“Who am I?”—about this I said a few things to you yesterday. Not knowledge, but un-knowing; not information, but the state of not-knowing—I spoke a little about that.
If we can be free of that knowledge which is available from the outside, then there is the possibility of the birth of that knowing which is not obtained, but discovered—unveiled; it is hidden within, and when its veils are torn, doors begin to open.
Therefore I said: not by knowledge, but by knowing this truth—“I do not know.” Only in this inner mood—“I do not know”—can something be truly known. “I do not know”—as this remembrance, this memory grows denser and more intense, the mind falls silent; it becomes still and wordless. For all words and all thoughts arise out of our illusion that we know.
Let “Who am I?” be the question—but do not accept any answer. In that denial, in that negative mind, in that inner condition, the one who sleeps within begins to awaken. Knock on the door—ask: Who am I?—but accept no answer. Neither those answers which the world teaches you, nor those answers memorized in the name of religion and spirituality. If all that has been learned can be forgotten, and we can knock on the doors of our very life-breath, then, as Christ has said: “Knock and the door shall be opened.” Knock, and the doors will open.
Let me tell you: the one who knocks discovers the doors were never locked; the doors were already open.
But those who live in the illusion of knowing are deprived of knocking. Those who are trapped in the idea that they know lose all that sensitivity which is essential for real knowing. This, I said to you yesterday.
This morning—yesterday I spoke of un-knowing—this morning I want to say a few things about mystery.
When the mind rests in the state “I do not know,” all of life begins to unveil itself as a mystery. And when the mind is in the state “I know”—because the Gita is in my memory, the Upanishads are known to me, and Shankar and Ramanuja—and all that—are familiar, therefore I know; words are known, scriptures are known—therefore I know—such a mind loses the sense of life’s mystery. Life no longer appears as a mystery to it. Since it knows everything, the unknown that surrounds us ceases to make its heart tremble.
And everything is unknown. That child born in your home—is he known to you? Those eyes your wife has—are you truly acquainted with them? Those friends, those neighbors, or that stone lying by the roadside, or those plants flowering near your house, those blossoms, or the stars of the sky, or the birds’ songs at dawn—are they known? What do we actually know? Everything is unknown. Everything is unknown! And when all is unknown, all becomes adorned with a wondrous mystery. The awakening to that mystery is the first sign of a religious mind.
The awakening to mystery is the first sign of a religious mind.
I call that person irreligious in whose life there is no sense of mystery.
That person alone is irreligious in whose life there is no sense of mystery! Whose life is not crowned by the unknown, whom the unknown does not touch from all sides, who does not see the infinite doors of mystery opening around him—that person is irreligious. Our theories have tightened their grip on our minds in such a way that explanations are available for everything; therefore nothing remains unknown, we know it all.
I remember Sheikh Chilli, who lived in a certain village. He knew everything. Those must have been very kind people who said of him that he was Sheikh Chilli—for whoever claims to know everything is bound to be a Sheikh Chilli, bound to be a madman. He knew everything; there was nothing he did not know. Then one day a theft occurred in the king’s palace of that realm. The entire power of the state was engaged to find the thief, but no trace could be found. No clue appeared by which the thief might be identified. All the detectives became exhausted and frustrated. Then the villagers said: there is no other way—there is a wise man in our village; let us ask him. There is nothing he does not know.
The king’s envoy was sent to Sheikh Chilli. He was sitting in the pose adopted by thinkers. You must have seen the statue by Rodin—The Thinker. Either Rodin sculpted it after seeing Sheikh Chilli, or Sheikh Chilli had seen that statue and copied it—one of the two must be true. He was sitting in that contemplative posture. There is nothing more childish than a pose of deep thinking. The king’s envoy arrived and said, “Do you know there has been a theft in the palace?”
He said, “What is there that I do not know?”
With great respect they brought him to the palace. The king asked, “You know there has been a theft in the palace—many priceless objects are gone. All the state’s detectives and investigators have found no clue.”
He said, “What is there that I do not know?”
The king was pleased and said, “Then tell me—who committed the theft?”
Sheikh Chilli said, “I will tell you in private, alone. Lock the doors, because if I take someone’s name and reveal it, tomorrow I will be in trouble. So, lock the doors.” The doors were locked. The king remained alone with him. Even then, fearing that the walls might hear, Sheikh Chilli put his mouth to the king’s ear, as masters whisper a mantra in secret so that no one hears, no one sees, no one comes to know—he put his mouth to the king’s ear and said, “Shall I tell you? But don’t tell anyone, don’t get me into trouble—shall I tell you?”
The king said, “Say it!”
He whispered very softly, “It seems a thief has done the stealing.”
And what have our philosophers been doing? What have our religious thinkers been doing? Those who say that God created the world—what do they mean? After all their investigation, after all their head-scratching, they report that surely some maker made the world. This is exactly what they say—“A thief must have done the stealing.” “A maker must have made the world”—this is what they say after exhaustive inquiry. “Some thief stole, some maker made”—this is the conclusion of all thinking, this is the declaration of our wise men. And we grasp these declarations, these thoughts, these theories—and then life’s unknown throbbing, its unknown shocks, its unknown winds no longer touch us; we sit enclosed within our theories.
Whoever is enclosed in theories—there are no latticed windows in theories, no openings; theories have no doors, no compromises. Theories shut a man inside like a solid wall. And whatever comes to his threshold carrying a question, he answers it: “It is thus.” “It is the fruit of your past lives.” “It is fate.” “It is God.” “This is so, that is so”—he answers everything. And whatever he answers ceases to be a mystery for him.
This world and life which feel so boring to us, so tiresome—this is because of our so-called knowledge. If we begin to look without the walls of theory, if we look without knowledge, then each and every thing is so astonishing, so new—nothing is old, nothing is as it was yesterday. The sun that arose this morning has never arisen before, and will never arise again. The breeze that moved this morning has never blown before, and will never blow again. The flowers that blossomed today have bloomed for the first time. Everything is new. Everything is adorned with mystery. What have we truly known yet?
A very great scientist, who spent his whole life studying electricity, had gone to rest in a small village. The village school was small. Some of the science students had built a few things, some small devices. The school had its function and an exhibition. The scientist too went to see. The child who had worked hardest and made some electrical toys began to explain with great excitement how he had made them, how they worked, what their features were.
The scientist listened with intense interest. The boy did not even know that in the whole world perhaps no one knew electricity as deeply as this man. So the boy explained with even more delight. When all was shown, the scientist asked, “Son, may I ask one thing—what is this electricity? What is electricity, after all?”
The boy said, “That we do not know.”
The headmaster scolded the boy, “You don’t know, and yet you keep explaining! This is the greatest living knower of electricity.”
But what did that greatest knower say? He said, “What this child says—that we do not know electricity—I too would say the same: we do not know electricity.”
What do we know? This life all around us—do we know the leaf unfolding before the door? Do we know how a seed sprouts? Do we know how a seed becomes a flower? We know nothing. There are stars in the sky, stones on the earth, flowers, human beings, eyes—do we know? A song is born within—do we know that? We do not know anything. But because of the illusion that we know, this mystery of life cannot stir our life-breath.
Therefore, if we drop the illusion of knowing, the sense of mystery is born. And where the sense of mystery arises in a life, there the advent of God begins. The day the footfalls of mystery are heard, the day some unknown one stands at the door of the mind whom we do not know, and our whole heart can say, “I do not know,” and we can welcome that unknown guest—know that day the life of religion has entered.
But we sit with the doors of knowledge shut. And the more tightly someone keeps the doors of knowledge closed, the greater a scholar he is thought to be, the greater a knower he is.
So yesterday I spoke of the first step: the sense of un-knowing.
Today I speak of the second: the birth of mystery.
But whether theologians, mathematicians, scholars of other kinds, or scientists—whoever has destroyed the mystery of life, or spread such notions that in their net the sense of life’s unknown no longer touches us—all of them have deepened human sorrow, diminished joy, and closed the possibilities of poetry.
This vast unknown spread on all sides—our heart should be open toward it. But knowledge holds us back. And not only knowledge, but the teachings erected on the foundation of knowledge harden us, make us stone-like, not sensitive.
And the harder and more stony the heart becomes, the less sensitivity remains, the less mystery can enter it. Yet we take indifference and hardness to be virtues. We take Vairagya, standing aloof, closing ourselves, to be virtues.
Religion has no connection with deadness. But as a man becomes more inert, more juiceless, devoid of sensitivity—insensitive—so inert that nothing can stir within him, the more we assume this is a virtue. We do not value life—we value dying. The more a man becomes corpse-like, the more we call it virtue. We have worshiped this greatly, and slowly we have taught man to become a stone.
I heard of a certain person—his wife died. He was a very public and famous man. He had written a large book on the Gita. His wife died. Perhaps he was composing his commentary on the Gita then, or working on some other scripture. He was informed, “Your wife—your wife has breathed her last.” He looked at the clock on the wall and said, “But it is only half past four—I cannot rise before five.”
It was four-thirty; his rule was to rise at five daily. Even his wife’s death could not make him rise at four-thirty. I heard much praise of this—that what an extraordinary man he was, how disciplined, how detached, how non-attached! And I was astonished. I was astonished! This respect for such hardness, such violence—these things which are taken to be marks of saintliness and attainment and non-attachment—such notions have drained life of all juice, of all joy; they have gravely wounded life. The book he was writing is more valuable, and a living person disappearing is not valuable? The rule to rise at five is more valuable—then even death should come at five, not before; it should follow his rule!
These people of rules, these people of principles—none are more inert, more stone-hearted than they. This has been extensively taught in the name of religion. And the more a man hardens himself... and who can harden himself? Do you know who can? Who? Only one who is very violent toward others. If such a person turns his violence upon himself, then he can become hard. The one who is very violent, very cruel to others, wicked—if he withdraws all his wickedness from others, he becomes cruel toward himself. The one who is very violent toward others—if he pulls back his violence from others, he becomes violent toward himself, and then he starts torturing himself.
I tell you: whether one tortures another or oneself—there is no difference; both are torture. There is no difference. Those who forcibly stop tormenting others and shut it off, they begin to torment themselves. And we call this sadhana. We call this sadhana! Someone gouges out his own eyes—and we think, “What great sadhana!” Someone burns his body, lies on thorns, stands inverted or twisted—and we think, “What great sadhana!” And thus he becomes harder and harder. All the filaments of his sensitivity go numb. He no longer senses beauty, he no longer experiences the mystery of life. All his windows, all his lattices are closed. He remains standing as an idol of ego.
These trainings that inculcate insensitivity have not allowed man to be religious.
I heard of a sadhu who, fifteen years earlier, had left his home—his wife and children—to become a renunciate. After fifteen years, he was in Kashi, and news came that his wife had died. He laughed and said, “Well, one trouble is over!”
I was amazed. The one who told me said, “What supreme renunciation—that he said on his wife’s death, ‘A trouble is over!’”
I said, “I am astonished. The one he left fifteen years ago—was she still a trouble? What does this mean? She was still a trouble, which ended with her death? And what did not end in fifteen years of separation—will it end with her death? What did not end by living away fifteen years—how will it change now? And remember this too: the man who says, on his wife’s death, ‘My trouble is over,’ must have thought many times in his heart, ‘Let her die.’ Surely—there can be no doubt—many times he must have wished, ‘Let her die.’ Only then does her death feel like relief from trouble.”
These are hard, cruel, violent hearts—hearts filled with deep violence. They become numb to life’s entire mystery. Then their talk of Paramatma and Brahman and Atman is hollow and false. Where there is no sense of mystery, no sensitivity, no openness of heart toward life—where will Paramatma be? Where will Paramatma enter there? Where? Where will those footsteps be heard, where will that music arise?
Therefore I say: those hard-hearted people who have turned their harshness upon themselves have harmed religion. They have blocked the very birth of religion, obstructed it, crippled it.
So I say: not those who lie upon thorns; not those who organize long fasts to die; not those who forcibly endure heat and cold to torment the body; not those who have become their own enemies—such people have not known, cannot know, the One who is Paramatma. Rather, those who have made their hearts simple, filled them with love; those who have recognized and tasted beauty; those who have opened their inner doors to life’s mystery—such people have known something, have lived more deeply. They have attained more; something has descended within them; some unknown music has arisen within; they have heard a sound that is unstruck; they have found some relatedness with that Unknown which surrounds us—some attunement, some harmony, some joining with the expanse around. Not those who disciplined their “I-ness” and grew harder, becoming statues of ego—no; rather those who became rarefied, fluid—who kept melting and melting—so much so that later it became difficult even to find where they were—perhaps they have known; only they can know; no one else can. Only a sensitive heart attains to knowing—no one else.
Let the mind be in the state of not-knowing, and let the heart be full of the pulsation of sensitivity. Let the mind be in a state of not-knowing, and let the heart’s every door be open to mystery. Let the heart grow full of mystery, and let the mind and intellect grow empty of knowledge—then that event happens where it is known, “Who am I?” and where it is known, “What is all this?”
A few words are needed on this vibration of the heart.
And when I say that poetic hearts can know, do not take it to mean that those who write poems can know. Writing poems is very easy; being suffused with poetry is very difficult. Not every poem contains poetry, and not every poet is full of a poetic heart. From the logic of words, philosophy is born. From the rhyming of words, poetry is born. And those skillful in rhyming can be poets—indeed they may even become “poets of the nation.” One must know how to rhyme and how to live in the capital—then one can become a national poet. Poetizing is a very ordinary thing.
No one becomes a poet by stringing words together. The heart’s attunement with that Existence which pervades all around us—with that Being in which we are, and with which every moment we are in relationship. Each moment something goes out from within us, and something enters within. “Outside” and “inside” are not two opposites; outside and inside are not two opposing dimensions—they are two ends of one and the same movement.
A storm rises on the ocean; waves reach unknown shores and touch them, then return. The same wave touches the shore, the same wave goes back. The wave has two ends—the shore and the sea: that which it touches, and that from which it returns. My breath and yours go out each moment, then come back in, then go out again... At the two ends of the breath, on one side is outside, on the other is inside. Outside and inside are not opposites, but two ends of one continuum. And when one becomes so absorbed that outside and inside are no longer two, but the experience of a single continuum arises—attunement is born; poetry is born. In such a state the heart will be full of poetry—when outside and inside are not two.
Socrates did not return home one night. His friends must have been worried. They went to search. They found him leaning against a tree—snow had fallen, his feet had likely grown numb—and his eyelids were fixed, his eyes gazing at the stars.
They shook him and shook him—then as if he returned from somewhere. “What is it?” he said. “Is it very late?”
His friends said, “The night is almost over. Your feet must be frozen; snow has fallen; the winds are icy—what are you doing?”
He said, “Doing? Nothing at all—I had become one with the stars. I was not there; there was only something between me and the stars—I was not.” Attunement. Harmony.
In China, a king wanted to have a rooster engraved on the royal seal—the state’s emblem. He sent word through the villages: whichever painter brought the finest painting of a rooster would be richly rewarded.
An old painter came and said, “I have grown very old; my hands tremble, so perhaps I cannot paint the picture—but I want to offer some small service to the state: let me judge the paintings. Until I approve, do not carve the state’s seal.”
The king himself was hoping to find some elder master to judge. But the old man must have been very unusual—for however beautiful the paintings, he would go into a closed room, return, and say, “No—not yet.” He would send them back. A year passed, then two. The king became anxious: “Will you ever approve a painting? The finest paintings have come—what is your criterion for rejection? How do you know they are not right?”
He said, “Come.” He took the king into his room. “I place the paintings here,” he said, “and then I bring a rooster into the room. If the rooster recognizes the rooster in the painting, then I understand that the painting is true. If the rooster wanders about and leaves without noticing, then I know it is not a real painting—the one who painted it painted from afar; he has no attunement with roosters.”
The king was astonished: “I had never imagined that paintings would be tested by a rooster. And what would roosters understand?”
The painter said, “The day a true rooster is painted—if the rooster does not recognize it, who will? He will freeze on entering, ready to fight; he will give a cry—there will be another rooster in the room. But if the paintings are dead, roosters will not recognize them; they will circle around and go away. A person may recognize, ‘This is a rooster,’ but only when a rooster recognizes it, something has happened.”
But no such painting came. Those who painted were not true painters. They had drawn the rooster’s body, but could not capture the rooster’s soul. The body is easy enough to draw—but the soul? Only one who becomes one with the soul can capture it. In the end the old man said, “It won’t do—I must paint it myself. But it is very difficult—I may live, I may not; that is why I had said, ‘I am seventy, an old man.’ Even so, I must paint it.”
The king said, “Two years have been wasted—you could have painted it long ago!”
He said, “No—another three years will be needed.”
The king asked, “Is it so hard to paint?”
He said, “Painting is not hard—but becoming one with the rooster is very hard. Give me three years’ leave. Now I go to the forest—and let me see if in this old age attunement can happen.”
The artist went to the forest. After six months the king sent some friends: “Go, see if he is alive; what is he doing there; how long will he stay?” They went. He was lying among wild roosters. He sent them back: “It is too soon—far too soon. Until I become a rooster, do not come.” They returned and said, “The old man seems mad—he says, ‘Until I become a rooster!’ If he becomes a rooster, who will paint the rooster? There are already plenty of roosters!”
But they had to wait three years. Then they brought him back. He came into the royal court and let out a loud rooster’s crow. The courtiers were astonished. “It is all very well,” they said, “that you learned to crow—but where is the painting?”
He said, “To paint it is now the work of a moment. To catch the soul—that was very difficult; that is done. I have known the rooster from within.” Then he called for his brushes and, standing there, made the painting. Roosters were brought in; seeing the painting, they froze, alarmed, and cried out. The rooster was alive—born out of some attunement, some harmony.
Those have known who have attained some attunement toward life—some unity, some oneness. But the person who hardens his heart and closes all the doors of sensitivity—how will he become one? He will not. He will not! There is no way for him to become one.
Therefore, that religion which severs us from the juice of life, from the mystery of life, from life’s tears and smiles— that religion which hardens and petrifies—is not religion; it is only the worship of ego. And the harder the person becomes, the deeper and denser his “I-ness” grows.
The worship of ego is not religion.
A sadhu died; his disciple was very renowned—very renowned. But when the master died, this disciple, so renowned, began to weep; tears fell from his eyes.
People said, “What are you doing? You are weeping! And you always said the soul is immortal and the body dies—and you are weeping!”
He said, “I weep for the body—it was so beautiful, so wondrous, so full of mystery! I do not weep for the soul—I weep for the body.”
His friends said, “We are amazed to see you weep—for we always thought that those whose eyes cannot fill with tears, whose lips cannot curve into a smile—only they are sannyasis, only they are sadhus.”
He said, “I too once thought so. The eyes can be made stone-like, and the lips so stiff that even if one wants to smile, one cannot. The eyes can be made so stony that tears cannot come. But then within, the heart also turns to stone; within becomes rock; within grows deadness. And the more everything within grows inert, the more fluidity is lost, the more sensitivity is lost, the more connections are lost—the more all paths of meeting are lost.”
Religion is union; religion is joining—religion is joining with all.
How will we join if we keep breaking ourselves?
Therefore I said: a poetic heart is needed. A poetic heart—filled with song, sensitive, feeling each and every sensation of this life spread all around. If this does not happen—then there is no way, no path, no door, no avenue of arrival.
Then one cannot reach to Paramatma. Sitting and chanting “Ram-Ram”—no one reaches. Nor by reciting mantras, nor by temple worship. For we see that the temple-goers become even more inert. After all, what have the religious people not done in this world? How much violence has been committed in the names of Hindu and Muslim, Jain and Buddhist, Christian and Parsi! How much violence in the name of temples and mosques! How much hardness, how much violence in the name of these idols, these scriptures, these sects!
How many did Christians not kill, or Muslims, or the other religions of the world—what have they not done? How much murder, how much blood! How was such hardness possible? It is possible because of this very training in a hard, stone-like heart. The hearts that have grown insensitive, that have lost sensitivity—their idols become dangerous, their temples become dangerous.
One night, in a temple in Japan, a young monk came to stay. The night was very cold, very icy. He entered the temple; there were wooden statues—he lifted a wooden Buddha, lit it, and warmed himself at the fire. The fire crackled; perhaps the wood split; the priest awakened, ran in, and saw—there had been three idols on the altar; now only two remained. He panicked. He saw the idol had been burned, and the monk was sitting and warming himself.
You can imagine the priest’s state!
He seized the monk by the neck: “Madman! What have you done? You burned God!”
The monk said, “God?” Picking up a small stick, he began to poke in the ashes.
The priest asked, “What are you doing?”
He said, “I am searching for the Buddha’s bones.”
The priest let go of his neck and said, “I knew it—you are crazy. First you burned the idol, then you look for bones in it! How can there be bones in a wooden statue?”
The monk said, “Friend, the night is long and the cold is deep. Two idols still remain—bring me one more.”
But the priest shoved him out.
In the morning, what did the villagers see? The monk was on the roadside worshiping a stone.
They said, “You seem utterly mad! You burned God’s idol—and now you worship a stone!”
The monk said, “Wherever I look, I see only God. And the eyes that can see God only in the temple idol—how will those eyes see God in the whole world? In that wooden idol too there was God; in those flames of fire too there was God; and in this poor monk warming himself—there too there was only God. In this stone also there is God. In this way, the worship goes on twenty-four hours.”
As the heart becomes sensitive, hollow idols will be burned; the images imposed upon the mind will fade—because all idols constrict and narrow and bind. But slowly, the remembrance and sensing of some vast, formless God begins—and his worship begins with every breath. You will see him in the barking dog on the road, in the stars of the sky. It is easy to see him in the stars—but you will see the same within your child at home, in your wife, in your husband—everywhere, in everything. To see him, to know him—if the returning current cannot sense that mystery outside, it will not sense it within either. When the heart fills with mystery everywhere outside, then when the breaths return inward, the mystery is experienced within as well. The journey that is happening outside is the very one that returns within. The same breaths that go out, come in. The same life-energy, the same awareness flows outside and inside. When the mystery is experienced outside, it is experienced within.
One day Rabia was sitting in her hut. Outside, a friend had come. Morning dawned; it was a beautiful morning—all mornings are beautiful. Her friend shouted from outside: “Rabia, what are you doing inside? Come out! What a beautiful sun has risen! What a new morning God has given! How the birds sing! How the sky is filled with colors! Come out!”
Rabia said, “Hasan, I too have been outside—I too have seen the sun rise, seen the clouds moving. But will you come inside? Because the one who made what you are seeing outside—I am seeing him within. Hasan, have mercy—come inside!”
This that is outside—more vast than this, more beautiful, more profound, more alive—is within. Because the deeper we enter within—yet that within is not ‘mine’; it is ‘everyone’s’ within. The deeper you go toward the center, the more the vast and the mysterious and the subtle begin to be revealed. The more and yet more the unknown begins to touch and caress you.
Look outside; it is simple to begin from the outside. It is natural to let the beginning be outside. Have you ever truly seen a beautiful face? You will say, surely you have. I tell you: you probably have not. To see a beautiful face, the kind of mysterious heart that is needed—do you have it? Have you ever seen beautiful eyes? Have you ever seen silent eyes? Have you ever seen anything beautiful? If you had, how would you come here? What need was there to come? What purpose in sitting an hour in this closed hall? Outside beauty is present—the sun has risen today, its rays are spreading, leaves are laughing, flowers are blooming, birds are singing—everything is present outside. What, then, is the reason to sit here?
Day after day I await the day when I come and find the hall empty, not a single person has come—because the sun is outside, the stars are outside, people are there. Then that day my heart will be happy, filled with joy—no one comes now to listen, because people are engrossed in seeing, in being, in knowing. But we live in words; we grasp words and fill ourselves with words—and a heart filled with words loses all sensitivity.
Be empty of words and fill with beauty; be empty of knowledge and fill with mystery; abandon the known and let the unknown enter. As the heart fills with the unknown, you will know what is outside; and you will know what is within. Then the division of inner and outer falls. Only knowing remains; only being remains. In that being is his awakening. In that simple being is his experience.
“Who am I?”—there is its answer; and that answer will not only tell “Who am I?”—it will also tell, “What is all this?” The day I become capable of knowing the mystery hidden within me, I become capable of knowing that same mystery within all.
So, knock—ask within. Let this question arise from within to within. And hold on to no answer. And look outside—open your eyes—and recognize the unknown there. Let no answer come in between, let no explanation come in between.
So yesterday and today I have said two things: ask, “Who am I?”—and do not let any learned answer come in between. And, look outside at what is—and do not let any explanation or theory come in between. Then there will be a sense of mystery outside and within. And when attunement happens between the two—when there is harmony, music, dialogue between them—then the birth happens of what I call knowing; then the doors open to that which is knowledge. And along with it, the doors open to that which is love—because mystery gives birth to love. And the doors open to that which is bliss—because bliss is nothing but the fragrance of love.
But the hard are unfortunate. The so-called seekers who grow hard in every way, who keep restraining themselves, constricting themselves, become inert, become stone. They can certainly proclaim, “Aham Brahmasmi! I am Brahman!”—and this and that—but they cannot know. They cannot know. Because if they knew, Brahman would remain—and the ‘I’ would dissolve. If they knew, they would say, “Brahman is—and I am not.” But they say, “I am Brahman!” If they knew, they would say, “Brahman is—and I am not.” And in this being—just being—lies all fulfillment and blessedness.
These few things I have said today. If something comes to mind, tomorrow I will say a few more on this subject. But speaking has little value—listening has value. I complete my work of speaking; whether you listen or not—that lies with you. Tomorrow I will say a few more things. You have listened to my words with love—may Paramatma grant that with the same love you can listen to Paramatma. You have sat here with love for this while—may Paramatma grant that you can sit for the same while some evening under the moon, beneath the stars. There is something there—surely there is something there. If there is a little awakening within, something will be found there, something will be attained. And when something is seen and found there, then on the returning current something will be found within as well, something will be attained within.
I bow down to the Paramatma seated within all. Please accept my pranam.
Osho's Commentary
“Who am I?”—about this I said a few things to you yesterday. Not knowledge, but un-knowing; not information, but the state of not-knowing—I spoke a little about that.
If we can be free of that knowledge which is available from the outside, then there is the possibility of the birth of that knowing which is not obtained, but discovered—unveiled; it is hidden within, and when its veils are torn, doors begin to open.
Therefore I said: not by knowledge, but by knowing this truth—“I do not know.” Only in this inner mood—“I do not know”—can something be truly known. “I do not know”—as this remembrance, this memory grows denser and more intense, the mind falls silent; it becomes still and wordless. For all words and all thoughts arise out of our illusion that we know.
Let “Who am I?” be the question—but do not accept any answer. In that denial, in that negative mind, in that inner condition, the one who sleeps within begins to awaken. Knock on the door—ask: Who am I?—but accept no answer. Neither those answers which the world teaches you, nor those answers memorized in the name of religion and spirituality. If all that has been learned can be forgotten, and we can knock on the doors of our very life-breath, then, as Christ has said: “Knock and the door shall be opened.” Knock, and the doors will open.
Let me tell you: the one who knocks discovers the doors were never locked; the doors were already open.
But those who live in the illusion of knowing are deprived of knocking. Those who are trapped in the idea that they know lose all that sensitivity which is essential for real knowing. This, I said to you yesterday.
This morning—yesterday I spoke of un-knowing—this morning I want to say a few things about mystery.
When the mind rests in the state “I do not know,” all of life begins to unveil itself as a mystery. And when the mind is in the state “I know”—because the Gita is in my memory, the Upanishads are known to me, and Shankar and Ramanuja—and all that—are familiar, therefore I know; words are known, scriptures are known—therefore I know—such a mind loses the sense of life’s mystery. Life no longer appears as a mystery to it. Since it knows everything, the unknown that surrounds us ceases to make its heart tremble.
And everything is unknown. That child born in your home—is he known to you? Those eyes your wife has—are you truly acquainted with them? Those friends, those neighbors, or that stone lying by the roadside, or those plants flowering near your house, those blossoms, or the stars of the sky, or the birds’ songs at dawn—are they known? What do we actually know? Everything is unknown. Everything is unknown! And when all is unknown, all becomes adorned with a wondrous mystery. The awakening to that mystery is the first sign of a religious mind.
The awakening to mystery is the first sign of a religious mind.
I call that person irreligious in whose life there is no sense of mystery.
That person alone is irreligious in whose life there is no sense of mystery! Whose life is not crowned by the unknown, whom the unknown does not touch from all sides, who does not see the infinite doors of mystery opening around him—that person is irreligious. Our theories have tightened their grip on our minds in such a way that explanations are available for everything; therefore nothing remains unknown, we know it all.
I remember Sheikh Chilli, who lived in a certain village. He knew everything. Those must have been very kind people who said of him that he was Sheikh Chilli—for whoever claims to know everything is bound to be a Sheikh Chilli, bound to be a madman. He knew everything; there was nothing he did not know. Then one day a theft occurred in the king’s palace of that realm. The entire power of the state was engaged to find the thief, but no trace could be found. No clue appeared by which the thief might be identified. All the detectives became exhausted and frustrated. Then the villagers said: there is no other way—there is a wise man in our village; let us ask him. There is nothing he does not know.
The king’s envoy was sent to Sheikh Chilli. He was sitting in the pose adopted by thinkers. You must have seen the statue by Rodin—The Thinker. Either Rodin sculpted it after seeing Sheikh Chilli, or Sheikh Chilli had seen that statue and copied it—one of the two must be true. He was sitting in that contemplative posture. There is nothing more childish than a pose of deep thinking. The king’s envoy arrived and said, “Do you know there has been a theft in the palace?”
He said, “What is there that I do not know?”
With great respect they brought him to the palace. The king asked, “You know there has been a theft in the palace—many priceless objects are gone. All the state’s detectives and investigators have found no clue.”
He said, “What is there that I do not know?”
The king was pleased and said, “Then tell me—who committed the theft?”
Sheikh Chilli said, “I will tell you in private, alone. Lock the doors, because if I take someone’s name and reveal it, tomorrow I will be in trouble. So, lock the doors.” The doors were locked. The king remained alone with him. Even then, fearing that the walls might hear, Sheikh Chilli put his mouth to the king’s ear, as masters whisper a mantra in secret so that no one hears, no one sees, no one comes to know—he put his mouth to the king’s ear and said, “Shall I tell you? But don’t tell anyone, don’t get me into trouble—shall I tell you?”
The king said, “Say it!”
He whispered very softly, “It seems a thief has done the stealing.”
And what have our philosophers been doing? What have our religious thinkers been doing? Those who say that God created the world—what do they mean? After all their investigation, after all their head-scratching, they report that surely some maker made the world. This is exactly what they say—“A thief must have done the stealing.” “A maker must have made the world”—this is what they say after exhaustive inquiry. “Some thief stole, some maker made”—this is the conclusion of all thinking, this is the declaration of our wise men. And we grasp these declarations, these thoughts, these theories—and then life’s unknown throbbing, its unknown shocks, its unknown winds no longer touch us; we sit enclosed within our theories.
Whoever is enclosed in theories—there are no latticed windows in theories, no openings; theories have no doors, no compromises. Theories shut a man inside like a solid wall. And whatever comes to his threshold carrying a question, he answers it: “It is thus.” “It is the fruit of your past lives.” “It is fate.” “It is God.” “This is so, that is so”—he answers everything. And whatever he answers ceases to be a mystery for him.
This world and life which feel so boring to us, so tiresome—this is because of our so-called knowledge. If we begin to look without the walls of theory, if we look without knowledge, then each and every thing is so astonishing, so new—nothing is old, nothing is as it was yesterday. The sun that arose this morning has never arisen before, and will never arise again. The breeze that moved this morning has never blown before, and will never blow again. The flowers that blossomed today have bloomed for the first time. Everything is new. Everything is adorned with mystery. What have we truly known yet?
A very great scientist, who spent his whole life studying electricity, had gone to rest in a small village. The village school was small. Some of the science students had built a few things, some small devices. The school had its function and an exhibition. The scientist too went to see. The child who had worked hardest and made some electrical toys began to explain with great excitement how he had made them, how they worked, what their features were.
The scientist listened with intense interest. The boy did not even know that in the whole world perhaps no one knew electricity as deeply as this man. So the boy explained with even more delight. When all was shown, the scientist asked, “Son, may I ask one thing—what is this electricity? What is electricity, after all?”
The boy said, “That we do not know.”
The headmaster scolded the boy, “You don’t know, and yet you keep explaining! This is the greatest living knower of electricity.”
But what did that greatest knower say? He said, “What this child says—that we do not know electricity—I too would say the same: we do not know electricity.”
What do we know? This life all around us—do we know the leaf unfolding before the door? Do we know how a seed sprouts? Do we know how a seed becomes a flower? We know nothing. There are stars in the sky, stones on the earth, flowers, human beings, eyes—do we know? A song is born within—do we know that? We do not know anything. But because of the illusion that we know, this mystery of life cannot stir our life-breath.
Therefore, if we drop the illusion of knowing, the sense of mystery is born. And where the sense of mystery arises in a life, there the advent of God begins. The day the footfalls of mystery are heard, the day some unknown one stands at the door of the mind whom we do not know, and our whole heart can say, “I do not know,” and we can welcome that unknown guest—know that day the life of religion has entered.
But we sit with the doors of knowledge shut. And the more tightly someone keeps the doors of knowledge closed, the greater a scholar he is thought to be, the greater a knower he is.
So yesterday I spoke of the first step: the sense of un-knowing.
Today I speak of the second: the birth of mystery.
But whether theologians, mathematicians, scholars of other kinds, or scientists—whoever has destroyed the mystery of life, or spread such notions that in their net the sense of life’s unknown no longer touches us—all of them have deepened human sorrow, diminished joy, and closed the possibilities of poetry.
This vast unknown spread on all sides—our heart should be open toward it. But knowledge holds us back. And not only knowledge, but the teachings erected on the foundation of knowledge harden us, make us stone-like, not sensitive.
And the harder and more stony the heart becomes, the less sensitivity remains, the less mystery can enter it. Yet we take indifference and hardness to be virtues. We take Vairagya, standing aloof, closing ourselves, to be virtues.
Religion has no connection with deadness. But as a man becomes more inert, more juiceless, devoid of sensitivity—insensitive—so inert that nothing can stir within him, the more we assume this is a virtue. We do not value life—we value dying. The more a man becomes corpse-like, the more we call it virtue. We have worshiped this greatly, and slowly we have taught man to become a stone.
I heard of a certain person—his wife died. He was a very public and famous man. He had written a large book on the Gita. His wife died. Perhaps he was composing his commentary on the Gita then, or working on some other scripture. He was informed, “Your wife—your wife has breathed her last.” He looked at the clock on the wall and said, “But it is only half past four—I cannot rise before five.”
It was four-thirty; his rule was to rise at five daily. Even his wife’s death could not make him rise at four-thirty. I heard much praise of this—that what an extraordinary man he was, how disciplined, how detached, how non-attached! And I was astonished. I was astonished! This respect for such hardness, such violence—these things which are taken to be marks of saintliness and attainment and non-attachment—such notions have drained life of all juice, of all joy; they have gravely wounded life. The book he was writing is more valuable, and a living person disappearing is not valuable? The rule to rise at five is more valuable—then even death should come at five, not before; it should follow his rule!
These people of rules, these people of principles—none are more inert, more stone-hearted than they. This has been extensively taught in the name of religion. And the more a man hardens himself... and who can harden himself? Do you know who can? Who? Only one who is very violent toward others. If such a person turns his violence upon himself, then he can become hard. The one who is very violent, very cruel to others, wicked—if he withdraws all his wickedness from others, he becomes cruel toward himself. The one who is very violent toward others—if he pulls back his violence from others, he becomes violent toward himself, and then he starts torturing himself.
I tell you: whether one tortures another or oneself—there is no difference; both are torture. There is no difference. Those who forcibly stop tormenting others and shut it off, they begin to torment themselves. And we call this sadhana. We call this sadhana! Someone gouges out his own eyes—and we think, “What great sadhana!” Someone burns his body, lies on thorns, stands inverted or twisted—and we think, “What great sadhana!” And thus he becomes harder and harder. All the filaments of his sensitivity go numb. He no longer senses beauty, he no longer experiences the mystery of life. All his windows, all his lattices are closed. He remains standing as an idol of ego.
These trainings that inculcate insensitivity have not allowed man to be religious.
I heard of a sadhu who, fifteen years earlier, had left his home—his wife and children—to become a renunciate. After fifteen years, he was in Kashi, and news came that his wife had died. He laughed and said, “Well, one trouble is over!”
I was amazed. The one who told me said, “What supreme renunciation—that he said on his wife’s death, ‘A trouble is over!’”
I said, “I am astonished. The one he left fifteen years ago—was she still a trouble? What does this mean? She was still a trouble, which ended with her death? And what did not end in fifteen years of separation—will it end with her death? What did not end by living away fifteen years—how will it change now? And remember this too: the man who says, on his wife’s death, ‘My trouble is over,’ must have thought many times in his heart, ‘Let her die.’ Surely—there can be no doubt—many times he must have wished, ‘Let her die.’ Only then does her death feel like relief from trouble.”
These are hard, cruel, violent hearts—hearts filled with deep violence. They become numb to life’s entire mystery. Then their talk of Paramatma and Brahman and Atman is hollow and false. Where there is no sense of mystery, no sensitivity, no openness of heart toward life—where will Paramatma be? Where will Paramatma enter there? Where? Where will those footsteps be heard, where will that music arise?
Therefore I say: those hard-hearted people who have turned their harshness upon themselves have harmed religion. They have blocked the very birth of religion, obstructed it, crippled it.
So I say: not those who lie upon thorns; not those who organize long fasts to die; not those who forcibly endure heat and cold to torment the body; not those who have become their own enemies—such people have not known, cannot know, the One who is Paramatma. Rather, those who have made their hearts simple, filled them with love; those who have recognized and tasted beauty; those who have opened their inner doors to life’s mystery—such people have known something, have lived more deeply. They have attained more; something has descended within them; some unknown music has arisen within; they have heard a sound that is unstruck; they have found some relatedness with that Unknown which surrounds us—some attunement, some harmony, some joining with the expanse around. Not those who disciplined their “I-ness” and grew harder, becoming statues of ego—no; rather those who became rarefied, fluid—who kept melting and melting—so much so that later it became difficult even to find where they were—perhaps they have known; only they can know; no one else can. Only a sensitive heart attains to knowing—no one else.
Let the mind be in the state of not-knowing, and let the heart be full of the pulsation of sensitivity. Let the mind be in a state of not-knowing, and let the heart’s every door be open to mystery. Let the heart grow full of mystery, and let the mind and intellect grow empty of knowledge—then that event happens where it is known, “Who am I?” and where it is known, “What is all this?”
A few words are needed on this vibration of the heart.
And when I say that poetic hearts can know, do not take it to mean that those who write poems can know. Writing poems is very easy; being suffused with poetry is very difficult. Not every poem contains poetry, and not every poet is full of a poetic heart. From the logic of words, philosophy is born. From the rhyming of words, poetry is born. And those skillful in rhyming can be poets—indeed they may even become “poets of the nation.” One must know how to rhyme and how to live in the capital—then one can become a national poet. Poetizing is a very ordinary thing.
No one becomes a poet by stringing words together. The heart’s attunement with that Existence which pervades all around us—with that Being in which we are, and with which every moment we are in relationship. Each moment something goes out from within us, and something enters within. “Outside” and “inside” are not two opposites; outside and inside are not two opposing dimensions—they are two ends of one and the same movement.
A storm rises on the ocean; waves reach unknown shores and touch them, then return. The same wave touches the shore, the same wave goes back. The wave has two ends—the shore and the sea: that which it touches, and that from which it returns. My breath and yours go out each moment, then come back in, then go out again... At the two ends of the breath, on one side is outside, on the other is inside. Outside and inside are not opposites, but two ends of one continuum. And when one becomes so absorbed that outside and inside are no longer two, but the experience of a single continuum arises—attunement is born; poetry is born. In such a state the heart will be full of poetry—when outside and inside are not two.
Socrates did not return home one night. His friends must have been worried. They went to search. They found him leaning against a tree—snow had fallen, his feet had likely grown numb—and his eyelids were fixed, his eyes gazing at the stars.
They shook him and shook him—then as if he returned from somewhere. “What is it?” he said. “Is it very late?”
His friends said, “The night is almost over. Your feet must be frozen; snow has fallen; the winds are icy—what are you doing?”
He said, “Doing? Nothing at all—I had become one with the stars. I was not there; there was only something between me and the stars—I was not.” Attunement. Harmony.
In China, a king wanted to have a rooster engraved on the royal seal—the state’s emblem. He sent word through the villages: whichever painter brought the finest painting of a rooster would be richly rewarded.
An old painter came and said, “I have grown very old; my hands tremble, so perhaps I cannot paint the picture—but I want to offer some small service to the state: let me judge the paintings. Until I approve, do not carve the state’s seal.”
The king himself was hoping to find some elder master to judge. But the old man must have been very unusual—for however beautiful the paintings, he would go into a closed room, return, and say, “No—not yet.” He would send them back. A year passed, then two. The king became anxious: “Will you ever approve a painting? The finest paintings have come—what is your criterion for rejection? How do you know they are not right?”
He said, “Come.” He took the king into his room. “I place the paintings here,” he said, “and then I bring a rooster into the room. If the rooster recognizes the rooster in the painting, then I understand that the painting is true. If the rooster wanders about and leaves without noticing, then I know it is not a real painting—the one who painted it painted from afar; he has no attunement with roosters.”
The king was astonished: “I had never imagined that paintings would be tested by a rooster. And what would roosters understand?”
The painter said, “The day a true rooster is painted—if the rooster does not recognize it, who will? He will freeze on entering, ready to fight; he will give a cry—there will be another rooster in the room. But if the paintings are dead, roosters will not recognize them; they will circle around and go away. A person may recognize, ‘This is a rooster,’ but only when a rooster recognizes it, something has happened.”
But no such painting came. Those who painted were not true painters. They had drawn the rooster’s body, but could not capture the rooster’s soul. The body is easy enough to draw—but the soul? Only one who becomes one with the soul can capture it. In the end the old man said, “It won’t do—I must paint it myself. But it is very difficult—I may live, I may not; that is why I had said, ‘I am seventy, an old man.’ Even so, I must paint it.”
The king said, “Two years have been wasted—you could have painted it long ago!”
He said, “No—another three years will be needed.”
The king asked, “Is it so hard to paint?”
He said, “Painting is not hard—but becoming one with the rooster is very hard. Give me three years’ leave. Now I go to the forest—and let me see if in this old age attunement can happen.”
The artist went to the forest. After six months the king sent some friends: “Go, see if he is alive; what is he doing there; how long will he stay?” They went. He was lying among wild roosters. He sent them back: “It is too soon—far too soon. Until I become a rooster, do not come.” They returned and said, “The old man seems mad—he says, ‘Until I become a rooster!’ If he becomes a rooster, who will paint the rooster? There are already plenty of roosters!”
But they had to wait three years. Then they brought him back. He came into the royal court and let out a loud rooster’s crow. The courtiers were astonished. “It is all very well,” they said, “that you learned to crow—but where is the painting?”
He said, “To paint it is now the work of a moment. To catch the soul—that was very difficult; that is done. I have known the rooster from within.” Then he called for his brushes and, standing there, made the painting. Roosters were brought in; seeing the painting, they froze, alarmed, and cried out. The rooster was alive—born out of some attunement, some harmony.
Those have known who have attained some attunement toward life—some unity, some oneness. But the person who hardens his heart and closes all the doors of sensitivity—how will he become one? He will not. He will not! There is no way for him to become one.
Therefore, that religion which severs us from the juice of life, from the mystery of life, from life’s tears and smiles— that religion which hardens and petrifies—is not religion; it is only the worship of ego. And the harder the person becomes, the deeper and denser his “I-ness” grows.
The worship of ego is not religion.
A sadhu died; his disciple was very renowned—very renowned. But when the master died, this disciple, so renowned, began to weep; tears fell from his eyes.
People said, “What are you doing? You are weeping! And you always said the soul is immortal and the body dies—and you are weeping!”
He said, “I weep for the body—it was so beautiful, so wondrous, so full of mystery! I do not weep for the soul—I weep for the body.”
His friends said, “We are amazed to see you weep—for we always thought that those whose eyes cannot fill with tears, whose lips cannot curve into a smile—only they are sannyasis, only they are sadhus.”
He said, “I too once thought so. The eyes can be made stone-like, and the lips so stiff that even if one wants to smile, one cannot. The eyes can be made so stony that tears cannot come. But then within, the heart also turns to stone; within becomes rock; within grows deadness. And the more everything within grows inert, the more fluidity is lost, the more sensitivity is lost, the more connections are lost—the more all paths of meeting are lost.”
Religion is union; religion is joining—religion is joining with all.
How will we join if we keep breaking ourselves?
Therefore I said: a poetic heart is needed. A poetic heart—filled with song, sensitive, feeling each and every sensation of this life spread all around. If this does not happen—then there is no way, no path, no door, no avenue of arrival.
Then one cannot reach to Paramatma. Sitting and chanting “Ram-Ram”—no one reaches. Nor by reciting mantras, nor by temple worship. For we see that the temple-goers become even more inert. After all, what have the religious people not done in this world? How much violence has been committed in the names of Hindu and Muslim, Jain and Buddhist, Christian and Parsi! How much violence in the name of temples and mosques! How much hardness, how much violence in the name of these idols, these scriptures, these sects!
How many did Christians not kill, or Muslims, or the other religions of the world—what have they not done? How much murder, how much blood! How was such hardness possible? It is possible because of this very training in a hard, stone-like heart. The hearts that have grown insensitive, that have lost sensitivity—their idols become dangerous, their temples become dangerous.
One night, in a temple in Japan, a young monk came to stay. The night was very cold, very icy. He entered the temple; there were wooden statues—he lifted a wooden Buddha, lit it, and warmed himself at the fire. The fire crackled; perhaps the wood split; the priest awakened, ran in, and saw—there had been three idols on the altar; now only two remained. He panicked. He saw the idol had been burned, and the monk was sitting and warming himself.
You can imagine the priest’s state!
He seized the monk by the neck: “Madman! What have you done? You burned God!”
The monk said, “God?” Picking up a small stick, he began to poke in the ashes.
The priest asked, “What are you doing?”
He said, “I am searching for the Buddha’s bones.”
The priest let go of his neck and said, “I knew it—you are crazy. First you burned the idol, then you look for bones in it! How can there be bones in a wooden statue?”
The monk said, “Friend, the night is long and the cold is deep. Two idols still remain—bring me one more.”
But the priest shoved him out.
In the morning, what did the villagers see? The monk was on the roadside worshiping a stone.
They said, “You seem utterly mad! You burned God’s idol—and now you worship a stone!”
The monk said, “Wherever I look, I see only God. And the eyes that can see God only in the temple idol—how will those eyes see God in the whole world? In that wooden idol too there was God; in those flames of fire too there was God; and in this poor monk warming himself—there too there was only God. In this stone also there is God. In this way, the worship goes on twenty-four hours.”
As the heart becomes sensitive, hollow idols will be burned; the images imposed upon the mind will fade—because all idols constrict and narrow and bind. But slowly, the remembrance and sensing of some vast, formless God begins—and his worship begins with every breath. You will see him in the barking dog on the road, in the stars of the sky. It is easy to see him in the stars—but you will see the same within your child at home, in your wife, in your husband—everywhere, in everything. To see him, to know him—if the returning current cannot sense that mystery outside, it will not sense it within either. When the heart fills with mystery everywhere outside, then when the breaths return inward, the mystery is experienced within as well. The journey that is happening outside is the very one that returns within. The same breaths that go out, come in. The same life-energy, the same awareness flows outside and inside. When the mystery is experienced outside, it is experienced within.
One day Rabia was sitting in her hut. Outside, a friend had come. Morning dawned; it was a beautiful morning—all mornings are beautiful. Her friend shouted from outside: “Rabia, what are you doing inside? Come out! What a beautiful sun has risen! What a new morning God has given! How the birds sing! How the sky is filled with colors! Come out!”
Rabia said, “Hasan, I too have been outside—I too have seen the sun rise, seen the clouds moving. But will you come inside? Because the one who made what you are seeing outside—I am seeing him within. Hasan, have mercy—come inside!”
This that is outside—more vast than this, more beautiful, more profound, more alive—is within. Because the deeper we enter within—yet that within is not ‘mine’; it is ‘everyone’s’ within. The deeper you go toward the center, the more the vast and the mysterious and the subtle begin to be revealed. The more and yet more the unknown begins to touch and caress you.
Look outside; it is simple to begin from the outside. It is natural to let the beginning be outside. Have you ever truly seen a beautiful face? You will say, surely you have. I tell you: you probably have not. To see a beautiful face, the kind of mysterious heart that is needed—do you have it? Have you ever seen beautiful eyes? Have you ever seen silent eyes? Have you ever seen anything beautiful? If you had, how would you come here? What need was there to come? What purpose in sitting an hour in this closed hall? Outside beauty is present—the sun has risen today, its rays are spreading, leaves are laughing, flowers are blooming, birds are singing—everything is present outside. What, then, is the reason to sit here?
Day after day I await the day when I come and find the hall empty, not a single person has come—because the sun is outside, the stars are outside, people are there. Then that day my heart will be happy, filled with joy—no one comes now to listen, because people are engrossed in seeing, in being, in knowing. But we live in words; we grasp words and fill ourselves with words—and a heart filled with words loses all sensitivity.
Be empty of words and fill with beauty; be empty of knowledge and fill with mystery; abandon the known and let the unknown enter. As the heart fills with the unknown, you will know what is outside; and you will know what is within. Then the division of inner and outer falls. Only knowing remains; only being remains. In that being is his awakening. In that simple being is his experience.
“Who am I?”—there is its answer; and that answer will not only tell “Who am I?”—it will also tell, “What is all this?” The day I become capable of knowing the mystery hidden within me, I become capable of knowing that same mystery within all.
So, knock—ask within. Let this question arise from within to within. And hold on to no answer. And look outside—open your eyes—and recognize the unknown there. Let no answer come in between, let no explanation come in between.
So yesterday and today I have said two things: ask, “Who am I?”—and do not let any learned answer come in between. And, look outside at what is—and do not let any explanation or theory come in between. Then there will be a sense of mystery outside and within. And when attunement happens between the two—when there is harmony, music, dialogue between them—then the birth happens of what I call knowing; then the doors open to that which is knowledge. And along with it, the doors open to that which is love—because mystery gives birth to love. And the doors open to that which is bliss—because bliss is nothing but the fragrance of love.
But the hard are unfortunate. The so-called seekers who grow hard in every way, who keep restraining themselves, constricting themselves, become inert, become stone. They can certainly proclaim, “Aham Brahmasmi! I am Brahman!”—and this and that—but they cannot know. They cannot know. Because if they knew, Brahman would remain—and the ‘I’ would dissolve. If they knew, they would say, “Brahman is—and I am not.” But they say, “I am Brahman!” If they knew, they would say, “Brahman is—and I am not.” And in this being—just being—lies all fulfillment and blessedness.
These few things I have said today. If something comes to mind, tomorrow I will say a few more on this subject. But speaking has little value—listening has value. I complete my work of speaking; whether you listen or not—that lies with you. Tomorrow I will say a few more things. You have listened to my words with love—may Paramatma grant that with the same love you can listen to Paramatma. You have sat here with love for this while—may Paramatma grant that you can sit for the same while some evening under the moon, beneath the stars. There is something there—surely there is something there. If there is a little awakening within, something will be found there, something will be attained. And when something is seen and found there, then on the returning current something will be found within as well, something will be attained within.
I bow down to the Paramatma seated within all. Please accept my pranam.