Kathopanishad #15

The real form of this God does not stand before you as an object; no one can see it with eyes of flesh. Brought again and again into focus by contemplation, that Paramatma comes to be seen by a pure and unmoving heart and by a purified intelligence. Those who know it become of the nature of the immortal.

First thing: God is not a person. Yet the way all religions have spoken about God has planted a misunderstanding in the popular mind that God is some person. If God were a person, desires would arise to encounter Him, to see Him, to know Him, to be near Him, to gain His proximity. But God is not a person. The image of God as a person is only a poetic symbol.

God is energy, not a person. Therefore you will not find Him somewhere as a presence standing before you. There will be no moment when you stand face to face. Hence the sutra says: there is no way to make God an object of perception, because only persons and things can be perceived directly. And when I say God is energy, even that needs to be understood in a very specific way. Energy is electricity too. Energy is attraction. Energy pervades on all sides. To say merely that God is energy is still incomplete. God is subjective energy.

There is energy that can be seen, and there is energy that always abides in the one who sees; not in the seen but in the Seer. One is objective energy—like electricity—that we can observe. The other is subjective energy, the energy of the inner being, which can never be seen, because by it we see. Or, better to say, we ourselves are that energy. It is not that this energy is not outside; it is outside too. But the way of seeing it begins first with an inner taste of it.

Whoever comes to taste that energy within will see it everywhere. One who has seen that light within finds that nothing remains in the world except that light. But the first taste, the first initiation, the first touch will be within. It is the innermost energy.

So the search for God is not an outer search. To find Him, it is not necessary to go to the Himalayas, nor to wander in the mountains of Tibet. Neither Mecca–Medina will help, nor Kashi and Prayag, nor Girnar, nor Jerusalem. God is not any outer pilgrimage. Hence no temple, no tirtha, is His place. This makes it far more difficult.

If He were in some temple, at some pilgrimage—be it the summit of Everest or Kailash—there would be no obstacle; we would get there somehow. That would be simple. The outer journey is not difficult at all. However many obstacles there be, the outer journey is not difficult—we reach. But the difficulty about reaching toward God is precisely this: He is not at the end of the search; He is present in the seeker from the very beginning. He is not a destination; He is the traveler’s inner core.

Whoever seeks Him outside cannot find Him—because he is looking in the wrong place. If you are to find Him, you must seek in the seeker. If you are to find Him, you must be free of all pilgrimages and come within. If you are to attain Him, you must close all the doors of the senses to the outer. For the more we go searching outwardly, the farther we go from Him. The more we imagine He will be outside, the more the awareness that He is within begins to fade.

So: God is not a person, there can be no face-to-face encounter. God is energy—but not material energy; it is subjective, of the Self. Therefore the first taste of it happens only through entry into oneself.

And this entry into oneself—its very possibility doesn’t even occur to us. We wander everywhere. Our eyes, our hands, our ears leave no place where we do not search. People may use different names for their search—not everyone names it God—someone seeks bliss, someone peace, someone God, someone liberation. These are names for one and the same longing. One thing is certain: everyone is searching—call it by any name you will.

And whoever is searching can search in only two directions: either outside or inside. Two dimensions. Whoever searches outside will go on wandering. The first spark begins within. First you must know Him within; first you must know Him in yourself. For one who cannot peer into his own within—how will he peer into another’s? One whose inner lamp is extinguished will go searching anywhere he likes, but everywhere he goes he will carry darkness with him. He cannot find light. He is carrying his darkness with him.

And one whose inner lamp is lit—even if he goes into the thickest darkness, there will be light there, because he carries his inner light. Wherever he goes, his light goes with him.

God is an inner search.

This sutra says—

The real form of this God does not stand before you as an object. None can see Him with eyes of skin. Brought again and again into focus by contemplation…

Let us understand this step by step.

Brought again and again into focus by contemplation, that Paramatma comes to be seen by a pure and unmoving heart, and by a purified intelligence.

First, “by repeated contemplation”…

We have no address for Him, no location. We don’t even know His name. We don’t even know whether He is or not. From where then to begin? Where to begin this journey in the dark? From what point to uncover this unknown? From where to lift the veils? If we knew even a little about Him, we could begin.

It is like a blind man standing in darkness—not only is he blind, it is night—and he doesn’t even know in which direction the door is. Had he eyes, he could see. But he has no eyes. Yet even if he had eyes, the darkness is thick. And there is no certainty that where he stands there is any door at all; perhaps on all sides there are only prison walls. From where will the blind man begin? He will begin to grope. He will feel around on every side. In groping there will be much error, many misses. The hand will not straightaway touch the door; it will touch the wall. Many times the hand may pass the door and miss it.

Contemplation is groping. Contemplation means: we know nothing; we grope. We think with the mind, reflect, raise questions, try to find answers—this is all groping. In ninety-nine out of a hundred attempts the hand will touch a wall. Only once will it touch the door. And the danger is that after touching the wall ninety-nine times, the hand gets used to the wall. It may happen that even when the hand touches the door, you hesitate to trust that a door is there. Ninety-nine times it was wall—perhaps this too is wall!

Contemplation will reach atheism in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred; only once will it reach theism. Understand this a little.

Whoever begins to think deeply will become an atheist at first. The wall will be found first. The door is a small space; the wall is vast. The hand will fall upon the wall. It is a matter of rare coincidence—or else of having groped along the walls for many lives—that in some life the hand falls directly on the door. Otherwise the beginning is atheism. The contemplative person first becomes an atheist.

And remember, one who is afraid to become an atheist will not be able to take the first step at all. Therefore I do not take atheism as the opposite of theism, but as its preliminary stage. I have no condemnation at all for the atheist; I have full appreciation. For unless one has been an atheist, there is no way to become a true theist. And if you have become a theist before being an atheist, your theism will be impotent, false, merely blind. Such a theism cannot have eyes.

One who has not gathered the courage to say “no” has no power in his “yes.” His yes is weak. And one who has never refined, sharpened the stream of thought, who has not honed the edge of the sword of reasoning—who has always been afraid lest a denial be born—his blunt sword, even of theism, is good for nothing.

Thus a strange thing has happened in the world. Many—very many—are afraid of becoming atheists, so they do not think at all. They are frightened of inquiry, afraid of reflection. But if your theism fears inquiry, it is worth two pennies. A theism that cannot even tolerate thought—where will it take you?

Thought is a very fragile thing; if a belief collapses under mere thought, what value has it? Logic is no heavy weight; it is a play of words. If your theism is frightened of logic, it has no ground beneath it; it hangs in midair. It is a house of cards—a small gust of logic will blow it down.

Are you afraid? Does your faith tremble? Then know that you have missed the first step. Your contemplation has not been honest.

Ninety-nine out of a hundred so-called theists are false. Out of a hundred, only one man at times gathers the courage to be an atheist. To be an atheist takes courage. Why? Because theism has the whole social order with it; theism is widespread; our life-values are tied to theism; our interests too are allied with theism. Atheism throws one into insecurity. The atheist belongs nowhere. He has no belonging. Whose is he? Whose companion? Whose friend? What community is his?

The atheist has no society, no sect, no church, no temple, no Quran, no Bible—he hangs in a void. Once in a hundred, someone gathers the courage to be an atheist; ninety-nine remain false theists. And the one who dares to be an atheist often gets stuck there. Atheism is not an end—it is the first step. Like a man who has lifted his foot and then stands forever with that foot in the air—he hasn’t even completed the step.

The atheist becomes very restless—more restless than the false theist. At least the false theist stands on both feet. He never lifted his foot; he never began the journey. He has accepted blindly what others said—father, mother, teacher, society. He never thought, because had he thought, assent would have been difficult. Hence the whole society is the enemy of thought.

If a thoughtful child is born in your home, you will all begin to destroy his capacity to think. Because thought is rebellious. Whoever thinks will not say yes to everything. Even when he says yes, it will be after difficulty; on most occasions he will say no. So no one wants there to be thought. We crush the capacity to question in our children. We do everything to destroy it. And we think we are preventing them from becoming atheists? We are preventing them from becoming true theists. They will become false theists.

Better a true atheist than a false theist. But atheism is only the first step; it is not the end of the journey. Whoever lifts the first step and then stops will suffer. Therefore the atheist is tormented, anxious; his mind is ever unquiet, tense, burdened. Life appears meaningless—and without God it will appear so. Only with God can existence carry meaning.

If there is no God, all is futile. Then we are mere accidents; our being is a coincidence; there is no intention in our existence. We are going nowhere, wandering in vain. And we cannot arrive anywhere, for there is no shore. God is the shore.

Thus the more a person becomes atheist, the more tense and troubled his mind becomes; everything grows difficult. To go on saying no, everywhere, is very hard. Without yes, life finds no footing. No leaves you dangling in the void. Negation is never pleasant. From no, no faith, no reverence for life, no joy, no beauty can be created. No is only negation; no is the symbol of death. Yes is the symbol of life. So the atheist is in trouble.

Whoever contemplates rightly will become an atheist first. Why? Because all that has been taught will appear suspect. First, all beliefs will break; a void will be created. When the void appears, know that you have become free of society.

Contemplation is the process of becoming free of society. Whatever had been taught—you have dropped it. Now you are a blank page. If there is any meaning in existence, it can descend upon this blank page. Whatever was written by others has been wiped away. The slate is clean.

Atheism is a precious experiment—if it is not the end. Everyone should pass through the fire of atheism. It purifies; it frees you from rubbish. It frees you from borrowed knowledge. And before your own knowing arrives, freedom from others’ knowledge is essential.

Before your own prajna awakens, you must be free of what others have taught—of that which is not your own experience. Freedom is needed not only from ignorance but from borrowed knowledge too.

You have read the Gita, the Quran, the Bible. You have heard about Jesus, Krishna, Muhammad. You have filled your mind. But you have no realization of your own, no experience of your own. All is stale and borrowed. All is dead.

Ask the priest of Jesus—he says, “Jesus says so.” Ask him, “What do you say?” He has nothing to say. He can only repeat the Bible. Is he a man or a machine?

Ask the devotee of the Gita—he says, “Krishna says so.” Ask him, “What do you say? For what are you here? Has God given you birth merely as a His Master’s Voice record—are you a gramophone?” Then there would be no need for anyone to be born after Krishna. God would be creating you utterly in vain.

Remember, there is no repetition in existence. God never creates the same person twice. God is no ordinary creator. He creates each person unique. His art knows no end. Those whose art ends, they repeat.

The energy of God, of the vast cosmos, gives birth every moment to a new wave. It does not repeat Krishna. Hence Krishna is not born again; Buddha is not born again. If God thought that Krishna and Buddha were excellent, why bother to create you? He could line up Krishnas and Buddhas as a car factory lines up identical cars on the belt. But no—He has chosen to create you; He does not choose to repeat Krishna. Surely there is some purpose for you—some intent to be fulfilled through you. And if you go on repeating Krishna, you become an obstacle to that intent.

Each person is unique. And the way you can be—no one ever has been, and no one will be. If you repeat, you miss a great opportunity.

Pandits become parrots. They keep repeating, reciting learned phrases. Those words have no connection with their soul.

Gita or Quran or Bible—Muhammad, Krishna, Mahavira—they are lovely beings, but not to be repeated. There is no need to become like them. And by repeating their words you cannot become like them. It has been twenty-five hundred years since Mahavira. In these twenty-five hundred years thousands have repeated his words like parrots—yet not one Mahavira has been born. He never can be.

Mahavira repeated no one; therefore he could be Mahavira. Krishna repeated no one; therefore he could be Krishna. Jesus did not quote from old scriptures; he spoke what he himself had known—therefore he could be Jesus. And you want to become like them by repeating them!

The more one becomes a repeater, the more the capacity to contemplate withers. Thought is born out of the search for one’s own truth. Whoever accepts others’ truths does not search. One who does not search—why would he think? In one who does not think, all doors within close. He never gropes. Only the walls remain; he sits in the prison.

You may sit inside the prison and go on thinking, “There is no prison; it is all maya.” But that won’t liberate you. You are still sitting in the prison. You have no contact with the air outside, the open sky, the light. You can close your eyes and repeat, “The prison is maya; I am not bound.” But if truly the prison is maya and you are not bound, then why the repetition? Just get up and walk out. But everywhere you meet a wall. To walk out, one must find the door.

The Upanishadic sutra says—by repeated contemplation…

Whoever goes on contemplating again and again—first the borrowed thoughts will fall away; scriptures and gurus will be left behind; a nothingness will arrive; a kind of atheism will come; “Not this is right, not that either”—a mood of neti-neti will arise. Whoever becomes frightened of that will clutch again at theism. Whoever clutches will suffer.

A little courage to go further is needed. If God is, He will not be destroyed by our thinking. If God is, we will certainly find Him through thinking refined to its peak. If He is not being found, know that thinking is not yet complete. God is found on the day thought reaches its highest summit. Upon that summit the first ray descends—He is. His being is not the fruit of blind faith but of seeing thought.

Whoever goes on thinking fearlessly—let whatever break, break; let tradition break; let scriptures appear false if they do—goes on thinking, and one day, when freedom from all that is borrowed has happened, suddenly the eyes are clear, and where nothing was appearing, the first intimation, the first glimpse of God is received.

The true theist is a supreme thinker. He has thought much—to the point where thought lagged behind and he went beyond. He pursued thought to its utmost limit—there where thought itself falls, and he moves on.

The first intimation of God comes through contemplation—a first glimpse. But it is not experience, only a glimpse—a sudden seeing that He is. Whoever stops at that glimpse will still not have reached God. He has not experienced; he has only had a hint. It is necessary, but not enough.

After contemplation—“brought again and again by contemplation into attention, that Paramatma…”

When the first glimpse comes, it has to be transformed into dhyan—into a constant remembering. Let that first glimpse remain remembered—let it become attention. Let it be such that it cannot be forgotten. Sitting, standing, waking, sleeping—guard that glimpse within. As a mother carries her child in the womb—she walks carefully, she works carefully; a continuous remembrance remains that she is pregnant, that a small life is sprouting and must not be hurt—so one who has received a glimpse carries it within with care.

Kabir has said: as the village women return from the river with water pots on their heads, they gossip, they converse, they laugh, they walk the path—yet their attention remains on the pitchers; they do not fall. Everything continues—walking, talking, laughing, singing—but attention remains on the pot. Some inner remembrance holds the pot steady. Kabir called this surati; Nanak too called it surati.

Surati is a folk form of the Buddha’s word smriti. Buddha said: mindfulness—smriti; a continuous remembering, a constant awareness of one element. Forget everything else, but not that. Kabir, Nanak, Dadu called it surati. Let surati remain, stay awake.

The old saints narrate again and again a meaningful story.

A seeker went to many saints, but nowhere did he find essence. His last guru said, “Now go to Janaka.” The seeker said, “I went to great saints, to knowers, and found nothing—what will I find with this pleasure-loving king!” Even so, the guru said, “Go. If you’ve found nothing with saints, try with a man of the world—perhaps…”

When he arrived, it was evening. Janaka was sitting with friends, chatting. Wine was being poured. Beautiful young dancers were around. Music was on.

The seeker was saddened: “What a wrong place I have come to!” He turned to go. Janaka said, “Wait—do not be hasty. A seeker must have patience.” He had come, and returning into the forest at night was difficult. He thought, “Let me stay the night and leave in the morning. There is nothing to ask here. This man is himself lost in ignorance—how will he awaken me?” After dinner the king led him to his chamber and said, “Please rest well.”

It was a beautiful room for honored guests—costly bedding, a pleasant, fragrant atmosphere. The seeker lay down. But as soon as he lay on the bed, panic arose. From the high ceiling, a naked sword hung by a thin thread! “Is this some arrangement of welcome?” he thought. “Does this man want to kill me? The sword could fall at any moment—a fragile thread! A slight gust of wind…”

He tried hard to sleep, but could not. He turned over, then opened his eyes to see whether the sword still hung. He turned again, sat up, looked—the sword still hung.

In the morning the king came and asked, “Did you sleep well?” “Sleep—my foot! Is this any arrangement for sleeping? Is this hospitality? With a sword hanging above by a thin thread, its memory kept pursuing me. Sleep was impossible.”

Janaka said, “A sword like that hangs over me too—by a thin thread. You cannot see it; I can. It is the sword of death. And whether I sit at a dance, or where wine is poured, or where music plays—the remembrance of that sword does not fade. You could not sleep for one night—I have not slept for a lifetime. Ever since the remembrance of death has come, sleep has become impossible.”

When one thing goes on sounding within like a refrain, its name is dhyan—attention. One thing keeps running within. When by contemplation a glimpse comes that God is; when the taste arises that existence is—negation no more, a deep yes appears—then to carry that yes within is dhyan.

Brought again and again by contemplation into attention, that Paramatma comes to be seen by a pure and unmoving heart and by a purified intelligence.

Whoever carries the remembrance of God within like a pregnancy—who guards his surati—such a one, with a pure and motionless heart and a cleansed buddhi, comes to see God.

This attention has consequences. If someone keeps a continuous remembrance—of God, or even of anything else… Remembrance is essential; surati is essential. Of what—it is not so important.

A man may keep mindful of the breath twenty-four hours. The breath comes in, goes out—comes in, goes out. Buddha gave immense value to this. He called it Anapanasati Yoga—the yoga of remembering the in-and-out breath. If one simply watches the breath coming in and going out…

He says, even if you do not remember God—no harm. Let mindfulness arise; by it wakefulness will arise within. Two consequences will follow. As this wakefulness arises, the defilements that grip life—the cravings—will cease to grip.

Try a small experiment to see. When anger arises, do nothing about anger; at once take deep breaths and watch the breath. Take seven deep breaths. Watching, go in with the incoming breath; with the outgoing breath, come out. Seven times. Then open your eyes—where is the anger? You will be astonished—the anger is gone. Seven deep breaths with remembrance—and anger dissolves.

If lust arises in the mind—take seven deep breaths, watching. Then look—the lust has departed. These small experiments will remind you that the more alert the remembrance, the more the passions grow thin. The denser the awareness, the less the defilements grip the mind—and the heart grows pure. Whatever you wish to be free of—do not fight it. Instead, remember the breath.

In Japan they teach small children: whenever you feel anger, take deep breaths. Japan has been the least angry nation in the world. The smile you see in Japan is found nowhere else. The Japanese person is so composed that even if you abuse him with words that would provoke anger anywhere else, it is hard to make a Japanese angry. That old talent is being lost under the influence of the West, yet some virtues remain.

An American traveler wrote that the first time he went to Japan—this was thirty years ago—coming out of Tokyo airport he saw two men fighting. Not fighting—only abusing each other, shaking fists, making faces as if to kill. A crowd stood watching. It went on a long time. He too watched. He could not understand—if a fight must happen, why doesn’t it? They came very close, then moved apart.

He asked a bystander, “What is going on? So much prelude! In this time the matter would have been over. And you stand here watching—what are you watching?” The man said, “We are watching which one loses first. Meaning—which one becomes angry first. Both are trying to provoke the other to anger. But so far both are not angry; we are watching who becomes angry first. Whoever gets angry has lost. The crowd will disperse; he has lost his composure—he is finished. No need to hit. The question is not who wins; the question is who first loses to anger.”

Japan has experimented deeply with breath. And the greatest experiment: whenever any passion seizes the mind, take deep breaths. Not only deep breaths—breathe with awareness: breath in, breath out—and you will find the whole passion has vanished. You have not suppressed it; you have not fought it; you have not tried to remove it. Only the mind has gone elsewhere. When attention is withdrawn, the connection breaks. When attention is withdrawn, cooperation breaks. When attention is withdrawn, the energy you were feeding to the passion is not given; it dies.

All passions live by your cooperation. Whoever masters any form of surati—his heart becomes pure, his intelligence is cleansed, his discrimination becomes clear. In such a mind—made steady by surati—the intimation of God occurs.

Those who know this become of the nature of the immortal.

One who once knows that God is hidden within—he has no more death. Death was never there, but earlier he believed he would die; he was afraid. The experience of God is the experience of amrit—deathlessness.

When, along with the mind, the five senses become well-stilled, and the intellect ceases all exertion—that state the yogi calls the supreme attainment.

These are precious sutras of dhyan—final sutras.

When, along with the mind, the five senses become well-stilled, and the intellect ceases all exertion…

When within you all activity stops—simply stops: no movement in the body, no motion of the senses, no tremor of the mind; all activity stops. You sink into complete inactivity, into non-doing. Nothing is happening—you simply are. Nothing is being done—you simply are. That condition of a stilled consciousness, when the flame of awareness stands unwavering—this the yogis have called the supreme attainment.

It is a wondrous saying: where all movement ceases, that they call the supreme movement. And our condition—where everything is moving—is called bad movement, durgati.

Everything runs—eyes, ears, mind—each sense hurries, and each rushes in a different direction. Our situation is like a single cart yoked to oxen on all sides—each running its own way. The cart reaches nowhere; only the bones rattle loose. Whichever ox gains a little strength pulls to his side. When he tires, another drags to another side. In the end we find ourselves almost where we were born. No progress happens. A dying man is ordinarily in the same durgati in which he was at birth. These sixty, seventy, eighty years are only a dragging—the senses pull here and there. It seems we are traveling much; we arrive nowhere.

The movement of the senses, the state of activity, is our unrest. People want to be peaceful, blissful—but they do not know the subtle key: bliss is the nature of non-doing; suffering is the nature of doing. Whatever is attained by doing will bring suffering. Only what is found un-done is bliss. For whatever we get by doing is not our nature. What is our nature needs no doing to be attained. That which you already are requires no doing at all.

God is your nature. He is no achievement for which something must be done. He is what you are—only to be known, to be uncovered. There is a veil to draw aside, a crust to peel away. Something hidden is to be revealed. A spring is there with a rock upon it—remove the rock and it gushes. You need not go anywhere to find the spring—only remove the obstruction. Sat–Chit–Ananda is hidden in man’s nature. No action is needed to bring it from outside.

Therefore all the supreme yogis of the world have taught non-doing. They say: come to a state where you are doing nothing at all.

You may ask: the meditation I teach is a fierce activity—deep breathing, dancing, hopping, shouting. If non-doing is meditation, why these actions? Because you are so over-filled with action that unless activity is exhausted and drained out of you, you cannot enter non-doing. Your activity has to be tired out. You must become utterly exhausted—so much so that you yourself say, “Now no more activity.”

If I say to you, “Do not act,” nothing will happen. Even if you somehow still the body, the mind will go on acting. The energy that was flowing in the body will begin to flow in the mind.

So I say: for once, act totally—come to a point where every cell, every hair, every fiber cries, “Stop!” Where the body itself says to you, “Enough—now rest.” Where the mind itself says, “Will you break me completely? A little rest!” Where your whole being asks for rest—there meditation begins.

Hence the first three stages are not meditation; they are preparations. The fourth is meditation—when you are utterly in non-doing; when I say, “Absolutely stop.” I have tried every kind of experiment with many kinds of people. If I tell them directly, “Stop,” they cannot. “Just be quiet”—hardly two to seven out of a hundred can become quiet directly. I wondered why people cannot be quiet. They understand—but the body has momentum.

Like a man riding a bicycle. He must pedal to move. But if he has pedaled for ten miles and then stops pedaling, the bicycle will still roll for half a mile—the wheels carry momentum, energy has built up. If there is a downward slope, it is even harder to stop.

Most people are on slopes. No one climbs; all go down. Having gathered momentum for lifetimes, even if they try to stop in every way, there is no difference—the motion continues. If they brake hard, the chance of stopping is less than the chance of being thrown—the momentum is too much. You cannot brake sharply at high speed; you will be hurled.

I saw that people are so charged with momentum that catharsis—draining their speed—is essential. When I taught only silent meditation, five to seven percent could enter. Now, when I first make people chaotic, active, when I throw them into action, seventy percent can stop. The remaining thirty percent do not stop only because they do not act totally—half-hearted. If they move totally, when I say, “Stop!” their whole being agrees. They stop utterly.

And if stopping happens even for a single instant—everything halts: senses, body, mind—then in that single instant your tuning happens; a window opens. A glimpse comes—like a flash of lightning in the dark.

Like tuning a radio: if the needle is loose, trembling, not steady, several stations come at once. In most people’s skulls many stations play together. They do not know what is going on within—news, music, drama—what?

If your skull could be amplified so that whatever is happening inside is heard outside on a microphone… scientists say soon such arrangements will come; research is nearly complete. Like the cardiogram for the heart, now they make EEG graphs for the brain. Electrodes are placed on the brain, and the pen draws lines—how strongly electricity runs within, slow or fast, how much speed. From it one sees how restless or restful the skull is—how much peace, how much disturbance—what is happening within. If you sleep at night, a graph can be made of the entire night showing when you dreamt and when you did not, because when you dream the needle races; when you do not, a blank appears.

Scientists say: today or tomorrow the mind will be amplified so that what goes on inside will be loudly heard outside. Then you will find everyone mad! Many stations at once. You too will be shocked: “Is this what runs within me?” You have grown accustomed to it. This inner madness keeps boiling; it can reach a hundred degrees anytime.

Hence between the mad and the so-called sane there is no qualitative difference—only quantitative, a matter of degrees. You stand at ninety-eight; someone at ninety-nine; someone at a hundred; some brave one at a hundred and one—he is in the madhouse. The difference is small. One push—a bankruptcy, the death of a wife—one shock, a jump of one degree—and you are inside the madhouse. Between inside and outside—the gap is no more than an inch.

When this quivering state of mind—this huge activity within, every nerve stretched tight—comes to stillness, the yogis say, paramgati—Samadhi—has come. Where all stops, there is the arrival.

In the world, whatever is to be gained is gained by motion; whoever runs arrives sooner; those who move slowly are defeated in the worldly race. Here he who can move fast—run, push others, use their heads as steps—he gains something.

In the world, achievement is by running; in God, achievement is by stopping. There, he alone reaches who knows the art of stopping, who has stilled.

When, along with the mind, the five senses become well-stilled, and the intellect makes no exertion…

No effort, no attempt within.

Understand effort: what is the meaning of effort? Whenever you want to obtain something, you make effort. Whether it be Samadhi, moksha, wealth, position—whatever you want, you must exert. But all the yogas of the world say: to find God, no effort is to be made; there, one must lie utterly without effort.

Finding God is like floating in a river. If the river is vast and the struggle intense, the swimmer will drown—he will tire and sink. In fact, the more he struggles, the sooner he tires, the sooner he drowns. Yet a strange thing happens—one who struggles drowns; but as soon as he dies, he rises to the surface of the river.

The living man goes down; the dead one comes up! The river is astonishing—its laws are astonishing. It drowns the living and floats the dead. The one who cannot swim—the corpse—floats; the living man drowns. Surely the corpse knows an art the living does not—the secret of non-doing. He makes no effort.

Understand this: we do not drown in the river because of the river; we drown because of our effort. If we lie like a corpse, no river can drown us. But we cannot lie so, because we are alive—we must do something. And out of fear we do—“If I lie like a corpse, the river may drown me!” Yet we know no river ever drowns a corpse; it floats. Why do you drown? You drown by your very effort.

Whirlpools form in the river; people get caught. There is one art to escape a whirlpool: do not try to get out. Those who know the science of swimming say—if a whirlpool catches you, go with it. If it pulls you down, go down with it, because the whirlpool is wide at the top but grows smaller as it goes down; at the very bottom it is tiny. There it cannot hold you. If you struggle, you will be broken above; by the time you reach the bottom there will be no meaning to escape—you will be dead. So if a whirlpool catches you, do not try to escape—dive and go with it. From below you will slip out. The struggler drowns; the one who goes with the whirlpool is saved. In the river the dead float, the living drown.

Whoever wants God must learn the art of non-doing. Nothing is required there—only to remain in non-doing. So long as you want to obtain, to become something, you will not drop effort.

Therefore let me give you the foundational sutra of religion: dharma is desirelessness; it is not a desire. Whoever goes toward religion through desire is not going toward religion at all—he is still roaming in the world. He has merely changed the names of his worldly goals, pasted new labels on the milestones; his demand is still alive. And whoever demands may obtain everything—but not God.

Non-doing. Yama tells Nachiketa: where the intellect makes no effort at all. Effort will go only when desire goes. But people are so astonishing—their arithmetic is strange.

They come to me and ask, “How can we become peaceful?” I say, “Drop desire and you will be peaceful.” They return and ask, “How can we become desireless?” They have made desirelessness into a desire. “Show us a technique,” they say, “we want this.” Now they want to be desireless, because desire brings suffering and desirelessness brings bliss.

They have not understood. The point is lost.

Desirelessness means: we no longer desire—even desirelessness. We do not even want to be desireless. Desirelessness is not our demand. We ask for nothing. In such a moment, tuning happens. Even for one second of desirelessness—bliss showers. The needle has come to the exact point on the radio dial; the other stations vanish. When the needle settles on desirelessness, our union with God happens—tuning. We are in tune; the note is struck. Once this happens even once, the path becomes clear.

But do not think that if it happens once, everything is over. The next sutra speaks plainly.

That steady holding of the senses—that alone is called yoga, for then the seeker becomes free of negligence.

And when our consciousness joins to God, we are gone. Ego, pride, dissolve. God fills us, overflows us. The ocean pours into the drop; the drop is lost.

But yoga rises and sets—therefore one must practice remaining yoked to yoga with firm persistence.

No one should think: “It happened once; I have had the glimpse—now what?” The needle will slip again and again. Until the needle itself is gone, it will wobble; it will miss. The harmony will be lost again and again. So one must repeatedly become non-doing; repeatedly sink into inactivity; again and again become absorbed in meditation—until one-pointedness becomes continuous.

There comes a moment when the needle itself dissolves; the mind goes. Kabir called it a-mani—no-mind. When mind is gone, there is no need to practice yoga.

After attaining the supreme state, Kabir still wove cloth and went to the market to sell it. His disciples would say, “What are you doing? You have attained the supreme knowledge—spend all your time in the practice of God.” Kabir would say, “There is no one left to practice. The one who practiced is gone.” Hence Kabir said, “Sahaj Samadhi is best.” Now the moment has come when, whatever we do, Samadhi remains. Whether we stand or sit, work or not—Samadhi remains. Samadhi has become our natural state.

Until Samadhi becomes sahaj—natural—go on, go on seeking absorption—becoming non-doing, sinking into inactivity, into dhyan.

That steady holding of the senses—that alone is yoga, for then the seeker is free of negligence. But yoga rises and sets; therefore one must practice abiding in yoga with firm persistence.

Many begin meditation again and again, then drop it. Dropping again and again is a waste of time and energy. Having caught hold of meditation, hold it; keep striking steadily. These steady blows will one day break the rock that stands between you and the Supreme.

Before that final event, many glimpses will come. Do not be satisfied with glimpses. Many are content with a glimpse; for them the path to the vast, the total, closes. Do not be content quickly. Do not be content until it is sahaj—until meditation is like breath: even while asleep it goes on; whatever you do, it goes on; nothing can interrupt it. Until such a state arrives, continue the search continuously.

Many leave and start again. Jalaluddin Rumi described its outcome.

One day he took his disciples to a field and said, “Look at the art of this field’s owner!” In that field were eight large pits; a ninth was being dug. The disciples could not understand. The whole field was ruined. They asked, “What is happening?” The owner said, “I am digging a well.” “But you are turning the whole field into a well! Not one pit has water!” The owner said, “I dug eight hands deep—no water—so I left it. Then ten hands in another—no water—so I left that too. A third—no water. So on; now the ninth.”

Rumi said, “Understand this man well—he is representative. People are like this. They dig one pit ten hands, then think, ‘No water—leave it.’ After two or three years they dig another; then a third. If this man had kept digging in one place, water would have come long ago. In the way he is digging, the whole field will be spoiled and water will never come.”

So when you begin to dig, keep digging. The results of leaving and digging in new places are fatal. Keep at it steadily. The water is certainly within. If water came in Buddha’s well, in Krishna’s well, it will come in yours. You are born with everything they were born with. The only difference is that you have not dug rightly—or have dug in many places.

Steady digging is needed; the springs are within. Keep digging. First you will find stones, pebbles. Then dry earth. Slowly damp earth will appear. When in your meditation peace begins to be felt, know that the damp earth has begun. Do not leave then—peace is the first news of bliss. The ground has grown moist; water is near.

The quiet mind announces: the source of bliss is not far. A little more effort, a little more labor, a little persistence, a little patience—and the spring is certain to burst forth.

Now prepare for meditation.