Kathopanishad #5

It is essential to understand a fundamental discovery of Indian spiritual practice; only then can we enter this sutra. Modern science, by analyzing matter, has concluded that if we go on differentiating it, fragmenting it, breaking it down, what finally remains—the unit which cannot be broken further, the last particle—is electricity, the electron. Therefore, to science, whatever appears in the world is a confluence of electricity. Electricity, condensed in countless forms, has become matter. Electricity is the elemental principle.

The seers of the East too discovered an elemental principle—but their search moved in another way, in another direction. Western science broke matter into atom and then beyond the atom, and found electricity. The Eastern sages descended into the uttermost depth of consciousness and grasped its last point. They called that point—sound, dhvani.

The Eastern discovery is: the whole of existence is condensed sound; condensed word. Hence we called the Veda Parameshwar, because it is the Word. And this is not only the discovery of the Eastern sages; whoever has journeyed from the side of the soul has said the same.

The Bible says: In the beginning was the Word—the Logos. The Word was at the beginning of the world. And from the Word all else arose.

All who entered within and sought the foundation-stone of life have held sound to be fundamental. Those who sought matter have held electricity to be fundamental. Yet a curious thing: Western science says sound is a form of electricity, and Eastern yoga says electricity is a form of sound.

On this point science and yoga agree: electricity and sound are not two. It is a matter of definition whether we call electricity a form of sound, or sound a form of electricity. But both concur that the ultimate unit of life is either electricity-like or sound-like—and there is no real difference between electricity and sound. Only their approaches were different, and they held the ultimate in different forms.

If the search proceeds from matter, electricity is found. Matter is inert; electricity is inert. But if the search proceeds from consciousness, then the foundational form of consciousness is sound, word, thought, awareness, mind, mentation. The deeper we descend, the purer forms of sound remain. The last form of sound—this we have named Omkar, Om.

This Om is not tied to the Hindus. The Jains may not agree with the Hindus in metaphysics, yet they agree that when the ultimate event flowers within, its resonance is Omkar. The Buddhists do not agree—there are differences in all doctrines—but when Samadhi ripens and becomes complete, the sound that trembles within is of Omkar, it is Om.

After their prayers, Muslims use the word Ameen; so do Christians and Jews. Philologists say Ameen is a form of Om. That inner resonance may be understood by some as Om, by some as Omeen. With sound it is so easy to project one’s own understanding.

A train runs; the wheels sing. You can hear whatsoever you wish in it. A devotee of cinema may catch a refrain; a devotee of Rama will feel the wheels are chanting Ram, Ram, Ram.

Sound is exceedingly subtle. The Eastern sages grasped it as Om. Jewish and Muslim fakirs grasped it as Omeen, which became Ameen.

In English there are words whose origin philologists cannot quite explain—like omnipresent, omnipotent. Those who understand the science of Om will say these words were born of Om. Omnipotent means: powerful like Om—vast. Omnipresent means: present everywhere like Om—at all times.

From Sanskrit, almost all the cultured languages of the world were born. Sanskrit is the primal tongue. Whether English or Lithuanian, French or Slav, Russian or German, Italian, Spanish, Swiss or Danish—the root sounds of Sanskrit are present in them all.

Om is the fundamental sound of Sanskrit. In Om, all the sounds of Sanskrit are included. Om is made of A, U, and M—the joining of three sounds: A, U, M. These are the three primal vowels; the rest of language is born from them. All words are then constructed of these. Om is the root; A, U, M are its three branches; and from these three branches the whole web of sound and the birth of all words happens. The Jews would call Om the Logos; Christians would call it the Word. This sutra concerns this Om.

Understand this sutra well. For those who would enter within can very easily do so with the support of this sound—because it is resonating within. Every moment this sound is echoing inside. This sound is your very life-breath. If this sound disappears within, you disappear. Your very being is the pulsation of this sound.

But we are so filled with words and sounds, with such clamor, that the inner tune is not heard. It is very subtle, and very deep. And we are entangled in the marketplace, where there is so much disturbance, so much noise, and our ears are so stuffed with it that we cannot hear this small, gentle, primal, deep voice.

To hear it, it is necessary that our mind become utterly quiet; that the outer noise be dropped; that the mind be unoccupied. If we hear nothing from without and no thought moves within, then slowly, slowly, slowly the experience of this sound begins.

There is a danger in this. And that danger pushed India into a deep pit. As soon as the ignorant came to know that Om is the root mantra, they began to recite Om. They sat and chanted Om, Om, Om.

What you recite is not the original. That which resounds within without recitation—that is original. What you speak with lips or with mind is yours, on the surface. That which comes from within without effort, that which breaks through you, layer by layer unveils itself, descends over you, which is not your doing but an inner event—a happening—he who links with that Om becomes one with the ultimate foundation of life. He befriends Brahman. He attains liberation.

But the moment this became known, we made the mistake of sitting and chanting Om. If you chant it, little by little your mind will become filled with the sound of Om. But that sound is manufactured; manufactured by you. And what you manufacture cannot be greater than you.

Understand this well: whatsoever you manufacture cannot be greater than you. How will you create what is beyond you? And whatever you manufacture is like dirt on the hands. That which birthed you—that from which you have arisen—you cannot create. No one can give birth to his own father. There is no way.

Those who think that by chanting Om they will descend into the primordial sound are trying to give birth to their own father. Impossible. There is no way for it to happen. The danger is: chanting Om by and by becomes so memorized, so mechanical, that one forgets it is false, a copy.

We have created imitations of everything—even of mantras! Man is so skilled at imitation that, the moment he knows what the original is like, he makes a copy. We have not only made flowers of plastic or paper; not only used paper among flowers; we have even made great mantras out of paper. Then we roam about with those paper mantras, imagining perhaps a real flower of life has touched our hands.

The danger is that with your chanting of Om you create such inner noise that the most subtle inner resonance cannot be heard. Your Om itself becomes an obstacle.

The rishis have said: the Om within is anahata nada—the unstruck sound. Anahata means: not produced by any blow, not struck. If I clap, that is a struck sound—two things collide and sound is born. Lips strike and words arise; tongue strikes the palate and words arise. Whatever arises from the collision of two things is not unstruck. Om is anahata nada. It is not produced by collision. It is. It is the very nature of existence. It has never been produced.

And remember: whatsoever is produced will die. And that which is born of collision—how long can it last? It is gone before it even is. The clap has hardly happened and it is lost. How long will the strength given to the clap by the collision of two hands endure? And Om is eternal—always, ever, nitya. It is not arising from the collision of two things. It is; it is not being produced.

In the search for this unstruck, you may take the support of the mantra Om—but great skill is needed. That is why, in the experiment I gave you for the night, I said: make only the sound O. Do not let the M come. Only sound O… only O… Keep sounding only O. And one day, suddenly, you will find Om has begun to come. You were only striking with O, merely setting the instrument in tune so that the inner instrument comes into tune.

And the day you are startled to find that you say O, but from within Om arrives, that day know that another current has broken open inside. Then wait. Do not be hasty. Use only O and leave the other half to the within. The day the current flows, the half will join of its own.

And the day you feel that something new has joined your O from within, from that day stop uttering even O. From that day, simply sit with eyes closed and try to listen—not to repeat the mantra, but to hear it. Do not use lips and tongue; use the ear within. Listen—what is happening inside. You will find the resonance of Om is happening within. It is not your creation. When you were not, it was; when you will not be, it will be. Your being is like a wave; beneath you, hidden, is the ocean.

Man, in impatience, often hurries. So I have given you half a mantra, and left the other half—so that the other half may be completed from within, and you may know that a new event is occurring now, which I am not doing. At that very moment, stop repeating—and begin to listen.

The rishis heard the mantra; they did not speak it. But where you stand, you must begin by speaking a little—so that the rock may be loosened and the spring begin to flow.

The blow of O is only to move the stone. As soon as the rock shifts, the spring of Om will begin to flow. Then become silent. Do not speak. Do not produce struck sound. Then the unstruck is near. As the ear is laid to it, as a tuning happens—hearing begins. And then you will be amazed: this tone was resounding all along—why had I not heard it? You were entangled elsewhere, the mind occupied elsewhere.

Know a law of the mind: where the mind is occupied, there alone does it sense; and where it is intensely occupied, it becomes absent from everywhere else.

A youth plays on the hockey field. His foot is injured; blood begins to flow. Spectators on the sidelines see the blood, the stains on the ground; but the youth knows neither the hurt nor pain, nor is he aware of the bleeding. His whole attention is in the game.

But the game will stop. The bell rings, the game ends—and instantly the blood, the pain, the wound, are remembered. The injury had happened long before—but the attention was elsewhere.

Your house is on fire, and someone greets you on the road—neither eyes see nor ears hear. Eyes will see and yet not see; ears will hear and yet not hear. The house is burning. You pass the same street daily; you read posters on the walls, signboards on the shops; you peer into the shops and move on. But if the house is burning, that day you will see nothing. You will pass the same way and see nothing. The eyes are there, but the mind is not behind them; and unless the mind is joined behind the senses, there is no experience.

You are so occupied outwardly—hence there is no attention within. All the endeavor of yoga is only this: become a little free of the outside, so that the current of attention may flow within. And within, everything you can ever desire is already present. That which does not come by desiring is present. That which we have been seeking through births upon births is present.

When Buddha attained knowing, and someone asked, “What did you gain?” Buddha said: “I gained nothing; that which was already there—I came to know it. It was always so.”

This Om is already resounding within you. It is the tone of your life-breath. It is your being. It is your existence. Holding this in your awareness, enter the sutra:

Hearing these words of Yama, Nachiketa said: “That Supreme whom you know to be beyond dharma and beyond adharma; distinct from the entire world of cause and effect; separate from past, present and future and all things related to them—tell me of That.”

That which neither dies nor is born; which has no past, no present, no future; which always is, which is beyond time; whose arising has no cause and whose passing has no means—that Paramatma, that ultimate principle, tell me—what is it?

Nachiketa said: “That which is other than the whole manifested world, which transcends all, which goes beyond; which lies beyond what can be seen, beyond what can be heard—explain to me that ultimate principle.”

Yama said: “The supreme state which the Vedas repeatedly sing; towards which all austerities direct—of which they are the means; for which seekers maintain Brahmacharya—that I tell you in brief: it is Om—this single syllable.”

This Om is like the formulas of physics or chemistry, the sutras. In this Om is contained the whole discovery of India. In this single word we have placed all. Let no one think this small word is small. A key is small, yet it opens the gates of palaces. With this tiny key the door of existence can open. But one must know how to use the key aright. The key may be in your hand, you may stand at the door—and yet, if you do not set the key in the lock and go on turning it elsewhere… the lock is not found though the key is in your hand!

I have heard: one night Mulla Nasruddin came home drunk. He was turning the key for a long time—nothing opened. His wife called from upstairs: “So drunk you lost the key?” Nasruddin said, “The key is with me.” The wife said: “If the key is lost I will throw down the spare.” Nasruddin said: “The key is with me—if you have another lock, throw that down, because I can’t find the lock.”

The key in hand is not enough—one must know the lock as well. And one must know how to turn the key properly. You can go on turning the key the wrong way. A small slip—and everything goes astray. The subtler the experiment, the greater the possibility of going astray. A tiny deviation can create a distance of a thousand miles.

Yama told Nachiketa: “That which the Vedas praise again and again; toward which all tapas directs; for which the seeker maintains Brahmacharya…”

Understand this a little. Those who are excessively lustful will find it very difficult to hear the inner resonance of Om. There are reasons.

Lust is not only lust; it is also a wastage of energy. Energy thrown outward empties us within; weakens us, impoverishes us, and dulls us inside. Sensitivity is reduced. Those who would hear the resonance of Om must save themselves from the dissipation of their power. The more power is stirred within, the more waves of energy there are inside, upon those waves the inner sound of Om will begin to strike. And that striking—first of all—you will hear.

Brahmacharya’s value is not in Brahmacharya itself. Its value is in raising a wall of energy within the body, so that the inner Om can strike that wall and we can hear the reverberation. Without Brahmacharya you are without walls—like a house without walls. You make a sound—it never returns; it slips away into the sky and is lost. A person devoid of Brahmacharya is wall-less; there is no surrounding in which the inner sound can strike and return to be heard. He is a house without walls—sound resounds and dissolves into the infinite void.

Brahmacharya is a scientific experiment through which, along with the layer of the body, a layer of energy gathers. In this sheath of energy, for the first time, the sound of Om resounds. And when we hear this resonance, one thing becomes certain: that which is the source of this resonance is hidden within. Then, following this resonance, we can reach the source.

Hence, in this land, we first sent children to the gurukul for Brahmacharya—so that they might become a little acquainted with the inner sound. If one leaves Brahmacharya without having known the inner resonance, it becomes very difficult—extremely difficult—to catch that sound. Holes open in the walls of your house; things become distorted; to repair them becomes increasingly hard.

There is a moment—precisely when, at thirteen or fourteen years of age, boys and girls become sexually mature—that moment is the most significant for energy. At that time, all around their bodies, energy has gathered. That energy is extraordinary—for from it birth will happen. It is a birth-giving energy. It is of God; hence a child can be born from it. It is the primal power of creation.

And you cannot imagine how much power each person is born with. In a single act of intercourse, as much semen is expended as could create ten crores (one hundred million) children. By scientific calculation, around a hundred million germ cells are ejaculated in a single act. And one germ cell can give birth to one child. If all of a man’s germ cells were used, we could fill the earth with the children of a single man. A person, ordinarily, in a lifetime, can have about four thousand sexual acts—and in each act, a crore (ten million) children could be produced. Four hundred crores (four billion) children are the wealth of one man. With so much life-energy each person is born.

This life-energy is extraordinary. The energy hidden in a tiny drop of semen is not less powerful than the energy hidden in an atom—indeed, more powerful. Till 1945 we did not know that within a tiny atom, invisible to the eye, so much energy could be hidden that Hiroshima—one hundred thousand people—would turn to ash in a single instant. The whole earth could be destroyed by a few atoms. But greater than atomic energy is the energy of the germ cell. For in a single moment a man loses, in intercourse, the capacity to create millions of people.

And if not today then tomorrow, when science captures the power of the germ cell, the force of the atom bomb will seem very small. The day we capture that power, we will have captured the very power of God—the elemental principle from which all life expands.

If, before the first ejaculation at fourteen years of age, a boy hears the resonance of Om, his life will be altogether different. After ejaculation—and after each ejaculation—it becomes harder to hear Om. Holes open in the walls; the echo will not return; it will scatter and be lost in the open sky.

Those who wished to give children their first lesson in Brahmacharya had very profound reasons. And remember: this lesson should begin when the child’s mind has not yet felt a stir of sex. Once lust has arisen, any preaching of Brahmacharya is meaningless—even dangerous and harmful—because the mind will become only perverted, sick, full of repression; no good result will come.

With small children, when there is not even a glimmer of lust, and when their bodies are preparing and the energy is gathering for the first act of desire—at that moment, or just before it, if a relation with the sound of Om is made, which is very easy with children… To lead small children toward Omkar is simple; to lead the old is very difficult.

Thus Yama said: “Seekers observe Brahmacharya for this; they undergo tapas for this. This is the very essence of the Vedas. In brief I tell you this small word: it is Om—this single syllable.”

This syllable itself is Brahman; this syllable itself is Parabrahman. Therefore, by knowing this syllable, whatsoever one desires, that one attains.

This sutra is very dangerous. Therefore, in the primary practice of this sutra, it is necessary to become free of desires.

If the resonance of Om begins to be heard to you, whatsoever you desire will begin to be fulfilled. As you are now, if the resonance of Om were to come to you, you would begin to work toward your own suicide.

Your condition would be as in the story I have heard: A traveler, lost, unwittingly came to heaven. Tired, he rested under a wish-fulfilling tree, the Kalpavriksha. He did not know it was heaven; he did not know the tree was wish-fulfilling. Just the shade… Waking from a nap, hungry, he thought: If only some food were to appear. No sooner had the thought arisen—he was under the wish-fulfilling tree—than, to his astonishment, plates floating from the sky, delicious foods upon them, appeared before him. Some fear arose—but hunger was great, so he ate. Even as he ate he thought: This place seems dangerous—perhaps there are ghosts! He looked—ghosts stood all around. He said, “I’m finished!” and the ghosts leapt on his chest, began to choke his throat. He thought: Now they will not spare me; they will kill me. And they killed him.

It was the Kalpavriksha. Beneath it, whatever you desire is fulfilled at once. If you, as you are, were to come beneath such a tree, this is what would happen. Do not think that, because I tell a story, you would do something else—you would do exactly this. Your desires are not in your control. They surge up, and you can do nothing. Inside the mind is deranged.

Yama says: This syllable itself is Brahman. This syllable itself is Parabrahman. Therefore, knowing this syllable, whatsoever one desires, that is attained.

Knowing this syllable, becoming one with the resonance of Omkar, whatsoever vāsanā is there is fulfilled instantly. Hence the condition: enter the practice of Omkar only after dropping desires. Otherwise you will be filled with the petty, and the vast energy will be lost in the petty. The diamond will be gained—and you will trade it for pebbles.

Therefore Yama tested so much: Is there any desire left in Nachiketa? Finding no desire—seeing complete dispassion—he agreed to speak. And when one dives into Omkar filled with desirelessness, only one thirst remains—to meet God, to be one with the ultimate truth, to be dissolved like a drop in the ocean and be lost. That desire alone is fulfilled. With the tremor of the resonance of Omkar, the last thirst is fulfilled in an instant.

Omkar is as much a formula as those of atomic physics, which, once in hand, becomes a great mantra of destruction. Einstein said a few days before his death: If I were to be born again, I would prefer to be a plumber in a village; I would not wish to be an Einstein again—for I did not know that from my hands would come the formula for the power of destruction.

This Om is the formula of the power of creation—the formula of great creation. With it we reach the very source of life, from where the whole cosmos has unfolded—the Ganga’s glacier from which the river of life flows. But before that, all vāsanās must be uprooted.

Hence my urgency about catharsis—that in every way your cleansing should happen. If even a little disease remains within and your meditation begins to settle, those diseases will torture you badly. They must be removed. Meditation is great power; if diseases remain, that great power will feed the diseases. They should be gone.

People come to me and say: What will happen by jumping and dancing, by crying and shouting? They do not know what can happen. Let someone die at home and, when crying comes, do not cry—hold it back—then you will know what can happen. By not crying, what can happen! Your whole life-energy will shrink; inside, only sorrow will fill; you will become a wound that oozes. Until you have wept fully, there is no release from that wound.

Psychologists say—though it seems the opposite of what we ordinarily think—women ought to be more prone to madness than men. But strangely, women are less mad; men are more. It ought to be the reverse—women often appear more unbalanced. But they are not. The clear reason: they empty their madness daily; it never accumulates. Man walks guardedly: “Let no one say you are being foolish.” A woman weeps with open heart—no one objects; they say, “She is a woman.” If you weep, they say, “A man—and you are crying?” The tears stop. This manliness leads to madness. Too much manliness—and you will be seen in the asylum.

Why has nature given your eyes the same capacity for tears as a woman’s? Nature made no distinction. The same glands are in your eyes as in a woman’s. If nature intended a difference, men would have fewer tear glands—but they are the same.

And remember: he who suppresses crying will also suppress laughter. Subtle—but true. He who cannot cry rightly cannot laugh rightly. He will fear laughter too. In truth, he will begin to control everything—afraid something may slip; some bond may snap; things may burst out.

Men are more often mad; men commit suicide more. Women are less mad; they commit suicide less. They talk much about suicide, but do it less—the matter is exhausted in talk! Therefore psychologists say: the one who often says, “I will commit suicide”—be at ease with him. The one who never says it—he is dangerous; someday he may do it. He never spoke; it never got out; it has been accumulating.

The man who gets angry daily over small things—no need to fear him; he can cause no great disturbance; he cannot murder. Murder requires a great stored-up rage. In him it never accumulates. Hence those who flare up over trivia are often sweet and good. The saintly and decent who never show anger, who swallow it—these are dangerous; keep a little distance. The day they act, it will be for the neck—nothing less will do. They have collected so much.

You ask, what will happen by dancing and leaping, by crying and shouting? You have been collecting it all life. That is your illness; because of it you cannot be simple.

Why are children simple? For one reason only: if anger comes, the child completes it—jumps, flails about. Watch a child in anger: as if all the power of the world has entered him; the face reddens, the eyes blaze, the hands and feet beat. He is tiny, yet the vast seems to manifest in him. Then the anger flows away—and a moment later he is laughing. And in his laughter there is not the slightest taint of anger; his laughter is like a flower. We are astonished: just now he was so full of rage—how is he so happy now?

Truly, the anger has flowed; nothing remains to poison the joy. The child laughs. Anger will come again—he will be angry again; he will laugh again, be happy, be sad. But whatever happens will happen in the moment; nothing will accumulate. The day a child begins to accumulate—that day childhood dies, and he begins to grow old. And how much we all have accumulated! Because of that we are complex, not simple.

He who is not simple, not spontaneous, cannot relate to the inner Omkar. Hence the emphasis on catharsis, cleansing—throw out the garbage collected through lifetimes. Do not carry it.

But there is fear: “Someone may see that I, who never cry, am crying!” You have a statue, an image; “That you would laugh like a madman? We did not expect this of you—that you would dance, jump—we never imagined!”

If you restrain yourself out of fear of others, I can do nothing. If you are living under others’ fear, if others are arranging your life, if you lack even that much courage, then religion is not your journey. It is for the fearless, the courageous.

A friend came to me: “All is well,” he said, “but my wife has also come along. If I dance and jump, then when we go home…” He has an image before his wife; it will be shattered. She too came to me separately and said her husband is present—both are afraid of each other.

Remember: those you fear are also afraid of you. Be kind—do not fear them, and they will not fear you. If either husband or wife begins to leap and dance, the other becomes free: the matter is over—what image is there to maintain when the other has dropped theirs?

In the attachment to preserve this image, we remain repressed. Such a repressed personality cannot catch the fundamental tones; it cannot go that deep. To go deep, simplicity is needed—innocent simplicity like a child’s.

These days here, become utterly like small children. To this I will add one more sutra for you to experiment with from tomorrow morning. I have given one method for the night: before sleep, breathe out strongly for ten minutes, sounding O… and go to sleep; let yourself be absorbed in the sound O as you drift into sleep.

In the morning, as soon as you become aware that sleep has broken, do not open your eyes. The first thing—just as cats and dogs stretch their whole bodies—stretch all the limbs, tauten them, loosen them, so that the current of energy flows through the whole body. Stretch and release; tauten and let go—legs, hands, neck, the entire body—just as animals do, so that energy flows fully. For two to two-and-a-half minutes—still without opening the eyes—and when, after two or two-and-a-half minutes of this, you feel freshness has come, the whole body has awakened, hair by hair, then, for two-and-a-half minutes, giggle and laugh like a madman—with eyes closed. Only after that, leave the bed—so that the auspicious moment, the morning, begins with cleansing; and when you come for meditation here, the preparation is already done.

Do not be afraid of what the person in the next room may think. Help him too—hearing you, his courage will grow. He is afraid of you. Add this experiment for the morning.

This is the highest support; this is the final refuge. Knowing this support well, the seeker attains glory in Brahmaloka.

The Atman, whose nature is eternal knowing, neither is born nor dies. It is not produced from anything, nor is anything produced from it—hence it is neither an effect nor a cause. It is unborn, eternal, ever the same, ancient—free of decay and growth. Even when the body is destroyed, it cannot be destroyed.

If one who kills thinks he can kill, and if one who is killed thinks he is killed, both do not know—for the Atman neither kills nor is it killed.

The moment, through the medium and support of the sound of Om, someone glimpses his own nature, death becomes false. And he sees that there is no way to destroy that which is within; it cannot be destroyed—because it has never been born. Whatever is born will die. You are not born of parents—only your body is born. The body is made; you have entered it.

Scientists think that, if not today then tomorrow, they will construct the human body in a test-tube. There seems no great obstacle; it will be done. But scientists think that the day they construct man in the laboratory, without any need of the mother’s womb or the father’s seed—the day the child is born and grows completely among instruments in an artificial womb—that day they will have proven there is no soul. They are mistaken. Nothing about the nonexistence of the soul will be proven. Only this will be shown: that until now the body was produced naturally and the soul entered it; now the body is produced scientifically and the soul enters it. The soul only enters; it is not produced.

Therefore, even if scientists produce a man in the laboratory, they will not be producing the soul. Let them not be deluded. They will only have produced an artificial body in place of a natural one. And the day that body is in such a state that the soul can enter it, the soul will enter. The soul is unborn and has no death. Only the body is made and unmade.

But this is not something to be believed as a doctrine. It is understood only when it is experienced within. Therefore I do not say: believe that the soul is immortal. I say: set about knowing.

A woman came today and said she is an atheist. Not bad—good. Everyone should be an atheist. Atheism simply means: what I do not know, how can I believe? Atheism is not, in truth, a denial. It does not mean: there is no soul. If an atheist says: there is no soul, then he goes beyond atheism; he is making a declaration about something he has not experienced. The declaration is false, baseless; for till now no one has experientially proven that there is no soul.

Those who have known through experience have all said: there is a soul. The knower says: it is. Yes—until you experience, you may say: I do not know. Only that much. If you insist and say: it is not—then you are not an atheist; you are not rational. You are not speaking with intelligence. You are blind, full of belief—your belief is that the soul is not, but the experience is not yours. To be an atheist is not bad; to stop at atheism is bad.

Another friend met me two days ago. He said, “I am an atheist; I cannot understand the talk of theism.” I said: “What is the need to understand? Why be troubled? Do not understand—leave it.” But obviously, there is no fulfillment in atheism; hence the effort to understand—otherwise why come to my camp?

And I said: if joy were available through atheism, I too am ready to be an atheist. He said: “Joy is not available at all.” Then I said: where I find joy, I say—walk a little on this path and see. If joy were coming to you, and you said it with conviction, I would be ready to walk your way. Or I say to you, with conviction: joy has come to me—come and see.

Atheism is impotence—nothing is gained by it. It is only negation: this is not, that is not. But what is the attainment? What comes of it? What can be born of a no?

Atheism is like a man who sows pebbles in the field; and if I say to him, “Take seed and sow,” he says, “We do not believe in seed—we believe in pebbles.” I will ask him only: where is the crop? If your trust is in pebbles, show me the harvest. The fruit alone is the proof. Where are the sprouts? Where is the fruit? Where the flowers? If sowing pebbles were an end in itself, then fine—go on. But man sows to reap. He sows seed so that a tree may be, flowers may bloom, fruit may form—some fulfillment, some attainment, some transformation of life. No transformation comes from negation. Merely saying “there is no liberation” solves nothing; you are not freed by it, you do not change, you go nowhere; no goal is attained.

Yet I do not say: believe without knowing. I say: without knowing, neither believe nor deny. Without knowing, simply say: I do not know—and be ready to seek.

“The soul is immortal”—as a doctrine, it is useless. “The soul is immortal”—as a realization, it is incomparable. And that element is hidden within you—the one that was, even when you were not, as this body; and when your dear ones carry this body to the cremation ground, it will still be. But to find it you must step a little backward—from the body, from the mind—and seek within for that center beyond which there is nothing.

The key to this center is Om; Om is its key.

In the heart-cave of this jivatman dwells the Supreme Self—subtler than the subtlest, greater than the greatest. This majesty of the Supreme, desireless and thought-free, a rare seeker beholds only by the grace of the ground-of-all, Parabrahman, the Lord.

This last point must be taken to heart. It is subtle and much debated. For thousands of years there has been discussion, and two great schools oppose each other.

One school says: by one’s own resolve and one’s own effort the Supreme or Truth is attained. The ultimate is attained by one’s own effort, practice and tapas. It cannot be had by anyone’s grace; the very talk of grace is meaningless—says this school. If it is by someone’s grace, then the world becomes an absurd riddle—for then it may happen that the one who labors does not get it, and the one who does not labor gets it.

Hence Mahavira, Buddha, and all the siddhas of that lineage say: there is no question of anyone’s grace; one’s own effort is sufficient. The talk of grace is a little off; in it there is the whiff of bribery. A man may entreat, prostrate, rub his nose on the floor—“You are the purifier of the fallen and I am a sinner!”—and please God; while another toils a lifetime in tapas and meditation and never even takes God’s name—how will grace be upon him?

So Mahavira said: there is no God—for if there were, the mischief of grace would hang about. A person’s effort is sufficient. The day it is complete, truth is attained. There is truth in this; it has meaning.

Opposed to this is a second current which says: What is in man’s hands? Man is weak, helpless, ignorant. And any effort made by such an ignorant man will also be in ignorance. How can the effort of one so feeble and in darkness attain the vast? His hands are so small—how will he grasp the infinite in his fist? Truth is so unfathomable; man is so weak and so in darkness that, without the grace of the Supreme, the journey cannot be. Only by that vast grace will strength come to these feet.

This second current also says: effort, resolve, toil—these strengthen the ego, the sense that “I am something, I will attain.” And ego is a great barrier. Therefore, give no place to it. Let it happen by His grace, His prasad, His compassion—so that the ego finds no foothold. There is great truth in this too.

Both contain truth—and both contain danger. The first danger is ego; the second danger is negligence and laziness.

The first breeds arrogance. Hence the Jain monk is as egoistic as any monk of any tradition can be—he will not even bow to anyone. If there is no God, whom to bow to? Then whom shall he bow before! He can only bless; he cannot salute. The very idea of bowing becomes problematic.

Thus the Jain monk carries a dense ego as no other monk does. The reason: trust in one’s own effort—no grace, no prasad; no God whose support is needed. Naturally, ego thickens. This is the danger.

Those who proceed by grace do nothing; they say: “When His grace comes…” They do not even move their hands and feet—“When His grace comes.” Those who rely on grace become deeply lazy. There is humility in them—but laziness too.

The Jain monk, or the ascetic of that current, has great diligence for labor—but ego also. The devotee who trusts prasad has humility as none else—but laziness grips him. He says: “When He wishes, He will do; who am I? What will come of my doing?” These are the dangers.

I say to you: understanding both, if you can hold them together—effort you must make, yet attainment comes by His prasad—there will be a great revolution in your life. Effort you must make, because only effort will make you worthy to receive His prasad. But in the last moment, the happening is by prasad.

This does not mean that, if one does not remember God, the happening will not be. Prasad does not come because of remembrance. Even if one leaves God completely and only goes on making effort, the moment will come when prasad is received. No God is sitting there to give after checking who took His name. It is an inner law of life. As water at one hundred degrees turns into vapor—whether one believes in Agni-deva or not, whether one worships the fire-god or not—when water reaches one hundred degrees, it becomes steam.

So whether one believes or not, when effort reaches the hundredth degree, prasad is available. But the last moment is of prasad.

It could not be otherwise. For man is a tiny fragment of the vast. To attain the vast, labor is needed, but labor alone is not enough. Something more than labor is needed—the cooperation of the vast. But it comes only to him who labors.

Yama says to Nachiketa: Only a rare seeker—note, seeker: one who has labored—only by His grace attains this Supreme.

Never forget His grace. And never forget your effort. Your prayers will not bring His prasad; your sadhana will. Prayers are childish; they are a deception, a trick—standing with folded hands without doing anything: “Let this come, let that come, let liberation come.” Let all come to you—but you have no capacity to hold even a palmful of water, and you call the ocean! It is good the ocean does not come at your prayer—otherwise you would drown. The day the capacity is complete, that day the ocean arrives.

Kabir has said: “First I thought the drop dissolved into the ocean; now I know—the ocean has descended into the drop. Before, I thought it would be hard: once the drop dissolves into the ocean, how will I ever find it again? Now the trouble is greater: if the drop dissolves into the ocean, perhaps, somehow, it might be found—but when the ocean dissolves into the drop, no way remains.” This is complete dissolution.

Labor in the first stage; prasad in the last. If these two sutras are held together, the supreme splendor, the supreme wealth, the supreme bliss, the supreme consciousness—will not delay in raining upon you.

When these two seemingly opposing wheels turn together, your life-chariot certainly reaches the gate of liberation.

Enough for today.