Ka Sovai Din Rain #8

Yog Chinmaya! J. Krishnamurti is a true master—of the same order as Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, and Christ. U.G. Krishnamurti—just a counterfeit coin! Take “U.G.” to mean: “borrowed guru.” But wherever real coins circulate, counterfeits also begin to pass. This is entirely natural.

Not a single word in U.G. Krishnamurti’s speech is his own—everything is borrowed, everything is stale. On Krishnamurti’s lips those same words are alive. The words are the same, so confusion can arise. On Krishnamurti’s lips the words are living because they come from his own experience; their roots are in his very soul. U.G. Krishnamurti has only heard them. Those words do not arise from the heart; they remain on the lips.

U.G. Krishnamurti is a parrot. He had a relationship with Krishnamurti for some twenty or twenty-five years—was his disciple for twenty to twenty-five years. He kept listening and listening, traveled with him. Whatever he heard—well, even a dull-headed fellow, if he stays with Krishnamurti for twenty or twenty-five years, will begin to repeat mechanically. The same regurgitation goes on. U.G. Krishnamurti has nothing of his own.

How will you recognize that it is not his own? Always remember one criterion:
In this world the expression of truth happens only once; it is never repeated. That same expression never happens again. The way Nanak spoke—only Nanak spoke that way. If someone speaks exactly in Nanak’s manner—exactly as-is—know it is false. If one speaks from self-experience, differences will certainly appear, because existence never makes two people alike; that is not God’s habit. God is original. He does not repeat himself. He made Krishna once. Now if you meet in the marketplace someone with a peacock crown, flute in hand and wearing yellow silks, take it to be an actor, performing rasa-lila. Krishna has not happened again. Buddha has not happened again.

Nothing is ever repeated here. The morning that happened today will never happen again. What is occurring in this moment will never recur. Each moment is unique, incomparable. And each person is, by nature, incomparable. That wave never returns.

So take this as the measure: if you find someone repeating another person down to the last grain, know that it is fake. And it may also be that the imitator repeats with great skill. The imitator can be very skillful, well-rehearsed; his gestures and expressions may be perfect. Sometimes it even happens that the counterfeit’s expressions can seem more perfect than the original’s—because the original has not practiced them, while the counterfeit has practiced.

It happened once that on a birthday of Charlie Chaplin, his friends thought: let us hold a competition in which actors from all over the world may participate. The role to be played: Charlie Chaplin. The competition would be held in London, but first in different countries; those chosen first there would then compete in London. One hundred people would be selected; from those hundred, one would be chosen who could act Charlie Chaplin the best.

Chaplin had a joke in mind. He slipped into the competition in England as well, entering under another name. He was certain he would get first prize anyway. If Charlie Chaplin himself acts Charlie Chaplin, how could anyone else get first prize? He was mistaken. When the results came, he was astonished. He got the second prize; someone else took first. Charlie Chaplin—number two!

It seems impossible, yet it happened. The joke landed heavily—on himself. When it was discovered that the person they had awarded second was actually Charlie Chaplin, even the organizers could not believe it.

The reason is clear. Charlie Chaplin had done no practice. He was Charlie Chaplin—what practice was needed? As he was, so he went. Whatever he did was Charlie Chaplin. But the one who performed had studied all of Chaplin’s roles, watched every film, practiced each gesture precisely. Those expressions were spontaneous for Chaplin, but the one who practiced added more and more polish, embellished them further.

U.G. Krishnamurti is an imitation of Krishnamurti—a sham. Krishnamurti happened once; he cannot happen again. Krishnamurti’s utterances have been given; existence has no need to repeat them. That song has been sung. Now existence will sing new songs. Existence always sings new songs.

So remember this: whenever you feel someone is repeating another person to the last detail, it is false. I am not saying no one’s experience can be akin to Krishnamurti’s. It can be akin—but it will carry sure differences. And the differences will be deep, because the deep experiences of two persons necessarily contain profound distinctions.

Now, this company of twenty or twenty-five years! Even a dullard becomes skilled at repetition after such a span. So I want to tell you: what U.G. Krishnamurti is saying is right, but U.G. Krishnamurti himself is not right. What he is saying is right—right in Krishnamurti’s context; not right in his.

And truth is right only in its own context. The flower blooming just now on the rosebush is exactly right in the context of that rosebush—alive, with sap flowing, connected to the tree; connected through the roots to the earth; through the leaves to the sky, the sun, the moon, the stars. It is living now. It is part of existence. But pluck it—and pin it in your lapel—then it has gone out of context. It is no longer part of existence. It is dead. It is a corpse.

J. Krishnamurti is a living, awakened, enlightened being. U.G. Krishnamurti—a borrowed guru. He is merely repeating what Krishnamurti has said.

And remember, anyone who repeats another inevitably feels guilty inside. Because a suspicion will haunt him—that today or tomorrow he will be caught; those who know will recognize him. Therefore he speaks against the one he is repeating. This is inevitable, to protect himself: “Look, I am speaking against Krishnamurti!”

Understand this logic well. If someone is repeating Krishnamurti to the last grain, he knows—whether the world knows it or not—that he is repeating. His greatest hostility will be toward Krishnamurti. Because it is due to this very man that I appear false, like a counterfeit coin. So he will try to call the real coin fake. U.G. Krishnamurti does just that. He wants to say: I am the real one, and Krishnamurti is the fake.

This is not only hypocrisy; it is rank ingratitude. It is treachery. It is betrayal. To say of the man in whose presence you remained for twenty-five years, at whose feet you sat, that he is wrong! Now he is trying to convince people that Krishnamurti has nothing—only talk. The experience is with me. Krishnamurti is merely a philosopher; I am the seer.

His opposition to Krishnamurti betrays the fear within: if I do not oppose him, then today or tomorrow I will be exposed. Before the counterfeit is discovered as counterfeit, he will try to prove the genuine to be false.

Then what were you doing with Krishnamurti for twenty-five years? For what purpose were you attached? Were you a fool for twenty-five years? How did foolishness suddenly become enlightenment? One who was a fool for twenty-five years would become a great fool after twenty-five years—after such long practice! You were deceived for twenty-five years, and suddenly you woke up? And awakened, you utter nothing but parroted lines. Not a single word of it is yours, not a single feeling your own.

But now he also opposes Krishnamurti, even mocks him. This is inevitable; he will have to do it. It is a means of self-protection.

U.G. Krishnamurti has said that his child had some illness, something from birth. He took the child to Krishnamurti. Why did he take him? And for seven years Krishnamurti, out of compassion, placed his hand on that child’s head. And now U.G. Krishnamurti says, “Even then I knew nothing would come of it. And nothing did. My child remained ill.”

If you knew it then, why did you take the child for seven years? Think a little! Today you claim you knew nothing would happen—then why did you go? And not once or twice—continually, for seven years! And Krishnamurti kept placing his hand in compassion. Whether anything happened or not is secondary. And a man like Krishnamurti does not insist that something must happen. When such a person places his hand on someone’s head, he does not say “this must be” or “that must not be.” He simply says, “Let the auspicious happen.” If it is God’s will that the child remain ill, then let him remain ill. Krishnamurti does not place his hand in opposition to existence.

Those whose suchness has come into harmony with existence simply say: Let what is auspicious be. You have brought him to me—I give my blessing; I shower my compassion. Let what is auspicious be. If life is auspicious, let there be life; if death is auspicious, let there be death.

For a person like Krishnamurti, what difference is there between life and death, illness and health? But do you see this man’s pettiness? To take the child to Krishnamurti for seven years, and now to claim, “Even then I knew nothing would happen.”

After listening to Krishnamurti for years, traveling the world after him, today this man says, “In Krishnamurti’s talks there is only philosophy, verbiage, intellectuality; there is no experience. The experience is with me.” And what pours forth from that “experience” are the very same things Krishnamurti said—without a single new word, not a single grain added—exactly the same.

Not only that—U.G. tries to prevent people from going to Krishnamurti. Because if they go to the genuine, the borrowed nature of the counterfeit will be exposed. U.G. Krishnamurti has written that Krishnamurti’s talks were going on in Paris. Some friends took me along. But I explained to them on the way, “Why go to that nonsense? I’ve heard enough of that babble. There’s no substance in it. Better we go to a movie.” And I convinced them and took them to a film.

If people go to Krishnamurti, U.G.’s borrowing will be laid bare. So the effort is made that people do not go to Krishnamurti.

Note this well: this has always been the behavior of the counterfeit. This is what Devadatta did with Buddha. He spoke what Buddha spoke, yet told people, “I am the real Buddha; this Gautam Siddhartha is deceiving you.”

The same was done by Makkhali Gosala with his master, Mahavira. He told people, “I am the real tirthankara. I am the twenty-fourth tirthankara! This Mahavira is deceiving people.”

Remember: one who learns from someone and then departs can never forgive him. How can he? Makkhali Gosala was in great difficulty. He remained with Mahavira for years, just as U.G. remained with Krishnamurti. From years of association he heard whatever Mahavira taught, understood it, digested it—but only with the intellect. For had it penetrated within, how could he have left Mahavira? It did not penetrate within. Gradually, Makkhali Gosala also became a pundit. He felt, “Now I can make my own declaration. What Mahavira explains, I too can explain. Then why follow him?”

He went to another village and proclaimed, “I am the real tirthankara; Mahavira is a deceiver.” When Mahavira heard, he was astonished. He went to that other village and met Makkhali Gosala. He said, “Brother! Have you forgotten? You were at my feet, in my presence, for years—have you forgotten?”

Do you know what Makkhali Gosala said? He said, “This proves you are ignorant, for that Makkhali Gosala who lived with you has died. Into his body has descended this twenty-fourth tirthankara.”

Even deception has its limits!... “I am not the one who lived with you. Only the body is the same. I have died. The one you think I am has gone. This is the incarnation of the twenty-fourth tirthankara in my body. This proves you are ignorant. Can’t you see even this much? The body is the same, but the soul has changed—can’t you see this simple fact?”

When a man descends into hypocrisy, he will do anything.

U.G. Krishnamurti says that his self-experience, his attainment, is his own—nothing to do with Krishnamurti. And every seven years his attainment has increased, because every seven years a chakra has opened. At the forty-ninth year he attained supreme awakening.

If a chakra was opening every seven years, what were you doing with Krishnamurti for twenty-five years? Many chakras had already opened in you, and many were opening. Why were you trailing after Krishnamurti? What was the purpose? And today you repeat him.

I know, two or three of my sannyasins go to him. They are his special disciples. They are also sannyasins who have no inner practice. Even when they come here, it is only for coming and going. Their difficulty is that they want a special relationship with me. What does “special relationship” mean?—that when they come, even at midnight, they can meet me; whenever they come, I should be available; that they can invite me to their home for a meal; take me here and there; bring whomever they wish to meet me. Since this is not possible here, they take to U.G. Krishnamurti. He goes to their homes, sits with them, eats their food, travels in their car. He suits them. Their ego cannot be gratified here; there it is gratified. They have not understood anything yet. They have not done any sadhana—how will they yet understand that sadhana is futile?

Sadhana certainly one day becomes futile—but not always. One day it does become so; it must. The path must become useless the day the goal is reached. You won’t go on clinging to the ladder! All practices are ladders; all methods are devices. One day or another, they have to be dropped. But be careful: do not drop the ladder before reaching the terrace just because of someone’s talk. Dropping it is certain. I too say it, I say it continually: it has to be dropped. But I say two things: hold it so firmly that you reach the last rung—and then drop it.

Then whom is he explaining to? Is explaining not a confusion? And explaining itself is the guru-and-disciple relationship; what else is it? Those to whom he is explaining—who are they? Are they U. G. Krishnamurti’s gurus or his disciples? Why is he explaining to them? They do not know what U. G. Krishnamurti knows. That is precisely the difference.

What is the relationship between a guru and a disciple?—someone knows, someone does not. The one who knows hands over his knowing to the one who does not. And what else does satsang mean?—to sit near one who knows.

If this is true, then he should stop explaining, because what substance is there in explaining? It is all the mind’s game. In explaining there will only be words. If yoga is a mind game, meditation is a mind game, sadhana is a mind game—then what you are explaining, is that not a mind game?

Through meditation one will descend into the void; through words only erudition will increase. Now whatever U. G. Krishnamurti has learned—by listening to Krishnamurti—those two or three who trail around behind him will learn the same from him and begin to repeat it. And they have already begun repeating.

Only a day or two ago I answered a question from Anand Tirtha. Anand Tirtha said that he saw a shadow of light near my face. And I said, “Good, auspicious.” Engage yourself in the effort that one day the same may be seen near everyone’s face. For in truth that light is not my shadow; I am the shadow of that light. And you too are the shadow of that same light. The whole play is of that light. The whole existence is the shadow of that light.

They fractured Anand Tirth’s state of feeling.

But what is U.G. Krishnamurti explaining? Explaining is precisely the function of a guru. And those who go to understand become disciples. Whether you call them disciples or not, whether you use the words guru and disciple or not—what difference does it make? Then what is this explaining? If spiritual practice (sadhana) is an illusion, then to understand “sadhana is an illusion” is itself an illusion. Then everything is an illusion. Then is U.G. Krishnamurti’s claim that he has attained, that he is enlightened—are these not illusions? Are these not hallucinations? These seven-year cycles that he says kept “opening”—are these not delusions? Not hallucinations? What chakras? Which chakras? These chakras opening every seven years—are they real? And seeing someone’s aura is an illusion?

Think a little, reflect a little. “All practices are illusions.” Krishnamurti also says the same: all practices are illusions. Why? Because even that is a method—a practice. If you take all practices, all devices, all techniques to be illusions, then a man becomes methodless, without a recourse. And it is in becoming methodless and resourceless that meditation bears fruit. This too is a method of practice—a negative method. It is not a constructive method.

There have always been two kinds of methods in the world: negative and affirmative. If you want to learn the affirmative, learn from Patanjali. If you want to learn the negative, learn from Ashtavakra. Everything has two sides—either say yes or say no. These are the only two approaches. But don’t think that a negative method is not a method. Don’t conclude that because it is negative, it is no method at all.

When Krishnamurti says it, he is right. Let me repeat: for me, persons matter more than their statements. Statements in themselves have no value, because they may be borrowed, learned by rote. A statement should be one’s own, come from experience. Krishnamurti is right that all practices are illusions. But I want to tell you this: it is a negative method of practice, nothing else. It is also a method. To drop all methods—this is one method. And it is not an easy method, mind you.

That is why Krishnamurti explained all his life. At most what got produced were people like U.G. Krishnamurti—who began to repeat him. The path of negation is very arduous. For descending into emptiness, you need courage—utter courage. To drop all supports, to renounce all props—great audacity is needed.

In the affirmative method, supports are removed gradually; one by one they are taken away; not all at once. First it is said: I am not the body, so drop methods of the body; shirshasana, siddhasana, sarvangasana—these will not help. Then gradually: I am not the mind—drop mental methods; mantra, japa—these will not do. When the mind’s methods fall away, then the notions of the soul—moksha, kaivalya, nirvana—these too are futile; drop them as well. Dropping, dropping; cutting, cutting—what remains? Only emptiness remains. That very emptiness is moksha. That very emptiness is nirvana. This is the negative method to come to nirvana. But it is a method. I want to say clearly: it is a method. It uses “no”—the method of elimination. Leave things one by one.

Suppose someone asks me, “So many people are sitting here—who is Taru among them?” There are two ways. Either I point directly to Taru: there she is. This is the affirmative method. The second way is that among the five hundred people here, I negate one by one: this is not Taru, this is not Taru, this is not Taru. And when four hundred and ninety-nine are negated, I say, “What remains—that.” This is the long route. Krishnamurti’s is the longest route.

The affirmative connects directly. Negation goes roundabout to catch the ear. But those who are endowed with intellect enjoy the path of negation. Talent always relishes the way of saying no. Those filled with head are attracted to negation; those filled with heart are attracted to affirmation.

These are the two ancient paths: one is called jnana-yoga, the other bhakti-yoga. Knowledge always negates; devotion always affirms. Knowledge leads to emptiness; devotion leads to fullness. Though ultimately emptiness and fullness are two names for the same experience. There is not the slightest difference. Emptiness is fullness; fullness is emptiness.

But in U.G. Krishnamurti’s mouth these words are false. The personality lacks gravity, lacks grace. There is no reverence for those from whom he has learned. Had the experience truly happened, there would be unparalleled respect.

He says: “All sadhanas—yoga, meditation, sannyas, the guru–disciple relationship, spiritual growth—are human confusions; mere plays of the mind.”

I also say: they are plays of the mind. But without playing them no one ever goes beyond them. What is wrong with play? What is there in play to condemn? Money is also a play; meditation is also a play. Money is an outer play; meditation an inner play. The money game will one day break; then the meditation game begins. And the meditation game too will one day break; then samadhi descends. Without playing, there is no way to go beyond play.

So I give you so many methods precisely so you can play—till the urge to play is finished.

A small child is playing with his toys. We say: toys are mere play. But the small child finds relish in them for now. If you snatch the toys away, you will harm the child. If toys are snatched too soon, he will remain entangled in toys even when grown, because he never had his fill. He needed to run toy trains, fly toy planes, drive toy cars, marry dolls and bridegrooms—he had to do it all. When it was time, it was appropriate to do it all. Otherwise later he will keep thinking of the same things. His mind will remain stuck there. Then perhaps the toys will be bigger instead of small cars, but the play will continue.

You have seen such people—mad for their cars—how they polish and pamper them. They won’t risk even a small scratch; they hardly take the car out. A car is for use, yet they won’t drive it out of the porch; it just sits there on display. Surely these people remained incomplete children; something inside stayed stuck. They didn’t get to play with toys; now they need toys. Small toys feel silly at their age, so they want big toys—age-appropriate toys. But toys are toys, consider this carefully. Whether a small car or a big car, what difference does it make?

In the West, when a car model becomes very famous, small replicas are made—like toys. Miniature Cadillacs, Rolls-Royces, Lincolns. They are expensive too, because they are exact imitations, with as many parts as the big ones. They are small, but everything is the same. They cost thousands. Yet people buy them and display them in cases or in their living rooms.

What should be completed in childhood, complete in childhood—so nothing remains hanging, no wire remains snagged.

Ask psychology. It says: whatever remained stuck in childhood will at some point have to be completed. And if you do it later, it becomes very difficult—very difficult!

For example, psychologists say that children who are weaned too early remain fascinated by women’s breasts all their lives; they will. That breastfeeding taken away too soon created trouble. The mind never had its fill. Now the poet who writes only poetry of breasts, the painter who only paints breasts, the sculptor who only carves breasts—surely there is a block. He doesn’t see the woman, only breasts. His whole world is full of breasts. In his dreams, breasts float like balloons. This is pathological; something remained stuck. His mother weaned him too soon. The child didn’t ripen.

You will be surprised to know: among tribal peoples—still present, even in this country—women do not cover their breasts; there is no need. Why do women in “civilized” societies have to cover their breasts, have to move with them veiled? Because all around them are people whose breasts were snatched away in childhood; their eyes are fixated on breasts. A woman is anxious lest the edge of her sari slip, because everywhere are children—underage children—whose bodies have aged but whose mental age remains very small; their gaze sticks to the breast; they see nothing else.

In tribal societies breasts are not covered. And no tribesman is especially excited by breasts. Why? Because children keep breastfeeding until nine or ten. When the breast is truly exhausted, the mother doesn’t wean; the child himself starts running away from the breast: “Enough now, I won’t. Let me go.” When the child himself runs away, that chapter is finished. Then there is no relish left. Now for the rest of his life, he will see neither poetry nor beauty in breasts—nothing. Breasts for him have become udders, nothing more.

Search within your own mind. See what things you are stuck on; go inside after them; analyze a little; descend into your past. You will be astonished: these are the very things you wanted to do in childhood but could not. Now you want to, but now they seem indecent.

Everything is appropriate at a certain age; after that age, it becomes inappropriate.

In the West you see nudist clubs multiplying. And the basic psychological reason? Because we force clothes on children when they want to be naked. The child runs, and the mother puts clothes on him. He says, “I feel hot”; the mother says, “Guests are in the house.” The child doesn’t understand what guests have to do with clothes. He wants to go into the garden—naked.

But we thrust clothes on small children. Then for the rest of their lives clothes become a burden. Whenever they get a chance, they want to take clothes off. From this, a thousand perversions arise—indeed a thousand! They want to take off their own clothes and they want to see what body lies beneath others’ clothes. They undress others mentally.

Have you noticed? As you pass along the road, a beautiful woman goes by—you instantly undress her inside. In your mind you quickly strip away all clothing. You want to see her naked. What madness is this? What does it mean? It means what should have happened in childhood did not happen.

Remember the same in spiritual growth. The laws of life are the same; only the plane changes, the laws don’t. When methods are needed, complete them; otherwise they will remain stuck.

I have a friend, a devotee of Krishnamurti. Whenever he came to me he would say, “I come to hear you, but I cannot meditate. What is in meditation? Nothing will come of it. Krishnamurti says meditation has no substance. Methods, yoga—no substance. I neither meditate, nor chant, nor use mantras.” A Brahmin, a learned one; but brave—he dropped everything.

One day his son came to call me: “Please come quickly, father has had a heart attack.” I went. He was lying on the bed chanting “Ram Ram.” I shook his head: “What are you doing? Turning infidel at the time of death! All life you held firm—revolution! And now at death you are corrupting yourself?”

He said, “Drop this talk for now. Who knows, Ram may exist! And what’s the harm? It’s a heart-attack; I don’t want theory now.”

I said, “But Krishnamurti says chanting ‘Ram Ram’ won’t help.”

He said, “Don’t talk now.”

When he recovered, we returned to the discussion. I asked him to think: there is a snag inside you. What will Krishnamurti’s saying do? There is a catch within. Krishnamurti’s words didn’t give you samadhi. You heard, you grabbed the idea, but nothing experiential happened within you. When dying, when death knocked at the door, the question was: choose Krishnamurti or choose death. You dropped Krishnamurti. When death stands before you, will Krishnamurti stand with you? “Let me at least remember Ram!” Then your childhood must have returned: you must have heard father chanting Ram Ram, mother chanting Ram Ram. All life you thought them fools—but at death that alone became meaningful. The intervening intellectualism, the theoretical web, was worth two pennies.

So I say: every situation has its own configuration. Use it. You must go beyond it eventually.

Maharishi Mahesh Yogi says: keep chanting the mantra. Krishnamurti says: never chant a mantra. And I say: chant the mantra and then drop the mantra too. As long as your mind needs it, you will have to chant.

“Mantra” is formed from the same root as “man” (mind). The mind and mantra arise from the same root. The mind is the method of mantra. And if you don’t chant “Ram Ram,” you will chant something else—remember that. You cannot escape chanting. You will repeat a film song. One man bathes and chants “Ram Ram,” while you hum a film tune. What’s the difference? You both are chanting. The one chanting “Ram Ram” is at least chanting a better mantra than you.

When cold water touches the body, suddenly the desire to chant arises. With chanting, the feeling of cold is forgotten; you become absorbed in the mantra and pour the water quickly. But if you must chant something, better that remembrance be of Ram rather than a film song. Who knows—sometimes, in a sudden remembrance, doors open.

So don’t be frightened—use methods. Refine them, ennoble them. Let them be auspicious and beneficent. And as purification deepens, the moment surely comes when you go beyond methods. You must go beyond methods. Methods give savikalpa samadhi; beyond methods comes nirvikalpa samadhi.

However far methods take you, the goal remains a short distance away. A gap remains between method and goal. The method stands between you and the goal.

Suppose you have practiced “Ram Ram” well. One day you stand before Ram himself—and you are still chanting “Ram Ram.” Ram stands before you, hands folded—and you keep chanting “Ram Ram.” He says, “Now, be quiet; I am here.” But how to stop? “I cannot leave my mantra.” Then your chanting becomes the obstacle. When Ram has appeared, what chanting of Ram! Call upon Ram—then, when the moment descends, stop the calling. Lest calling turn into frenzy and you keep on shouting and shouting; your shouting then becomes the obstacle. Your mantra becomes the barrier.

What is one day a means becomes one day a hindrance. So nothing is only a means or only a barrier. The wise use everything appropriately.

“U.G. Krishnamurti says that all sadhanas—yoga, meditation, sannyas, the guru–disciple relationship, spiritual growth—are the mind’s confusions.”

Spiritual growth too! Then why is he explaining anything to people? To cause spiritual decline? If spiritual growth is illusion, then is spiritual degeneration the truth? Then why this unnecessary trouble? Why so much effort? What are you explaining and for what? Surely something should occur in the one you’re addressing—that occurrence is growth.

It seems U.G. did not really understand Krishnamurti; he rote-learned. Some fools will fall into his circle and suffer.

“And after much wandering in all this, in the end a man is left only with a state of total helplessness.”

That very state is a priceless state. The day you do all the methods and still find something remains—something remains—on that day you see that there is something that is not attained by doing, but by non-doing. Much is attained by doing; the Ultimate is not. The great things—God, liberation—are far bigger than you; they cannot fit into your fist. They cannot be your act. They happen when you are in non-action, when you are utterly still and all activity has become zero. They happen when you are a non-doer.

The world happens through action; God happens through non-action. But to come to that non-action, passing through all methods is essential—absolutely essential. Passing and repassing, you discover a little distance always remains. “I reach, and yet I cannot reach. It seems I have reached—and still a gap remains. The door is open—and yet does not open. I climb the steps, and still I cannot enter the temple.” Then, after much wandering, you understand: now fall helplessly; now drop reliance on yourself; now drop the illusion that something will happen by my doing. “I have tried everything.”

And note: if you have not tried everything, this illusion cannot be dropped. You will always feel: I have not done Patanjali-yoga—perhaps that would have worked. Who knows—perhaps standing on the head brings samadhi! Who knows! Who knows which method will work! Doubt will persist.

But one who has tried all methods finds one day: no method reaches the Ultimate. He becomes helpless. This helplessness is supremely precious. In that helplessness God descends. Devotees have called it the state of being without prop, without support. Only when a man is utterly helpless does surrender happen. But helpless is only he who has sought every kind of support and found that none delivers.

Now you will be surprised. Understand my process rightly. I am giving you all kinds of methods here. Nowhere in the world have so many methods been made available as here. My effort is precisely this: since you have begun to search, whatever you want to try should be available to you here. Passing through all methods you will gain an extraordinary insight: methods take you far—very far—but not beyond mind. They take you into the subtlest states of mind, to mind’s beloved experiences, to very pleasing states—but not beyond mind. Sorrow vanishes; bliss spreads. All heat dissolves; a coolness descends. But this too is of the mind. Anger goes, compassion arises—but that too is of the mind. The mind becomes pure—but still mind! Then the last question arises: how to go beyond this purified mind? Beyond this saintly mind? All that could be done by me is done; now nothing happens by my doing.

It is here, in helplessness, that one bows, that surrender arises. Here prayer is born.

Remember: where meditation is defeated, prayer is born. Where yoga and methods fail, prayer is born. Prayer is not a method—it is the defeat of all methods. One bows in silence. Not shouting anything—because if you speak or cry out, methods are still continuing. Prayer means: in silence you bow, you surrender. You say: now nothing will happen by my doing; now let Thy will be done. “Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done.” This is prayer. Jesus prayed this in his last moments on the cross.

Through methods one day you arrive at this state. That is why I do not deny methods. Nor do I say methods are sufficient.

“U.G. Krishnamurti says: after wandering through all this, in the end a man is left only with a state of total helplessness.”

That alone is the valuable thing. That is the treasure. From that, devotion arises. But whoever drops beforehand will not be able to arrive here.

Now, who is going to U.G. Krishnamurti?… Brother Himmat is going. Himmatbhai has never practiced any method. How will he drop method? He never held one—what will he drop? To drop something, it must first be in hand! First practice, then drop! “There is nothing in yoga”—but only if you have done yoga! “There is nothing in meditation”—but only if you have meditated!

Yet such talk appeals; it has attraction. Why? Because it feels: good—the hassle is gone; no meditation, no yoga, no prayer, no worship. This is what the lazy mind always wanted: to have to do nothing. Wonderful! Nothing to do at all. Those who are doing are fools; we are the wise—because we do nothing. How delightful! The ego is gratified: the doers are fools. And the earlier hitch—that the doers might attain while I don’t—also dissolves. This man has given great relief. He says: nothing comes of it anyway. The truth is, those who are doing are wrong. They are on the wrong path. You are on the right path, because you are not doing anything. Great consolation! Great support! You say, “A guru should be like this—one to hold onto!”

He has revitalized your ego. Seeing someone meditating had pricked your ego—remember. You felt, “I’m not doing it. What if he attains and I don’t?” Seeing one immersed in prayer, tears flowing—did no pain arise within you? Did you not feel, “What if I go on seeking trivial things while another attains the Ultimate?” Jealousy, competition, ego—all were hurt. Then someone said: no, prayer does nothing, meditation does nothing, yoga does nothing—they are all useless. You relaxed: this rings true. I had always felt this, but no one had said it. Now a self-assured person has said it. Now I also have a witness.

If Himmatbhai himself says meditation is useless, who will believe him? People will ask: did you meditate? “U.G. Krishnamurti says meditation is useless.” And U.G. Krishnamurti—an enlightened man! His words have force, authority! How convincing!

You always wanted to be convinced; no one had come to convince you. Now a convenient arrangement! U.G. got a disciple; you got a guru as sweet as honey. A conspiracy formed between the two. He got a disciple and his ego was gratified. You got a guru and the pricks to your ego were soothed. A deep friendship.

But it is in such sweet poisons that a man gets lost and destroyed. Beware!

Meditate. I also say meditation is to be dropped one day. I constantly say: take sannyas; one day go beyond sannyas. I constantly say: become a disciple so that you can become free of discipleship. Freedom comes only through experience; there is no other way. But people are sluggish, indolent, lazy—they don’t want to do anything. If there is something free… such talk pleases them. And it gratifies the ego. Then, seeing another meditate, they strut off proudly: “Poor fellow! Meditating—does meditation bring anything? This Anand Tirth—he sees auras! All mind’s nonsense!” And U.G. Krishnamurti’s cycles opening every seven years—are those not mind’s nonsense? And U.G.’s claim, “I am enlightened, accomplished”—is that not mind’s babble? Are those not mind’s distortions?

Think a little. Think a little courageously. Consider your own dishonesty.

Now the two or three people buzzing around U.G. Krishnamurti tell others: “U.G. is very simple. Invite him home and he comes.”

They have difficulty coming to me. I am not going to their homes. Not because there is something wrong with their homes, but because I do not want to support their egos in any way. I want to dissolve their egos, not bolster them. So they go around saying, “U.G. is very humane!”

But your ego is getting gratified. Your ego swells: “So-and-so came to my house; such-and-such came!”

People come to me as well and say, “Come to our home once.” What will happen by my coming to your home? You come to my home. If I come to your home, what will that do? You didn’t get anything from living there; what will you do by bringing me there? Come to my home; you will receive something.

And remember: unless you bow, you will get nothing.

But then they have difficulty where the ego is hurt. Where balm is applied to their ego, they feel great joy.

“In Shri U.G. Krishnamurti’s satsang, a sharp disfaith toward practice has been born in many minds.”

They never practiced, and they never had faith in practice. Wherefrom will disfaith arise?

Remember: generally people say, “I have disbelief in God.” He is using the wrong word. Only if there was faith can there be disbelief. And if someone had faith, how will disbelief arise? Disbelief can come only after faith. You first make a friend, then enmity can arise. Otherwise, how will enmity be born? Affirmation comes first; negation follows. Negation is the shadow. If you marry, divorce is possible. If you start saying about another man’s wife, “I have divorced her”—and there was never any marriage—people will think you mad. One who says, “I have disbelief in God,” is only saying, “I have no faith in God.” Disbelief cannot exist. Disbelief arises when faith is exercised and wasted, when experience shows that faith was useless.

But that has never happened—never in human history. Whoever exercised faith found his faith grew. Disbelief never arose. You are calling the absence of faith disbelief—that is wrong usage. Disbelief denies faith; it is not mere absence. It is rejection, opposition, aggression, violence. A man can only say: “I do not yet have faith.” That is correct. There is no question of disbelief. How to disbelieve what I do not even know? God does not yet exist for me—how can I disbelieve? If I have not yet loved, how can I hate?

And one who has loved—how will he hate? One who has had faith—how will he disbelieve? If he does, it means only this: somewhere the faith was false, superficial; it was not real.

Now you say: “In many minds a sharp disfaith toward practice has been born.”

No one wants to practice. Practice is arduous. It is for the courageous, not the impotent. No one wants to practice. People want convenience—not practice. They want someone to say: there is no need for practice.

So for centuries mankind has invented impotent devices. Someone said: “At the time of death just chant Ram Ram and you will arrive.” What to do all life! Stories were concocted: Ajamil was dying. He called his son. The son’s name was Narayan. By coincidence—Narayan. He said, “Narayan, where are you?” And the Narayan above got fooled. Incredible! What sort of simpleton Narayan is seated above, who cannot even figure out whom he is calling! He’s calling his son. And the man’s a lifelong murderer, cheat, thief—why would he call his son? To tell where the stolen goods are buried; which vendettas remain; “What revenge I could not take—son, you take it; don’t break the tradition. I bequeath this to you.” He’d be calling for some wrong purpose. And he calls his son, and the Narayan above gets confused. Ajamil dies and goes to heaven.

Those who concocted this story were consummate cheats. But such stories please people. They say: “If Ajamil crossed over, will you not take me across?”

You don’t want to do anything. Then the situation arises that death gives no notice—who knows when it will come. It’s an unannounced guest. You die—and don’t even manage to call Narayan. And now sons are not even named Narayan—Pinky, etc. You will call, “Hey, Pinky, where are you?”—and God won’t be confused at all. “Hey, W, where are you?”… Death comes—and you go!

So other devices had to be invented: when the man is already dead, others whisper mantras in his ear. Priests pour Ganges water. The man is dead—there is no one there to drink. They pour Ganges water into that corpse. They recite the holy syllables in his ear, the Gayatri mantra. They carry the dead off, saying, “Ram nam satya hai—Ram’s Name is Truth!” Now to whom are you saying it? There is no one there now. All life Ram’s Name was not true—now to the corpse you say: “Ram’s Name is True.”

People have always sought cheap tricks. The cheapest trick of this century is: “What will practice do? What will method do? No need. Spiritual growth is the mind’s web.” Then what growth is there that is not the mind’s web? And is there any growth apart from spiritual growth?

And the delicious irony is: those who say such things—and how the listeners listen to all this! They must want to listen, want to believe. With a touch of intelligence, with a little analysis, you should ask: then why are you making all this effort? Hey, borrowed guru, Krishnamurti! Why are you laboring? Why this head-breaking? Everything is illusion—and your spiritual growth is not? Your claim that you are accomplished—is that not illusion?

Don’t get entangled in such hollow talk. Such flimsy webs have always existed and will always exist. Because there is demand, there will be supply.

Before I complete this answer, it is necessary to understand the eight states of mind. Buddha spoke of eight states; it is very useful. Five states of mind are bound to the five senses. Buddha said: each sense is a separate mind. This is true. Psychology supports it. Your tongue has a mind, but it understands only the language of taste. Your ear has a mind, but it understands only the language of sound. Even your ear selects; it does not take all sounds in. It takes only two percent inside; ninety-eight percent it leaves out. If every sound went in, you would go insane.

Your eye also does not see everything. If it saw everything, you would land in trouble. It selects. It sees only what it wants to see, what is worth seeing, what has purpose.

You can verify this from your experience. The day you fast, food appears more—outside and inside. Close your eyes—you see it. Open your eyes—you see it.

Heinrich Heine said: I once wandered three days in a forest and could not find the way. Then the full moon rose—and I was astonished. I had written many poems in life; many on the moon. (Poets and the moon go way back.) I had seen in the moon the image of my beloved, the visage of God—what not. But after three days’ hunger, when the moon rose, I saw a white loaf floating in the sky. I startled myself—what symbol is this? In which poem does a white loaf come floating?

But what else will a three-day-hungry man see? His eye is looking only for bread; everywhere he will see bread.

You see what you need. Children see one thing; their needs differ. The young see another; their needs differ. The old see something else; their needs differ.

The eye has its own mind, continuously disciplining. Often a conversation between a young and an old person fails, because the young sees one thing, the old another. The young says: “Ah, how beautiful a woman!” The old says: “What’s there—bones, flesh, marrow!” They cannot agree. The young says: “What crude talk you introduce! Such a beautiful woman and you see flesh and marrow?” The old says: “There is nothing in beauty! Inside is excreta; beauty is only skin-deep. All form; nothing more.”

The old man’s way of seeing has changed; essentially, his eye has developed a new mind which the young do not have.

The five senses each have a mind. The one that connects and coordinates these five—otherwise they would scatter—is the sixth mind within you. What you ordinarily call “mind” is the sixth.

Thus Buddha spoke of six minds—six states of mind. To go beyond the five and know the sixth is the task. That is the process of meditation. Go beyond the five and know the sixth—what Patanjali calls dharana.

Patanjali’s three steps are: dharana, dhyana, samadhi. Dharana begins with freedom from the senses—recognizing the sixth, the governor of all. When you recognize the sixth, when you examine it—sit silently and watch the sixth—its moods, waves, thoughts, emotions, memories, imaginations—when you expose the sixth fully, then gradually you get a sense of the seventh. The seventh is the witness. That which sees even the sixth is the seventh. When anger arises, it arises in the sixth—not in the eye or the ear. Even desire does not arise in the sex organ; it arises in the sixth and then activates the organ. Anger arises in the sixth, then blood rushes to the eyes. Everything rises in the sixth and then spreads to the five. What comes from outside comes through the five and gathers in the sixth. What arises within emerges in the sixth and goes out through the five. The five minds are double-doored: bringing the outer in, taking the inner out. The sixth is their governor, their disciplinarian.

If you slowly analyze the sixth, sit and look at it, the seventh is born—the witness. Anger arises, a cloud of anger forms, and you sit watching. That which is watching is the seventh. This seventh is supremely valuable. This is what Patanjali calls dhyana (meditation). This is what Buddha called samyak smriti—right mindfulness. Call it awakening, awareness, witnessing; call it what Krishnamurti calls “awareness.” The seventh is most important. On this side of the seventh lies the web of six minds—that is the world; on the other side is the eighth—that is nirvana. These eight are the states of consciousness. One who understands the seventh has understood the secret of all methods. One who rises beyond the seventh rises beyond all methods.

But until you reach the seventh, do not get entangled in the talk of U.G. Krishnamurti and such other babblers. Reach the seventh—then such talk makes sense. I too want to say these very things to you—but only after I bring you to the seventh. After I ripen you enough, I will say it. If I say it to your unripe mind, it may harm you; you may never reach.

An example will help you understand the seventh. In America’s Disneyland they have invented many kinds of amusements. There is a very beautiful room. If you ever go to America, go to Disneyland; at least see that room. They have made a marvellous invention that will one day serve the whole world. The room is large and round—like this hall. When you watch a film ordinarily, it is on a screen in front. In that room, projectors are mounted all around, so the film is on all the walls—on all sides; not just in front. Turn around—there is film behind you; look to the side—film there too; the other side—film there too. They have arranged films for certain events.

For instance, you are in an airplane flying near Niagara Falls. They tell you you are seated in an airplane. You look around and discover the airplane’s environment. This side a window; that side an airhostess passing; look back—passengers seated; look ahead—the pilot. You hear the engine. For a moment a complete illusion happens: you are in an airplane. You know you are seated in a chair; you even palpate it. But a man sits beside you, a woman on the other side; an airhostess walks by; the airplane hums and moves. You peer out the window and see the rising sun, mountains. Look back through the window—what should be seen from a plane’s rear window is seen; look ahead—what should be seen ahead is seen.

Those who have sat in that room say there comes a moment when total forgetfulness occurs, total! You forget entirely that it is just a show. It becomes absolutely real. Yet, in some corner of the mind, the remembrance remains: it’s all play; films are running on the walls.

This is the seventh state—where the play of the six minds is going on below, and the seventh state in which that play is visible and a faint memory persists: it is all play—I am the seer; I am the witness. One who enters the seventh has two horizons before him: on one side, the eighth—the supreme witnessing; on the other, the net of the six. Standing between the world and nirvana, sometimes the remembrance arises: yes, I am separate.

Sit silently sometime. Anger comes, desire rises—watch closely! Understand you are seated in Disneyland. On the screen of the mind all the plays are running. For a moment you feel: yes, I am the watcher; this is not me. This anger is not me—I am only seeing it. It is my dream I am watching. But then forgetfulness overcomes you; anger possesses you; its smoke encircles you; you become the doer, the enjoyer. Then you slip back, then again you remember.

This is the tug of meditation—this struggle of remembering and forgetting. When you forget, you identify with the lower worlds. When you remember, you attune with the higher.

All methods—sadhana, yoga, meditation, worship, mantra, yantra, tantra—are to bring you to the seventh. Beyond the seventh, everything is to be dropped. Attend only to the eighth. No method reaches the eighth; all methods lead up to the seventh. Then only witnessing remains—what Krishnamurti calls “choiceless awareness.” No choosing—silently enter that witnessing.

When you are so settled in witnessing that not for a single moment does identification arise, you have reached the eighth state. This is nirvana. This is moksha. This is kaivalya.

If you want to reach the eighth, use methods to arrive at the seventh. And then, at the seventh, drop the methods.

But those who hear from someone—like U.G. hearing from Krishnamurti—and then begin to explain to others, they do not know what they are doing.

Remember: in this world there is no greater harm than that done by those who begin to instruct without knowing. Not even murderers do such harm. Murderers can cut your body; they cannot cut you. But such people can distort your soul; they can give you such delusive notions that you remain where you are, as you are.

You are still wandering in the five senses; you have not even reached the sixth. A mantra can bring you to the sixth. From the sixth, right mindfulness (samma-sati) can take you to the seventh. From the seventh—total dissolution. Beyond that, no method goes. Beyond that, no device, no guru, no disciple. Beyond that is pure consciousness alone. Beyond that, all forms and shapes are lost—only the formless remains.

Use methods up to the seventh; drop them at the seventh and enter the eighth.

These two statements do not apply to different levels; they apply to the same level. Nor are they contradictory. Their purposes are different. They operate on the same plane, but with different intents. Understand this.

The first verse: “You have found the diamond—tie the knot tight; why keep opening the bundle again and again?”
When, for the first time, someone lays hands on the diamond of inner experience, there arises a desire to keep opening it and looking at it. It is such a dear, unprecedented experience that you want to keep feeling it again and again—Is it still there? Has it been lost? You untie the knot, look, tie it again, and again look.

Kabir says: this repeated opening is harmful. Harmful for two reasons. First: if you keep opening it again and again, it means you are desiring it again and again. And if you keep desiring it, you will be blocked right there. There are more diamonds yet—greater diamonds, and they are endless. Don’t stop here. In your experience, this may be the most precious so far. You may think, “I’ve arrived; I’ve reached; the journey is over. Where else is there to go?” And you will get stuck and become so absorbed, so attached to it that it turns into a barrier.

Inner experiences have no end—they keep widening, becoming vast and vaster! Remember this. So what has happened, let it be; now seek the beyond. Don’t keep looking back at the same thing. To keep opening it is to look into the past.

This happens every day. Someone gets the first glimpse of meditation, and then the trouble starts. He comes to me in tears and says, “Now it’s not happening. Please help me have the same thing again; it must be exactly like before.”

I tell him: what comes next will be larger. If you get stuck in “the same,” two dangers arise. Even if it does occur again, it won’t be as beautiful as it was the first time. Nothing is ever as beautiful in repetition as it is the first time.

You hear a song. The first hearing is very sweet. The second time, a little less. Inevitably so. The third time, it becomes ordinary. The fourth time, boredom sets in—you yawn. The fifth time, you may scream, “Turn off this nonsense! Are you trying to drive me mad?”

Mulla Nasruddin was having his meal. A plate was set before him; he suddenly picked it up and flung it away, shouting and throwing things around. His wife asked, “What’s the matter?” He said, “Do you want to make me crazy? Okra, okra, okra…!”

His wife said, “Now really! On Monday when I made okra you said it was lovely, very good. On Tuesday you said it was delicious. On Wednesday you didn’t complain; you stayed quiet. On Thursday, though you didn’t say anything, your face did look a bit sad. Then on Friday I made it again, and you hardly ate. Today is Saturday. I made okra again—why are you shouting so much, going so crazy? And it is the same okra I made on Monday. Why are you being so inconsistent?”

This is not inconsistency. Anything that keeps repeating becomes futile. When you go to Kashmir—the Himalayas’ beauty, the Dal Lake—don’t assume the boatman who rows your shikara finds it as beautiful as you do. He doesn’t see it at all. What Dal Lake? He wonders why these fools keep coming.

I was in Kashmir with some twenty, twenty-five friends from Bombay. When we were leaving on the last day, the boatman said, “Baba! Please show me Bombay once. I must see Bombay—by your grace, let me see it.”

I said, “What will you do seeing Bombay? These twenty-five people from Bombay have come to see Kashmir.”

He said, “Enough of Kashmir—I’ve seen too much. I was born here; must I also die here? What is there here, anyway?”
He added, “I don’t say it aloud, but I’m amazed—why do people come here from Bombay?”

Whatever you repeat day after day becomes empty, loses its juice. That is why Kabir says, “You have found the diamond—tie the knot tight; why keep opening the bundle again and again?” Don’t keep looking back. Don’t keep asking for the same experience. Even if it comes, it will be finished.

And the second point is even more important: asking again will not bring it. These experiences do not come by asking. Asking creates obstruction. The first time meditation happened to you, you had not asked. You didn’t even know what meditation is. You were innocent, childlike—and in that innocence, meditation happened. Now you have become clever. Now you are no longer a child. Now you are demanding the same experience. This very difference becomes the obstacle. The same experience will not happen. You will get stuck.

So Kabir says: whatever has happened, tie a knot and forget it. Move on; much journey lies ahead.

In love there are other victories too;
For your grief there are other confidants too.
Be mindful, O splendor of Sinai’s flame—
There are rivals even to the face of the Milky Way.
O moon, why this vain and baseless pride?
There are other causes for roses and gardens too.

There are other gardens still, other mountain ranges too.

“O moon, why this needless, empty pride?”
There are other reasons for blossom and bower too—
Other orchards, other flowers.

There are ruins yet unfinished,
In the glances, other lightnings yet to flash;
Their songs don’t dance on lips alone—
In their eyes other hidden secrets gather.
Raina, you are not the only one to spend the coin of sorrow;
Besides you there are other victors too.

Much remains yet. Greater milestones lie ahead. Brighter lights still. More beautiful mountain chains. More flowers will bloom. More lotuses are yet to open.

So don’t cling to the little blossom that has bloomed. Don’t take it as the journey’s end. This is the meaning of the first statement: “You have found the diamond—tie the knot tight; why keep opening the bundle again and again?” This is said to the seeker for himself: don’t keep fingering the diamond for your own looking. In that very fingering, the diamond will be lost; in that fiddling, you will get entangled. Whatever is experienced, forget it; don’t ask for it again. Don’t long for repetition.

And then the second verse: “Pour out with both hands; this is the gentleman’s work”… this is the wise man’s work!

This is addressed to others. For the one who has received: do not keep returning to your past for your own sake; but whatever you have received, share it. Understand the difference. There is no contradiction. These are distinct points—both operative at the same level. Do not keep humming the same tune of what you got; don’t clutch it in your fist. Don’t take it to be the goal. There are further goals! But what you have received—give it away. Give it to others. Scatter it. Make someone a partner in the joy that has come to you.

When the fragrance of meditation spreads within you, do not hoard it inside yourself. The first sentence does not mean become stingy, become miserly—don’t think “I have found the diamond, I’ll lock it, put it in the bank vault.” That is not the meaning. It only means: for yourself, don’t look back that way now. But what has come—share it.

That is why the second saying: this is the noble, the wise thing—to pour out with both hands whatever comes into your hands. Why? Because the more you ladle it out, the more you will receive. Like a well: as you keep drawing water, new springs bubble up; new sources feed it; the well keeps filling. If you stop drawing out of fear the water will be spent, the water will stagnate, become unfit to drink, become poisonous. Do not let the waters of your well turn toxic.

Draw! Whatever wealth of experience you have—share it. Climb onto the rooftops and shout! Whatever has come to you, let others know it can be theirs too.

Tell ten people; perhaps one will hear and understand; nine will laugh. Don’t bother about them. In truth, they are not laughing at you; they are only advertising their own stupidity. If even one understands, a ray of revolution will enter his life—and that is enough. If you call out to ten and one understands, that is sufficient. Even that is much.

And you will feel blessed. If through you even a small ray enters someone’s life, you will feel a blessedness greater than what you felt when that ray entered your own life. When you receive, there is joy—indeed. But it is nothing compared to the joy of giving. That joy is larger, vaster, more sublime.

The delight of giving has always surpassed the delight of getting.

Think of it: when you receive something from someone, you feel a happiness. But have you seen the happiness when you give something to someone? That is why people love to offer gifts. There is a sweetness in giving. We give to those we love. And what greater gift can there be than God? If you can share this diamond, you are truly blessed.

These statements operate on the same plane. They are not addressed to different seekers. For yourself—forget. What has happened, has happened. Move on. For others—share it. And in my view, the two are harmonious. If you share, you will not keep looking back. If you hoard, only then will you look back.

What is hoarding? God is a giver. Trust, and He will give. And the more He sees that you have become skillful in giving, the more He will give. The more He finds you enjoying the sharing, the more your wealth will grow. You will become God’s hands. For God wants to give. He is looking for hands. For ages He has been advertising, but hands are scarce. Sometimes a Buddha’s hands, a Krishna’s hands, sometimes a Krishnamurti’s, sometimes a Christ’s—hands are found with great difficulty. Become His hands too.

You have seen the thousand-armed images of the Divine? From where will a thousand hands come? A truth is hidden in those images—that our thousands of hands become His hands. From where else will He get them? We are His hands.

In the last great war something happened. In a town in England, at the crossroads, there was a statue of Christ. A bomb fell; the statue crashed into pieces. It was a lovely statue. The townsfolk gathered all the fragments and reassembled them. All the pieces were found except the two hands; perhaps they were shattered to dust. They asked a sculptor to carve new hands. He thought long and hard and said, “Rather than hands, I have brought a stone with two engraved lines. Let us place this stone there.”
They set the stone there. That stone is more endearing than hands. It reads: I have no hands of my own; I rely on your hands.

God has no hands of His own. Your hands become His hands.

Therefore—“Pour out with both hands; this is the wise man’s work.”

These two statements explain two different aspects at the same stage of practice. For yourself—don’t keep opening the diamond. For others—spend it lavishly.

That’s all for today.