Krishna Smriti #21

The cross is a sign of death. On a grave it has meaning; when it is placed upon life it is dangerous. Yet many so‑called religious people have taken the human body to be a tomb. The outcome of such an understanding is bound to be dangerous. If you hang a cross upon a man’s chest as one erects it upon a grave, you are not accepting life; you are proclaiming a renunciation of it. You do not regard life as a blessing, but as a curse. Christianity—I am not saying Jesus—has taken human life to be the fruit of sin, the result of original sin. What we call life is, to them, not a gift from God but a punishment from God.

Such thinking is deeply sorrow‑laden and pessimistic. It stands beside the rose and counts the thorns, forgetting the flower. It sees a small day between two dark nights, not a small night between two luminous days. It gathers life’s miseries and forgets life’s joys. In fact, hoarding misery is itself a symptom of a sick mind—unnatural, astray. And upon the basis of that misery, the philosophy it spreads about life becomes one of gloom, darkness, negation, denial—and of the cross.

Jesus’ impact—perhaps had he not been crucified it would not have been so great upon the world; perhaps the world would simply have forgotten him. But Jesus’ crucifixion became the very birth of Christianity. Today, nearly a billion people belong to it. I do not call this Jesus’ victory; I call it the victory of the cross. Jesus hanging on the cross seemed very right to our sick and sad minds; he appeared to embody our lives. We are all people hanging on crosses. We all live in suffering. We go on choosing suffering, gathering it. In the end only suffering remains in our hands; joys are all lost.

Krishna is a diametrically opposite kind of being. And the symbol of Krishna’s flute is the exact reverse of the cross. Just as there would be no meaning in placing a flute upon a grave, it needs living lips—not only lips, but lips that dance and sing. And lips do not dance and sing unless the inner life‑energy is thrilled with delight. For me there is a choice between Jesus’ cross and Krishna’s flute. It is not that life has no sorrows—there are sorrows. But the person who gathers them and begins to see them en masse ceases to see joys. Nor is it that life has no joys—there are joys. And the person who collects joys, who immerses himself in that treasury of bliss, ceases to see sorrows.

Life contains both joy and sorrow. Everything depends upon the individual—what he chooses to see. My own understanding is that if someone can truly see and love the rose, the thorns stop appearing to him. For eyes that are intoxicated and absorbed in the flower, the thorns cease to be seen. It is not that the thorns disappear; rather, they become companions and friends of the rose, appearing as guardians of the flower. On that very plant, the thorns have arisen to protect the bloom.

But the person who chooses thorns ceases to see the flower. He will say, Where there are so many thorns, how can a single flower bloom? Where there are only thorns, a flower is impossible. Surely I am under some illusion that I see a flower. The thorn becomes reality; the flower becomes a dream. And the person who can see the flower, who can love it and live it, gradually begins to feel: on a plant that bears such a tender rose, how can there be thorns! For him the thorns slowly become illusion and untruth.

It is man’s choice. Man is free to choose. Sartre has a very amazing line: We are condemned to be free. We are compelled to be free—freedom is forced upon us. We can choose anything—except freedom; that is already given. No one can say, I choose bondage, because even that choosing is his freedom. Hence Sartre says, condemned to be free. Perhaps no one ever used the word condemned with freedom. Man is free—and this is the declaration of God’s being. Man can choose whatever he wants. If he chooses suffering, he can. Life will become suffering for him. What we choose—life becomes that. What we go out to see—that is what appears. What we go out to seek—that is what we find. What we ask for—gets fulfilled. If you go to choose sorrow, sorrow will be yours.

But the one who chooses sorrow does not choose it only for himself. From there immorality begins. The sorrow‑chooser chooses sorrow for others as well. It is impossible that a miserable person becomes a giver of joy to anyone. One who, even in receiving, receives misery, cannot give joy in giving. Remember too: what we do not have, we can never give. We give only what we have. If I have chosen sorrow, then I can give only sorrow; sorrow has become my very breath. Hence the sorrowful person is not lonely in his sorrow; he throws around himself a thousand kinds of waves of sorrow. By his getting up and sitting down, by his mere being, by his silence, by his speaking, by his doing or not doing, he keeps spreading circles of sorrow. Sad waves whirl about him and permeate the environment. So when you choose sorrow for yourself, you are not choosing it only for yourself—you are choosing sorrow for the whole world.

Thus when I say that the choice of sorrow has brought man to war—and to such a war as can become a total suicide, a collective self‑destruction—this is where that choice has led. We have often heard of a miserable person committing suicide. But we had not thought that just as a sorrowful person commits suicide, a time could come when the whole of humanity becomes so miserable that it commits suicide. Our escalating wars are the ascending steps toward suicide. This has become possible by choosing sorrow. And when we choose sorrow as religion, nothing is left to be chosen as irreligion. When sorrow becomes religion, it becomes honored; it is glorified.

This current of sorrow that gathered around the cross—I am not saying around Jesus, because there is no intrinsic connection between Jesus and the cross. Jesus could have existed without the cross. Those who crucified Jesus, who gave him the cross—they created Christianity. That is why I go on saying that the creators of Christianity were not Jesus but those priests and pundits—the Jewish priests—who crucified him. Christianity is born of the cross, not of Jesus. Jesus, the poor fellow, is hung upon the cross—that is a secondary matter. The cross became significant in our minds. And all those who experience themselves as hanging on a cross—whether the cross of family, of love, of nations, of religions, or of day‑to‑day life—those who feel crucified, for them life becomes a great sin. All those who experience that ‘great sin’ are drawn to the cross, and a large gang of pessimists has gathered across the world.

The last two world wars were fought and created by Christian countries. Non‑Christian countries, if they came into those wars, were dragged in. Only Japan was a non‑Christian country that entered as an aggressor. But now it is difficult to call Japan an Eastern country. In very deep ways—leaving geography aside—Japan has become part of the West. And Japan also has a long tradition of suicide—hara‑kiri. If a person becomes a little miserable, he should die; there is no other way—as if there is no possibility that a flower might bloom tomorrow. If a flower has withered this evening, then die; there is no way a flower could blossom in the morning. Not even so much patience, not even so much endurance.

So, a country of hara‑kiri and the countries of the Western cross have fought the last two great wars. A third war can be the end of humanity. As Jesus hangs on the cross, so could the whole of humanity hang on a cross. I am not saying Jesus had a hand in it; I am saying the hands are of those who crucify. Nor am I saying that people came to the cross under the influence of Jesus; rather, under the influence of the cross they came to Jesus.

To your second point: I hold that a cross‑centered, sorrow‑centered, sadistic civilization is ultimately bound to lead man into self‑destruction. In truth, carrying a cross has no meaning—and even if life puts a cross on you, it is still our choice to hang two flowers upon it.

Krishna, to me, is precisely the opposite; his flute feels the precise opposite. And let me also say: Jesus is hung on the cross by others; no one else places a flute upon Krishna’s lips. Keep this in mind: Krishna’s flute is a symbol of his own being, while Jesus’ cross is not a symbol of his being. It was given by others. Krishna’s flute is lifted by his own hands to his lips. In Krishna’s flute I hear the song of life’s affirmation, life’s grace, life’s gratitude—thankfulness, gratefulness. Krishna’s choice is the choice of joy in life, of bliss. And as I said: the one who chooses sorrow becomes a giver of sorrow; the one who chooses bliss becomes a giver of bliss.

If Krishna plays his flute—and this needs a little understanding—if Krishna plays, that joy will not remain confined to Krishna; it will reach the ears upon which those notes fall. If you pass by and see Jesus hanging on the cross, you too will become sad. If you pass by and see Krishna dancing in the shade of a tree, you too will be filled with delight. Joy is contagious; sorrow is contagious. They both spread; they reach others. Therefore the one who chooses sorrow for himself chooses condemnation for the whole world. He is saying: by being miserable myself, I now decree misery for all. The one who chooses joy chooses song, music, and dance for the whole world. I call religious that person who chooses joy for others as well. For me, religiousness can mean nothing other than bliss. In this sense Krishna is religious for me. His whole being is nothing but a throbbing of bliss.

But you ask: even after Krishna’s flute, there was the war of the Mahabharata. It happened in spite of Krishna’s flute; it did not happen because of Krishna’s flute. The flute has no inner connection with war. The cross does have an inner, logical relationship with war. The flute has none. The war happened in spite of Krishna’s flute. This means we are so wedded to sorrow that even Krishna’s flute could not cheer us. The flute kept playing, and still we descended into war. The flute kept playing, but we were not filled with gratitude. The flute did not become our flute.

Here is something very interesting: to make another’s joy one’s own is very difficult; to make another’s sorrow one’s own is very easy. You can cry with another’s crying, but to laugh with another’s laughter becomes difficult. If someone’s house has caught fire, you can offer sympathy; but if someone’s house has become grand, you cannot share in his joy. There are fundamental reasons for this.

With Jesus’ cross we can come close; but with Krishna’s flute we may be filled with jealousy and go away. Krishna’s flute may awaken only jealousy in us, producing no fellow‑feeling, no empathy. But Jesus’ cross produces sympathy in us; it does not produce jealousy. Jesus’ cross cannot produce jealousy because none of us is ready to be crucified. When Krishna plays the flute, our minds can fill with envy—and envy becomes suffering. To share in joy is a very difficult thing; to share in sorrow is very easy. A very ordinary mind can share in sorrow. An extraordinarily refined consciousness is needed to share in joy—to participate in another’s joy, to drown in it, to experience it as one’s own. There are many reasons. The first is: we are already miserable. If someone is miserable, it costs us nothing to sink into it. We are not happy. If someone is happy, we find no harmony, no connection.

So, even after Krishna’s flute, war happened. There is an even more striking point: after Jesus’ cross, it took nearly two thousand years for wars to grow to this intensity. Krishna was playing the flute—and the war broke out then and there. It happened in spite of Krishna’s flute. Krishna’s flute has neither been understood, nor grasped, nor recognized.

Consider also that Krishna himself went down into the war; Jesus cannot be taken into war. If someone says to Jesus, Enter the war, Jesus will say, Are you crazy? For I say to you: if someone strikes you on one cheek, turn the other to him. And Jesus says: The old prophets said that if someone throws a brick at you, you should strike him with a stone; if someone puts out one of your eyes, you should take both of his. But I say to you: if someone slaps you on one cheek, turn the other also. And I say: if someone takes your coat, give him your shirt too. And I say: if someone asks you to carry a load for one mile, carry it for two—perhaps out of shyness he could not ask for more.

Such a Jesus we cannot take into war. Now the matter may seem a bit complex. Jesus cannot be taken into war. But Krishna does go into war. Jesus cannot be taken into war because life is so wretched that it is not worth fighting for. Krishna can be taken into war because life is so full of joy that it is worth fighting for.

Understand this. For Jesus, life as it is is so futile, so sorrowful, that if you slap him once no increase of suffering occurs—you could say Jesus is already so beaten that your slap makes no difference. He even turns the other cheek so that you need not take the trouble to turn his head. Jesus is so miserable that he cannot be made more miserable. Hence he cannot be readied to fight. Only those can be readied to fight who proclaim the joy of life. If there is an attack upon life’s joy, they will fight; they will stake themselves to protect it. They will do anything to save life’s delight. Jesus cannot be readied for war; nor Mahavira; nor Buddha. Only Krishna can be readied. And there is one more: Mohammed—he can also be readied for war. Through a very deep route Mohammed comes a little close to Krishna; to come altogether is difficult, but he comes somewhat near. Only those who feel there is something in life worth saving can be readied to fight; for those who feel there is nothing worth saving, where is the question of fighting?

But Krishna is not war‑mongering or war‑loving. He is a lover of life; yet if life is in danger, he is ready to fight. Therefore Krishna made every effort to prevent the war. He did everything possible so that the war would not be. To avert it and save life, Krishna left nothing undone. But when it becomes clear that there is no way, that the forces of death will fight and will not bend—not even agree to compromise—then Krishna stands to fight on the side of life and of dharma. In my view, for Krishna, life and dharma are not two things. He stands to fight.

Naturally, when a person like Krishna fights, he remains cheerful and blissful even then. And a person like Jesus, even if he does not fight, will be found sad. A person like Krishna, even when he fights, is in bliss, because fighting has come as a part of life; it cannot be separated from life. And as I said earlier, Krishna does not make the kind of choices about life that common sadhus, puritans, and moralists make. Krishna does not say that war is, under all circumstances, evil. Krishna says: war can be bad; war can be good. Nothing is good under all circumstances; nothing is bad under all circumstances. There are moments when poison is nectar and nectar becomes poison. There are moments when a curse becomes a blessing and a blessing becomes a curse.

Krishna says: nothing is decided once for all. At each moment, in each situation, it is decided what is auspicious. One cannot go on having decided in advance what is good. If the situation changes, difficulties can arise. Therefore Krishna agrees to decide moment‑to‑moment. He has tried his best that war should not happen; but seeing that it will happen, then to fight half‑heartedly is useless. A man like Krishna will not fight half‑heartedly. If he goes to fight, he will go with his whole heart. With his whole heart he has tried that war should not be; now that it will be, Krishna goes to fight with his whole heart. He had not intended to participate directly in battle or to be active in it. But when such a moment comes, he has to become a direct participant—and he takes the Sudarshan in his hand.

As I said earlier, Krishna lives by the moment. All joy‑lovers live by the moment; only the sorrowful do not. Only the sorrowful keep long accounts—and because of those long accounts, they remain miserable. They gather all the suffering from the day the earth was made and heap upon themselves all the suffering that will be till the world ends. Suffering seems so great that they are crushed under it. The joy‑lover is moment‑oriented. He says: except for the moment, there is no existence. Whenever existence is, it is in the moment—moment to moment is his journey. He does not keep accounts of the past that has gone by, nor of the future that has not yet come. For he says: what has passed has passed; what has not yet come has not yet come. What is, is in this moment; to be totally responsible to this moment, to respond totally to this moment, to be utterly open to this moment—that is his bliss.

The sorrowful is closed; he never looks to this moment. If you bring him to a flower and say, Look, it has bloomed, he will say: by evening it will wither. Say to him: Look, this is youth. He will say: we have seen much youth; all youth goes nowhere but into old age. Say to him: this is happiness. He will say: we have seen many pleasures; turn them over and see—behind every joy sorrow is hidden. We cannot be deceived.

The sorrowful looks in extension; he is never in the moment. The joy‑lover says: when evening comes, let it come—why be miserable in advance? When even the flowers are not sad about the coming evening and are dancing with joy, why should we be sad? Let evening come. And the wonder is: the joyful mind can also relish the falling of flowers at dusk. Who said that only blooming flowers hold joy and falling flowers do not? Perhaps we have never seen it—because of our sorrow. Who said that only the young are beautiful and the old are not? Old age has its own beauty. And when someone is truly old—someone like Rabindranath—what measure is there of that beauty! Someone like Walt Whitman—what measure of his beauty in old age! Looking at Whitman in old age, you feel: what other beauty could there be! Childhood has its kind of beauty; youth its kind; old age its kind. But who has the leisure to notice the kinds? When all the hair has turned white and life’s journey nears completion, there is that same beauty which belongs to sunset. Who said that beauty lies only in sunrise? Sunset has its own beauty. Yet the sorrowful does not see beauty even at sunrise. He says: what foolishness is this! In less than an hour it will all be sunset; darkness will fall.

Krishna is a man of the moment. The whole pilgrimage of bliss is a pilgrimage of the moment. One should even say there is no pilgrimage, for in the moment how can there be a journey? In the moment there is only a plunging. In time there is a journey. In the moment you cannot go far; you can go deep. In the moment you can dive. The moment has no length; it has only depth. Time has length; it has no depth. Therefore the one who dives into the moment goes beyond time. He attains eternity, the eternal. Krishna is in the moment, and at the same time in the eternal. The one who is in the moment is in the eternal. The one who is in time—as a series—never connects with the eternal. He keeps tallying the moments, the particles. When he lives, he writes the account of death. When morning comes, he thinks of evening. When love comes, he thinks of separation. When union happens, he is already pained by the tears of parting.

Therefore, if at some moment a situation arises where Krishna has to take the Sudarshan in his hand, he does not stop for the sake of a past promise that he would not act in battle. He will say: that Krishna who made the promise—where is he now? Where is the Ganga now where she was? Where are the flowers where they were? Where are the clouds where they were? Everything has changed; have I alone taken a contract to remain the same? All that has gone is gone. I am where I am now. And whatever my response to this moment is, whatever my resonance in this moment is—that is my being. He does not ask forgiveness, nor does he repent. He does not say: I made a mistake in giving my word. He does not say: bad happened, wrong happened; I am sad and will atone later. He says nothing of the sort. He is utterly true to the moment.

This should be understood: to be true to the moment. He is so true to the moment that if the moment brings an event he had never imagined, he still plunges in. Many times it will seem to us that he is not very true to us, because he had said he would not enter the war—and now he has entered! The one who is true to the moment is true to existence; but he cannot be very true to society. For society lives in time, and he lives in eternity. Society lives in time—keeping accounts of the past and of the future. The person who lives in the moment keeps no accounts.

I have heard a story. A great Zen mystic, Rinzai, was approached by a young man who said: I have come to you in search of truth. Rinzai said: Leave aside truth; first I want to ask something else. Do you come from Peking? He said: Yes. Rinzai asked: What is the price of rice in Peking? The young man had traveled a long way; he had not come thinking he would be asked about the price of rice. So he said: Excuse me—and let me first inform you, so you won’t ask such questions further—I break the roads I have walked; I bring down the bridges I have crossed; I erase the steps by which I have climbed. I have no past. Rinzai said: Then sit down—then we can speak of truth. I only wanted to know whether the price of rice in Peking still lingers in your memory. If it does, it will be very difficult to introduce you to truth, because truth is always in the moment, in the present. It has nothing to do with the past. The one who lives in the past cannot live in the present. The one who lives in the past—his mind lives in the future; he cannot be in the present.

So, in spite of Krishna, there was war. And Krishna could participate in war because the partisan of joy can also fight. Then Krishna says: fighting is a part of life. As long as life is, some kind of war will continue. The fields of war will change, the bases will change, the routes will change, the planes will change, the quality will change—but war will continue. It cannot be that war stops. War can stop only when either humanity ceases to exist, or humanity becomes perfect. Only in two senses can war end. If man attains to perfection, it ends; if man ends, it ends. As man is, war will continue. Then what should the concern be? Not that there be no war. Krishna says only this: let war be dharmayuddha—righteous war; let peace be dharmashanti—righteous peace.

Keep in mind: peace can be irreligious, and war can be religious. But the pacifist thinks peace is always religious. The war‑monger thinks war is always right. Krishna is no “‑ist”; he is very liquid, very fluid. In his life things are not cut like stone; in his life everything is fluid like air. He says: peace too…

I am walking down the road, a peaceful man, and someone is robbing someone. I pass peacefully, because I say fighting is not for me. I pass peacefully—but my peace has become irreligious; because my peace is collaborating, in a way, with someone being plundered and someone plundering. It is not necessary that peace is always dharma. People like Bertrand Russell—pacifists—take peace to be always right. But such peace can also be impotence; such peace can be emasculation.

Therefore Krishna repeatedly says to Arjuna: Give up weakness. I had never thought you could be impotent. What kind of talk is this like the impotent! When the war stands before you, and when— in Krishna’s vision—this war is for dharma, what kind of weakness are you speaking? Where has your strength gone? Where has your manliness gone?

Peace is not necessarily dharma; war is not necessarily dharma. You may say: then any war‑lover can claim his war is righteous. He can. Life is complex; no one can prevent him. But if clarity spreads as to what dharma is, it will become harder and harder for them to make such claims.

Let me say what dharma is in Krishna’s view: that which develops life, that which causes life to bloom, to dance, to be blissful—that is dharma. That which becomes an obstacle to life’s joy, that which blocks its efflorescence, that which twists and breaks life, that which does not allow it to blossom, to flower, to fruit—that is adharma. Whatever becomes a hurdle in life is adharma; whatever becomes a staircase for life is dharma.

How can anyone assimilate someone else? And why should one? That is not the responsibility. I can assimilate only myself—how would I assimilate Krishna? And when Krishna assimilates himself, why should anyone else go to assimilate Krishna?

No—assimilating another is adultery. To assimilate another is injustice to oneself. The very idea of assimilating someone else is wrong. I have my own soul. It should blossom. If I assimilate another, what will happen to my soul? Yes, the other will dominate me, the other will drape over me; I will wear the other—what will become of me? My responsibility is toward my own being.

No—understanding Krishna is enough; there is no need at all to assimilate him. Understanding is sufficient. And not so that you can go back, assimilate, or become one with Krishna. Understand in order to see: when a person like Krishna blossoms, what are the laws of that flowering? When someone like Krishna appears in his spontaneity, what are the laws of that spontaneity? I too can manifest in my own spontaneity. From understanding Krishna, one clue is gained: if Krishna can flower, why should I remain withered? If Krishna can dance, why should I not be able to dance? It is not that Krishna’s dance and your dance will become one. Your dance will be yours; Krishna’s dance will be Krishna’s. But understanding Krishna can assist in your self-manifestation. Not in assimilation—rather, it can help your own emergence.

So first I say: there is no need to assimilate anyone. Though some foolish people have tried. No one can ever do it completely, because it is impossible. I can only wear the other; I cannot make the other my soul. However deeply I cover myself, still I will remain separate behind. At best I can act the other; being is always one’s own. It is never another’s. Borrowed being—a borrowed soul—does not exist. It cannot be. I will remain me nonetheless. Yes, I can wear someone so completely that I go on pressing my “I” down and down within, it hides in my innermost womb, and my whole personality becomes another’s. But still, I remain me.

Many have tried to assimilate Krishna—just as they have tried with Buddha, with Rama, with Christ. But no one ever assimilates anyone. That failure is certain. Whoever sets out in that direction makes failure his destiny. And not only failure—self-destruction as well. Those who ordinarily commit suicide should not really be called suicidal; they only assault the body, they only kill the body. But those who try to assimilate another are suicidal: they attempt to kill their own soul. All followers—imitators, copyists, those who walk behind—are suicidal.

Yet people have tried. Two results come out of that effort. First, the person can only wear, only perform. Second, in his wearing, Krishna’s very form gets altered—by that wearing itself. Because if I wear Krishna, I will wear him in my way; at least that much of me will remain. If you wear him, you will do it in your way; at least that much of you will remain. Therefore not only does one commit adultery with oneself, one also commits adultery with Krishna. All the theologians, the religionists—their Christ, their Krishna, their Buddha, their Mahavira—who follow behind trying to “wear” them, all do just this. They are astonishing stories of humanity’s failure—astonishing proofs of humanity’s suicidal tendency.

But people like Meera or Chaitanya do not wear Krishna—not at all. Meera does not wear Krishna. Chaitanya does not wear Krishna. They do not assimilate Krishna. They simply manifest whatever they are—totally. In their manifestation—in Meera’s manifestation—Krishna’s personality is not worn as a garment. In Meera’s revealing, or in Chaitanya’s dance and songs, Krishna is neither worn nor assimilated. Chaitanya is Chaitanya, in his own way. Yes, in his way there is a stream of love toward Krishna. And as that stream grows larger, as it grows larger, in the same proportion Chaitanya is lost; in the same proportion Krishna is also lost; and a moment comes when everything is lost. In that total losing, neither Krishna remains nor Chaitanya remains. If at that moment you ask, “Are you Krishna or Chaitanya?” Chaitanya will say, “I cannot figure out who I am. I am. Or perhaps even the ‘I’ does not remain—only is-ness.” Pure existence. And this attainment is the flower of Chaitanya’s own soul. There is no wearing here, no assimilating anyone.

Such a mistake should never be made. Yet the mind feels like making it—because buying ready-made clothes is always easy. You can put them on instantly; there is great convenience. You need not wait to wear them. If one has to find oneself, who can say when that will happen? But if one has to wear Krishna, it can happen right now. Borrowing can happen any time; earning may take time. Hence the urge to wear. Wear anyone and get out of the hassle. But no one ever got out of the hassle that way—they fell into the whirlpool of a deeper hassle.

Therefore I call that person religious who is inventing himself. Yes, in this invention, understanding Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna, Christ can be supportive. Because when we understand another, we are laying the foundation to understand ourselves. Understanding another is easier than understanding ourselves—because with the other there is a gap, a distance; and distance is a device for understanding. To understand oneself is very intricate, because there is no gap between the understander and that which is to be understood. So the other is useful for understanding. But having understood him, our own understanding should grow—our understanding of ourselves should grow.

You must have experienced this many times: if someone comes and brings his trouble to you, you can give him very apt counsel. But if the same trouble befalls you, you cannot give yourself equally apt counsel. It is a great wonder. What is the matter? This person seems very wise: anyone else’s difficulty—he can advise; when the same difficulty comes to him, he suddenly goes out seeking advice! No—the closeness is so great that there is no space for understanding. Understanding another is easier. And if our understanding of another slowly becomes our own understanding, then later Krishna will be forgotten, Christ will be forgotten, Buddha–Mahavira will be forgotten; ultimately only we will remain. In the end, only my purity should remain.

The attainment of such purity is liberation. To become supremely pure in that way is nirvana. To become supremely pure in that way is the attainment of divine consciousness. Yes, one who reaches there by understanding Krishna may use the name Krishna; he may say, “I have found Krishna.” That is only the paying off of an old debt, only gratitude for an old debt—nothing more. One who reaches there may say, “I have found Jesus.” That is only paying off the debt toward Jesus—whose understanding had given him understanding. Nothing more. In the end we always find only ourselves. No one can ever find another. But the day we find ourselves, that day no other remains. Therefore we will use some word or other—whatever we found useful on the journey, that we will use. One small point, then we will sit for meditation.

For this one would have to speak at great length. In fact, that is what we have been doing all these days. Two–three words can be said. Through Krishna’s understanding, human civilization will become effortless and natural; it will become moment-to-moment; it will be devoted to joy; it will no longer be sorrow-centered, time-centered, negation-centered, renunciation-centered. Life will be recognized, graciously, as a benediction. And there will be no division between life and God: life itself is God. That dignity will, little by little, grow. There is no God sitting somewhere opposed to life—life itself is God. There isn’t some creator sitting apart from creation; the very process of creation, the energy of creation—creativity itself—is the Divine.

If you keep in mind all that I have been saying in the meantime, the last point I have just made will become clear. In these days I said many things to you; some may have seemed interesting, some uninteresting. Liking also becomes an obstruction to understanding; so does disliking. What we like, we swallow without understanding; what we dislike, we shut the door on and leave outside—again without understanding. I did not speak so that you might either swallow my words or leave them at the door; I spoke only so that you might understand them naturally and simply. Do not take my words home. Take with you the understanding that happened through understanding those words—the prudence, the wisdom that came. Leave the flowers here; if some fragrance remains in your hands, take that. There is no need to carry my words away. My words are as useless as all words are useless. But in the context of these words, in their friction, in this face-to-face encounter with them, if something has been born within you—it can be born only if you took no sides; it can be born only if you did not say, “He’s right, that’s exactly what I believe,” or “He’s wrong, that’s not what I believe”—only then can understanding arise in you.

If you took it that I’m speaking in favor of Krishna and not in favor of our Mahavira, you will go away with hurt, not with understanding. The responsibility will not be mine. It won’t be Mahavira’s either. It will be yours. If you thought, “He didn’t speak in favor of our Jesus,” you won’t carry understanding home. Or if you thought, “He is speaking about our Krishna,” you will return uncomprehending. What have I to do with your Krishna? Neither liking nor disliking; neither pro nor con. What I see, I have simply spread before your eyes. And I myself am a moment-to-moment man; therefore I am not to be relied upon. What I will say tomorrow—there is no promise from today, no assurance. Today, as it appeared to me, I have said it. What came to your understanding today—what came to understanding is not the value; the increase in understanding that came in the very coming to understand—that is the value.

I hope that in these ten days, in everyone there has been some growth of understanding, some widening of vision; that some doors have opened, that some space has been made for the sun to enter. I do not say that when the sun rises within you you should give it any particular name—call it Krishna, or call it Buddha, or call it Rama; that is your choice. The name will be yours—I say only this much: let the door of your consciousness be open. Then the sun will come. The name depends on you, because the sun does not declare what its name is. It is nameless. You will give your own name. But the door opens only in the consciousness of those who live intelligently, in understanding, with understanding—not with parties, positions, and doctrines. Those who lack trust in their own understanding live by doctrines, dogmas, and sides. So they bring home solid, pre-cast, cement-and-concrete, marketplace-bought doctrines. Understanding is fluid like water. Understanding is a flow. A doctrine is not a flow.

So if you have listened to me from behind the shield of doctrines—whether friendly to those doctrines or hostile—you will not be able to understand what I have said.

Let me tell you the last thing: I have nothing to do with Krishna. There is no relation with Krishna. I have not spoken so that you become pro-Krishna; I have not spoken so that you become anti-Krishna. I have used Krishna merely as a canvas, the way a painter uses a canvas. He has nothing to do with the canvas. He has some colors to spread upon it; he spreads them. I too had some colors to spread before you; I spread them on Krishna’s canvas. Mahavira’s canvas serves me just as well, Buddha’s canvas too, Jesus’ canvas too. And the colors I use on one canvas—there is no necessity that I use those very colors on another. And no one can ever tell me, “Yesterday you painted that picture; today you have painted the exact opposite!” If I am a painter, I will paint the opposite as well. Only if I am a copyist will I reproduce the same thing tomorrow.

Therefore there is no need to clutch my statements with rigidity. Understand my statements and let them go. Understanding will remain behind; the statements will fall away. One more benefit will come of this: there will never arise the danger of catching hold of me. Otherwise, if you clutch my statements—whether pro or con—you will catch hold of me. No, there will be no loss to me. The loss will be yours. Whenever we catch hold of someone, that very moment we lose ourselves. When our hands become utterly empty, suddenly our hands fill with ourselves. In that hope I have said all these things.

I am very obliged by the love, the peace, the silence, the joy with which you have listened to my words. And in the end I bow to the God dwelling within everyone. Please accept my pranam.

Now we will sit for meditation.

It is the final sitting, so those who have come just to watch will go outside and stand along the road.
Yes, friends who only want to watch will stand outside on the street. Here inside the compound, only those who are participating will remain. If any friends wish to meditate standing—if it is easier for them—then they can stand on the back lawn. In the compound only those who are doing the meditation will stay; those who want to watch will go outside. No one may sit here with eyes open.

All right, please sit in your places. Friends who wish to do it standing, move to the back and stand. If two or four friends are new, let me give the instructions. For the first ten minutes, take deep breathing, and put your total energy into inhaling and exhaling. Let only the breath remain. With the hammering of the breath for ten minutes, the inner energy will awaken, the inner electricity will awaken, and the whole body will become nothing but a vibration of power. In the second ten minutes, leave the body free. The body will dance, cry, sway, shout—whatever it does, support it with your whole energy. For the two–four–ten friends in whom this does not happen, they should make their own effort so that in a day or two their block breaks and they can enter the experiment naturally. In the third stage, for ten minutes, ask, “Who am I?” And in the fourth stage, for ten minutes, simply lie in silent waiting.

Close your eyes. These eyes are to be closed for forty minutes; in between, do not open them. Close your eyes. No one in the compound should have open eyes; otherwise they will have to be asked to get up in between. These eyes are to remain closed for forty minutes; until I say so, keep them closed.

Join both hands. Keeping God as witness, make the resolve in your mind: Keeping the Lord as witness, I resolve that I will put my total energy into the meditation. Keeping the Lord as witness, I resolve that I will put my total energy into the meditation. Keeping the Lord as witness, I resolve that I will put my total energy into the meditation.

Friends who are standing to watch will stand quietly—please be that kind—so that we are not disturbed. Now begin the first stage.

Use the body like a bellows. Throw the breath out, take it in. Throw the breath out, take it in. In ten minutes let it be that only the breath remains in you. Put all your energy, your entire mind, onto the breath alone. Forget everything; let only breath remain. Therefore do not do it slowly; if you do it slowly, other activities will continue. Breathe in and out with your total strength. In ten minutes you have to drown in the act of breathing; let nothing remain—not even you. Let there be only the breath. It is the last day—put in your total energy. Friends who have lagged behind, complete it now. Deep breathing, fast breathing—let only breath remain... Very good, very good. Make sure no one is lagging. Turn attention to yourself; make sure you are not lagging. Put in your total energy...

Faster, faster, faster. Strike with the breath. The blow has to be delivered inside by the breath so that the energy awakens. In a little while, electricity will begin to run through the body...

Very good! Very good! Go further, go further. Not a trace of miserliness—put in your total energy. Do not fear getting tired; even if you get tired it doesn’t matter. Put in your total energy... Total energy, total energy, total energy. Seven minutes remain—put in your total energy, your total energy. Become nothing but a current of electricity. Become only a cluster of lightning. Strike; within, the energy will awaken, and only energy will begin to be felt... Yes, the energy is awakening. Keep striking, keep striking, keep striking... Very good, very good, very good. Strike, strike. See that no one is left behind—put in your total energy...

Only those who complete the first stage will be able to enter the second, so take full care. The energy is awakening—let it awaken; the body sways—let it sway; it trembles—let it tremble; hands and feet move—let them move. You keep applying force to the breath. You breathe, and let the body do whatever happens. You breathe—let there be only breath...

Harder, harder, harder...

Very good! Very good! Five minutes remain—strike the energy; it has begun to awaken—do not leave it half-done. Strike fully. You will remain as only a bundle of energy. Only energy will remain—you will disappear. Breath, breath, breath. Harder, harder, harder...

Energy has awakened—let it awaken, strike hard. The energy has awakened—let it awaken. The body trembles—let it tremble; sways—let it sway. You keep striking the breath strongly...

Energy has awakened—let it awaken. Strike, strike strongly—let the energy awaken fully. Whatever is happening to the body, let it happen. You keep striking with the breath. Four minutes remain. Use it fully...

Harder, harder, harder. Very good, you are almost there—put in your strength...

Very good! Very good! Very good! Harder, harder, harder... Three minutes remain. Now put in your full strength. When I say one, two, three, then come into a full storm...

Awaken, awaken—rouse it strongly. Two minutes remain—rouse it strongly. Strike with the breath; a little time is left yet. Rouse it strongly. Deliver the full blow to the inner energy. Very good! One—put in your total strength... Two—put in your total strength... Three—put in your total strength. For one minute, jump with your full energy...

Very good! Very good! Come to full speed, come to the climax. For a few seconds, drown yourself in your total energy... Very good! Very good! Just a little more effort, a few more seconds—come into your total strength...

Very good! Very good! Total strength, total strength—let nothing be held back; put in your total energy...

Now enter the second stage. Let the body do whatever it wants. For ten minutes, shout, laugh, cry, sway, dance...

Loudly—whatever you are doing, do it loudly. Loudly, loudly. In these ten minutes, exhaust yourself completely. Shout loudly, dance, sway loudly, laugh loudly—laugh loudly... The energy has awakened; let it work fully—let it work strongly. Sway, dance, shout, laugh. Do nothing slowly. Whatever you do, do it with energy. Shout with joy, sway with joy—shout loudly...

Put in strong force. Put in your total energy... Loudly, loudly, loudly. Do whatever you are doing with a full heart. Do not carry even the slightest inhibition. Shout—shout loudly... The energy has awakened. Five minutes remain—let it do its full work. Loudly, loudly, loudly...

Very good! Put in your whole energy. Four minutes remain—put in your total energy. Do whatever you are doing loudly. Dance loudly, sway loudly, shout loudly, laugh loudly, cry loudly... Loudly, joyfully—loudly, joyfully—whatever is happening, let it be loud... Very good! Very good! Four minutes remain—put in your total energy...

Loudly—shout loudly, dance loudly, laugh loudly, cry loudly. Laugh—laugh—laugh loudly, laugh loudly. Sway, dance—laugh loudly... Loudly, loudly. Three minutes remain—put in your total energy. If you have to shout, shout loudly—shout with your heart open. Sway, dance, shout; forget—forget everything—let only shouting remain. Shout loudly...

Loudly, loudly. Two minutes remain—loudly... Loudly. Two minutes remain—put in your total energy. Loudly, loudly. Two minutes remain—shout, scream, laugh...

Loudly. One minute remains—put in your full strength... One—put in your total energy... Two—put in your total energy... Three—come into a full storm. Become absolutely mad. Become absolutely mad; for one minute put in your entire strength... For a few seconds become mad—put in your total energy. Shout loudly...

Now, stop—enter the third stage. Now ask within: Who am I? The energy has awakened—use it in inquiry. Ask within: Who am I? Who am I? Turn the awakened energy into the question. The energy has awakened—ask: Who am I? Ask within—ask within intensely: Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? For five minutes keep asking inside: Who am I? Then we will ask outside. Ask: Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Raise a storm within...

Who am I? Ask, ask—otherwise the energy will fall asleep; it has awakened—ask it. Ask swiftly within: Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Keep swaying, keep swaying—and keep asking: Who am I? Keep swaying, keep trembling—and keep asking: Who am I? Ask with joy: Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?...

Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Ask, ask. The energy has awakened—use it. If you loosen it even a little, it will go to waste. Keep asking strongly: Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?...

Strongly, strongly, strongly—ask continuously: Who am I? Who am I? Ask with joy. Keep swaying, keep dancing, ask: Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? The mind has to be utterly exhausted—ask, ask, ask: Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?...

Strongly, strongly, strongly—apply your strength: Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?... Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Use the energy. It has awakened—use it. Now ask loudly outside as well, shouting: Who am I? Who am I? Ask shouting...

Who am I? Loudly. Five minutes remain. Now with full strength, shouting, ask: Who am I?... Ask, ask—do not slacken. Ask loudly... Shout—ask loudly: Who am I? Become absolutely mad—shout strongly—ask: Who am I?... It’s a matter of four minutes—put in your total energy; then we will rest...

Shout, shout, ask—shout, sway, shout, ask. Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?... Very good! Very good! Loudly, loudly, loudly: Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Become absolutely mad. Forget everything. Let only one question remain: Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?... Three minutes remain—put in your total energy... Loudly, loudly, loudly—come into a full storm. Loudly, loudly, loudly...

Two minutes remain. Come into your full strength... One—put in your total energy... Two—put in your total energy—forget everything... Three—forget everything and shout: Who am I?...

Loudly, loudly, loudly, loudly. It is the last chance. With full force: Who am I?... Loudly, loudly, loudly—let the whole mountain echo. Loudly: Who am I? Who am I?...

Now stop—enter the fourth stage. Drop the questioning, drop the swaying, drop the breathing. Drop everything now. For ten minutes, drown utterly in the void—as if you are not. Everything is erased, everything is finished. Everything has become empty. Everything has become silent. As a drop disappears in the ocean, so we have disappeared. As a drop disappears in the ocean, so we have disappeared. Everything is erased, everything is lost, everything is finished...

Only light, only light; only bliss, only bliss remains. Light alone—endless light far and wide. Within, only bliss remains. We have disappeared; only God remains. Only He is all around. Immerse in Him—sink, be lost. Remember, remember: all around there is none other than the Divine. None other than the Divine. None other than the Divine... Only He, only He—everywhere: above, below, in the winds, in the clouds, in the mountains, outside, inside—there is none other than the Divine. Remember, remember, remember. That is our very nature. That is what we are. There is no one besides God...

Only bliss, only bliss—drink this bliss. Let it soak into every fiber. Only bliss—drink this bliss; let it pervade every fiber. Only light remains—only light remains, and all around is the Divine. Let this remembrance penetrate deeper and deeper: all around is the Divine. Only He is, only He is—there is none other than He...

Taste it—taste it—take in the fragrance. Taste this peace, taste this bliss. Experience the fragrance of the Lord—He is all around, He is all around. We have dissolved, dissolved, utterly dissolved—we are not. As a drop disappears in the ocean, so we have disappeared...

As a drop disappears in the ocean, so we have disappeared. Remember: all around is only ocean—the ocean of the Lord, the ocean of consciousness, the ocean of light and bliss. All around, all around—only light, only light; only bliss, only bliss... See, recognize, experience... See, recognize, experience. Be filled with His bliss; be filled with His light; be filled with His nearness. The heart will begin to dance. Be filled with His bliss; be filled with His light. Only He is—He alone is all around, He is outside and inside...

Be filled with His bliss; be filled with His light. All around only He is, only He is. Remember this—and keep this remembrance always; sitting and rising, walking and sleeping, keep the remembrance: only He is all around. Recognize—see—only He is all around. Only light, only light—only bliss, only bliss. Let it pervade every fiber; let it enter every breath. Let it permeate every particle of existence... Only light, only light; only bliss, only bliss—then its inner stream will begin flowing twenty-four hours a day. Then, day and night, this God will begin to be seen all around. Then there is no darkness, then there is no sorrow. Then there is only bliss; then there is only light...

Now join both hands. Give thanks to Him. Fall at His feet. Bow your head at His unknown feet. Join both hands. Bow your head at His unknown feet. His grace is boundless—offer thanks to Him. Let His grace shower upon your head. Bow your head at His unknown feet. Join both hands, fall at His feet, surrender. Let Him descend upon you—let Him descend within you...

The Lord’s grace is boundless. The Lord’s grace is boundless. The Lord’s grace is boundless...

The Lord’s grace is boundless. The Lord’s grace is boundless. The Lord’s grace is boundless...

Now release both hands. Take two or four deep breaths. Then open your eyes. Return carefully from the meditation. If the eyes do not open, place both hands over them, then open the eyes. If you cannot get up, take two or four more deep breaths; then rise slowly.

Our meditation sitting is complete.