A very strange happening took place in a village. A man, through some illness, lost his shadow. A man lost his shadow in an illness! Such a thing had never happened. When he walked along the road, no shadow formed at his feet. The villagers began to fear him. His family drew away. Even his wife abandoned him. It was a great portent, that someone should lose his shadow! Their being afraid was natural. They could not fathom what kind of man this was whose shadow would not appear. Little by little, his own family expelled him. Friends left him. Whichever door he approached, people slammed it shut. He came to the verge of starving. With folded hands he cried out to God, return my shadow to me! What is this—my shadow has been lost, and with it my life is being destroyed!
Who knows whether such a thing ever truly occurred. I have only heard that it once did. That man, having lost his shadow, came into such misery!
And what of us all?
We have not merely lost a shadow—we have lost our Atman. Then how shall we reckon the calamity that has befallen us all? If one were to lose a shadow, he would fall into difficulty; but if one loses the Atman, how can the measure of his misfortune even be taken?
We have been reduced to mere shadows. Within us there is no awareness of the Atman—no remembrance, no recognition, no experience. We live and we die without ever knowing who we are. Who am I?—without knowing this, life comes to its end.
Is it possible that, without knowing the truth of who dwells within, I might attain the bliss of life? Is it possible, without knowing who it was that took birth in me, who it was that lived in me, who it was that departed from me—that without this truth, peace and music might be found in life?
No, it is not possible. Without knowing oneself, beauty does not arrive in life, peace does not arrive, music does not arrive, truth does not arrive.
Therefore, in today’s talk I would say to you: religion is not related to God, religion is not related to the hereafter. Religion is related to what is hidden within the human being—the I that I am—coming to be known. I say this because one who does not even know who he is—what else will he ever know? Paramatma is far; the nearest is I myself. And one who does not know what is nearest—how will he know what is far? One who does not know himself—his every knowing is false and illusory. All his knowledge will prove to be ignorance—because he has not struck at the first place, the primary, the closest house of ignorance.
Who am I?—religion is related to the search for this truth.
And the greatest of secrets is this: one who knows who I am—doors open for him to know all. One who unlocks the lock within—no lock remains on any mystery in this universe. To know oneself is the indispensable condition for knowing truth. But if, without knowing oneself, we engage in prayers to Paramatma, those prayers will bear no fruit. And if, without knowing ourselves, we load the scriptures upon our heads, those scriptures will become burdens; no liberation will arise through them. Whatever we do without knowing ourselves will only weave new bondage; no freedom can come of it.
Who am I?—upon this mystery rests the entire search, the entire inquiry.
But we do everything else, and we never engage in the search for this one thing. Some people search the world—search wealth, fame, status. When they grow weary of the world, of the race for wealth and prestige and renown, understanding there is nothing in it, they enter a new race—the race for moksha, the race for Paramatma. They had been running for the world; weary and harassed by that, they begin to run for God. Yet one thing remains the same in both races: neither in the worldly race did they ever attempt to know themselves, nor in the race toward God do they attempt to know themselves.
Therefore the worldly remain without self-knowledge, and the so‑called religious whom we know also fail to know themselves. Both run—one for the world, one for liberation—but the search for the self is missed by both. The truth is: whether one runs for the world or for Paramatma—so long as one is running, one will not know oneself.
To know oneself, one must stop—one must not run.
Whoever is entangled in any kind of race will not know himself. How can a running mind know itself? The running mind is the entanglement itself. The running mind is restlessness. The running mind is darkness. Because of the running mind, because of its waves, that which is hidden within us remains unknown.
In the world there are two kinds of runners: those we call worldly, and those we call spiritual or religious.
Listen well: whether the race is for the world or for religion, the race as such deprives a person of himself and does not allow him to know himself. The race changes, the seeker of wealth becomes a seeker of moksha; the seeker of position begins to seek Paramatma; the race changes, the direction changes—but the running mind remains unchanged. It does not show, it is not seen. Why not? Because we already know the worldly race is bad; so when someone leaves the worldly race and begins the religious race, we say—very good.
I say to you: the worldly race is not the evil—the race is the evil. Even if the race is for moksha, it is evil. Even if it is for Paramatma, it is evil. For the running mind is agitated, unquiet, restless.
Religion is related to the state of non‑running—to the one who drops the race and becomes still. One who is no longer mad to attain anything at all—who halts, who abides—only in his life does religion begin.
Religion is not a race. Religion is not a race set against the world. And so, even if you are running in search of God, I tell you—never will you know God. For a runner can never know even himself—how will he know Paramatma?
There are two kinds of races in the world. The religious person is one who saves himself from both kinds. This is very difficult. It will appear very difficult. To change one race for another is very easy—altogether easy. The mind feels no burden in it. The race changes: the greedy man becomes an ascetic; the race changes—yesterday he hoarded wealth, today he begins to renounce wealth. Yesterday the race was to accumulate; now the race is to abandon. The mind remains unaffected. The ego becomes humble: yesterday it proclaimed, I am someone; today it proclaims, I am nothing. But the race continues. Yesterday the race was to make the I bigger; today the race is to make the I small. No transformation occurs in the mind.
For those who set out to seek Paramatma or truth, this is the greatest entanglement: their race changes, but the race does not stop. They were building houses here; leaving them, they begin to build houses in the sky and in the other world. They wanted pleasure here; leaving it, they begin to desire the pleasures of moksha. But the race remains. If the race remains, we escape a well only to fall into an abyss.
Once, a group went to a madhouse to study the inmates. The doctor there told them the stories, the catastrophes, behind each patient. They came to the first. He was clutching a big cloth doll to his chest and weeping. What happened to him? asked the visitors. The doctor said: he went mad. The young woman he loved, whom he wanted as his companion in life—she refused him, would not marry him. He went mad. Since then he dresses up this doll in her likeness, talks to it day and night, weeps with it.
They moved on, saddened. One of them asked the doctor: and that girl—did she marry someone else? The doctor said: wait a bit, we will introduce you to that man as well. They went to another cell. Here, said the doctor, is the man she married. And how did he go mad? the visitors asked. The doctor replied: the first went mad because he could not marry that woman; this one had to go mad because he did marry her. Living with her brought him to madness.
When I heard this story, I said—how true it is. Some remain mad chasing the world; some become mad chasing God. Some remain mad because the world comes to them; some become mad because they abandon the world. In both cases a state of madness arises.
The running mind is madness.
The stilled mind—the mind at rest—is health.
Healthy means: one who has come to rest in oneself.
But our mind will not rest in itself. If we can engage it somewhere, all is well; if not, a great unease appears. That is why, on waking in the morning, someone hastens to find a newspaper—to read it, lest he be left empty. He throws his mind into the paper. One reads the news; another rises and begins to read the Gita—we think, the one reading news is bad, the one reading the Gita is good. I say to you, both are engaged in driving and chasing the mind. Both are afraid to let it come to rest. One runs it through the newspaper, one runs it through the Gita—it makes no difference. One switches on the radio to hear film songs; another sits and chants Ram‑Ram. But neither agrees to let the mind come to rest. Both drive it, both chase it. They are the same. Neither is religious.
A religious person is one who does not give the mind any paths for escape. A religious person is one who agrees to leave the mind empty. A religious person is one who refuses any food to the mind and says to it—remain empty, stay, do not run.
But this does not occur to us. We stop singing film songs and begin to sing bhajans—we think, by singing bhajans one becomes religious. Whether film song or bhajan—by either, no one has ever become religious.
When the mind does nothing—sings no song, thinks no thought, runs in no direction—when the mind does nothing, when it abides in a state of non‑doing, in that very moment there is an entry into religion; in that moment there is an entry into oneself; in that moment the glimpses of truth begin.
In Japan there was a great monastery with some five hundred monks. The emperor went to see it. The abbot took him around the vast grounds. In the center stood a huge building, and around it many small huts. He showed the huts—here the monks live, here they bathe, here they cook, here they study. The king kept asking—what do you do in the large building at the center? But the monk was strange; he would not answer. The king grew impatient. He was shown the small huts; nothing was said of the great hall. He asked again—my friend, you seem odd: you show me what appears least worth seeing. What is done in that central building? Still the monk remained silent. The third time the king said—this is beyond my patience. I came to see the ashram; you are showing me trivialities. What do you do in that great hall at the center? The monk said—I am in a quandary as to what to say we do there. In truth, we do nothing there. Everywhere else the monks bathe, study, converse. When a monk has nothing at all to do, he goes into that hall and does nothing. What then can I tell you that we do there? That is our hall of dhyana—our meditation hall. There we do nothing. If there is anything to be done, the ashram is large—we do it elsewhere. There, when someone has nothing to do, he goes in. So what shall I say we do there? Forgive me for saying nothing—because we do nothing there.
Have you ever known such a moment within your mind when you were doing nothing? Have you ever known such a moment when the mind was doing nothing—just being, simply being? Have you known the state of non‑doing? If not, then as yet you have no relationship with religion—and cannot have one. None at all.
Perform worship, perform prayer—these are states of doing. Run a shop, go to the temple—states of doing. Serve—serve the sick, serve the leper—states of doing. Religion has no relation to states of doing. But if the state of non‑doing is known, a new light and a new power are experienced in life. That very experience transforms the doing‑life from the roots.
For now, whatever we do has a single center—the ego, the I. Whether we worship or run a shop—the center of doing is I. The shop—my shop. The worship—my worship. The prayer—my prayer, my God, my Gita, my Quran, my religion. Build a temple—my temple. Serve—my service.
Until we have known that state—the state of non‑doing—we remain centered in I. But one who has known, even for a little while, that state in which nothing is being done—there is only existence, only being—finds that the ego is not. Ego is a feeling born of the activity of doing—this I did, and this, and this. From all this doing the ego has grown strong. Simply by knowing the state of non‑doing, it is known—there is no ego. Only in that state of non‑doing does the mind become so quiet that it can know itself. Knowing that, the center of doing is transformed. No longer is the ego the center of doing; Paramatma becomes the center. The life‑situation of such a person—this is called religion.
Remember, religion is not a deed, not an act, not a karma. Religion is related to experiencing akarm—the state of non‑doing. Only in akarm do we come into relation with ourselves. In karma we are related to others.
There was a very wondrous thinker—Eckhart. He had gone into the forest and sat beneath a tree. Some friends, perhaps out hunting or on picnic, came upon him. Thinking he must be bored or tired, they went to keep him company. Friend, you must be weary, they said; we have come to give you company. Eckhart replied: my friends, go your way. When I was alone, I was with myself; you have come and torn me away from myself. Go your way—I am not bored; I am with myself.
When you are doing nothing, you are with yourself. Only one who is with himself will know himself. We are never with ourselves—we are always with another. With a friend, with an enemy, with a book, with wife, with husband, with children, with father. And when we are bored of all these, we turn to an imaginary God, set up an image, and are with that. But with ourselves? Never. One who is not with himself—how will he experience religion? How will he know what and who he is?
The process of being with oneself is religion.
The process of being with oneself is yoga.
The process of being with oneself is dhyana.
The process of being with oneself is Samadhi.
How can we be with ourselves?
We are habituated to being with others. We prefer the crowd. No one wants to be alone.
Why not? Because in aloneness there is fear—there is anxiety. Of what are we afraid? Have you ever considered why aloneness frightens us? Why do we incessantly seek someone’s company?
There is one fundamental fear: in aloneness the ego dissolves. With others, the ego is constructed; in aloneness, it disappears. In aloneness, the fantasy of I am breaks—there is only I. Therefore we are always with others. And we prefer those who give our ego the greatest encouragement. Thus we prefer friends over enemies, for friends feed our ego. We want to be with those who amplify us.
In aloneness there is panic—the I will be lost; no one will be there to inflate it; it will scatter and break. Hence no one wants to be alone. But one who wants to discover oneself must dare it—must watch, with courage, the ego fall apart. This courage is called sannyas. This very courage is sannyas.
Running away from home is not sannyas. Escaping from home is easy. If it were up to everyone, all would run away—who is not harassed by home? Who is not afflicted by home? Who is not weary of home? To escape is no bravery.
There is only one courage in life—the courage to be alone.
So a man leaves his house, then gathers ten or twenty‑five disciples, builds an ashram, and lives there. Because there was no courage to be alone—leaving home, he must build an ashram. Leaving friends and family, he must gather disciples—because he needs a crowd. In aloneness there is a great danger—the danger of one’s self dissolving. Hence, the more disciples a sannyasin gathers, the greater a sannyasin he appears, and the more his ego swells. One who finds no disciples—he becomes a two‑penny sannyasin; his ego sinks. The hunt for disciples continues, the collection of crowds continues, ashrams are built. He ran away, and a new circle stood waiting—because he lacked the courage to be alone.
And to be alone one need not go to mountains or forests. One who understands the process of aloneness can be alone where he is—at home, in the shop, in the marketplace. One who knows how to be alone remains alone even in a crowd; one who does not know—leave him alone and he will conjure an imaginary crowd and sit among them. Go alone into a room—you will find, even with the door closed, that friends arrive in your mind; conversations begin. An imaginary crowd gathers. For to be alone is a great courage. Yet one who would search for himself must dare something.
Aloneness is the greatest tapascharya.
To fast is no great austerity; it is mere practice—one can fast for months. To stand on one’s head is no austerity—circus folk do it, you and I can do it. To twist the body into postures, to stand in the sun, to endure the cold—these are circus acts.
There is only one austerity for the human mind—the most arduous—to be alone.
The mind does not agree to be alone. It does not agree to sit alone. Its whole habit is life‑with‑someone. We get bored here and there, then go to satsang—there again is a crowd. We go to a guru—there too is company.
Thus I say: from satsang no one has ever attained religion. Only one whose mind agrees to stop in solitude, abandoning all company, comes to know religion. From satsang one can get doctrines, ideas, plenty of material for discourse; one can gain so‑called knowledge and become fit to preach. But from satsang no truth has ever been attained—nor can it be. Truth has no relation to company. Truth is found in asanga—in unsociation—not in association. Truth is found where there is no companion at all—where the mind abides companionless.
The first sutra in the search for religion, for oneself, for Paramatma: asanga‑bhava. I am alone. I am utterly alone. And in this aloneness—the effort to abide. When the mind says, seek company; when it says, I feel afraid in aloneness—then, with alert observation of the mind, make the effort to abide alone.
If only for a little while you begin to be alone—at first it is very hard, for the habit of company is constant—then we ask for a prop: give me a mantra to chant in aloneness—Ram‑Ram, Krishna‑Krishna—give me something to do. Or we seek a form—some image of God to focus on, or a light behind closed eyes. Again we are seeking company. These are tricks—we are seeking a companion. If not a real companion, then an imaginary one. A light to sit with, or a chant to repeat, a chakra in the heart or at the navel to imagine—but still we seek company. We are not willing to be alone. And if any company is obtained, the same circle begins again from which you wished to escape.
Therefore seek no company; seek no support. No mantra, no form, no image, no God—seek no support. Become niralamb—supportless. The wonder is—one who becomes supportless attains the supreme support. The wonder is—one who becomes alone attains Paramatma. The wonder is—so long as you seek company, you will never find that companion who is the eternal companion.
One night it happened: a man was crossing a mountain on the dark night of the new moon. His foot slipped, he missed the path, and fell into a deep ravine. But who agrees to fall into a ravine? He grabbed, in the dark, whatever his hands could find—some roots of a tree. Below—darkness; above—darkness; the stones—slippery; no possibility of climbing up, no courage to drop down. He hung by those roots. The night was cold; his hands grew numb. How long could he hang—through the whole night! Gradually his strength failed; his hands became rigid in the cold; the roots began to slip. How could his soul not be in peril! But as long as he could, he held on. At last a moment came—his hands were utterly numb; the roots slipped; he fell into the abyss.
What happened? A loud laughter resounded in the valley. The man began to laugh. There was no abyss below—there was ground a few feet beneath, unseen in the dark. The moment the roots slipped, he found himself standing on the earth. Then he regretted—why did I not let go sooner? Why did I suffer all this pain in the cold night? Had I let go, the ground was below. But until he let go, he did not know it.
In my seeing, every person, in the dark night of life, has lost the path and fallen. And each, according to his capacity, has grabbed some root—someone the root of wealth, someone of position, someone of God, someone of religion, someone of moksha. He hangs on, weeping and crying—this root will slip; if it slips I will fall into the abyss.
And everyone must fall. Death is near to all; all roots will slip, hands will open, and one will have to fall into the abyss. We weep and cry—but do not let go. We say, I need a support—without support, how can it be? If the wife’s support slips, then the support of God is needed; if the husband’s support slips, then the Supreme Father is needed; some support must be there. Some root to hang from—otherwise below there is a pit—what will happen if I fall?
I say: this fixation upon support—this is the barrier. Know, in some moment, to drop everything and become supportless. Know, in some moment, to abandon every support and become niralamb. What will happen? See once. Without seeing, how can you know? And what happens—there is no way to say it in words. No one has yet said what it is that happens.
When one abandons all support and all association, becomes alone—totally alone—what happens? No one has been able to say. But what happens there—some call it Paramatma, some call it Atman, some call it moksha, some call it nirvana. Something happens there. Give it a religious name—or give it none. But whoever passes through that deep solitude returns as a different kind of man. Sorrow vanishes from his life; springs of joy begin to flow; discordant notes dissolve and music arises; stench departs and fragrance comes; fear disappears and fearlessness arrives. The shadow of death is gone; the rain of nectar begins. Whoever passes through that aloneness becomes a different kind of human being. Such a one we call religious.
In today’s talk, this is my plea: go, sometime, into that aloneness. Drop everything. Dive into the void—seize no support—be absolutely alone. Remember, if you would know yourself, you cannot without becoming alone. Only when you alone remain and no one else, will you know who you are. So long as another is there, you will go on knowing the other; you will not know yourself.
Therefore, supports must be broken—so that consciousness becomes utterly supportless—so that there remains nowhere for it to rest. When no place remains for the mind to pause, the mind returns to itself and abides in itself. When no place remains, it returns home. Take away all places from the mind. We do not take them away—we substitute one for another. One thing is dropped, we hand the mind another; the second is dropped, we hand it a third—but we never leave it empty. Through substitutions, no one moves toward religion. All substitutes must be abandoned. When nothing at all is given to the mind and it remains hungry and thirsty, without direction, with nowhere to go—in that very instant an explosion occurs, a revolution happens—life becomes new. Religion asks for this kind of courage; religion seeks this courage.
But we all go toward religion not because of courage, but because of fear. That is why the older a person gets, the more religious he appears. The young are not religious—they still have a little courage; they think, what need is there yet to be religious? Let it be in old age when everything is finished. Why does a man become religious in old age? Because the fear of death encircles him on all sides; out of fear he begins to clutch at God. But a God born of fear is utterly false—not a particle of truth in it. It is only a construction of fear.
When death draws near and we are pushed toward darkness and life seems to slip away, we think—O God, let me now grasp Thy feet, seek Thy support. Until one dares to be supportless, there is no support. We may weep and beg, pray as we like—nothing will happen. It has nothing to do with happening. You are troubled by your fear and weaving fantasies. Drop fear; religion has no relation to fear. And know this: death will come and erase you—this is certain—beyond doubt. Death will come and drown you.
The wise taste aloneness before death. In death too, you will be alone—companions will drop away; wealth, fame, prestige will drop away; friends and kin will drop away. Death will make you alone—so why not taste aloneness once now? Then you will know what death will be—and whether anything real within truly dies in aloneness.
One who knows death while living—who experiences dying in certain moments—becomes so alone that no companion remains, as it will be in death. Then, in that moment, he knows—even if all is dropped, I am. Only when all is dropped do I appear in my fullness.
Thus what everyone must know in death, a religious person comes to know in meditation. But one who has never known meditation—his death becomes fear, pain, crisis. One who has known himself in meditation, in solitude—his death also gives the taste of nectar and moksha. His fear of death vanishes—because in death he becomes again that which he has often known—alone.
Someone asked a fakir—tell me something about death. The fakir said: you have come to the wrong place—go elsewhere to learn about death. Why? Because before I was alone, I too thought death existed. When I knew supreme solitude and aloneness, I came to know—there is no death at all; there is only life. So here I can say nothing about death—I do not know death; I have known life.
We who are frightened of death are in fact not frightened of death; to be frightened, we would need to know what death is. We do not know. How can we fear the unknown? We fear not death, but aloneness. Friends, wife, father, mother, brothers, sisters will all be gone—the aloneness that remains—that frightens us.
One who, while living, experiences the taste of aloneness—his fear of death dissolves. He finds—there is no death. He experiences life—eternal life. That eternal life is what is called Paramatma. A ray of that eternal life is within me, a ray within you. If we become acquainted with that single ray, by its very guidance we can reach the Sun from which it issues.
Therefore I have said: one who knows himself finds the door to knowing Paramatma. He has taken hold of a ray of the Sun—now, by that ray, along that path, he can journey to Paramatma. But one who does not know himself—who has not even known a single ray—has no path by which to approach God. Remember also: I cannot know your ray. When I do not know even my own, how will I know yours? I can know only my own ray. Knowing mine, I come to know yours and all others. One who knows a drop of the ocean can know the whole ocean. One who becomes familiar with a single ray can know the whole Sun. But that ray is one’s own—and to know it, aloneness is essential. Call it meditation if you will—but meditation does not mean attention upon someone. If you attend to someone, association begins again.
Meditation means: to be alone—where no one is present—where utterly alone I remain, and there is no one: no thought, no imagination, no image, no companion, no friend—utterly alone—utterly alone. From this very aloneness the awareness of oneself awakens and unfolds.
So, move in the direction of aloneness—do not seek satsang; seek aloneness. Do not seek company; seek aloneness. Do not seek supports; become supportless. Do not seek alamban; become niralamb. Only then will something happen—only then can anything happen. Apart from this, nothing has ever happened—nor will it. Whatever is auspicious, beautiful, and beneficent in life has always been known in solitude—not in crowds, not with company. Therefore religion has no relation to crowds, to groups, to communities.
But on the earth we see the opposite. Religious people form communities, organizations; they build temples and churches; they gather crowds. Hindus gather on one side, Muslims on another, Christians on a third, Jains on a fourth—twenty‑five kinds of madness—people gathered apart. What has religion to do with community, society, crowd? Politics has to do with crowds; religion does not. These are political dens wearing the name of religion. That is why they fight and make others fight. Would religion fight and shed blood? Religion is related to the individual’s solitude—not to crowds. Politics is related to crowds. These are all political maneuvers—to gather people, to make them fight. What has religion to do with it? What has religion to do with your being a Hindu? Or with your being a Muslim? Religion is related to your aloneness—it has no concern with another.
Religion is utterly personal—utterly individual. It has nothing to do with society or community. Yet today religion has become crowd and community. Therefore religion has become corrupt and fallen; its prestige is gone; its joy is gone; its roots have dried up—because we have made it a crowd.
I submit: the time is coming—it must come—when we will understand that religion is purely individual. As love is individual, so is religion. When I love someone, I love—do I carry a crowd along? What has a crowd to do with it? And when I become silent, I become silent—what has a crowd to do with it? We are so many seated here—if we all close our eyes and become silent, there will be no crowd here—only single individuals. The neighbor vanishes; you remain alone. If the neighbor remains, there is a crowd. If the neighbor vanishes, you are alone. That aloneness—religion is related to that.
Seek that aloneness—form no organization, no group—seek that aloneness. By whatever means, come to know and recognize your own solitude. The day this blessing flowers—that even for a single moment a person becomes alone—on that day a second birth occurs; the whole life changes—from something into something else.
How this aloneness can be fulfilled—that I will speak of tomorrow morning. For now, I shall say nothing more.
You have listened with love and peace to these few small things. Think on them, reflect. But mere thinking and reflecting will not help much—experiment a little. You have lived a lifetime in the crowd—live a little while in aloneness and see. If even a faint fragrance of aloneness begins to be felt, you will need do nothing more—that fragrance will draw you on. If even a single wave of bliss trembles through you, you will need do nothing more—that wave will pull you on. One day you will find you have reached the center where no one is. You have reached the point where no one remains. The day you reach that point—you will find that Paramatma is.
May Paramatma grant that this experience happens to all—because without it, no one’s life becomes meaningful, fulfilled, overflowing with bliss.
You have listened to my words with love—for that I offer my thanks again and again. Accept my pranam to the Paramatma seated within all.
Osho's Commentary
A very strange happening took place in a village. A man, through some illness, lost his shadow. A man lost his shadow in an illness! Such a thing had never happened. When he walked along the road, no shadow formed at his feet. The villagers began to fear him. His family drew away. Even his wife abandoned him. It was a great portent, that someone should lose his shadow! Their being afraid was natural. They could not fathom what kind of man this was whose shadow would not appear. Little by little, his own family expelled him. Friends left him. Whichever door he approached, people slammed it shut. He came to the verge of starving. With folded hands he cried out to God, return my shadow to me! What is this—my shadow has been lost, and with it my life is being destroyed!
Who knows whether such a thing ever truly occurred. I have only heard that it once did. That man, having lost his shadow, came into such misery!
And what of us all?
We have not merely lost a shadow—we have lost our Atman. Then how shall we reckon the calamity that has befallen us all? If one were to lose a shadow, he would fall into difficulty; but if one loses the Atman, how can the measure of his misfortune even be taken?
We have been reduced to mere shadows. Within us there is no awareness of the Atman—no remembrance, no recognition, no experience. We live and we die without ever knowing who we are. Who am I?—without knowing this, life comes to its end.
Is it possible that, without knowing the truth of who dwells within, I might attain the bliss of life? Is it possible, without knowing who it was that took birth in me, who it was that lived in me, who it was that departed from me—that without this truth, peace and music might be found in life?
No, it is not possible. Without knowing oneself, beauty does not arrive in life, peace does not arrive, music does not arrive, truth does not arrive.
Therefore, in today’s talk I would say to you: religion is not related to God, religion is not related to the hereafter. Religion is related to what is hidden within the human being—the I that I am—coming to be known. I say this because one who does not even know who he is—what else will he ever know? Paramatma is far; the nearest is I myself. And one who does not know what is nearest—how will he know what is far? One who does not know himself—his every knowing is false and illusory. All his knowledge will prove to be ignorance—because he has not struck at the first place, the primary, the closest house of ignorance.
Who am I?—religion is related to the search for this truth.
And the greatest of secrets is this: one who knows who I am—doors open for him to know all. One who unlocks the lock within—no lock remains on any mystery in this universe. To know oneself is the indispensable condition for knowing truth. But if, without knowing oneself, we engage in prayers to Paramatma, those prayers will bear no fruit. And if, without knowing ourselves, we load the scriptures upon our heads, those scriptures will become burdens; no liberation will arise through them. Whatever we do without knowing ourselves will only weave new bondage; no freedom can come of it.
Who am I?—upon this mystery rests the entire search, the entire inquiry.
But we do everything else, and we never engage in the search for this one thing. Some people search the world—search wealth, fame, status. When they grow weary of the world, of the race for wealth and prestige and renown, understanding there is nothing in it, they enter a new race—the race for moksha, the race for Paramatma. They had been running for the world; weary and harassed by that, they begin to run for God. Yet one thing remains the same in both races: neither in the worldly race did they ever attempt to know themselves, nor in the race toward God do they attempt to know themselves.
Therefore the worldly remain without self-knowledge, and the so‑called religious whom we know also fail to know themselves. Both run—one for the world, one for liberation—but the search for the self is missed by both. The truth is: whether one runs for the world or for Paramatma—so long as one is running, one will not know oneself.
To know oneself, one must stop—one must not run.
Whoever is entangled in any kind of race will not know himself. How can a running mind know itself? The running mind is the entanglement itself. The running mind is restlessness. The running mind is darkness. Because of the running mind, because of its waves, that which is hidden within us remains unknown.
In the world there are two kinds of runners: those we call worldly, and those we call spiritual or religious.
Listen well: whether the race is for the world or for religion, the race as such deprives a person of himself and does not allow him to know himself. The race changes, the seeker of wealth becomes a seeker of moksha; the seeker of position begins to seek Paramatma; the race changes, the direction changes—but the running mind remains unchanged. It does not show, it is not seen. Why not? Because we already know the worldly race is bad; so when someone leaves the worldly race and begins the religious race, we say—very good.
I say to you: the worldly race is not the evil—the race is the evil. Even if the race is for moksha, it is evil. Even if it is for Paramatma, it is evil. For the running mind is agitated, unquiet, restless.
Religion is related to the state of non‑running—to the one who drops the race and becomes still. One who is no longer mad to attain anything at all—who halts, who abides—only in his life does religion begin.
Religion is not a race. Religion is not a race set against the world. And so, even if you are running in search of God, I tell you—never will you know God. For a runner can never know even himself—how will he know Paramatma?
There are two kinds of races in the world. The religious person is one who saves himself from both kinds. This is very difficult. It will appear very difficult. To change one race for another is very easy—altogether easy. The mind feels no burden in it. The race changes: the greedy man becomes an ascetic; the race changes—yesterday he hoarded wealth, today he begins to renounce wealth. Yesterday the race was to accumulate; now the race is to abandon. The mind remains unaffected. The ego becomes humble: yesterday it proclaimed, I am someone; today it proclaims, I am nothing. But the race continues. Yesterday the race was to make the I bigger; today the race is to make the I small. No transformation occurs in the mind.
For those who set out to seek Paramatma or truth, this is the greatest entanglement: their race changes, but the race does not stop. They were building houses here; leaving them, they begin to build houses in the sky and in the other world. They wanted pleasure here; leaving it, they begin to desire the pleasures of moksha. But the race remains. If the race remains, we escape a well only to fall into an abyss.
Once, a group went to a madhouse to study the inmates. The doctor there told them the stories, the catastrophes, behind each patient. They came to the first. He was clutching a big cloth doll to his chest and weeping. What happened to him? asked the visitors. The doctor said: he went mad. The young woman he loved, whom he wanted as his companion in life—she refused him, would not marry him. He went mad. Since then he dresses up this doll in her likeness, talks to it day and night, weeps with it.
They moved on, saddened. One of them asked the doctor: and that girl—did she marry someone else? The doctor said: wait a bit, we will introduce you to that man as well. They went to another cell. Here, said the doctor, is the man she married. And how did he go mad? the visitors asked. The doctor replied: the first went mad because he could not marry that woman; this one had to go mad because he did marry her. Living with her brought him to madness.
When I heard this story, I said—how true it is. Some remain mad chasing the world; some become mad chasing God. Some remain mad because the world comes to them; some become mad because they abandon the world. In both cases a state of madness arises.
The running mind is madness.
The stilled mind—the mind at rest—is health.
Healthy means: one who has come to rest in oneself.
But our mind will not rest in itself. If we can engage it somewhere, all is well; if not, a great unease appears. That is why, on waking in the morning, someone hastens to find a newspaper—to read it, lest he be left empty. He throws his mind into the paper. One reads the news; another rises and begins to read the Gita—we think, the one reading news is bad, the one reading the Gita is good. I say to you, both are engaged in driving and chasing the mind. Both are afraid to let it come to rest. One runs it through the newspaper, one runs it through the Gita—it makes no difference. One switches on the radio to hear film songs; another sits and chants Ram‑Ram. But neither agrees to let the mind come to rest. Both drive it, both chase it. They are the same. Neither is religious.
A religious person is one who does not give the mind any paths for escape. A religious person is one who agrees to leave the mind empty. A religious person is one who refuses any food to the mind and says to it—remain empty, stay, do not run.
But this does not occur to us. We stop singing film songs and begin to sing bhajans—we think, by singing bhajans one becomes religious. Whether film song or bhajan—by either, no one has ever become religious.
When the mind does nothing—sings no song, thinks no thought, runs in no direction—when the mind does nothing, when it abides in a state of non‑doing, in that very moment there is an entry into religion; in that moment there is an entry into oneself; in that moment the glimpses of truth begin.
In Japan there was a great monastery with some five hundred monks. The emperor went to see it. The abbot took him around the vast grounds. In the center stood a huge building, and around it many small huts. He showed the huts—here the monks live, here they bathe, here they cook, here they study. The king kept asking—what do you do in the large building at the center? But the monk was strange; he would not answer. The king grew impatient. He was shown the small huts; nothing was said of the great hall. He asked again—my friend, you seem odd: you show me what appears least worth seeing. What is done in that central building? Still the monk remained silent. The third time the king said—this is beyond my patience. I came to see the ashram; you are showing me trivialities. What do you do in that great hall at the center? The monk said—I am in a quandary as to what to say we do there. In truth, we do nothing there. Everywhere else the monks bathe, study, converse. When a monk has nothing at all to do, he goes into that hall and does nothing. What then can I tell you that we do there? That is our hall of dhyana—our meditation hall. There we do nothing. If there is anything to be done, the ashram is large—we do it elsewhere. There, when someone has nothing to do, he goes in. So what shall I say we do there? Forgive me for saying nothing—because we do nothing there.
Have you ever known such a moment within your mind when you were doing nothing? Have you ever known such a moment when the mind was doing nothing—just being, simply being? Have you known the state of non‑doing? If not, then as yet you have no relationship with religion—and cannot have one. None at all.
Perform worship, perform prayer—these are states of doing. Run a shop, go to the temple—states of doing. Serve—serve the sick, serve the leper—states of doing. Religion has no relation to states of doing. But if the state of non‑doing is known, a new light and a new power are experienced in life. That very experience transforms the doing‑life from the roots.
For now, whatever we do has a single center—the ego, the I. Whether we worship or run a shop—the center of doing is I. The shop—my shop. The worship—my worship. The prayer—my prayer, my God, my Gita, my Quran, my religion. Build a temple—my temple. Serve—my service.
Until we have known that state—the state of non‑doing—we remain centered in I. But one who has known, even for a little while, that state in which nothing is being done—there is only existence, only being—finds that the ego is not. Ego is a feeling born of the activity of doing—this I did, and this, and this. From all this doing the ego has grown strong. Simply by knowing the state of non‑doing, it is known—there is no ego. Only in that state of non‑doing does the mind become so quiet that it can know itself. Knowing that, the center of doing is transformed. No longer is the ego the center of doing; Paramatma becomes the center. The life‑situation of such a person—this is called religion.
Remember, religion is not a deed, not an act, not a karma. Religion is related to experiencing akarm—the state of non‑doing. Only in akarm do we come into relation with ourselves. In karma we are related to others.
There was a very wondrous thinker—Eckhart. He had gone into the forest and sat beneath a tree. Some friends, perhaps out hunting or on picnic, came upon him. Thinking he must be bored or tired, they went to keep him company. Friend, you must be weary, they said; we have come to give you company. Eckhart replied: my friends, go your way. When I was alone, I was with myself; you have come and torn me away from myself. Go your way—I am not bored; I am with myself.
When you are doing nothing, you are with yourself. Only one who is with himself will know himself. We are never with ourselves—we are always with another. With a friend, with an enemy, with a book, with wife, with husband, with children, with father. And when we are bored of all these, we turn to an imaginary God, set up an image, and are with that. But with ourselves? Never. One who is not with himself—how will he experience religion? How will he know what and who he is?
The process of being with oneself is religion.
The process of being with oneself is yoga.
The process of being with oneself is dhyana.
The process of being with oneself is Samadhi.
How can we be with ourselves?
We are habituated to being with others. We prefer the crowd. No one wants to be alone.
Why not? Because in aloneness there is fear—there is anxiety. Of what are we afraid? Have you ever considered why aloneness frightens us? Why do we incessantly seek someone’s company?
There is one fundamental fear: in aloneness the ego dissolves. With others, the ego is constructed; in aloneness, it disappears. In aloneness, the fantasy of I am breaks—there is only I. Therefore we are always with others. And we prefer those who give our ego the greatest encouragement. Thus we prefer friends over enemies, for friends feed our ego. We want to be with those who amplify us.
In aloneness there is panic—the I will be lost; no one will be there to inflate it; it will scatter and break. Hence no one wants to be alone. But one who wants to discover oneself must dare it—must watch, with courage, the ego fall apart. This courage is called sannyas. This very courage is sannyas.
Running away from home is not sannyas. Escaping from home is easy. If it were up to everyone, all would run away—who is not harassed by home? Who is not afflicted by home? Who is not weary of home? To escape is no bravery.
There is only one courage in life—the courage to be alone.
So a man leaves his house, then gathers ten or twenty‑five disciples, builds an ashram, and lives there. Because there was no courage to be alone—leaving home, he must build an ashram. Leaving friends and family, he must gather disciples—because he needs a crowd. In aloneness there is a great danger—the danger of one’s self dissolving. Hence, the more disciples a sannyasin gathers, the greater a sannyasin he appears, and the more his ego swells. One who finds no disciples—he becomes a two‑penny sannyasin; his ego sinks. The hunt for disciples continues, the collection of crowds continues, ashrams are built. He ran away, and a new circle stood waiting—because he lacked the courage to be alone.
And to be alone one need not go to mountains or forests. One who understands the process of aloneness can be alone where he is—at home, in the shop, in the marketplace. One who knows how to be alone remains alone even in a crowd; one who does not know—leave him alone and he will conjure an imaginary crowd and sit among them. Go alone into a room—you will find, even with the door closed, that friends arrive in your mind; conversations begin. An imaginary crowd gathers. For to be alone is a great courage. Yet one who would search for himself must dare something.
Aloneness is the greatest tapascharya.
To fast is no great austerity; it is mere practice—one can fast for months. To stand on one’s head is no austerity—circus folk do it, you and I can do it. To twist the body into postures, to stand in the sun, to endure the cold—these are circus acts.
There is only one austerity for the human mind—the most arduous—to be alone.
The mind does not agree to be alone. It does not agree to sit alone. Its whole habit is life‑with‑someone. We get bored here and there, then go to satsang—there again is a crowd. We go to a guru—there too is company.
Thus I say: from satsang no one has ever attained religion. Only one whose mind agrees to stop in solitude, abandoning all company, comes to know religion. From satsang one can get doctrines, ideas, plenty of material for discourse; one can gain so‑called knowledge and become fit to preach. But from satsang no truth has ever been attained—nor can it be. Truth has no relation to company. Truth is found in asanga—in unsociation—not in association. Truth is found where there is no companion at all—where the mind abides companionless.
The first sutra in the search for religion, for oneself, for Paramatma: asanga‑bhava. I am alone. I am utterly alone. And in this aloneness—the effort to abide. When the mind says, seek company; when it says, I feel afraid in aloneness—then, with alert observation of the mind, make the effort to abide alone.
If only for a little while you begin to be alone—at first it is very hard, for the habit of company is constant—then we ask for a prop: give me a mantra to chant in aloneness—Ram‑Ram, Krishna‑Krishna—give me something to do. Or we seek a form—some image of God to focus on, or a light behind closed eyes. Again we are seeking company. These are tricks—we are seeking a companion. If not a real companion, then an imaginary one. A light to sit with, or a chant to repeat, a chakra in the heart or at the navel to imagine—but still we seek company. We are not willing to be alone. And if any company is obtained, the same circle begins again from which you wished to escape.
Therefore seek no company; seek no support. No mantra, no form, no image, no God—seek no support. Become niralamb—supportless. The wonder is—one who becomes supportless attains the supreme support. The wonder is—one who becomes alone attains Paramatma. The wonder is—so long as you seek company, you will never find that companion who is the eternal companion.
One night it happened: a man was crossing a mountain on the dark night of the new moon. His foot slipped, he missed the path, and fell into a deep ravine. But who agrees to fall into a ravine? He grabbed, in the dark, whatever his hands could find—some roots of a tree. Below—darkness; above—darkness; the stones—slippery; no possibility of climbing up, no courage to drop down. He hung by those roots. The night was cold; his hands grew numb. How long could he hang—through the whole night! Gradually his strength failed; his hands became rigid in the cold; the roots began to slip. How could his soul not be in peril! But as long as he could, he held on. At last a moment came—his hands were utterly numb; the roots slipped; he fell into the abyss.
What happened? A loud laughter resounded in the valley. The man began to laugh. There was no abyss below—there was ground a few feet beneath, unseen in the dark. The moment the roots slipped, he found himself standing on the earth. Then he regretted—why did I not let go sooner? Why did I suffer all this pain in the cold night? Had I let go, the ground was below. But until he let go, he did not know it.
In my seeing, every person, in the dark night of life, has lost the path and fallen. And each, according to his capacity, has grabbed some root—someone the root of wealth, someone of position, someone of God, someone of religion, someone of moksha. He hangs on, weeping and crying—this root will slip; if it slips I will fall into the abyss.
And everyone must fall. Death is near to all; all roots will slip, hands will open, and one will have to fall into the abyss. We weep and cry—but do not let go. We say, I need a support—without support, how can it be? If the wife’s support slips, then the support of God is needed; if the husband’s support slips, then the Supreme Father is needed; some support must be there. Some root to hang from—otherwise below there is a pit—what will happen if I fall?
I say: this fixation upon support—this is the barrier. Know, in some moment, to drop everything and become supportless. Know, in some moment, to abandon every support and become niralamb. What will happen? See once. Without seeing, how can you know? And what happens—there is no way to say it in words. No one has yet said what it is that happens.
When one abandons all support and all association, becomes alone—totally alone—what happens? No one has been able to say. But what happens there—some call it Paramatma, some call it Atman, some call it moksha, some call it nirvana. Something happens there. Give it a religious name—or give it none. But whoever passes through that deep solitude returns as a different kind of man. Sorrow vanishes from his life; springs of joy begin to flow; discordant notes dissolve and music arises; stench departs and fragrance comes; fear disappears and fearlessness arrives. The shadow of death is gone; the rain of nectar begins. Whoever passes through that aloneness becomes a different kind of human being. Such a one we call religious.
In today’s talk, this is my plea: go, sometime, into that aloneness. Drop everything. Dive into the void—seize no support—be absolutely alone. Remember, if you would know yourself, you cannot without becoming alone. Only when you alone remain and no one else, will you know who you are. So long as another is there, you will go on knowing the other; you will not know yourself.
Therefore, supports must be broken—so that consciousness becomes utterly supportless—so that there remains nowhere for it to rest. When no place remains for the mind to pause, the mind returns to itself and abides in itself. When no place remains, it returns home. Take away all places from the mind. We do not take them away—we substitute one for another. One thing is dropped, we hand the mind another; the second is dropped, we hand it a third—but we never leave it empty. Through substitutions, no one moves toward religion. All substitutes must be abandoned. When nothing at all is given to the mind and it remains hungry and thirsty, without direction, with nowhere to go—in that very instant an explosion occurs, a revolution happens—life becomes new. Religion asks for this kind of courage; religion seeks this courage.
But we all go toward religion not because of courage, but because of fear. That is why the older a person gets, the more religious he appears. The young are not religious—they still have a little courage; they think, what need is there yet to be religious? Let it be in old age when everything is finished. Why does a man become religious in old age? Because the fear of death encircles him on all sides; out of fear he begins to clutch at God. But a God born of fear is utterly false—not a particle of truth in it. It is only a construction of fear.
When death draws near and we are pushed toward darkness and life seems to slip away, we think—O God, let me now grasp Thy feet, seek Thy support. Until one dares to be supportless, there is no support. We may weep and beg, pray as we like—nothing will happen. It has nothing to do with happening. You are troubled by your fear and weaving fantasies. Drop fear; religion has no relation to fear. And know this: death will come and erase you—this is certain—beyond doubt. Death will come and drown you.
The wise taste aloneness before death. In death too, you will be alone—companions will drop away; wealth, fame, prestige will drop away; friends and kin will drop away. Death will make you alone—so why not taste aloneness once now? Then you will know what death will be—and whether anything real within truly dies in aloneness.
One who knows death while living—who experiences dying in certain moments—becomes so alone that no companion remains, as it will be in death. Then, in that moment, he knows—even if all is dropped, I am. Only when all is dropped do I appear in my fullness.
Thus what everyone must know in death, a religious person comes to know in meditation. But one who has never known meditation—his death becomes fear, pain, crisis. One who has known himself in meditation, in solitude—his death also gives the taste of nectar and moksha. His fear of death vanishes—because in death he becomes again that which he has often known—alone.
Someone asked a fakir—tell me something about death. The fakir said: you have come to the wrong place—go elsewhere to learn about death. Why? Because before I was alone, I too thought death existed. When I knew supreme solitude and aloneness, I came to know—there is no death at all; there is only life. So here I can say nothing about death—I do not know death; I have known life.
We who are frightened of death are in fact not frightened of death; to be frightened, we would need to know what death is. We do not know. How can we fear the unknown? We fear not death, but aloneness. Friends, wife, father, mother, brothers, sisters will all be gone—the aloneness that remains—that frightens us.
One who, while living, experiences the taste of aloneness—his fear of death dissolves. He finds—there is no death. He experiences life—eternal life. That eternal life is what is called Paramatma. A ray of that eternal life is within me, a ray within you. If we become acquainted with that single ray, by its very guidance we can reach the Sun from which it issues.
Therefore I have said: one who knows himself finds the door to knowing Paramatma. He has taken hold of a ray of the Sun—now, by that ray, along that path, he can journey to Paramatma. But one who does not know himself—who has not even known a single ray—has no path by which to approach God. Remember also: I cannot know your ray. When I do not know even my own, how will I know yours? I can know only my own ray. Knowing mine, I come to know yours and all others. One who knows a drop of the ocean can know the whole ocean. One who becomes familiar with a single ray can know the whole Sun. But that ray is one’s own—and to know it, aloneness is essential. Call it meditation if you will—but meditation does not mean attention upon someone. If you attend to someone, association begins again.
Meditation means: to be alone—where no one is present—where utterly alone I remain, and there is no one: no thought, no imagination, no image, no companion, no friend—utterly alone—utterly alone. From this very aloneness the awareness of oneself awakens and unfolds.
So, move in the direction of aloneness—do not seek satsang; seek aloneness. Do not seek company; seek aloneness. Do not seek supports; become supportless. Do not seek alamban; become niralamb. Only then will something happen—only then can anything happen. Apart from this, nothing has ever happened—nor will it. Whatever is auspicious, beautiful, and beneficent in life has always been known in solitude—not in crowds, not with company. Therefore religion has no relation to crowds, to groups, to communities.
But on the earth we see the opposite. Religious people form communities, organizations; they build temples and churches; they gather crowds. Hindus gather on one side, Muslims on another, Christians on a third, Jains on a fourth—twenty‑five kinds of madness—people gathered apart. What has religion to do with community, society, crowd? Politics has to do with crowds; religion does not. These are political dens wearing the name of religion. That is why they fight and make others fight. Would religion fight and shed blood? Religion is related to the individual’s solitude—not to crowds. Politics is related to crowds. These are all political maneuvers—to gather people, to make them fight. What has religion to do with it? What has religion to do with your being a Hindu? Or with your being a Muslim? Religion is related to your aloneness—it has no concern with another.
Religion is utterly personal—utterly individual. It has nothing to do with society or community. Yet today religion has become crowd and community. Therefore religion has become corrupt and fallen; its prestige is gone; its joy is gone; its roots have dried up—because we have made it a crowd.
I submit: the time is coming—it must come—when we will understand that religion is purely individual. As love is individual, so is religion. When I love someone, I love—do I carry a crowd along? What has a crowd to do with it? And when I become silent, I become silent—what has a crowd to do with it? We are so many seated here—if we all close our eyes and become silent, there will be no crowd here—only single individuals. The neighbor vanishes; you remain alone. If the neighbor remains, there is a crowd. If the neighbor vanishes, you are alone. That aloneness—religion is related to that.
Seek that aloneness—form no organization, no group—seek that aloneness. By whatever means, come to know and recognize your own solitude. The day this blessing flowers—that even for a single moment a person becomes alone—on that day a second birth occurs; the whole life changes—from something into something else.
How this aloneness can be fulfilled—that I will speak of tomorrow morning. For now, I shall say nothing more.
You have listened with love and peace to these few small things. Think on them, reflect. But mere thinking and reflecting will not help much—experiment a little. You have lived a lifetime in the crowd—live a little while in aloneness and see. If even a faint fragrance of aloneness begins to be felt, you will need do nothing more—that fragrance will draw you on. If even a single wave of bliss trembles through you, you will need do nothing more—that wave will pull you on. One day you will find you have reached the center where no one is. You have reached the point where no one remains. The day you reach that point—you will find that Paramatma is.
May Paramatma grant that this experience happens to all—because without it, no one’s life becomes meaningful, fulfilled, overflowing with bliss.
You have listened to my words with love—for that I offer my thanks again and again. Accept my pranam to the Paramatma seated within all.