synthesized, integrated, closed—if it becomes a point unto itself, if the leaking stops on all sides, then infinite energy becomes available within. The experience of this infinite energy is the experience of infinite Paramatma. The taste of this infinite energy is infinite bliss, infinite virya. After this, there remains nothing else to experience—everything is known.
Understand this well: man is a broken atom of consciousness. It has holes, like a bucket with holes being filled in a well. When the bucket is submerged, it seems full; once lifted, it begins to empty. There are holes everywhere; by the time it reaches the top, there is only the noise of water falling, no water remains, and the empty bucket returns.
At the moment of birth, we are filled with energy. Before birth we are a full bucket. With birth, the bucket is lifted and the leaking begins. Truly, with birth our dying begins; we begin to empty. Like a cracked bucket, we start draining. The first moment of birth is the beginning of death. The emptiness begins.
Hence, from the first moment after birth, each person is eligible to die—he may die any time. When he will fulfill the eligibility is another matter. All life long we keep emptying. Whatever little sense of freshness we feel is perhaps in the morning, after the night, because at night the senses close. Eyes shut, hands go limp, ears do not hear, lips do not speak, nose does not smell; all doors close. Therefore, morning brings a tang of freshness; it is the little energy collected at night.
If one could let the whole life’s energy collect, the freshness he would know cannot be imagined. Even if we gathered every morning’s freshness of our entire life, it would tell us nothing of that. If a person loses sleep, living becomes difficult, for even the small nightly accumulation ceases. Fifteen days without sleep and a man goes insane. Fifteen days without food may be manageable; fifteen without sleep—difficult.
If someone is ill and cannot sleep, the physician first worries to bring sleep—illness can be handled later—because the energy needed for healing must be collected. We are only losing energy. And kama is the method of losing energy. Kama has many forms; the densest is sex. Hence gradually kama and sex became synonymous. Food provides energy, sleep conserves it, exercise awakens it—and then we spend it. Much is spent just on the arrangement of living. Much is spent so that we can produce energy again tomorrow. Much is spent converting inner matter—when you take food, a great miracle happens: you bring in dead matter and your life-energy makes it living, turning the non-organic into the organic—and energy is expended there too. Walking spends energy, sitting spends it, even sleeping uses energy though it also stores it.
After this whole process, the small surplus left we tend to use for nothing but turning kama into sex. We use it only for sex. So understand this: whatever remains after everything, how do we use it? If only for sex, then sex is just relief—a throwing off of the burden of energy.
The strange thing is: we spend twenty-four hours gathering energy, sleep eight hours to conserve it, toil a lifetime to earn food. But when energy comes, it becomes a weight; we try to throw it away. Like a man who earns all day and at dusk throws his earnings into the river because the money has made his pouch heavy—so he gets rid of the load.
We labor to gather energy, and when it is with us it feels burdensome, heavy on the mind—then we must discard it. Sex is the method we use to throw energy. It is only relief. Again we are empty.
What an absurd life: tomorrow morning he will again gather energy till evening, and when it accumulates, he will again throw it to feel relief. Madness! Gathering and throwing, gathering and throwing—what meaning can such a life have? What is the purpose? What will be gained?
We do not see it. If food is lacking, we are troubled; if food is found, we are troubled. If energy is lacking, we feel weak; if it arrives, we hasten to be weak again. Man, as he is, is an absurdity. As he is, reason seems unrelated to him. Like a reservoir only being built so its walls can be broken, and after breaking, rebuilt—throughout life collecting and losing. This cannot be life; something is amiss. To gather energy is right—but to gather only to lose is meaningless. If someone said: I am born only to die, we would call him mad. If someone said: I collect only to throw, we would call him mad. If someone said: I build a house only to demolish it, we would say: you are unwell. But what about us? What are we doing? Whatever we collect is for losing.
Perhaps we never thought of it like this. That whatever we collect is meant to be lost! Hence monks begin the reverse: they lessen collecting so there remains no chance to lose. But nothing changes by this.
One man earns two coins and throws them in the river at dusk. Another, fearing the evening’s throwing, does not earn at all. At dusk, both are equally poor. The thrower has two coins no more; the non-earner also has none. Both destitute.
You earn your energy and spend it in kama, in sex. The sannyasin, out of fear, stops producing energy: he fasts, eats little, keeps only enough power for daily routine so that no surplus remains; otherwise he will have to do what you do. But this also changes nothing. You earn and lose; he avoids earning so as not to lose. Still, no energy remains.
Recently, in an American laboratory, they conducted an experiment—Indian sannyasins should understand it. Thirty students were kept hungry for a month to observe the relationship between hunger and sex.
Surprising results: in the first seven days, their sexual drive intensified. After seven days it diminished. By the fifteenth day, even when shown nude pictures of women, there was no interest; provoke them as you might, nothing stirred. By the thirtieth day, all thirty had no sexual urge left; they were cold, frozen. No way to arouse them; sex seemed to have departed.
Then they were fed. In seven days, the drive began to return. By fifteen it was back to its place. By thirty days they were normal—the same taste, the same sexuality seized them again.
What happened? Sex was not destroyed; only the surplus energy needed for sex was unavailable. The serpent lived, but had no strength to crawl—so it lay unconscious, waiting for power to return. When energy came, it moved again.
This experiment shows that sannyasins have deceived themselves for ages. Yes, if these youths were kept permanently on such minimal food that their daily movement consumes all energy, they could live without sex. But that is not akam; it is dead kama—dead sex. It is not desirelessness, only a frozen desire.
Those who saw that energy is gathered, and then to be relieved we go into sex, stopped gathering. They too are in the same illusion as everyone else. Householder and monk occupy opposite ends of the same mistake. Akam does not mean this. Akam means: let energy be generated, but do not dissipate it through sex—let it be conserved. And when power is conserved on a large scale and not vented sexually, it begins to move upward. Like a river whose flood is dammed—the depth may have been ten feet; with a dam it becomes a hundred feet. The more it is held, the higher the walls must rise, and the reservoir deepens—thousand feet even. Whenever energy is restrained, it rises, because it concentrates. When surplus energy begins to gather in you, piles of power form within and it moves upward.
As of now, your energy never rises above the sex level. The moment it reaches that level, you expend it and return to your baseline. If conserved, it rises above the sex level.
Remember, sex is man’s lowest center—the lowermost gate. Above it are higher doors. If energy rises, it begins to open the next door. Know this: within man there are six doors beyond sex. At each ascending door, the flavor of bliss deepens, and you are amazed. When the power rises to the second chakra above sex, you marvel: what a fool I was—where was I squandering energy! Spent here, it brings far greater joy than at the first center.
Like a man digging a mine. He finds colored pebbles and carries them home. Someone says: foolish, these are stones; dig a little more. He digs and finds copper, gets a few coins, yet someone says: dig further. He digs; he finds silver, then gold, then diamonds and jewels—and he keeps digging.
We live on the first layer of personality—the sexual layer—where little more than pebbles can be found. If from there energy is conserved and moved a little further, the second chakra begins to open, where the planes of joy change. And note, at the sex plane, another is necessary for your pleasure. At the second chakra, another is not needed—you are enough. The person begins to be free. When energy reaches the seventh chakra—when your power accumulates so much that it runs between the sex center and the sahasrar—call it kundalini if you will, or any other name—it doesn’t matter—the day your energy is so gathered that it sets the brain centers in motion, that day for the first time you are available to self-knowledge, to Brahman; that day you know where you have arrived.
But we dissipate life at the first center; that leak empties everything. Does this mean I tell you to suppress sex? If you suppress it, you will never be able to stop it, because power has a law: a repressed energy becomes rebellious. The more forcefully you push it down, the more forcefully it reacts. No energy can be suppressed—only given new pathways. Two ways: give energy a new channel and it flows that way; or block the old path and it will hammer against it all the more.
Thus those who fight sex remain sexual for life. No one has reached higher centers by fighting sex. But by setting the higher centers into motion, one certainly becomes free of sex.
Brahmacharya is not a fight with sex; brahmacharya is the activation of centers higher than sex. So do not cling to the negative, as we have done for thousands of years. Long ago we understood that if this energy is contained, tremendous doors of bliss open. But how to contain it? We tried to force it. The more you force, the more it pushes back. And the very spot where you restrain it—that is where attention must remain. And wherever attention dwells, that center is kept active. Thus, those who clamp energy at the sexual point become hyperactive toward sex. Their whole personality becomes genitally fixated. Their awareness gets entangled there; the more it strikes, the more that center is inflamed. Then their only escape is to eat less, exercise less, live like the dead so that energy is not produced.
This changes nothing; the ordinary householder is better—at least he produces energy. If there is energy, one day the upward journey may happen. The sannyasin is worse off; he produces none. Although his energy does not go out, he has none to go up either. Energy is needed. The energy that goes out can go in; but energy unfit even to go out can never go in. One who is incapable of the outer journey will never make the inner journey.
So first thing: we do need surplus energy. Arrange to generate it—but also arrange to give it new directions. I will offer you two or three keys for how energy finds new pathways.
First: if we can live in the present, energy gathers and begins to move upward. The first key: living in the present. Whoever thinks much of tomorrow and the day after and the future, his energy drains away—because the future is far, and our only relationship to the future can be desire. The future is not; it will be. And to what will be, our only relation is longing.
Jesus was passing a village and said to his disciples: see these lilies in bloom!
They said: we see them.
Jesus said: look at their beauty, their blossoming, their joy! And he said: Solomon, at the height of his splendor—riches of the whole earth—was not as beautiful as these wild lilies!
Someone asked: why is that so?
Jesus said: Solomon was always in the future; these flowers live now. Their energy has no chance to become desire; their energy becomes life.
Remember, whenever we turn energy into desire we do so because of the future. Desire means future-orientation. Longing means the wish to live in the future. And life is always here-now. He who strengthens the wish to live in the future will continue to flow outward and lose his energy. The future drinks our energy, absorbs it. In the present, energy is stored. Therefore, the one who wants to take his power toward akam, toward brahmacharya—toward truth, Brahman, toward oneself—must slowly thin out the wishes of the future. Live here and now. When you eat, only eat—do not enter the office at your meal. When you sit in the office, sit only there—do not eat in your head while at the desk. When you go to the cinema, be at the cinema—do not let the temple intrude there. When you go to the temple, be only there—do not bring the cinema into the shrine.
At each moment, try to be where you are. It will be difficult at first, then it becomes simple. Difficult—because our habit is to be where we are not. When you are in Calcutta, the mind is in Bombay; when you are in Bombay, it is in Calcutta. In the very moment we are, our mind is not. So from where we are not, we extend desire and connect—that connection becomes the path of losing energy. If someone, slowly, slowly, learns to live here-now—you will be astonished: eating was never so blissful as when you are wholly present in eating, when you are only eating.
An emperor once came to a Zen mystic who was digging a pit in his garden. The emperor said: I have come to learn wisdom.
The mystic said: sit, watch, and learn.
The emperor sat. The mystic kept digging. The emperor said: will you also say something? You just go on digging!
The mystic said: look closely—I am not; only digging is. To say 'I am digging' is wrong. To say: 'I have become the act of digging' is right. You too become the act of seeing. Please do not think what I will say when I speak, or what you will understand—just become seeing here.
The emperor said: that is hard—just seeing! I must also return.
The mystic said: then return—but be only returning.
The emperor said: I also want to ask you something.
The mystic said: then ask—but become the question.
Whatever we are doing, we are never that. If, while angry, you become totally anger, perhaps you will never be angry again. But while angry, inside you are asking forgiveness; while angry, you are repenting and saying: I am doing wrong. So you are not total in anger; not total in love. For a lover awaited for years—when he arrives, you think of something else. The wealth for which you labored for years—when it comes and you lock the safe, you sit outside thinking of something else. We miss the present, always. We spend our energy in the future.
If power is to be conserved—and without it no inner journey is possible—we must learn to live in the present. The present has a special quality: it is circular. A river is one-dimensional—always moving toward the ocean. A lake cannot move, it is round; it only circles within itself. When you are in the present moment, you become like a lake—round, without direction. Energy begins to move inside you. It finds no chance to go out—its chance comes from the future. 'What will I do tomorrow?'—that opens the door for flight. 'What will happen tomorrow?'—another opening. 'I am here, now…'
You are listening to me here. If you are only listening, you will not lose a drop of energy. You are a circular being now, non-dimensional—no direction, no flow outward. If listening with thinking, you will tire; your energy will be depleted. If I am only speaking, I will not tire; if I must also think while speaking, I will. Whenever an act is total, energy is not lost; it is gathered. Love, if total, brings energy. Anger, if total, does not drain. Whatever becomes total is not lost. And the strange surprise is: if anger becomes total, you are freed of anger, for it appears so utterly futile. If love becomes total, you are filled with love, for it feels utterly meaningful.
Any act that can be done in totality, I call virtue. Any act that cannot be done in totality, I call sin. There is no other criterion for sin and virtue.
If you can be totally angry and still do it again, then anger is not sin. But that never happens. You do anger half-heartedly, hence it recurs. If you become anger fully even once, the hell you read of in scriptures will gather around you—and then you will never want to enter it again; you won’t ask forgiveness, you will simply be beyond anger. The fire will burn so intensely there is no way but out.
But we live in lukewarm fires. We do things in fragments—so it goes on and never finishes. If hell is completed, heaven is not far. But we build hell so slowly, it never completes and we never escape it.
So the first key for the journey to akam and for the upward movement of kama: live moment to moment. Sannyas does not mean leaving home; sannyas means one who lives in the present, who does not live outside the moment, who lives here-now and nowhere else. Whoever comes to such a state of mind is a sannyasin. Sannyas means: to be in the present, to be in the living moment. If we are in the vibrant now, our energy will begin to rise.
Now a very wonderful thing: if the living moment surrounds us—even in anger, if we are total, we will be free of anger; and even in sex, if we are total, we will be free of sex. For the person fully present in the moment of sex—in the very act—will not desire it again. The matter is finished. It becomes such ash that there is no point clenching a fist over it again. But even there we are not total. Man is frantic for union; he runs for it all his life. He earns money, builds houses—deep down, it is a race for sexual gratification, so that when all is ready he may be satisfied. And when the moment of sex comes, he is not present—he is thinking a thousand other thoughts: that brahmacharya is good, that celibacy is supreme. At the moment of sex he thinks so. And when he takes the vow of brahmacharya, he goes on thinking of sex. Man is insane. This madness never lets life’s energy move upward.
Therefore, first key: live moment to moment—then akam will begin within, kama will wane, because kama needs the future. Desire needs tomorrow. Truly, tomorrow has no existence—only in desire does it exist. It is a by-product of desire. There is no 'tomorrow' anywhere. Tomorrow is born of longing. The future is nowhere. What is, is always the present. The future is born of desire.
We keep saying time has three parts—future, present, past. We are wrong. Time has only one form: the present. Not three—only one. Time is always now. From where then the future and past? Past arises from our memory; future from our desires.
The first key to release from kama: try to be in the present moment. I do not ask you to go to the forest; be fully where you are. Eat fully, sleep fully, bathe fully—and begin with very small things.
Second key: be creative. One who is not creative, his energy will always seek to flow through sex, for he will become heavy—he will have power, but no play. And we are not creative at all; in our life there is hardly anything of creation. We have made nothing of which we can say: creative. You will say: we make chairs, we make furniture, houses, clothes—we are creative. No, that is not creation.
Understand the difference between creation and construction. Construction means making something useful, utilitarian. A chair has use and price—so making a chair is not creation; it is production. But a man sings a song—that has no utility. A man paints a picture—no utilitarian value. A man dances—no purpose. Creation begins where utility ends. As long as there is utility, there is no creation. Do something in life that has no utility except your joy in doing it. Let something go on in your life that you do only for the joy of doing, with no concern for the end result.
Van Gogh painted. In his life, not a single painting sold. His brother once thought: poor man, how he must suffer—let at least one painting sell. He gave money to someone and said: go and buy one painting from him. The man went. Van Gogh began showing him paintings. But the man was only an agent with someone else’s money; any painting would do. He picked one and said: here, take the money. Tears came to Van Gogh’s eyes; he returned the money and said: it seems my brother sent you—go back.
The brother came to apologize and asked: if you do not even want to sell, why do you paint?
Van Gogh said: in the very act of painting, that which is needed is received. In the painting itself, everything is found; nothing else is needed.
When someone sings, everything is received in the singing. But if the singer longs for applause, he is market-oriented, not creative. If the painter paints to sell, that is construction, production—not creation.
We say: God created the world. Whether he made it or not is not the point; we say 'created' because it is non-purposeful. We do not say 'produced by God.' We say 'created' because nothing is to be gained by him. Whatever is gained is in the very making; outside of it, nothing.
Whoever has some moments in which he lives in joy and creation will slowly arrive at akam. For the second condition of kama is the result. The ultimate source of desire’s race, its power, is the question: what will I get?
People come and say: we will meditate—but what will we get from meditation? They do not know that meditation is that work in which nothing will be gotten—meditation itself is the attainment. And the meaning of that attainment is its own being.
When you buy shoes, the shopkeeper cannot say: just buy joyfully—you’ll get nothing. No one will buy; shoes are utilitarian. But if you go to the temple as you go to a shoe shop and ask: what will I get from prayer?—you are in the wrong place. In life, whatever is truly important has no result that is important; its being is important. And our life has hardly a single moment that is important in itself.
One who wishes to enter religion and lead energy upward must find activities that are not 'work'—they are play, lila. Therefore we do not call Krishna’s life a 'character'; we call it lila. Rama’s life is character—very serious. Rama takes everything gravely; for him life is work. Krishna’s life is play. Dancing—nothing to be gained. Playing the flute—nothing to be gained. Rama, whatever he does, at least character, dignity, lineage, prestige will be gained—utility. Rama is utilitarian; therefore, at a washerman’s words, he can send his wife away: utility is in danger; dignity will be marred; the lineage will suffer. Krishna, in Rama’s place, could not have cast Sita away—perhaps he himself would have fled playing the flute! No fire test either—what a vulgar, utilitarian idea: does love have examinations? If love has to be tested, nothing will remain untested in life. Sita could have said to Rama: you too come through the fire; you too were alone—who knows? But Sita did not say so. For Sita, life is not seriousness—it is love; hence she agreed. Love does not demand tests; love can undergo all tests. For Krishna, such questions would not arise. That is why we call Krishna’s life lila—play. Life is creative, not utilitarian; life is a play.
The religious man’s life is not serious. One who is serious will be burdened, and the burdened must seek release through sex. As life grows more serious, sexuality increases. Because seriousness breeds tension, and tension demands relief. In the country where tension is greater, sexuality will increase—there seems no other outlet. The mind becomes heavy; throw the energy outward and feel lighter—only one path remains.
So the second key: do not take life seriously. Seriousness is a basic disease. But ordinarily our monk is very serious. In fact, unless the face is grave and weeping, the qualification for sainthood is incomplete. Therefore those who are already tearful become monks. Do not think they weep because of becoming monks—they were weeping, and in sannyas their weeping gains prestige.
No, life is not seriousness. One who is serious cannot be free of kama. If life becomes play, one becomes free of kama. I am not saying make the whole of life a play—perhaps that is not possible—but let there be something playful. Children are so light—and notice, children are so desireless simply because their life is not serious; it is play. As they become serious, sex enters their world.
Do you know the age of sexual maturity is dropping? In America, from fourteen to twelve and eleven; some girls mature at eleven. It is possible by the end of the century it may reach seven. Seven! Why? Because by seven, girls have become as serious as they used to be at fourteen. Life has grown heavy at seven. Education, etiquette, civilization—everyday heavier. The heavier small children become, the sooner they must find release through sex.
The reverse is possible too: if we keep children light longer, perhaps at twenty or twenty-five… We tell stories of the ancient gurukuls, but even those who run them today do not understand. Because those who run gurukuls are generally serious people. But once upon a time, we could keep youths beyond kama, beyond sex, up to twenty-five. Why? Because we saved them from seriousness until twenty-five. No exams’ seriousness, no struggle with life’s seriousness, no responsibility’s seriousness. Life was a play in the forest—cutting wood, running in the jungle, planting trees, farming. Studying for an hour was not a serious matter—it was a leisure conversation sitting near the guru. So if they remained beyond sex until twenty-five, no wonder. If today your children, at fourteen or fifteen, demand full adult sexuality, again no wonder—because you have planned to make them serious.
One who wants akam must remove seriousness from life, else there will be burden—and burden will push him into kama. How? Each man can find two or four things where he can be non-serious. Do you ever play with your children at home? You will say: what madness! But the father, if he meets the son, meets seriously—if at all he meets. The son too meets seriously—he also keeps his distance. The father meets only to preach; the son meets only to ask for money. Both avoid each other.
No—play with your children. Try it. A family is no family if all do not play together for an hour. You will be surprised: after a month of such play you will feel the difference—your sexuality begins to change. One non-serious act is found. What do you do at home? Read newspapers—very serious stuff. After six hours at the office, what do you do at home? Paint? Do you take brush and color and paint your own walls? What absurdity—to hire another to paint our walls, as if we cannot paint our own! Do you draw on the wall? It is not necessary that your paintings be like great masters; what matters is that they flow from you.
In truth, if my wall bears another painter’s work, what right have I to call it my wall? It is borrowed, stale. My wall should have my hand upon it. Do you ever dance at home—gather everyone and dance? You will say: what sort of talk is this!
If one person in the home becomes 'religious,' he sets up such an atmosphere of sadness and tears that words fail. But if, for an hour, you dance—no formal method is needed; you need not learn Kathak or Bharatanatyam—at least you can jump! If for one hour at home you just jump, dance in delight—those who can sing, sing; those who can play, play; those who can paint, paint—you will find sexuality begins to diminish. What a thousand rules of celibacy could not do, creativity will begin to do—because play has begun.
Every person is a small poet, a small painter, a small musician, a small dancer—and everyone should be. When you pass through these, you will be amazed: that burden on the mind—power pressing like a weight—turns creative. Once energy becomes creative, it begins to flow upward. The reverse also happens: if it cannot become creative, it becomes destructive.
You may be surprised to know Hitler wanted to be a painter; his parents did not allow it. One day, in the court of the future, it may be hard to decide who is responsible for the great war—the death of millions—Hitler or his parents. If Hitler had become a painter, the Second World War would not have happened. But he could not paint; his energy, which could have been creative, got stuck and turned destructive. He could not make; he began to unmake. Remember: if you do not create, you will destroy. If you do not build, you will break. Between these two there is no third way—unless you choose impotence, no energy. If you have energy, it will do something—create or destroy.
So, the second key toward akam: be creative. Find a few moments—anything—and plunge into creation. Garden, dance, sing. Set seriousness aside for a while; be non-serious, light. For a time, do not be old, do not be adult—be a child. One who can be a child for an hour even in old age—his life begins to change; his energy gathers as in childhood.
And the third and final point:
One, live moment to moment; be free of future and desire. Two, be creative; utility is not enough—meaningful works alone are not enough—work that is 'meaningless' is also needed. Do not only build character; allow lila too.
Third: whenever you find the chance, consciously close all the senses and look within.
Twenty-four hours we look outside. When the chance comes to look within, we are asleep—so inner seeing never happens. Either we look out, or we do not look—these are our two modes. By day, we look out; by night, we do not look. Or some watch dreams—that too is looking out. It is not inner seeing. For a little while, consciously, close the eyes and look within. What does 'look within' mean? Close the eyes and try to see—nothing more. Close the eyes and try to see. Do nothing else. With open eyes we see without trying; things appear. With eyes closed, nothing will appear—darkness will. Look at the darkness. Try only to see whatever appears. Perhaps a picture appears—see it. A dream appears—see it. Whatever happens within when the senses are closed—see.
Begin with the eyes, for the eyes have become our most important sense. Then try to hear within—whatever is heard. Then smell within. Then taste within. Whatever you have done outwardly with the senses, try to do within. You will be amazed—within there are sounds of its own, colors of its own, tastes of its own, fragrances of its own. Slowly they arise. The day an inner color appears to you, outer colors begin to seem unreal. Then the wish to go out begins to drop. The day inner music is heard, outer music becomes meaningless noise. The day inner fragrance is touched, all perfumes of French markets appear worthless. The day inner beauty is known, outer beauty remains no more.
So, the third key: whenever you find a chance, do something within. Do not spend all twenty-four hours only outside. Wherever we work, energy flows. Work outside—energy flows out. Work inside—energy flows in. Energy runs where work is. So, do a bit of work within—so that energy runs within.
Fulfill these three keys and you will be astonished: kama will depart, akam will be available. Energy will gather within, rise upward; inner doors will open. The second chakra will awaken, then others—and the inner rasa, inner amrit will begin to flow.
Akam ultimately becomes amrit. Kama ultimately becomes death. Kama is the search for death; akam is the search for amrit.
Tomorrow I will speak with you on the fifth and final vow: 'Apramad.' Apramad means unmurchha—no unconsciousness. Apramad means awareness.
Of the four days’ guidance, tomorrow we shall talk of the method by which those four become available. Tomorrow is about the means.
What to do so that ahimsa happens?
What to do so that asteya happens?
What to do so that aparigraha happens?
What to do so that akam happens?
Which is the path? Which the door? Which the key?
You have listened to these few words with such love and peace; I am deeply obliged. Finally, I bow to the Lord seated within each one. Please accept my pranam.