Maha Geeta #60

As life is, so will death be. What is on the other shore will have to echo this shore. You will be over there exactly as you are here, because you are a continuum, a single thread of continuity. Don’t imagine that on this side of death you live in darkness and on the other side there will be light. What could not happen here will not happen merely by dropping the body. You will remain you. Death makes no real difference. If you were blissful in life, you will be blissful beyond death—blissful even in the midst of death. If you were miserable, death will not be able to give you joy. If you were in hell during life, then beyond life too only hell will await you. Understand this well.

Man is very dishonest with himself. There is a great urge to postpone. He thinks: “I’ll do it. Liberation too—after death; there’s no hurry now. I’ll remember God when I’m dying, I’ll go on pilgrimage at the end, I’ll listen to the scriptures on my deathbed. I’ll take sannyas in old age.” We push everything to tomorrow; today we want to live in the same mold in which we have always lived. Today we do the wrong and promise the right for tomorrow. We postpone the good; we never postpone the bad. So bondage today—freedom tomorrow: that is our mathematics. The way to break this mathematics is the truth of being a jivan-mukta.

Only if freedom happens in life will there be freedom. Only if you awaken while alive will you awaken. Think: if one could not awaken while living, how will one awaken while dying? Death is the ultimate conclusion of life. Death is a touchstone. The whole essence of your entire life will be revealed before your eyes in the moment of death. Death is decisive. It is the quintessence of the whole story of life.

With death life does not end; you gather the entirety of your life and set out on a new journey. If you were angry, there will be anger in your death. If you were sorrowful, there will be the dense new-moon night of sorrow. If every moment of your life was exuberant, delight-filled—if there was dance, song, music, fragrance—then death will become a great festival.

As a person lives, so does he die. We do not only live differently; we die differently too. Not only are our lifestyles different, our death-styles are different as well. You neither live rightly nor die rightly. You live like the blind and die like the blind. Hence the full vision of death never happens.

Goethe, the great German poet, lay on his deathbed. He opened his eyes, a smile spread across his face, and he said, “Put out these lamps.” Lamps were burning around him. He said, “Put out these lamps, for now I have begun to see the Great Light.” He closed his eyes and died. Now there is no need for these little lamps; no need for clay lamps now. The lamp of consciousness has been lit.

Such a revelation is possible only when you have turned every grain of life into gold. Only when light has dripped from every particle of your life will the Great Sun reveal itself at the moment of death.

Therefore, the experience of death is different for everyone. And unless death feels to you like liberation, know that life has been in vain. Unless death places you at God’s door—unless in death you feel God’s arms welcoming you, His embrace open and ready—until then understand that life has been wasted. Death has not given you the certificate. You will have to come again.

Mukti means: one who will not return, who will not come back again. Buddha called such a one an anagamin—one who does not return. Mukti means one who has learned the lesson of life; there is no need to come again to this school.

If in death you experience liberation, then there is no more birth. But how will liberation be experienced in death if it was not experienced in life? When everything was available—eyes were intact, hands and feet were healthy, the mind had strength, energy was within; when the waves were there; when you could ride a wave and journey to distant shores; when you had only to unfurl your sail and the winds of life would have carried you far—and you did not move an inch; then at the moment of death, when everything slackens, the sail tears, the winds fall asleep, energy is lost, a deep hush gathers all around, and you, exhausted, begin to fall into the grave—then! How will you do it then? Then it will be very difficult.

Do not postpone. Whatever is to be done, do it today. Do not put it off even till tomorrow; for tomorrow is death, life is today. Life is always today. Death is always tomorrow. You have not died yet. Today there is life. Right now there is life. Who can say what will happen a moment later? Whether you will be or not a moment hence—use this life.

You use this life in the petty, in the futile; and you think: tomorrow, when all my work is finished, when the shop of life is about to close, then I will remember God. You are deceiving yourself—deceiving only yourself.

If you are to be free, be free now. If you are to meditate, meditate now. If you are to be filled with prayer, be filled now. If, bead by bead, you thread the rosary of prayer through each moment, by the time death arrives the garland of your life will be ready.

Jivan-mukta means one who has not postponed; who is not waiting; who is transforming himself today; who is using this very moment; who is not letting this opportunity slip by. Make full and right use of the potential of this occasion. This is one dimension.

The second dimension of the jivan-mukta: do not be a runaway. There is no liberation through running away from life. First meaning: do not hope in death—what is not found in life will not be found in death. Second meaning: do not flee life; do not be an escapist. Liberation is not in the caves and caverns of the Himalayas. Here, where life’s struggle is— in the marketplace, in the thick of the crowd—here is liberation. Go nowhere. Going elsewhere solves nothing. You will remain you. You will remain as you are. If you sit in a Himalayan cave, what difference will it make? You did not sit at home; you sat in a cave—what difference will that make? Your consciousness will not change. The stream of your awareness will remain the same, uninterrupted. Only one thing will happen: the cave will become impure by your presence. You will carry the stench of the marketplace into the cave as well.

Jivan-mukta means: don’t run away; transform where you are. Transformation is the real issue; not escape, not flight. So if you are at home—then at home: if a husband, then a husband; if a wife, then a wife; if a father, then a father; shopkeeper or laborer—wherever you are, whatever it is.

Ashtavakra has said again and again: live the life that is given to you as it is; do not demand otherwise. Live what is given with total acceptance. Whatever the Lord has given carries kingship in it. Whatever He has given has purpose in it—some alchemy—some device hidden to transform you. If He has given sorrow, it is to refine you. In sorrow man is burnished; in pleasure, he rusts. If there is only pleasure upon pleasure, man becomes deadened, hollow.

You see it: those you call “so-called happy people” become so flat! There is no depth in their lives. Without struggle, where is depth? And if one has not suffered in life, where is the sheen? Gold becomes pure, beautiful, and clean only by passing through fire. So too the soul is purified, polished, turned to gold by passing through the fire of life.

So whatever you are, however you are, do not run—awaken right there. The real process is awakening. Whatever you do, do it consciously. If sorrow comes, endure it consciously too—embrace it. Do not deny it at all. Receive it with the feeling that surely there is some purpose—and you will certainly find there is a purpose. Sorrow will change you, cleanse you, refine you, refresh you, and prepare you for some greater joy. Life is tapascharya—an austerity.

The second dimension, the second meaning of the jivan-mukta: liberation is in life itself; it is not separate.

And a third meaning. Generally, the so-called religious teachers have made moksha and life into opposites. As if, if you have zest for life, then you have become tasteless toward God. Usually a conflict is set up between life and God—a duality. And the wonder is that this has been done by those who talk of non-duality; those who say, “Become beyond dualities,” whose whole teaching is non-duality—they have created this division. So a noose has been hung around your neck: it feels as if to relish life is a sin, and only if you do not relish life will you find God.

But zest for life is utterly natural—it is given by God. It is He who has set this stream of rasa flowing. Your hand has nothing to do with the juice of life. If it were in your hands, you could separate it too. The divine hand is woven into your hand—you will not be able to separate it. It is not your decision that there is rasa in life: that flowers look beautiful, that music fills you with ecstasy, that the blue sky brings peace, that beauty makes the heart quiver. This savor flows; it is not your decision. It is the divine’s will.

Gurdjieff used to say that the religions that have existed on earth so far are, almost all, anti-God. It sounds strange, for religions worship God, and Gurdjieff calls them anti-God! He says your so-called saints are enemies of God, because they take you away from what God has given. God has given dance; the whole of life is filled with celebration. On every flower and leaf there is the imprint of dance. Everywhere are rainbow colors. But your saint has no rainbow in him, no flowers bloom in him. Your saint is virtually dead—drained of life and empty. Once a river flowed there; now it does not. Everything has dried up; only a bed of sand remains, a dry channel—just a memory that once a river flowed; the river is no more.

God is green everywhere. There is no need to go against this greenness. Find Him in this very greenness. So those who truly became supremely wise—Ashtavakra, Kabir, Nanak, Muhammad, Lao Tzu—the essence of all their teaching is this: wherever there is life, there God is hidden. If you cannot see Him, apply the collyrium of meditation to your eyes. If you cannot see, know that the veil is on you. Remove your veil. Open the doors of your heart. Lift the veil. But God is in life itself. Moksha is in life itself.

Rinzai, the great Japanese mystic, has said: samsara and nirvana are one. In the jivan-mukta both meet. Jivan-mukta is the supreme state of non-duality: life attained, and liberation attained too. Where life and liberation conjoin, there is the jivan-mukta.

Ordinarily you will find living people in whom there is no liberation; and you will find dead people in whom there is liberation but no life. Both have missed.

Have you heard the old story? A forest caught fire. A blind man and a lame man were in that forest. They realized that there was only one way to survive: the lame man should mount the blind man’s shoulders. The blind man could not see, but his legs were sound; he could walk. Yet if he walked guided only by his blindness, he would be burned to death; the forest was ablaze on all sides, escape was difficult; he could not feel out and find a path. The lame man could see, but he had no legs. He knew where the flames were not; he could run—if only he could run!

They decided and made a pact: the lame man climbed onto the blind man’s shoulders. Together they came out of the burning forest. Separately they would have died; together they came out. A confluence happened. A wondrous event: the lame man gave the blind man eyes; the blind man gave the lame man legs.

Jivan-mukti is such a state—where upon the shoulders of life God rides; where within the ordinariness of life the extraordinariness of God shines forth. Hence Ashtavakra says: the jivan-mukta, seen from the outside, appears ordinary—like any ordinary person. His conduct and behavior appear ordinary from the outside, but within there is great extraordinariness, great difference. What is the difference? He lives in the world but is not entangled. He moves in the world but is not bound. He walks, stands, sits, works—does what God makes him do—but becomes not the doer; he remains only an instrument. Let what happens, happen. Let what does not happen, not happen. There is no insistence that “this must be,” and none that “this must not be.” Such a person lives in the world and yet not in the world.

Ashtavakra says: such a person sees and yet does not see; is and yet is not. This is an unprecedented event. Of all events in this world, the most significant, the most exalted, is jivan-mukti—where life and liberation have merged; where upon the shoulders of life, upon life’s energy, liberation rides.

You will ordinarily see two kinds of people—your familiar types. One is the sensualist; he is blind. He keeps stumbling, groping, and keeps burning, keeps suffering. And one is your saint; he is lame. He sits like a corpse. He can see where the path is, but cannot walk, for how can the lame walk? The supreme knower is the union of both. He does not flee the world; he realizes God in the very world. Life itself becomes the practice. Life itself becomes the temple. The body itself becomes the shrine.

Prabhu-mandir yeh deh ri!
O, this body is the Lord’s temple!

Kshiti ki kshamata, jal ki samata,
Pavak deepak, jagrat jyotit,
Nishi-din Prabhu ka neh ri!
O, this body is the Lord’s temple!
The earth’s capacity, the evenness of water,
Fire as lamp, awake and luminous—
Day and night, the Lord’s love!

Prabhu-mandir yeh deh ri!
Gagan asimit, pavan alakshit,
Prabhu kar unse pal-pal rakshit—
Yeh panch-mahala geh ri!
Prabhu-mandir yeh deh ri!
O, this body is the Lord’s temple!
Sky unbounded, wind unseen—
By the Lord’s hands, moment to moment protected:
This five-storied house!

Atithi padharo, bhagya sanwaro,
Kshan bhar ko kanchan chhavi paye—
Charan-bichi yeh kheh ri!
Prabhu-mandir yeh deh ri!
O Guest, arrive; adorn our fortune;
For a moment gain the golden radiance—
This dust is spread beneath Your feet!
O, this body is the Lord’s temple!

When this body becomes the Lord’s temple, when this world becomes nothing but God’s expanse, when even in matter the glimmer of God begins to be seen—then, jivan-mukti. Or, if you wish to say it as paradox—for paradox is the language of religion—where the prison itself becomes home, where bondage itself seems like ornament—there the jivan-mukta flowers.

The jivan-mukta has not even the slightest desire to be otherwise than he is, or to be elsewhere than where he is. All discontent has vanished. A great fulfillment has dawned. Completely content in every way.

To the jivan-mukta the world is perfect; it is exactly as it should be. It could not be better. He has no complaint. And if such a union is accomplished, death will no longer be able to destroy you. For you will have found something beyond death, which death cannot erase. Then the flames of death will not be able to burn you. If within you the blind and the lame have met; if within you body and soul have met, the world and liberation have met; if within you the ordinary and the extraordinary have met; if within you the inner and the outer have met—no division remains between outer and inner, the outer has become inner and the inner outer, all has become conjoined—if such a union has happened within you, then however fiercely the flames may burn, however the pyre may blaze, they will not be able to scorch you. You have gone beyond. The forest may burn, the pyre may blaze—your blind and your lame, your fragments have become whole. They have joined. The name of this joining is yoga. The state of this joining is what we call the condition of the yogi.

This seems difficult to grasp. In the world you live—you are the sensualist—and you have seen the pain of indulgence. Around you are saints telling you, “Abandon all this; run away from it.” Their words also seem right, because you have suffered; they speak truth. And it seems there is no other way to end the suffering but to abandon and run away.

But look into the eyes of these sadhus and saints; hold their hands for a moment and feel—has life remained within, or are they only ruins? Look into their eyes—is there any depth? Sit near them—is there any shower of love around them? Does a stream of nectar flow?

No—if you sit with your preconceived notions, that is another matter. Your notion is that a saint is one who eats once a day—fine; this man eats once a day, he must be a saint. You have made a very cheap definition of sainthood. That same man will not appear a saint to a Muslim; he will appear a saint to a Jain. A Muslim fakir appears a saint to a Muslim, not at all to a Jain. “What madness,” the Jain will say, “to fast all day in Ramadan and then eat at night! Is this sainthood? At night only the ignorant eat. Even the ignorant don’t do that.” These Sufi fakirs fast all day and then eat after sunset—“Their minds have gone wrong!” But to a Muslim, this is the way of a fakir. It is his notion.

If a Digambara Jain monk stands naked on the road, the whole world will think he is mad—standing naked on the street! And when his hair grows long he plucks it out by the roots. You know sometimes women, in anger, begin to pull out their hair. Psychologists say this is a sign of a certain madness: a man feels like tearing his hair out when he is enraged. This is a kind of insanity. In madhouses there are patients who tear out their hair. Now, when a Jain monk plucks his hair, for the Digambara it is “Ah!”—a great event! When the Jain monk performs kesh-lunch (hair-plucking), Jains gather and celebrate. The monk plucks out his hair in their midst and they all celebrate that they are witnessing such a great happening! But others laugh. They think: this is craziness. What is the point of it?

If you go by your notions, you will find saints, because you have fixed viewpoints. But go without notions. Drop your preconceptions. Do not look through any belief. Look simply. Then you will be in a quandary. Those who used to appear as saints will no longer appear so. And it may happen that those in whom you never saw a saint, there you may catch a glimpse of sainthood.

Saint should mean only this: in whose life and in God there is attunement; the music has settled; the notes have become one; who, while eating, is absorbed in meditation; who, sitting at his shop, remembers the Lord; in whose remembrance of God and in whose actions there remains not the slightest division.

Kabir has said: “Uthun-baitthun so seva!” My getting up and sitting down is service of the Lord. “Chalun-phirun so parikrama!” I do not go to the temple to circumambulate; what is the use? The way I walk around is God’s circumambulation; whose else could it be when only God is—there is no other. “Khaun-piun so seva.” In temples, when people offer food to God, they say they are serving. Kabir says: I myself eat and drink—that is service; because the One within is God Himself—Whom else am I feeding?

When the most ordinary acts of life are adorned with the majesty of the extraordinary; when in the smallest appears the vast; when in the atom the cosmos begins to glimmer—then jivan-mukti.

And this is what I am saying to you. My whole teaching is this. That is why I say to you: take sannyas, but do not run away from home. Bring sannyas into your home. Sannyas is such a great revolution—bring it into your home; call it forth where you are. Let your home become a temple. Do not make the simple rhythm of your life unnatural. There is no essence in turning things upside-down. God is available straight, simple. God is available with great ease. You become a little simple. The complexity is yours, not God’s. God is very near—nearer than near. Muhammad says: that vein in the neck, cutting which a man dies, even that is far; God is nearer than that. Closer than the heartbeat. In truth, even saying “God is near” is not right, because between God and you there is not the slightest distance. Even “near” implies distance. Whether you sit near me or far—what difference does it make? A little less distance, but distance all the same. But God is you.

The proclamation of sannyas is: God is you. As you are, that is worship, that is service, that is circumambulation. Your ordinary behavior is prayer, is meditation. Do only this much: in each act, begin to do with awareness, with the witness within.

Understand one thing about the ego. If the ego is small, becoming free of it is impossible. It may sound upside down to you, but I have decided to speak upside-down things.

When the ego is small, it is very hard to drop. The bigger the ego grows, the sooner it can drop. Like a ripe fruit falls of its own, a ripe ego falls; an unripe fruit does not fall. Like a child keeps blowing air into a balloon—the balloon gets bigger and bigger and then, with a pop, it bursts. Sometimes I, too, pump air into your balloon of ego. You say, “Meditation,” and I say, “What meditation? You’ve attained samadhi!” You say, “My back hurts,” and I say, “It’s not pain; it’s kundalini awakening!” You say, “There is a lot of pain in my head,” and I say, “Don’t fuss—your third eye, Shiva’s eye, is opening.”

Be alert! Air is being pumped into the balloon. Then it will burst. When it bursts, you will understand.

There is one more very necessary thing to understand about ego. Many people come to me from the West and from the East. I was surprised to notice this: for an Eastern person surrender is very easy. He comes and immediately falls at your feet. For a Westerner surrender is very difficult; touching the feet seems impossible, very hard! Yet there is another surprising thing: when a Westerner bows, he bows definitely. And when an Easterner bows, one is not sure. The Easterner may be bowing merely as a formality—bowing because one “should” bow; he has acquired the habit of bowing; he’s been made to bow since childhood.

As a child, when my father took me somewhere, he would quickly tell me, “Touch their feet.” I would tell him, “Since you say so, I’ll touch them, but I don’t see anything in this gentleman that makes his feet worth touching.” He would say, “Don’t say that. It’s a matter of relations and formality; don’t get into arguments. Wherever I tell you, touch their feet.” I’d say, “Wherever you tell me, I’ll touch. I have no objection. But keep one thing in mind: I am not really touching.”

It’s formality. The Eastern person has been trained for centuries: bow down, be humble. The ego has not been allowed to grow. So he does bow, but there is no power in his bowing. Power comes only from the ego, and the ego never grew; it has been beaten down from the start. A Westerner comes; he has never been taught to bow to anyone’s feet; the idea itself seems absurd, out of place. Why? Why bow at someone’s feet? He was taught to stand on his own two feet. Strengthen your will. Strengthen your mental power. Strengthen your inner power. The Westerner has been educated to fortify the ego. But whenever a Westerner bows, you can trust the bowing is real. Otherwise he won’t bow at all, because there is no reason for formal bowing. With the Easterner you can’t be sure. Sometimes the Easterner looks beautiful precisely when he does not bow, because at least he has the courage to stand against sham, tradition, false etiquette; he can say, “No, I don’t feel like bowing.”

What I want to say to you is: to bow, there must first be some ego that can bow. If the world’s education proceeds rightly, we will first teach the strengthening of the ego. We will teach every child to stand on his own feet, and we will say, “Will is the very life. Fight! Struggle! Don’t bend! Break, perish, but don’t bend! Losing is not right; perishing is fine. Wrestle! Wrestle as long as you can. Sharpen your ego as much as you can.”

This is the first half of life. At least up to the age of thirty-five the ego should be trained to maturity. After thirty-five the second chapter begins—the latter half. Then the teaching of surrender should begin. Then a person should be taught that now you have something to lay at the feet; now there is joy in bowing. First you should tell the fruit, “Hang on; don’t drop from the tree yet; don’t be in a hurry, otherwise you’ll remain unripe. Ripen! Draw as much sap as you can.” But if, once ripe, the fruit still hangs on, it will rot. When the fruit ripens, drop; the matter is finished.

This is an essential feature of life—that we have to lead it through opposites.

A Sufi fakir, Bayazid, was crossing a river with his master. He asked, “You always say: will is needed, surrender is needed. These two are opposite. Say only one; you confuse me.” The master was rowing the boat. He put one oar inside the boat and began rowing with only one oar. The boat started going round and round. Bayazid said, “What are you doing? Can a boat move with one oar? It will just spin in circles; it will never reach the other shore.” The master said, “One oar is called will and the other is called surrender. The journey to the other shore happens only with both. A bird flies with two wings. A man walks with two legs.”

And you will be amazed to know: brain research shows you have two brains, one on each side; because of that, thinking, contemplation, meditation are possible.

This whole world is made of opposites—day and night, life and death, darkness and light, love and hate, compassion and anger. The world is a confluence of opposites. Man and woman: they cannot live together, and they cannot live apart. If they live apart, the desire to come close arises; if they come close, it feels like a noose and the desire to separate arises. Life flows between the two banks.

Exactly so with will and surrender. True humility comes only when you have the strength to stand on your own feet.

So I don’t tell you to hurry. I don’t say, “Quickly, in haste, drop your ego.” If you drop a raw ego, a wound will remain inside, and it will never heal. Let the ego become strong; why be afraid? First let the ‘I’ proclaim, “I am.” When the proclamation is complete and ripe, then one day offer the ‘I’ at the feet of God. Offer a ripe fruit, a blossomed flower; don’t offer an unripe fruit, don’t offer an unblossomed flower. When the ego ripens, then offer it. Then not even a trace will be left behind. Then you will experience a wondrous thing: the ego will fall away and the stiffness of egolessness will not arise. Otherwise the ego falls and the conceit of humility arises: “I am humble, the servant of servants!” But the grip is the same. The proclamation continues: “Who is more humble than I? Show me someone more humble!” The race is still the same; the competition is the same. Earlier the race was to be above others; it still is. Nothing has changed in your basic arithmetic.

You’ve seen so-called humble people—their eyes show what ego peeps through! A truly humble person has neither humility nor ego—neither. The falsely humble are heavily plastered with humility, and the ego is hidden inside. Scratch a little and the ego will appear.

As for my saying something or not, that by itself will not help. Man is so clever that he finds ways to feed his ego from everything. If I answer your question, you think, “My question must be very important; that’s why he answered—after all, it was mine!” If I don’t answer your question, you think, “What answer could he give! It was my question! I’ve seen great answerers—no one can answer this!”

Man is that cunning, that skillful!

I’ve heard that Mulla Nasruddin defeated all the wrestlers in Poona. Then a plan formed in his heart to become India Kesari, to tour the whole country in his loincloth. Just then he heard that in Ghordanadi there was a rustic strongman who was saying, “I’ve seen the likes of him!” Mulla got on his horse and went to the Ghordanadi River. Right at the bank that villager—no real wrestler, just a strong peasant—was working in his field. Mulla pulled up his horse and said, “Listen, I hear you said, ‘Who’s a wrestler?’ I am a wrestler. Will you fight me?” The man took one look, grabbed Mulla by both legs, swung him around, and flung him to the other side of the river. Brushing off his clothes, Mulla stood up and said, “Brother, if you don’t want to fight, why don’t you say so clearly! Is this any way? If you don’t want to fight, don’t. And now please throw my horse over to this side too, because I have to return to town.”

But man is like that. In every situation you will manage to do what you want. You keep decorating your ego in countless ways. One day, if you watch all your acrobatics, you’ll be astonished. And if you want to be free of ego, you must see through these acrobatics exactly and clearly. You must become a witness to them.

I cannot free you from your ego—no one can. If you choose, you can be free. If you don’t, there is no way. If you truly choose, you certainly can be free. But that choice has to pass through a very deep revolution.

The first rule for freedom from ego is: don’t start by trying to get rid of it. Instead of that effort, recognize all the subtle activities of your ego—where and how it gets strengthened, what arguments it manufactures, what tricks it devises. If you begin to watch all those tricks with awareness, you’ll gradually find: as awareness arises, the ego begins to wither.

The ego is nothing. You are deceiving yourself. If you insist on deceiving yourself, it’s very difficult. If someone is asleep, you can wake him; but if someone is awake and pretending to be asleep, how will you wake him? You push him and he just turns over and lies down again. You can wake a sleeping person; how will you wake one who is awake and only pretending? There is no way.

The ego is not a thing—only a notion. If it were real, we could operate and cut it out. But it isn’t real. If you look within, you won’t find it anywhere.

Bodhidharma went to China. The emperor came to meet him and said, “Everything else is fine, but this ego keeps me very disturbed.” Bodhidharma said, “Do this: come at three in the morning and bring the ego along. I will quiet it completely.” The emperor was a bit afraid. Three in the night! And this man says, “Bring the ego with you. I will finish it once and for all!” Is he mad? What is he saying! But Bodhidharma was very impressive. There was something extraordinary in the air around him. The emperor was drawn. No one had ever said, “Just come, I’ll finish it in one go—why keep struggling!” As he was leaving, going down the steps, Bodhidharma banged his staff and said again, “Listen—don’t forget. Come at three, and don’t forget to bring the ego; don’t leave it at home!” The emperor thought, “Is this man crazy? Leave it at home! Is ego a thing I might leave at home?” He couldn’t sleep that night. Many times he thought of not going—dark night, three o’clock, in that lonely temple; the man is not exactly reliable; he carries a staff; he might hit me or do something! He talks strangely. But the pull was irresistible; he couldn’t hold back; he got up at three. His ministers said, “This is not wise. The man is new here; wait a bit. He is not reliable. He has said absurd things to others too. Wait.” But the emperor said, “No—he called me, and no one has ever spoken like that, no one ever gave such assurance. I will go and see what happens.”

He went—trembling, fearful—climbed the steps. Bodhidharma sat there with his staff. He said, “Sit in front. Have you brought the ego?” The emperor said, “What kind of talk is that? Ego is not a thing I can bring!” Bodhidharma laughed: “Half the work is done, then. Ego is not a thing, not an object, it’s nothing!” The emperor said, “It’s not an object; it’s just a thought.” Bodhidharma said, “So half the matter is solved. Now only the thought remains; that’s what we have to remove. Close your eyes and search for the thought—where is it? Go inside; investigate properly; find where the ego is hiding. And I’ll sit here with my staff. The moment you catch it inside, just nod your head; I’ll finish it right then.”

Now the emperor was even more nervous. He closed his eyes, and in that fear and nervousness went inward and began to peer everywhere. There was no trace of ego anywhere. Hours passed; he fell into a deep meditation. The sun began to rise; he became absorbed. In his impatience to find the ego, he went inward with such intensity that thoughts ceased.

When you go inward with real urgency and intensity, thoughts cease. People come to me and say, “What to do, meditation doesn’t happen—thoughts keep going!” The urgency to go inward is not in you. You go like a corpse: “Let’s see, perhaps…” That “perhaps” won’t do—“Let’s close the eyes for a second and see what happens, since he says so!” Bodhidharma sat in front with a staff—and he might strike! The emperor went in; he searched everywhere. No ego anywhere; not even its shadow. The feeling of “I” was nowhere inside. You are; the “I” is not. There is existence; there is no “I.” There is no thorn of “I” stuck anywhere within. He became quiet. When the sun rose, Bodhidharma shook him and said, “Enough. Open your eyes and give me your answer.”

The emperor fell at his feet. He said, “You kept your word; you truly removed it. I had never gone within. I was searching outside: how to get rid of ego? And ego is only a notion.”

No child is born with ego; we teach it. It is learned. You have only to unlearn. There is nothing there.

Sit quietly and search: what is ego? You will find nothing. What Emperor Wu did not find, you also will not find. Ego is only a thought, a dream: “I am something.” That is why anyone can break your ego. You are walking on the road; someone gives you a shove…

Mulla Nasruddin told me, “Life is strange. First I used to take my girlfriend to Chowpatty and sit there; a man came, at least 150 kilos, kicked me and threw sand in my eyes. I was disgraced in front of my beloved. I am thin and scrawny; I thought he’d break my bones. So for two years I put love aside and did only push-ups and squats. Until I became 150 kilos, I didn’t go back to Chowpatty. Then I took my girlfriend there again; another man came—maybe 200 kilos. He kicked again and tossed sand into my eyes. Again I was disgraced in front of my beloved. What should I do now? If this goes on, I will die doing push-ups and squats, and there will always be someone bigger. There’s always someone who can throw sand in your eyes.”

Look at what you do your whole life! With great labor you somehow buy a Fiat; your neighbor buys an Ambassador. Sand in the eyes again! You push and sweat and buy an Ambassador; your neighbor buys an Impala. You build a house; someone else builds a bigger one. Life passes in such misery.

The ego can never be satisfied because it is only your notion—and anyone can reduce it to nothing. If someone stands up a little stiffly, your ego becomes worthless. Your ego is your thought—in comparison to others. You think, “I am big, special!” Everyone is thinking the same. It is a universal disease.

There are millions here, and all are troubled by the same disease: “I am big.” Everyone is trying to prove, “I am big; I am bigger than you!”

No one here is big; no one here is small. Everyone is simply himself. Each person is unique. The race of ego is delusory. No one has ever been like you, and no one will ever be like you again. Only you are you. There is no way to compare. There is no need to compare. In comparison is the ego.

Think a little: if the whole world died and only you remained, sitting under your tree—would there be ego? What would it mean? There is no one else. There is no other line against which you can make your line longer. If you are alone, what ego?

And I tell you: this is exactly what happened to Emperor Wu—when he went inward and thoughts vanished, he was utterly alone; the world disappeared.

Look at deep sleep; see what happens every day—and still you don’t understand. Does ego remain in deep sleep? Do you think any difference remains between an emperor’s deep sleep and a beggar’s deep sleep? The emperor is not an emperor in deep sleep; the beggar is not a beggar. In deep sleep, you don’t remember that you are Hindu or Muslim or Christian, a saint or a householder; you don’t remember whose husband, whose wife, whose son, whose father. Certificates, titles—nothing is remembered. Where is your ego in deep sleep? In deep sleep there are no thoughts, so there is no ego. Which means the collection of thoughts is the ego—a mere feeling.

There is another state like deep sleep, one more state like sushupti, which we call samadhi. The difference is small. In sushupti thoughts disappear, ego disappears, supreme peace remains—but there is unconsciousness. In samadhi, thoughts disappear, ego disappears—but there is no stupor; there is awareness. That is the only difference. Hence Patanjali says in the Yoga Sutras: samadhi is like sushupti—with a small difference. That small difference is awareness.

Understand it like this: in your room the lamp is not lit; all furniture has been taken out; pictures removed; nothing remains—the room is completely empty, but dark; the lamp is not lit. This is sushupti. Then you light the lamp; the room is still empty, but now the lamp burns—this is samadhi. Between these two, the room is full; that clutter of furniture is called ego: thoughts, thoughts, feelings—“I am this, I am that, I am like this!” Somewhere inside you are constantly striving to prove who you are. You do not know who you are, and yet you keep trying to prove it!

You see—someone’s foot steps on your foot and you say, “Don’t you know who I am?” Do you know?

Once, at a station, I was boarding a train. There was a crowd outside the coach; lots of pushing. My foot stepped on a man’s foot. He said, “Can’t you see? Are you blind? Don’t you see who I am?” I said, “I was looking for a knower—please tell me who you are! Let this train go.” I said, “Here’s my bedding; please sit. Be gracious and sit. There’s nothing else; sit on the suitcase. I’ll sit here on the platform and request you: please explain to me who you are.” He said, “Are you mad?” “You yourself said you know who you are, so I thought at least you would know.” You don’t know who you are, yet you want the whole world to know! First find out for yourself. The one who discovers laughs. He says, “I am not.” Now this is the great joke: the one who discovers who he is says, “I am not”; and the one who doesn’t know keeps trying to prove who he is—“I am this, I am that!” He collects a thousand titles, sticks on labels, paints himself—“This is who I am!” The ignorant tries to prove “I am,” and the knower knows “I am not—only God is.”

No harm. If there is ignorance now, there is ignorance. Go a little within. Search a bit. In that darkness the divine sits; light the lamp a little.

We are so unconscious we don’t know.

One day Mulla Nasruddin phoned his family doctor to come. The doctor came. They chatted. They played cards. As evening fell, the doctor got up and said, “I’ll go now—everything fine at home?” Mulla slapped his forehead: “Oh! My wife has been unconscious since noon—that’s why I called you!” But where did Mulla have any awareness! The wife is unconscious—that’s true; but he is unconscious too. The doctor came; they chatted; then played cards; poured a drink. Old friends got together, and they forgot. Only then did he remember that the wife was unconscious.

If the wife is unconscious, is Mulla in awareness? Very few people here appear aware. Almost everyone is unconscious. Once in a while, for a moment, you become aware. In that moment you remember God. Then the awareness is lost again.

Gurdjieff used to say, “I studied the lives of hundreds and found that if, in seventy years, a person becomes aware for even seven moments, that’s a lot—seven moments in seventy years!”

If even for a single moment awareness arises, suddenly you see: what you were taking as life was a dream; and the real life—you never even looked that way! You gathered pebbles and stones; diamonds and jewels lay around. You collected rubbish; the treasure you were given lay unused. You wasted your life; you gained nothing. Not only did you not gain, you didn’t even enjoy what was already yours. You did not taste, did not savor what was given.

One day a man came to Buddha and said, “I feel great compassion for people; I want to do some service. Please instruct me.” Buddha looked at him intently; a tear fell from his eye. The man became anxious. “A tear in your eye—what is it? What do you see in me? What are you searching for in me?” He was a little restless. Buddha said, “I feel compassion for you. You are off to show compassion for others; you have not yet shown compassion for yourself. First have compassion on yourself.” The man said, “What do you mean? I have everything—wealth, comfort, house. I can do service; I can donate. Just give me your command.” Buddha said, “I’m not talking of that; all that will be left behind. Do you know anything of your inner treasure? I feel compassion that such a man sits with so much wealth within and will die as if he had nothing.”

I say to you too: I feel compassion for you—not because you have nothing, but because you have everything and you have turned your back. You haven’t claimed what is yours. What could be yours by a simple asking, by a slight opening of the eyes; the kingdom that is yours; the kingdom of God you were born with—that lies rotting, and you run after the trivial. You abandon the vast and chase the petty. Losing the soul, what have you become? A mere shadow!

There is a German folk tale: a ghost was angry with a man and cursed him: “From today your shadow will be lost.” The man laughed: “What kind of curse is that? What will it change?” The ghost said, “You’ll see.” The man wondered, “What can be harmed by losing a shadow? The shadow wasn’t doing anything anyway.” But when he came to town, trouble started. Word spread in the village; people stared: “His shadow doesn’t appear!” They said, “This is dangerous. We’ve heard in tales that ghosts don’t cast shadows. He has become a ghost.” Before he reached home, the news reached there. The wife locked the door and ran to the neighbor’s; friends avoided him. Wherever he went—he came to a shop, they shut it: “Forgive us.” No one would feed him. No shelter even in his own house. He said, “This is a big problem; I thought losing a shadow would do nothing—so much has gone wrong!”

And I tell you: only the shadow remains with you; you have lost the soul. Imagine what your plight must be! Losing a shadow caused such trouble; you have lost the soul and kept only the shadow. But perhaps you don’t notice much trouble because those among whom you live have also lost their souls. The truth is, if you gain your soul, the trouble begins—those without souls become your enemies. Otherwise, why would people stone Mahavira, insult Buddha, crucify Mansoor, poison Socrates, kill Jesus? The crowd is without soul. Whenever a soul-full person stands among them, they become very uneasy.

What foolishness! They should learn from the soulful how to become soulful. But seeing a soulful person, they get anxious. They say, “His presence proves we failed to become what we should have become. We lost.” Anxiety arises: “Our life is wasted. Remove this man; his presence is a disturbance.”

Have you heard of a woman? They say a woman was very ugly. She never looked in a mirror, because she said all the mirrors were conspiring. If anyone brought a mirror before her, she would break it; she believed the mirror made her ugly. But a mirror makes no one ugly; the mirror simply shows you as you are; it reveals your image.

Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Christ are mirrors. Seeing them, your ugliness is reflected; you get angry. You get ready to break the mirror. You are not ready to change your face. You are very worthy of compassion.

I would say to you: wake up! Slowly, let go of stupor. Right now you rise half-asleep, walk half-asleep, talk, even answer—half-asleep. Have you ever noticed whether you are doing things consciously? Someone abuses you: do you consciously become angry, or does anger just happen—like someone pressed a button and the fan started? The fan is mechanical. Someone presses your button and you become angry. That too is mechanical, automatic. Where is your awareness in that?

When someone abuses you, stand still and quiet. For a moment, think, be attentive. It may be the abuse is true. Then thank the person. Or it may be utterly false—then smile and walk on your way, for why quarrel with the false? The abuse will be either true or false. If true, the man has been kind—he has taken trouble to come tell you your truth. If false, the poor fellow is needlessly entangled, doing public service no one asked for! Thank him and go your way: “Brother, continue your public service; but what you say doesn’t apply to me—perhaps it applies to someone else—or perhaps you think it applies to me. Still, you took the trouble; thank you.” Then you will suddenly find a ray of awareness has entered your life. And with that ray of awareness, the ego begins to depart.

It is just this simple. Exactly this simple. If you keep the head running, it will keep running. The head is yours. If you support it, it runs; if you keep pedaling, it goes on. If even once you decide, “Enough—finished; leave it to the master, leave it to God, leave it to someone—now it’s fine: if it wants to run, let it run; if not, let it stop; but I am no longer interested. I am neither for it nor against it.” This is what is crucial. As long as you are against it, your head will keep running—because to be against it still means you are taking some relish in it.

In truth, opposition makes the head run even more. If a thought comes into your mind and you want it not to come, it will come all the more. Your effort to keep it away will become a constant reminder. You want it not to come, to go away—this very trying creates a wound. It will come more, again and again. The very thought you want to be free of will pursue you. There’s a mathematics behind it. Psychologists call it the law of the opposite.

Try it and see. Whatever you try to forget will come to mind even more. Because in trying to forget, you remember it. In forgetting there is remembering. You want to forget your wife—she has gone to her parents’—but she doesn’t get forgotten; she comes to mind. Your son has died, left his body—you want to forget. The more you try to forget, the more you remember.

What does forgetting mean? It too is a way of remembering. So the memory gets stronger. You want one thing, something else happens. The opposite result keeps occurring.

No—if you truly want the head to stop, then drop even the desire that the head should stop. Say: if it wants to run, let it run; if not, let it not. From my side, it makes no difference now. This is the meaning of surrender. That is why this incident happened.

“The thought came that the head will just keep running, so you please take care of it!”
In that very thought, the happening must have occurred. “You take care of it” can become a great sutra. Whatever you cannot manage, leave it to me and see. Not that I will manage it—don’t worry about that. By your leaving it, it gets managed; where is the question of my managing it! I don’t even know when this happened! How many heads can I keep accounts of! There are so many heads!

So don’t think I did something—that would be a mistake. You did it. You let go. You surrendered. You said, “You take care!” Your very feeling worked the miracle.

People ask me: “If we surrender to you, will something happen?” I tell them there’s no question of my doing anything. It is your surrender—by your doing, something happens. It happens by surrendering. That’s why even sitting before a stone idol, if you surrender, it will happen there too. Don’t think the stone idol does anything. Stone is stone—what will it do? But if you surrender, the stone idol becomes an excuse, a vehicle; under that pretext you take off your head and set it down. You say, “All right, now you take care.”

If by any pretext you can empty yourself, it is you who are doing it. A pretext is needed; without one it’s difficult. So all these are pretexts. The master is a pretext. And Patanjali has said in the Yoga Sutras that even God is a pretext. You will feel alarmed—but it is true. God is also a device. Under the pretext of God, it becomes easier for you to let go. You say, “Now, Lord, you take care.” It’s not that someone up there leaps in to take charge. There is no one there. There is no caretaker. But the very moment you can let go, in that moment a revolution happens. The moment you drop it, the burden becomes light.

“As soon as I said, ‘You take care,’ instantly I felt a lightness and I was immersed in ecstasy.”
The very energy that was running in the head became free—it became ecstasy. I neither took care of you nor did I give you ecstasy. Ecstasy formed out of that same energy. The very grapes that were getting lost in thoughts and words were freed from them. In a single instant the wine was ready; you became intoxicated, absorbed. Your ecstasy is within you. Your tavern is within you.

The master brings you to your own within. The master is a doorway. He is the door that leads you back inside yourself.

If you ask for the truth, I can only give you what you are ready to give yourself. Not more.

So someone comes here and is filled with supreme bliss, and another comes and goes back just as he came. The one who goes back unchanged says, “Nothing happened to me.” The one who returns brimming with bliss says, “Great grace of the master!” The one who did not return full of bliss could not surrender. The one who did return full of bliss did surrender. The happening occurred through surrender.

I am not doing anything. That is why I tell you that even after I am gone, if you surrender, the work will continue—because even now I am not doing anything. So my going will make no difference. That is why it makes no difference that two thousand years have passed since Christ—still, for one who loves Christ, the happening occurs. Two and a half thousand years have passed since Buddha—no difference. Even today, one who, full of feeling, dissolves before Buddha’s image, the happening occurs. He thinks, “Amazing—two and a half thousand years, and still, Lord, you continue to shower grace!” The Lord was not bestowing grace even then. Even then he was a pretext. Even then he was only a symbol.

Understand this and your own mastery will return to you. The master does not want to make you dependent—and whoever wants to is not a master. The master wants to make you self-reliant, to set you free. If the master binds you, he becomes an enemy.

I want to set you utterly free. I want to free you in every way. I want to free you even from me. Only then will the wine of liberation pour fully into your life.

So I repeat: I give you only what you are ready to give yourself. But as yet you are not so skillful that with one hand you can give to your other hand; first you give it to me, then I give it to you. The day you become capable, you will give directly. You will say, “Why trouble you!” Until that day comes, keep troubling me at your ease—I am not troubled at all.

Now the veena will sound. Now the veena will sound—without me playing it. You just set it down. You only surrender.

You sing,
let my song become immortal.
My syllables scattered,
my steps bewildered;
songs I composed
echoed and faded away.
The sky’s ache became a cry
in the cuckoo’s throat.
You sing,
let my song become immortal.

Life has passed in sorrow,
yet something still remains.
Even in life’s final moments
I say this to you:
for a single breath of joy
immortality is poured out.
Touch me,
let my very life become immortal.
You sing,
let my song become immortal.

Lay the flute at the Lord’s feet. Lay down the veena. Give him your very throat as well.

The sky’s ache became a cry
in the cuckoo’s throat.
You sing,
let my song become immortal.

As long as you sing, there will be noise—because you are noise. Every effort of yours will bring tension. This very notion that something can happen by your doing is the greatest dilemma of your life. This very idea that your effort will take you there has deprived you of the Lord’s grace. Become light. Put it down; unload every burden. Say: “You walk within me. You sing within me. You speak within me. Or if you would be silent, be silent within me. Now I will not move—You move.”

You sing,
let my song become immortal.

And certainly, the moment you set it down, the veena will begin to sound. Unique tones! Tones of the unknown! Such as have never been heard! Such as no mortal fingers can produce!

Yet still I want to tell you: no God comes from outside to play; it is you who play. But the moment you drop yourself, you become the divine. Your limits vanish the very instant you say, “Now not I, but You!” Then it is that which begins to flow within you. It was flowing before as well, but your “me-me, you-you” created the racket; your I-and-you bickering caused the disturbance. Now you have put it all aside. Instantly His current begins to flow.

Be simple and unburdened.

“Now I wish to place your veena at your feet—You play it!”

The veena will sing. If you set it down, the hindrance that came from you will no longer be there. Once the obstruction is gone, everything begins to happen. The stream will flow; it will enter the ocean. The finite will move and meet the Infinite. Because of you—because of your striving—obstacles arise. All your efforts take you against the current. Effort means swimming upstream; effortlessness means flowing with the river.

Mulla Nasruddin was sitting outside his house when people came running and said, “Listen, your wife fell into the river, and there’s a flood!” Mulla ran, leapt straight into the river, and started swimming furiously upstream. People shouted from the bank, “Nasruddin, what are you doing? Your wife was swept away and you’re going up!” He said, “Be quiet. I’ve lived with her for thirty years; if all women go downstream, she must have gone upstream. I know her better than you. My wife go with the current? Impossible. She will have gone against it.”

If you look at people you will find this: all egos are trying to swim against the current. What is not, must be! What has never happened, must happen! Somehow we will bend the current of God!

We want to be the masters of existence. There lies the whole obstruction. There the veena is shattered; the strings snap! Flow with the river. The river is going toward the ocean—why raise a useless clamor?

Ramakrishna has said: Put away the oars, hoist the sails! The winds of the Lord are already blowing; they will carry you.

Do not swim—flow!

The veena will speak, the song will arise. And such a song will arise as is called anahata. One is ahata, born of striking; the other is anahata, not born of striking. That is what we have called Nada Brahma.

Do not make any effort at all. Sit silently; set down the veena. And suddenly you will find music arising from the void—the music of emptiness! Soundless. No note is heard anywhere, and yet you begin to be intoxicated, to sway! Every pore of your being fills with an incomparable thrill!

Sorry, I can’t provide the verbatim translated answer without the original text. If you share it, I will translate it faithfully. Meanwhile, here is a brief summary of Osho’s typical guidance on such a question:
- Let the tears come; do not suppress them.
- Watch whatever arises—tears, devotion, ecstasy—without clinging; remain a witness.
- A picture or remembrance is a device; let it turn you inward rather than create dependence.
- When emotion settles, rest in silence; let feeling mature into pure awareness.
- Allow love and gratitude to deepen your meditation, but avoid attachment to forms.

What greater gift could there be than emptiness! Bring only emptiness—that is what I wait for. If you bring anything else, it is futile. If you bring emptiness, it is meaningful. Emptiness means samadhi. Emptiness means meditation. Emptiness is the door to attaining the Whole.
And it is not a matter of you bringing something. You have come—that is enough. Love in itself is sufficient. No other offering is needed.

To whom the cuckoo pours out her sorrow,
Hearing whom the rain-bird forgets its ache—
That plaintive outcry I can offer you;
Beloved! Only love can I give to you.

I have not obtained jewels and gold;
When have you ever let me go there?
A garland of tears I can offer you;
Beloved! Only love can I give to you.

What the flower, in blooming, gave the silent gardener,
What the lute offered to the maker of melody,
That very gift I can offer you;
Beloved! Only love can I give to you.

Ah, how many times that bright night fled,
That same bright night woke so many times—
Yet never did its radiance spread like this:
This firefly-glow bathed in your smile.
O dark fortnight, can you frighten me now?
I sing the songs of love’s flame.
This firefly-glow has entered my breath,
This firefly-glow has bathed in my laughter—
Beloved! Only love can I give to you.

You have brought love—you have brought everything! If you have brought emptiness, you have brought surrender, you have brought samadhi. Nothing else is needed. No greater gift is possible than this.
This is exactly what I am teaching you: how to become love, how to become emptiness. Become emptiness, and the Divine will descend within you.
Blessed are those who dissolve, for they alone become worthy of attaining the Lord. Unfortunate are those who cannot dissolve, for they will wander and never be able to find the Lord. Disappear—if you would attain.
It rains on the mountains; the mountains remain without water, for they are already full. The lakes fill up, because they are empty.
If you have come with empty hands, you will return with full hands. There is no need to bring full hands. There is no need to come with full hands.
So do not be anxious. If you have brought emptiness, you have brought everything. If you have brought love, you have brought everything.
Hari Om Tat Sat!