Kaivalya Upanishad #1

Kaivalya Upanishad!

The Kaivalya Upanishad is a longing — for the ultimate freedom. Kaivalya means: may such a moment arise in consciousness when I am utterly alone, yet there is no sense of loneliness. May I be solitary, and still not feel the absence of the other. Even if only I remain, may I be so complete that there is no ache that another is needed to complete me. Kaivalya means: only I remain — but in such a way that in my very being all is gathered. My being becomes total. This is man’s yearning, hidden in his deepest life-breath.

All suffering is the suffering of limitation. All suffering is the suffering of bondage. All suffering says — I am not whole, I am incomplete. And to become whole I seem to need countless things. Yet even when things are gained, I am not complete; my incompleteness remains. Even if everything is attained, I remain incomplete.

So a yearning arose within man — we call it religion — to ask whether it may not be that the things I run after, even when attained, still fail to give fulfillment because the journey to attain them is itself futile and wrong. Then another path must be sought — a path where I do not become whole by adding things, but I myself become whole. And then nothing is needed.

Those who have inquired deeply have seen that man will never come to bliss so long as any need depends on another. As long as the other is necessary, suffering will remain. As long as my happiness is dependent on another, I will be miserable. As long as, for any reason, I depend on the other, I am heteronomous — and in heteronomy there can be no bliss. If we distill all suffering, we will find dependence. And the quintessential fragrance of bliss is freedom.

This supreme freedom we have called moksha. This supreme freedom we have called nirvana. And this very supreme freedom we have called Kaivalya — for three reasons.

We call it moksha because there is no bondage there. We call it nirvana because there the I too is not; my very being-entity dissolves — only Existence remains. When I say, ‘I am,’ two words are needed — ‘I’ and ‘am’. We call it nirvana because in that moment even the ‘I’ is gone; only ‘am’, mere being, remains. Not even the feeling ‘I’ remains — simply being. And we also call it Kaivalya because in that moment only I am. Only I am — meaning: all is absorbed in me. The sky is within me, the moon and stars move within me. Universes arise and dissolve within me. I expand and become one with this cosmos. I become Brahman. Hence Kaivalya.

This Kaivalya Upanishad is an inquiry into that supreme freedom — a thirst for it, and a research into the path of that thirst.

It begins with a prayer. Let us understand this a little. For ordinarily any journey should begin with effort, not with prayer. It should begin with endeavor, not with prayer. But the Upanishad begins with a prayer.

There are many hints in this.

First, that which we seek cannot be obtained by our effort alone. But this does not mean it can be had without our effort. Here is the subtle difficulty — the knot and tangle of all religion and sadhana.

That which we seek will not be attained by effort alone. Nor is it attained without effort. Not by our effort alone — because that which we are seeking is vast beyond us. A man imprisoned seeks freedom. A prisoner, dependent, bound in chains, seeks the open sky. That which is sought is immense. The prisoner’s strength is very limited. If it were not limited, he would not be a prisoner. If it were not limited, he would not be in jail. If it were not limited, who could bind chains on his hands? Who could shackle his feet? Who could build a prison around him? Because he is limited, weak, he is in prison. Prison is the proclamation of his weakness. So by his effort alone nothing will be achieved. If it could be by his effort, he would not be in prison at all.

But this also does not mean that without his effort it will happen. Because if the prisoner lies in his cell, agrees with his chains and falls asleep, no force in the world can set him free. He cannot be freed by himself alone, and even the greatest power cannot free him without his cooperation. So let us understand from the outset the most profound and intricate problem of religion.

Man can be free. He will also have to make effort. But even before effort he will have to call the Vast. Before endeavor, there must be prayer. Out of prayer his endeavor will begin. Understand that prayer is his first effort. Yet prayer does not feel like effort.

Prayer means: You do. Prayer means: Give Your help. Prayer means: Take my hand. Prayer means: Pull me out. But if prayer stops there, even prayer will not work. If after praying the prisoner goes to sleep, he will not be freed. Prayer is only the beginning of an effort that is to come.

Prayer is necessary — not sufficient. Effort is indispensable — not sufficient. Where prayer and effort join, a vast energy is born — the impossible becomes possible.

Prayer means: I ask the Vast for help. Effort means: I am ready to walk with the Vast, I will cooperate. Prayer means: Lift me up. Effort means: I will bring to rising all the strength I have. Prayer also means: By my strength alone I cannot rise; I need You. Effort means: If I myself do not wish to rise, how can Your compassion lift me? So I will rise; I will stand on my feet. I will try to break these chains. Still I know I am weak, and without Your help nothing can be.

This Upanishad begins with prayer. The prayer too is very unique. Unique, difficult, a little disturbing. You must have read such prayers many times, but perhaps never reflected. We do not reflect — otherwise this prayer would cause amazement.

The rishi prays: May my limbs thrive. May my speech, my smell, my eyes, my ears be strong. May my senses become powerful.

It may startle you to think that one who is set out to seek Brahman asks for the senses to be made powerful — prays for their empowerment! We have only heard that one who goes that way must destroy the senses. We have heard that to attain That one must weaken the senses. We have heard that repression of the senses is the way. But this rishi of the Upanishad speaks the opposite.

Many read this Upanishad, but it never occurs to them what the seer is saying. He is saying: Give power to our senses, O Paramatman! May our eyes be strong, our ears robust. May our speech be potent, may our senses be fortified, gain in growth. Either the rishi is mad, or what we have believed has been ignorance.

Somehow it has sunk deep into our minds that God and the world are opposed. They are not — not even a little. If God and the world were opposed, then either only the world could be, or only God could be. They could not both be. If they were in opposition, one would have been shattered long ago.

Hence one who strongly insists on God says, the world is maya. Because he finds it hard: if I accept God, how can I also accept the world? Only one of the two can be. And one who affirms the world says: God is false, cannot be. All imagination, all fancy, all dream. There is no God. Because he too feels that if the world is, God cannot be. Both positions share a deep assumption: that the two are in opposition, so only one can be — else life would be impossible.

But this rishi says otherwise. He does not see God and the world as opponents. He does not see the senses and the soul as opponents. Even for the search of supreme knowing he begins with a prayer for powerful senses.

There is no opposition. There cannot be. It is not possible. Between God and the world not only is there no opposition — there is not even duality, not even polarity. God and world are not two things.

We call that God which, when approached through the senses, appears as world. And we call that world which, when it cannot be grasped by the senses, is called God.

This rishi makes a wondrous prayer. He says: If I now pray that You become graspable to me from within, it would be too much for so small a mouth. For now, let me pray only this: that those very senses by which a little of You becomes graspable to me — as the world — may grow so strong that within the world You become visible everywhere. May my eye grow so keen that when I look at a tree, not only the tree is seen, but You are seen swelling within it. And when my ear hears speech, not only that which is born on lips is heard, but that speech too which, without lips, is eternally resounding. And when my hands touch another, the body is touched, and my fingers also receive the touch of the Atman hidden within the body. Therefore strengthen my senses. Therefore grant growth to my senses.

A unique vision.

Today psychology stands with it. Psychologists say: the more sensitive, the more alive a person’s senses, the more he begins to have a taste and glimpse of what is hidden in life. By killing the senses we merely declare that we are enemies of the world. And we also declare: however much we try, You do not appear to us in the world, so we will pluck out our eyes; we will break our ears. We will make our senses poor, feeble, withered. We will dry them up. We will seek You within.

But reflect a little. That which we could not find outside — which was simpler — will we find inside? And this division we make between outside and inside — are they two? The sky outside my house and the sky within my house — are they two? The breath that goes out and the breath that comes in — are they two? That which is within me and that which is spread outside me — are they two? And the outside is so vast; if there I am blind and do not see, will I find Him in this tiny point inside me?

The rishi says: First, strengthen my senses. Give power to my senses so that through them I may also experience That which my weak senses cannot grasp.

This is a prayer of courage. This Upanishad was not written in a weak moment.

In India’s mental history there was also a powerful time. When a people burns in its full genius, when it manifests its whole soul, it is not weak; its utterances are mighty. And whenever a people is young, fresh, ascending, rising toward its peak, when dawn comes into its life-breath — then nothing is rejected. All is accepted. And then there is such strength in the soul of that people that even if it embraces poison, it becomes nectar. Whatever it presses to its chest — even if it be a thorn — becomes a flower. And whichever path its foot touches, gold is spread there.

But there are weak moments for peoples too.

For nearly twenty-five centuries India has been living in a feeble, impoverished hour — living on borrowed breath. As if the sun has set. Only the memory of sunrise remains; darkness has spread. The mind has become poor and timid. There is fear in setting foot. There is fear in walking new paths. The old rut seems good enough. There is no courage for new thinking, new vision, new flight. In such a weak hour one is even afraid to drink nectar — who knows, it may be poison, unfamiliar, unknown! Who can tell whether I will be saved or perish? Then the soul starts shrinking from everything. A contraction begins. Fear of everything. Drop all. Avoid everything. In this avoidance and renunciation, all shrivels up.

What we call so-called renunciation has two forms. One is the renunciation of the strong — they drop what experience shows to be vain. The other is the renunciation of the weak — they drop whatever they find stronger than themselves.

Understand this well.

The strong also renounce. They drop the things they find unnecessary. The weak also renounce. They drop the things they find powerful compared to themselves. Wherever there is power, they feel fear. The strong too have left the senses — but not out of fear. They opened deeper doors of experiencing; they attained inner eyes of such vision that closing the outer eyes they remained capable. They opened the inner gate of experiencing such that ordinary senses and their use were no longer needed.

The weak too dropped the senses, but out of fear. They closed their eyes lest some form appear and the soul be carried away. Lest some touch happen and self-restraint be lost. Lest some sweet voice fall on the ear and the inner mind be shaken. The weak have left the senses; the strong have left the senses. The strong leave because when the higher is attained the lower is no longer needed.

This rishi speaks from the days when this nation’s genius was alive, awake, wholesome, youthful. Then the rishi could say with courage: O Paramatman, strengthen my senses!

Understand — it means the soul is so strong that there is no reason to fear the senses. We will be able to use them. We will be their masters. We will use them as instruments — not as ends.

In this prayer for the growth of the senses lies the secret of the unity of life and soul. Life is a circle. Whether we come from the outside or from within, what we find is one. This circle — whether we search from without we arrive within, or whether we search from within we arrive without. For that which we divide into outside and inside is in itself un-divided, indivisible, whole. Begin anywhere.

But this rishi of the Upanishad begins from the outside. There are reasons for beginning from the outer. First, man is naturally extrovert. So to begin from where man already is, is fitting. And that which is already natural, why not make it sadhana? Why lean toward the unnatural? The senses are already seeing — why not pray and strive that they see so much that even the invisible becomes visible? The ears are already hearing — why not increase their power so they hear That which is ever unheard! Hidden, unmanifest, indirect — let that too come before them! Why not sharpen their seeing, deepen their sensitivity so that even what does not appear, gives a glimpse! Why not begin where man stands naturally! Why not begin from man’s nature!

The Upanishads are utterly natural, utterly simple. They are not unnatural, not forced. They have no taste for discussions that needlessly twist a man out of shape. As he is — straight — the Upanishad accepts him. It is that man we can refine. The Upanishad does not say, Throw away the stone because it is not a diamond. The Upanishad says, Polish it, cleanse it, cut it — it is a diamond. In it the diamond is hidden. It can be brought forth. What today looks like a stone can, when cut, become a diamond. Do not throw — transform.

Man, as he is, is a bundle of senses. And what we call mind is also a composite of the senses. If we look within as we are, what are we but senses? And the sum of all the senses’ experiences is our knowing. This is our condition. It is not our end. It is not our supreme state. It is our present state. Why not refine it?

So the rishi’s first prayer to Paramatman: Whatever means of knowing I have — my senses — make them sharp.

“All Upanishads are of the nature of Brahman; may Brahman never be abandoned by me, may Brahman never abandon me; established in That, may I obtain the dharma of the Upanishads.”

This is the prayer — so brief. “All Upanishads are Brahma-rupa.” He says two things in these few words — “All Upanishads are Brahma-rupa.” Indian insight has always had a vision: anekanta — the refusal of one-sidedness. To think only one way is right is ignorance. It would have been proper, one might say, for the rishi to declare — the Kaivalya Upanishad is Brahma-rupa. Or — this Upanishad is Brahma-rupa. But the rishi says: All Upanishads are Brahma-rupa. Unconditionally. All Upanishads are Brahma-rupa.

And Upanishad does not only mean the books we call Upanishads. The word Upanishad means: secret; the mysterious keys that open the gate of That. So when the rishi says “All Upanishads are Brahma-rupa,” he is saying: All secret-paths, all ways, all words, all scriptures that open the gate to the Divine are of the nature of Brahman. This is a delightful statement — for to call scripture, word, secret, path — Brahma-rupa!

Two things to note. Brahman is formless — without form, without shape. We cannot even conceive its outline. No definition can be drawn. But mystics who have drawn lines around the formless — the lines do not stay. And by drawing lines the riddle of Brahman is not solved either — yet by drawing lines we can lead those, who can only understand lines, toward the line-less. Those who cannot grasp the formless directly, we can place form in their hands and from form gently lead them on a journey to the formless. Give form, then slowly take form away.

We give a small child a toy to play with. A thick love arises. The child cannot sleep at night without the toy. If he wakes and cannot find it, a restlessness arises like that of any lover parted from his beloved. But soon the day comes when the toy lies forgotten in a corner.

A strange thing: the toy lies in the corner, but the taste of love learned through the toy moves forward with him. The bond of love formed with the toy — the relation, the glimpse, the taste, the opened door — that remains. The toy will lie somewhere tomorrow, never even to be remembered. But whenever he loves another, know this — the donation of that toy will also be present in this love.

Yet it may happen that this child will not only outgrow in body but also inwardly remain a child. Then he will love a person and cry for that person as once he cried for the toy. Forgetting completely that for which he cried so much was also one day dropped — and never again remembered. Where is that toy now? There is no trace.

But if the child grows within too, not only in body — an inner maturity arises — then one day this outer toy will also be forgotten. Even then, what was gathered from the loving of a person outside, that juice will be distilled within more deeply. This love may one day become bhakti; and when this love becomes devotion and flows toward God, those lovers and those toys — whether of childhood or adulthood — will not be remembered; yet their donation will be there. But even bhakti is not complete until the devotee becomes God.

And one day the last toy — even God — falls away. Then what remains is that which was saved through all these experiences — love. All toys fall away. But that for which the toys helped, remains. All forms fall away; the formless love that was slowly gathered remains. A day comes when the devotee is only love. All beloveds are lost. That day he is God.

So the rishi says: “All Upanishads are Brahma-rupa.” They are not Brahman — they are of the nature of Brahman. They are lines, whose traversing one day allows entry into the line-less. They are the limits of words, doctrines, scriptures. But within those limits is a pointing toward the limitless. And just as one day all toys are dropped, so one day all Upanishads are also dropped. One day all scriptures are dropped. If you cling to scripture, know that you have erred. Scripture exists to be dropped. It is only a gesture, a hint. To grasp is useful; more useful still is to let go.

But there are two kinds of fools in the world. Those who say: If we must let go in the end, why grasp at all? And those who say: Since we have grasped, why ever let go? They are of one kind; the difference is only upside down — no essential difference. One says: Why take hold? We will never grasp. But remember the child who was never given a toy, who never knew love, who was never given even a concept of God — do not expect that the hour will come in his life when he attains Godliness. Impossible. Because the mediums of experience are forms — while the experienced is formless. Truth is formless, but the pointers to truth are words, are forms.

The rishi has said: “All Upanishads are Brahma-rupa.”

All paths, all scriptures, all secrets — whatever hints man has given up to now — they are all of the nature of Brahman. They render form to That which cannot be rendered into form — not for That, but for those who can understand nothing but form.

Brahma-rupa means: up to the limit of my capacity, where my intellect and senses can understand — attempts to make it understood.

A man is shut in a prison. The sky is far; he cannot fly. He can only see from the window. Even the window has bars. The sky he sees is divided by the bars. The sky appears confined by the frame of the window. There are no bars in the sky, no frame upon the sky — but to the prisoner, sky is seen only through the window.

If he has never seen the sky outside, he will say the sky is two feet wide, four feet long, bound by such bars, encircled by such a frame. If he has never seen the sky, then even the sunrise within this barred sky will occur. When the sun comes above the bars and appears in the frame, he will say: sunrise has happened. Then within this barred frame, sunset will also happen. That sunset will have no relation to the sunset on earth — only to this window. He will say: sunrise occurs, then five minutes later sunset occurs. He will say: even before sunrise there is light for a long time; even after sunset there is light for a long time. If a bird flies past the window, only so much as his sky allows will be seen. He will say: birds are born and are then absorbed.

Is his knowing completely false? It is false — yet not entirely. Is it true? It is true — yet not entirely. It is limited. His error too is limited. The error is that he imposes the frame upon the sky. What he knows of the sky is right as far as it goes — but if he thinks that is the whole sky, then error arises.

The Upanishads are Brahma-rupa, but if one takes the Upanishad itself as Brahman, then the mistake is made. He has taken the frame as the sky. If you take them as Brahma-rupa, there is no possibility of error — for then you remember that the form is not of That; the form is what we see, given by our eyes, set up by our limitations — not His, but ours.

The rishi says: “May Brahman never be abandoned by me.”

A painful confession. The rishi knows that abandonment happens. He knows well — I wish I would never abandon That, never let it slip from remembrance, never let my hand withdraw — yet in a single moment it is forgotten. The remembrance keeps breaking. The very thought that there is Brahman is forgotten. The rishi says: “May Brahman never be abandoned by me.”

I may not forget, I may not drop it — this is the prayer.

And then: “And may Brahman never abandon me.”

This too is prayer. That I may keep rememberance of It; and that, if within that Vast there were no responsiveness toward me — if I cry and no news of me reaches the Vast; if I call and there is no way there for my call to be heard; I may not abandon It — but what if It has no memory of me? This is not that the rishi thinks Brahman can abandon him; no — it is only his yearning.

Understand this rightly.

It is not that the rishi believes Brahman can forsake him. No, it is his prayer. It is a plaintive prayer: Do not abandon me — fully knowing that It never abandons. Fully knowing that I can abandon It, It cannot abandon me — because without It I cannot be at all. I can abandon It, because It can be without me.

Understand this a little.

I can abandon It; I can forget It — because Its being does not need my remembrance, my memory. I am not necessary to Its being. It can be without me. It was without me; it will be without me. I can forget It. But if It were to forget me, in that instant I would be zero. For the ocean to forget the wave — then how will the wave be? The wave can forget the ocean — the ocean remains. The ocean feels no pain from the wave’s forgetting — so there is no question of erasing the wave. But if the ocean forgets the wave, the wave cannot remain. It cannot be. The wave exists because the ocean remembers it, because it has a place in the ocean’s life-breath.

The rishi knows well Brahman cannot abandon him — but this is prayer, yearning. In this yearning he is saying: Even if I forget You, do not forget me. I do forget. I pray not to forget — yet I am not certain I will be able always to remember. I know myself well — I keep forgetting — but You do not forget me. In my forgetting, nothing of You is lost. If I forget You, I still am. But if You forget me, I cease to be. This is a tearful, tender prayer. It is not a statement about the nature of Brahman — it is a statement of the rishi’s heart.

“Being absorbed in That, may I attain the dharma of the Upanishads.”

Let me be drowned in You, lost in Your remembrance, merged in You — and attain that dharma toward which all Upanishads point. Not — let me attain Hindu dharma, or Muslim dharma, or Jaina dharma. Only this: may I attain that dharma to which all the secrets point, that dharma which the Upanishads indicate.

What is this dharma, toward which all signs and hints speak? And why yearn for its attainment?

What is dharma? Dharma means: the essential law of this cosmos, the basic order, the nature of Existence — the very life of Existence, the Atman of this total Existence. Dharma means: that which holds all, supports all. That in which all is, in which all evolves, into which all dissolves. Dharma means: the ultimate ground. May I attain that ultimate ground — by being absorbed in You, merged in You.

There is a delightful point in this aphorism. The rishi says that if, without being merged in You, I could still attain that ultimate ground — even then, I do not yearn for it. Even if that ultimate law is revealed to me, even if I grasp the truth on which all rests — but there is no absorption in You — I do not wish for it. Why?

Here lies the difference between religion and science. Science too searches for that ultimate law, that dharma on which the whole of Existence rests — but not with a longing to be merged — rather with a longing to possess it, to be its master, to conquer it. Science is also a search for dharma — dharma meaning law, the ultimate truth on which Existence rests. Science is engaged in the same search, but the scientist’s vision is to know, discover, and then to master, to possess, to put to work, to use.

Religion, the religious one, the rishi, is also seeking that same dharma — but with another longing. To be made its servant. To merge in it. To become available for its use. To be conquered, to be defeated, to surrender. If we seek truth so as to win it and use it, that search is called science. If we seek truth so that on finding it we lay ourselves at its feet, that search is called religion.

So much in relation to this aphorism of the Upanishad.

Now a few words about tomorrow’s meditation — the morning meditation.

The morning meditation is in four stages. First ten minutes — intense breathing. Enter Existence through breath. Give strength and energy to breath. Pour your entire life into breath — so that when the breath goes out your whole being goes with it, and when the breath comes in the whole Existence comes in with it. Breathe with such intensity that everything is forgotten — only breath remains. As if you have become breath.

These ten minutes of intense breathing will awaken those powers within you that lie asleep. They will stir energies you have never touched. But no miserliness, no stinginess will do. Do not think: we will do it gently, if not fully awakened, then at least a little will awaken. No — nothing will awaken. Awakening begins only beyond a certain threshold. Like heating water — at a hundred degrees it becomes steam. Do not think at thirty degrees a little steam will form; at fifty, if not full, at least half. Mathematics will not work here. Steam begins at a hundred degrees. Do not think that at fifty, half the steam will form. Not at all. Only at a hundred does steam begin.

And what is the hundred degrees?

For water it is precise everywhere. Wherever in the world you heat water, at a hundred degrees it becomes steam. Whether pond, river, well, tap, rain-water — water never insists, I am well-water, I am tap-water. All water turns to steam at a hundred, because water has no individuality.

With man it is harder. He has individuality. Each person turns to steam at different degrees. Or say that each person’s hundred degrees are different. Steam forms only at a hundred — but each one has a different hundred. So how can I tell you at what degree your steam will form? One thing is sure: you can monitor your own hundred. It is this — if you do not hold yourself back at all, you are at a hundred. If in the effort you pour yourself totally, if you are well-assured within that you are not withholding yourself even a bit, then you are at a hundred. And this has nothing to do with another — it is your own affair. So whether another knows or not is not the question. You must know within: Am I holding back? Am I putting myself wholly at stake? If wholly, then you are at a hundred. Then no worry.

It may be your neighbor is exerting more than you — and yet not at a hundred, because he is still saving himself. And it may be someone else is working less than you — and yet is at a hundred, because he has put himself totally in. So do not concern yourself with others. Understand only within — am I staking myself completely?

Meditation is a gamble. In all other gambles we stake something; in meditation we stake ourselves. So it is the work of a gambler — not of a businessman. Because the businessman worries that risk be minimal, even if gain be minimal. The gambler is concerned that gain be total, even if loss be total. That is the difference.

Meditation is not the work of a businessman at all. It is utterly a gambler’s work. He stakes himself wholly. Whatever happens. There is a difference though — in outer gambling gain almost never happens. I say ‘almost’ to keep the illusion alive — in truth it never happens. Even when there seems to be a win, it is the beginning of a greater loss; or a lure toward a greater loss. So the gambler never wins; however many times he wins, finally he loses.

The inner gamble is the opposite. Even when there is loss, it is the beginning of a coming victory. The meditator never loses — though he loses many times, in the end he wins. Do not think Mahavira won on the first day, that Buddha won on the first day, that Mohammed or Christ won on the first day. No one wins on the first day. All lose badly — and finally they win.

So — total force for ten minutes of intense breathing.

Then, after ten minutes, when energy is stirred, throw it outward by any route it wants to take. Let the body jump, leap, dance, cry, shout, make sounds — even if you begin to look totally deranged, do not stop. Let go utterly and cooperate. If the body wants to go completely mad, allow it to go completely mad.

Why?

Because who knows how much madness is accumulated within. Do not do it now — I am speaking for the morning. In the morning — let there be total madness. And total means you keep no fear: What am I doing? I am shouting? But I am a college professor — what am I doing? I am a doctor — I am hopping and skipping — what am I doing? What if a patient sees me! Doctors fear patients; teachers fear students; shopkeepers fear customers. Whomever you fear — to be mad means to drop those very fears. Any fear — a husband fears his wife, a wife fears her husband. A father fears his son, a son fears his father. Whomever you fear — to be mad means: now I drop fear. And, fearless, whatever happens, let it happen totally.

Why?

Because unimaginable accumulations of madness lie within. We keep collecting them. Our present social arrangement is not for disposing of madness but for storing it. Like garbage stored in a corner — the house becomes filthy. A day comes when the house stinks. A day comes when the house has no place left except for garbage. This is what we do within. Whatever garbage arises in the mind — anger, dishonesty, hatred — laughter, tears — we keep storing it.

Slowly it amasses so much that our life is spent managing it — lest it spill out, fall out, be seen by someone. Then we fear it so much that we stop even looking within — for fear of seeing how much garbage there is. Only those will be able to enter meditation who are ready to throw this garbage out. As soon as it is thrown, all becomes light.

The second stage is catharsis. Throw everything out. Let a cleanliness arise within. And unless you dare, you will not be able to throw. Once you can, you will be a different person. The second stage is to become thoroughly crazy.

The third stage is the sound “HOO”. For ten minutes, continuously, while dancing and jumping, make the sound “HOO”. This “HOO” is like a hammer. Use its blow. Near your body’s exact work-center resides a power which yoga calls kundalini — or call it by any other name — now scientists call it body electricity residing there. If the sound “HOO” is made intensely, blows strike upon it and the hidden, sleeping power becomes active.

The ancient rishis said: like a snake coiled, if struck, it raises its hood and rises upward; its coil begins to unwind — and when the snake is fully aroused it can stand upright on its tail. In the same way this power within lies coiled. If struck, it begins to rise. But strike only when you have the capacity to throw out your madness first. Otherwise, if this power rises amidst madness, you may go completely mad. Therefore many seekers become unhinged — because they begin to arouse kundalini without deep purification. Often they become insane. That madness is due to lack of scientific understanding.

So first, cleanse. The first two stages are for deep cleansing — the first to awaken all energies within you, the second to throw out, along with the awakened energies, whatever opposes them. Then the third — to awaken the kundalini hidden below.

So, use “HOO” with utmost intensity for ten minutes. And then, in the fourth stage, fall like a corpse. As if you are not. Silent. Leave the body utterly loose — as if you have died. Close the eyes and silently wait within. Much will happen. In that inner waiting, much will happen. If these three stages have been complete, unique results will begin to come.

Remember this for the morning meditation.

For seven or eight days — however long this camp runs — remain as much in silence as possible. As much as possible. If you can keep complete silence for eight days, excellent. Remain as quiet as possible. Blindfolds will be given — keep the eyes covered as much as possible. Sit anywhere alone, go into the woods; whenever you feel the urge, take deep breaths; whenever the urge comes, stand anywhere in the campus and throw out whatever needs to be thrown out from within. If after the morning meditation it seems that some part has not been thrown, something remains stuck — if in the afternoon it comes to mind — go under a tree and throw it out.

Let no camper hinder another; and let no camper discuss what anyone else is doing. Let each do what he needs to do. Do not hinder in the least. Better that the energy you would spend hindering another you spend in throwing out something of your own — more appropriate. Pay no attention to others. Keep all attention on yourself. Do not divide attention at all toward others.

Keep silence. Break silence only when you need to throw something from within. Otherwise silence. Keep off talk. Do not chatter. See that these eight days go as much as possible into meditation.

What we say here is so that you may do. We will gather here three times for meditation, but in the remaining time also, whenever you find time, use it in meditation.

If you feel that after three deep sessions you are tired, then lie silently under the bushes; rest in quiet, waiting. Friends for whom so deep an experiment is impossible due to old age or sickness — to such friends I say: if it seems impossible — some illness, such weakness that it cannot be done — then for them I give another experiment.

Whenever the active meditation is on here, they should sit around the grounds — others will be in the middle doing the active phase — they can sit on the edges. For them I give a different experiment. But note — I am saying this only for those who are sick, elderly. Not for those who are spiritually lazy. Those who think — let us avoid the bother, sit in a corner quietly — for them this is not. Because the outcome of the active experiment is very unique. This other is only out of compulsion — a number two experiment — only because if nothing else can be done, at least this can be done.

Let them sit alone anywhere when the active meditation is going on here — there will be great noise, shouting, madness here — let them sit quietly and simply listen to the whole madness around them. Just listen. For thirty minutes let their entire attention remain on what is happening around. Note — do not think about it, do not judge who shouted, whether they should have shouted or not. Do not think — these people are not doing rightly, they should not do this. Do not think. Only listen. It is beyond your control; it is happening — just listen. Sit or lie in silence and keep listening.

You will be surprised — if you can listen properly like this for thirty minutes, your catharsis will also happen. Psychologists say if a person watches a film filled with murder scenes —

(Who is this friend talking? Remove them from there. You have been talking the whole time. Move from there, separate yourselves a bit. Who? A priest? Remove him from there!)

— psychologists say that even watching a film with murder, blood, beatings, war — the viewer, by watching, discharges inner violence and murderous feelings. It benefits him.

So if you cannot do it yourself, for thirty minutes sit in silence and watch-listen to the whole situation around you. After thirty minutes when all become quiet, you too lie down quietly. But it will be easier for the others to be silent because they have been plenty un-silent. For you it will not be so easy because you have not been very un-silent. So when all lie down, you also lie down and do only one thing — keep attention on your navel. Breathe deep — the belly rises; exhale — the belly sinks. With eyes closed, keep attention from within on the navel as the belly rises and falls. In ten minutes, the peace they experience — you will get something almost like it. Afternoon, night — those who find it difficult can sit around in this way.

Those who have brought eye-bands, good; otherwise you will receive them here in the morning, so you can keep the eyes covered.

Before we end our night’s sitting, I would like us to close our eyes and pray for five minutes. The rishi prayed; let us also pray.

Close your eyes, fold both hands. Close your eyes. Now close your eyes and put both your hands in namaskar posture to pray. Close your eyes. Fold your hands. Bow your head at the feet of the Divine. And let a single feeling resound in the heart. Close your eyes, bow down your head in surrender. Now begin to pray in your heart. Pray in the heart that man is very weak. I am very weak — what can happen by me alone! Divine help is needed. His compassion is needed. Your grace is needed. Man alone is helpless. I am helpless. What can I do without the Divine help! Without You, what can I do! Help me, help me, help me! Open your heart toward the Divine to be filled by His grace. Be filled with His prasada. With this prayer in our hearts... our camp begins with this hope — that on the final day we will be able, with folded hands, to thank the Divine in the same way. With this camp we resume this prayerful thrill that on the last day we will be able not only to pray, but also to thank Him.

Tonight’s sitting is complete.