Main Mrityu Sikhata Hun #14

Memories of past lives are blocked by nature—and with a purpose. Even in the arrangement of life as we know and live every day, it is necessary that we forget the greater part of it. That is why, though you create many memories in this life, you do not retain them all. What you do not remember does not get erased from your memory; only the connection between your consciousness and that memory is severed.

For example, if a person is fifty years old—over fifty years, billions upon billions of memory-impressions are formed. If one had to keep all of them in conscious recall, there would be no way to remain sane. What is most essential stays, what is nonessential gradually slips into forgetfulness. But do not take forgetfulness to mean that it is erased from within you. It simply slides away from the point of your conscious awareness and is stored in some corner of your mind.

Buddha gave a very precious name to that storehouse: alaya-vijnana, the storehouse of consciousness.

In every house there is a storeroom where we collect junk, useless things. They are out of sight, yet present in the house. Similarly, our memories slip from our sight and pile up in the corners of our mind. If even the memories of this life all remained in recall, living would become difficult. The consciousness has to be free for what is ahead, so we must forget what is behind. You forget yesterday, therefore you are capable of living the coming tomorrow. The mind becomes empty and looks forward. To look ahead, it is necessary to forget what is behind. If the past is not forgotten, there will be no capacity left to look ahead. And every day a portion of your mind needs to be emptied so that new samskaras, new impressions, can be received; otherwise who will receive them? So the past is wiped each day, the future comes each day; and as soon as the future becomes the past, it too is wiped so that we may be free again for what is ahead. Such is the arrangement of the mind.

We do not have complete memory even of a single life. If I ask you what you did on January 1, 1960, you will not be able to say anything—though on that day you certainly were, and you certainly did something from morning to evening. But you have no recall. Yet a small process of hypnosis can revive January 1, 1960. If you are hypnotized and the awakened portion of your consciousness is put to sleep, and then you are asked, “What did you do on January 1, 1960?” you will narrate everything from morning to evening.

I used to experiment with one young man for a long time. The difficulty was: how could I be sure that what he reported had indeed happened on January 1, 1960? In the hypnotic state he would say everything he had done; upon waking he remembered none of it. How was I to determine whether he had in fact bathed at nine in the morning on January 1, 1960?

There was only one way. One day I noted down everything he did from morning to evening. After three or four months I asked him; he said he remembered nothing. Then I hypnotized him. When he went into deep hypnosis, I asked, “What did you do on such and such date?” He narrated not only what I had noted but much more that I had not. Of what I had written down, not a single item was missed. Naturally, he also reported hundreds of things I could not have noted; I had written only what I noticed and considered noteworthy.

A person can be taken very deep in the hypnotic state. But there, someone else takes you, and you are unconscious. You yourself know nothing. In hypnosis you can even be taken into past lives. But that will be a condition of stupor. The difference between jati-smarana and hypnotic regression is precisely this: in jati-smarana you go consciously into your past lives; in hypnosis you are taken there in unconsciousness. If both processes are used together, their validity increases. Under hypnosis we question a person about his past lives and record it. Then we take him consciously, through meditation; if he reports the same in meditation, we have gathered stronger evidence.

The same memory can be evoked by two routes. The process of evoking is simple—but it has dangers. That is why I did not give the whole formula. The whole formula cannot be stated publicly. If someone wants to experiment, it can be told to him. Generally, the complete formula cannot be given. Still, the whole process can be described while withholding one formula—so that it cannot be carried out.

As I said yesterday, our consciousness moves by our resolve. When you sit in meditation and begin to go deep, sit with a resolve: “In the meditative state I become five years old, and I can know what happened when I was five.” Going deep, you will suddenly find your age has become five, and you are knowing what happened at five. First do this in this very birth.

As the experiment becomes clearer and deeper and the return backwards becomes possible—and it is not difficult—the memories of the mother’s womb can also be awakened. If you were in the womb and the mother fell, the memory of that injury is also yours. If the mother was miserable, the memory of her misery is also yours. Because in the womb there are not two separate states—yours and the mother’s—they are joined. What the mother experienced in her depths also became your experience; it is transferred to you.

Therefore the mother’s mental state during those nine months does a huge work in shaping the child. In the true sense, a mother is not only the one who carries the child in her belly; she is also the one who gives a particular direction to the child’s consciousness. Mere carrying in the womb is possible even for an animal mother; animals do it. And sooner or later, a machine will do it. It is not very difficult to raise children in a machine. An artificial womb can be made. The arrangements that exist in the mother’s womb—heat, water, all of it—can be provided in an electrical device. Today or tomorrow, children will be shifted from the mother’s womb to the machine’s womb. But that does not complete the work of being a mother.

Perhaps very few mothers on earth have truly done the work of being a mother. To be a mother is a great work: to give that child’s consciousness a particular direction for nine months. If the mother is angry during those nine months, and later the child is born hot-tempered, she will scold him day and night: “Who spoiled him? What bad company did he fall into?” Many mothers come to me; each complains: one’s son has fallen into bad company, another’s daughter into bad company. And yet all the seeds were sown by them. They arranged the entire condition of the child’s consciousness. The children are only manifesting it. Yes, there is a difference between sowing and manifesting, so we do not notice; the interval is long.

Emile Coué wrote a little memoir. He wrote about a military major he knew who was reading books on hypnosis. In the book he read that suggestions in the mother’s mind are transmitted to the child when he is in the womb. His wife was pregnant. He told his wife, “I’m reading this, and the author says that what the mother thinks, lives, and feels is transmitted to the child.” Both of them laughed and did not take it seriously.

That very evening they went to a party. The major’s wife sat next to the general in whose honor the party was given. The general’s thumb had been completely crushed in the war. Seeing his thumb again and again, she thought, “I must not look at this thumb. What if my child’s thumb becomes damaged?” She had read the idea that afternoon. Throughout the party she tried not to look at the thumb. Naturally, what one tries to avoid appears repeatedly. She forgot the general, she forgot the party; only the thumb remained. When the general ate, the thumb was visible; when he shook hands, the thumb was visible. She was sitting next to him. She even closed her eyes. But the more she closed her eyes, the more clearly the thumb appeared. If you want to see something clearly with closed eyes, it becomes easier. She became nervous and restless. For the two or three hours of that party, the thumb was her entire satsang.

At night she woke up startled two or four times. In the morning she said to her husband, “Where did you read that book? I am in great trouble. I am possessed by the fear that my child’s thumb will become like that.” Her husband said, “Have you gone mad? What is there in these books! If someone wrote such a thing, will it happen? Forget it!” But the wife could not forget.

In fact, whatever we are told to forget becomes difficult to drop. The more the husband told her to drop it, to forget it... You know this: whatever you want to forget, you can never forget. In trying to forget, you have to remember it again and again—to forget it. It becomes stronger. If you want to forget someone, at least you must remember him in order to forget; and the more you remember to forget, the stronger it becomes.

As the days passed and the birth drew near, the thumb weighed heavily on her. She tried to forget, but forgetting was impossible. When she was in labor and the child was being born, the child was not in her thoughts—only the thumb. And an astonishing event occurred: the child was born with exactly the same crushed thumb. When photographs of the child’s thumb and the general’s thumb were compared, they were copies of each other.

This mother gave the child the thumb. All mothers are giving their children their thumbs; everyone has a different kind of thumb, and that is what they pass on.

So first, the memory must be brought back to the day of birth. But that is not the real birthday. The real birthday is the day conception begins. What we call the birthday is the day nine months after birth. That is not the exact birthday. The exact birthday is the day the soul enters the womb. Carrying memory back to that point is not very difficult and not very dangerous, because it is still the memory of this life. And to take it back, as I said, turn the mind away from the future. Those who can meditate even a little will find it easy to forget the future—what is there to remember in the future? It does not exist. Change your orientation. Do not look toward the future; look behind. In your mind, gradually and in sequence, make resolves: go back one year, two years, ten years, twenty years—keep going back. And it will be a very strange experience.

Ordinarily, if we go back in our waking state without meditation, the further back we go, the more the memory becomes hazy. Someone will say, “I cannot go beyond five years; up to five I can remember that such-and-such happened.” Even then, only one or two events will be remembered. As we come closer to our present age, memory becomes clearer: yesterday is clearer, today is clearest; the day before yesterday, less; a year, less; twenty-five years, less; fifty years, less. But when you experiment in meditation, you will be amazed—the situation is exactly the opposite. The earlier the childhood memory, the clearer it will be. Because the child has the cleanest slate; it is never so clean again. The writing that emerges on it then is never so clear again. When you approach memory in meditation, you will be astonished: memory reverses! The further back you go, the more into childhood you go, the clearer it appears. As you move toward later years, it becomes hazier. Today will be most hazy in meditation; and fifty years ago, the first day of birth, will be the most distinct. Because in meditation we are not remembering.

Understand this difference. In wakefulness we remember—we recall. What is the difference in wakeful remembering? If I recall my childhood, I am fifty years old today, I am here now, and standing in today I am recollecting memories—of five years, two years, one year. This fifty-year-old mind stands in between. Therefore it becomes hazy. Fifty years of layers lie between, and I am peeking through them.

In the meditative process you are not fifty—you have become five. When you are remembering in meditation, you have become five. You are not fifty recalling five; you have returned to being five in the memory. So in wakefulness let us call it remembering; in meditation let us call it re-living. It is re-living, not mere recall. And there is a difference. In recall there is a thick layer of intervening memories that blur. In re-living, you have become five again in the meditative state.

Just today—Shobhana is sitting behind you—she told me that in meditation strange feelings were coming to her. She felt she had become little and was playing with dolls. The feeling became so strong that she suddenly got frightened: “What if someone comes and sees me? They will say, ‘At this age she is playing with dolls!’” She opened her eyes to check whether anyone had come. Her age vanished. She did not even think, “This is a memory, this is re-living.” She became five.

Now there is a young man who, when he meditates, his thumb goes into his mouth. He is becoming six months old. As soon as he goes into meditation, his thumb goes into his mouth. He has reached the state of being six months old.

So it is necessary to understand the difference between remembering and re-living. Re-living one life is not very difficult. There will be some difficulty because we have all fixed an identity with our age. A man who is fifty is not willing to move back to five; he insists on remaining fifty. Therefore those who want to return into re-living must loosen their fixed identities a little. For example, a man wants to remember his childhood. It will be good for him to play with children. Take an hour in the day and play with children. The fixation of being fifty, the habit of being serious, will loosen a little. It will be good to run, swim, dance. It will be good to live consciously as a child for an hour; then returning in meditation will be easier. Otherwise he remains rigidly fifty...

Remember, consciousness has no age. Only fixations are on consciousness. Consciousness is not five-year-old, ten-year-old, fifty-year-old. These are only notions. If you close your eyes and locate your consciousness, what age is it? With eyes closed you will not be able to say; you will say, “I will have to look in the diary, check the calendar, consult the horoscope.” In fact, until there were no horoscopes, calendars, counting of years—when statistics were sparse—no one in the world knew their age. Even today there are tribes; if you ask them their age, they are in difficulty. Some can count up to fifteen, some to ten, some to five.

I know a man who works as a servant in a house; when someone asked his age, he said, “Around twenty-five.” He must have been at least sixty. The household was surprised. They asked, “And how old is your son?” He said, “Around twenty-five.” Because twenty-five was the last number he had; beyond that he had nothing. They said, “Your son is twenty-five and you are twenty-five—how can that be?” We may have difficulty because for us there are numbers beyond twenty-five; for him there is nothing beyond that. After twenty-five begins the innumerable; there is no number.

Age is external—our calendars, dates, the counting of days. If we look within, there is no age. If someone wants to find his age from within, he cannot. Age is purely an outer measurement. But outer measurements become fixations on the inner consciousness; there they are hammered in like nails.

We go on hammering nails: now I am fifty, now fifty-one, now fifty-two. We hammer them into the consciousness. If these are very rigid, returning backward will be difficult.

Therefore a very serious person cannot return to childhood memories. Those whom we call serious are pathological types. Seriousness is a mental disease. Those who are very serious are always sick. For them, coming back is very difficult. Those whose minds are a little light, unburdened—who can play with children, laugh with children—their return will be easy.

So in outer life, work to break the fixation. Do not remember your age twenty-four hours a day. When speaking to your son, do not say, “I know because I am so old.” Knowing has no relation to age. Do not behave with your little child as if there is a fifty-year gap between you and him. Extend a hand of friendship.

A woman wrote a little book: living as a child with a small child. She was seventy. A seventy-year-old woman carried out a small experiment: making friends with a five-year-old child.

It is very difficult, not easy. To be father to a five-year-old is easy; to be mother is easy; to be brother is easy; to be guru is easy; to be friend is very difficult. No mother or father can become a friend. The day parents can be friends to their children, we will transform the world from its roots. The world will be completely different, not so ugly and misshapen. But we cannot extend the hand of friendship.

That woman carried out a remarkable experiment. She did it for years. She began to befriend a three-year-old child and maintained the friendship until he was five, for two continuous years. It is useful to understand the spirit of her friendship. For such a woman, returning backward will be very easy.

That seventy-year-old woman went with the child, her friend, to the seashore. The child ran, picking up pebbles; she too ran and picked up pebbles. Because how else can the age barrier—the great obstacle of age—break between the child and her! And she did not pick up pebbles only to win friendship; she truly tried to see the pebbles with the same delight with which the child was seeing them. She looked at the child’s eyes, at her own eyes, at the pebble, at the child’s hand, at her own hand. With what thrill is the child seeing those pebbles? She tried to see by becoming a child. The child ran to catch sea foam; she too tried to catch it. The child ran after butterflies; she ran after them too. At two in the night the child woke and said, “Let’s go outside; the crickets sound so beautiful.” She did not say, “Go to sleep; this is not the time to get up.” She went with the child. And lest the sound of the crickets be disturbed, the child walked carefully, one step at a time; she too walked carefully behind him.

Two years of such friendship brought unique results. The woman wrote, “I forgot that I am seventy. And I came to know, at seventy, what I had never known by being five: this whole world became a wonderland, a world of fairies. I truly began to run, to pick up stones, to catch butterflies. All the distances of age vanished between me and the child. The child began to talk to me as he talks to another child. I began to talk to him as a child talks to a child.”

She wrote a whole book of her two years’ experiences: Sense of Wonder. She wrote, “I rediscovered the sense of wonder. And now I can say: whatever the greatest of saints may have found, it cannot be more than what I am seeing.”

When someone asked Jesus, “Who will enter your kingdom of heaven?” Jesus said, “They who are like children.”

Children perhaps already live in a great heaven. We educate them out of it—we snatch their heaven away. It is necessary that this heaven be snatched, because when what is lost is regained, it has a uniqueness. But very few regain it. In many lives it is paradise lost; very few know paradise regained. We all lose our paradise; its return rarely happens. If, at the time of dying, one becomes a child again, paradise returns. If an old man can see the world with a child’s eyes, the peace, the joy, the shower of bliss that descends upon his life is hard to imagine.

So in outer life, those who want to return into jati-smarana must break their age fixations. While walking along the road, take some child’s hand and start running with him; forget how old you are. The fun is, age is only a memory—nothing else. Age is only a memory, only an idea, a thought gripped strongly. In outer life, break the fixation about age; in inner life, when you sit to meditate, slip back year by year. Roll back birthdays one by one; go back gradually. Returning to the furthest limits of this birth is not difficult. The process for returning to a previous birth is the same. Only the key for crossing from this birth into the previous one—that I cannot give. The reason is this: if someone were to experiment merely out of curiosity, he could go mad. If past-life memories burst forth all at once, it is difficult to handle them.

A girl was brought to me, eleven years old at the time. She had memories of three births—not because of any process, but accidentally, by some error of nature. Nature makes great arrangements to press the entire layer of your previous life down, and the memories of this life begin to form above that layer. That layer deeply keeps your previous life separated from you.

Therefore in those countries where the belief is that there is no past life—Muslim countries, Christian countries—children with past-life memories are not born, because attention never goes that way. If we fix it firmly that beyond this wall there is nothing, we gradually stop looking toward the wall.

But in this country—among Jains, Buddhists, Hindus—howsoever many differences there may be, in one thing there is no difference: the existence of past lives. There is no difference regarding the journey of rebirth. Therefore this country’s consciousness has for thousands of years been filled with the possibility of past lives.

So sometimes this possibility appears suddenly. If, at the time of dying in a previous life, someone dies with a very deep intention to remember, then without any yogic process or meditative experiment, he will remember in the next birth. But then he will be in trouble.

When the girl was brought to me, she remembered events from three births. Her first remembered birth was in Assam, where she died as a seven-year-old girl. She spoke as much Assamese as a seven-year-old can speak; she danced the Assamese dances that a seven-year-old could dance—though she was born in Madhya Pradesh this time and had never been to Assam, with no relation to the Assamese language. Her second remembered birth was in Madhya Pradesh, in Katni, where she died around sixty-seven; when she was brought to me, she was eleven—so seventy-eight in sequence. Look into her eyes and you would see the eyes of a seventy-eight-year-old woman; the face too—though she was a girl of eleven—was as yellowed, sallow, anxious, worried, as if death were near. Because the chain of her memories spanned seventy-eight years. Inside, she sensed a sequence of seventy-eight years.

Her difficulties grew greatly. She could not go to school; can you enroll a seventy-eight-year-old woman in school? She could not learn—she was already learned. She could not play; there was no such thing as childhood for her. How could she play? How can a seventy-eight-year-old woman play! She was serious; she criticized everyone at home; she was as full of quarrelsomeness as old people become. She kept accounts of who did what wrong—at this age. I said, “She will go mad; make arrangements to have her forget her memories. I can help a little. Bring her to me; her memories can be made to fade in seven days. Otherwise this girl will be in trouble.”

But her family was enjoying it. Crowds gathered; people came to see; some offered money; coconuts, fruits, sweets came. The President called her to Delhi. An invitation even came from America. They were very pleased. They stopped bringing her to me. They said, “No, we don’t want to erase it. It is a very good thing.”

Seven years have passed. Today that girl is mad. Now they come and say, “Please do something.” I said, “Now it has become very difficult. When something could be done, you were not willing. Now she has no awareness. Now she is incoherent and confused. Now she cannot tell which memory belongs to which birth—whether this brother is from this life or the previous life, whether this father belongs to this life or the last—the whole thing is confused.”

Nature’s arrangement is such that you retain only as much as you can bear. Therefore, before entering into memories of another birth, special sadhana is necessary to make you capable—so that nothing can confuse you.

In fact, the most essential condition for entering memories of another birth is this: unless this world begins to seem like a dream to you—a lila, a play—it is not proper to take you into past-life memory. If this world seems a play, there is no fear. Then no wound will be inflicted on your mind. If they are memories of a play, there is no harm.

But if this world feels very real, and if you consider your wife very real, and tomorrow you remember that in the past life she was your mother, you will be in great difficulty. What will you do? Will you take her as wife or as mother?

A woman began experimenting with me. I kept telling her there was no need for curiosity, but she was curious and did not listen. We did the experiment, and we had to work hard to make her forget. She remembered that in the previous birth she was a prostitute. That weighed heavily on her present moral, virtuous mind. She said, “I do not want to remember this.” But now forgetting it was very difficult. To remember something is easy; to forget it is very hard. Once a fact becomes part of our knowledge, it is very difficult to push it out.

So, knowingly, one formula is withheld: how to pass from this birth into the previous one. But if the memories of this life arise for you—if someone can recall this life in full—he can be told that formula. Yet that is a personal matter. It cannot be discussed publicly. Nor would it be proper to do so. Our minds, driven by curiosity, do countless things. Most of us live in curiosity—just to peep and see what happens. But peeping can prove dangerous; something may arise that cannot later be pushed back under. Do experiment with this life. When the experiment with this life becomes blissful for you, when the entire situation of this life...

Because as soon as you can re-live your previous memories, you will know that it is all no more than a dream. Then you know that that which you take so seriously today—profit or loss in the shop, a quarrel with the wife, a father’s anger, a son leaving home, a daughter marrying an unwanted man—all that you take so seriously today is going to lie in the junkhouse of memory tomorrow. When memories of the past return, you will be astonished how many moments you had taken so seriously—and today they are nowhere. In one moment they had caught you so completely that it was a matter of life and death; today they have no value. They lie like ash on the road somewhere, piled up like garbage. Today they have no meaning.

If we look at past memories, two things happen. First: what we had taken very seriously proved not to be serious—we forgot it; it did not even prove serious enough to be worth remembering. We would have staked our lives for it; today it is nowhere. So your life today will be different. Because then you will see that what you are ready to kill or die for today will, tomorrow, lie on that same garbage heap. Wait a moment or two—everything will be worthless. Wait a moment or two—everything will become memory.

In this world, where the total result of our life becomes a film of memory, what is the difference between our ordinary life and an actor’s life? After all, what an actor lives results, in the end, in a film that can be seen on a screen. What we live results, in the end, in a film of memory that can be viewed again. What we call life is little more than the camera’s focusing! The moments we call “so important” are all hung upon a screen. Today their value is no more than that of a film. The only difference is that you can lock a film in a box; this one you lock in the box of memory—nothing more.

And this memory-box is just such a film. Today or tomorrow it will not be difficult for science to find a way to project memory onto a screen. There is no great obstacle in it. After all, when we close our eyes, we re-project that film upon the screen of the eyes. When you dream, your eyes move just as they do when watching a film. If someone is dreaming, by touching a finger to his eyelids you can tell whether he is dreaming or not. If his pupils are moving inside, he is dreaming; if not, he is not. From outside the eyelids you can tell the pupil is moving up and down within. The whole time he is watching something. What is he watching? A film.

When in meditation you can remember past lives—and this is why jati-smarana was used. In fact, Mahavira and Buddha would not initiate anyone until they brought him to jati-smarana. That is why today’s “initiated monk” is neither initiated nor a monk—he knows nothing.

A Jain muni came to me a few days ago and said, “Teach me meditation. I am a monk of Acharya Tulsi. I took initiation from him.” I wanted to ask: when you took initiation from Acharya Tulsi, if you did not learn meditation, what did you learn? What did you take initiation for? What does initiation mean? If you ask me for meditation now, then what did you take initiation for? What other business does Acharya Tulsi do? Initiation means that one has been led into meditation—only then is it initiation.

Mahavira and Buddha would initiate only when jati-smarana had happened—the remembrance of past births. Because, said Mahavira, until you remember your past lives, you cannot drop your seriousness toward life.

Once a man remembers that in the last time too he loved a woman and told her, “I cannot live a moment without you,” and before that he loved another and told her the same, and before that too he said it—and before being a man he was an animal and said to the females, “I cannot live a day without you,” and when he was a bird he said it to another—he will laugh when, today, he goes to tell a woman, “I cannot live without you.” Because he can live very well—he has been living for many births!

A man sought high position in a past life and became an emperor, thinking that once he attained position everything would be fulfilled; nothing was fulfilled—he died again. Before that too he sought position and attained it; before that too. Today he is racing to Delhi for position; if midway, at some station, he remembers his past life, he will turn back. He will say, “This is useless. Shall I go to Delhi again? I have gone many times. In the end, nothing happens but death.”

A man tries to do in this life what he has done in birth after birth, but he does not remember. If he remembers, it becomes impossible to keep doing the same. No one can become a sannyasin until this world becomes a dream to him. And for this world to become a dream, there is jati-smarana.

Go into the memories of this life. When you begin to enter these memories, and not out of curiosity but because you feel the mind has become unburdened—this life has been seen as a dream—when the capacity has come to see previous births also as dreams, then the key can be given. But it is personal.

All the experiments I am having you do collectively are such that no harm can come to you. Whatever I say publicly is such that you can go only as far as there is no danger. When you have gone that far, the further formulas will be individual. So those who progress rapidly, I will begin to tell them what cannot be said before all. As soon as such people are ready, those things can be said. But they are absolutely individual, private. There is no purpose in speaking them before everyone.

Many points need to be considered. First, the more sacred the moment of sexual union, the more it can attract a pure soul. But sexuality has been condemned so much that the moment of lovemaking can scarcely become a moment of sanctity. Sex has been branded impure; it has settled in our minds as something unclean. The union of husband and wife takes place under the dark shadow of sin, not in an atmosphere of joy, purity, and prayer. Naturally, around such a shadow the entry of a pure soul is not possible.

So the first condition for the entry of a pure soul is a sacred moment. In my view, the moment of lovemaking is a moment for prayer. Only after prayer should husband and wife enter into sexual union; only after meditation should they go into it. This will have a twofold consequence. One consequence will be that for years they will not be able to go into sex after meditation. If, after meditating, they try to make love, the first thing will be that they will find they cannot—because as soon as they enter meditation lust evaporates. Meditation will become the path of celibacy in their lives. Years will pass.

This purity of years is unsuppressed; it is not repression. It is not some adopted vow in which husband and wife sleep in locked, separate rooms, or the husband goes to the temple to sleep, proclaiming he is observing celibacy. This is not a vow of celibacy; it is a natural flowering of celibacy—after meditation it simply does not remain possible to go into sex, because the mind is so soaked in such nectar, such bliss, that who would come down for sexual intercourse!

So if both husband and wife can meditate regularly, for years they will not be able to have sex. This will have two consequences. One, their energy will become very active and condensed. To give birth to a pure soul an extremely powerful seed-point is needed; weak seed-points will not do. Only a lovemaking preceded by years of celibacy can provide an entry for a powerful soul.

Then, some day after years of meditation, if one goes into sex—if one can go, that is, if meditation gives permission—naturally that moment will be a sacred moment. If even a trace of impurity remained, meditation would not yet have allowed it. When meditation permits and the possibility of lovemaking arises even after meditation, it means sex itself has acquired a sacredness, a divineness, a godliness. In that godly moment, when the two go into union, it is proper to say they are no longer meeting merely on the physical plane. The body is involved, but the meeting is not bodily; bodies meet, but the union is deep and of the soul.

So, if one wants to give birth to a pure soul, it is not merely a biological event. The meeting of two bodies only facilitates the birth of another body; when two souls also meet, then we make it possible for a vast soul to descend.

The births of Mahavira and Buddha are births of this kind. The birth of Jesus is even more extraordinary. A few things should be understood about these. The births of Mahavira and Buddha were pre-announced births, awaited for years. The prior proclamations gave many indications—even to the extent of how many dreams Mahavira’s mother would have before his birth: what the first dream would be, the second, the third, the fourth. In his previous life Mahavira declared, ‘My next birth will be accompanied by these dreams. Wherever such-and-such dreams occur, know that I have entered there.’ Complete symbols were given—a white elephant will be seen, or a lotus, and other signs. All those symbols were given. People were waiting to hear which woman would announce that such and such dreams had been fulfilled.

Symbols were given for the Buddha as well. And when the Buddha was born, a monk came from far in the Himalayas—he had been waiting and was deeply anxious that he might die before the Buddha was born. When he came begging, he told the Buddha’s father, ‘I wish to see the newborn child in your house.’

The father was astonished, because that monk was very renowned—famous, with thousands of devotees, a truly divine man. He said, ‘I wish to have his darshan.’ The father was surprised, and then delighted too, because his wife had also spoken of her dreams. The very next day this monk arrived to see the day-old child. When the infant was brought before him, the monk beat his chest and began to weep. The Buddha’s father panicked: ‘Is this some ill omen? Why do you weep?’ The monk said, ‘There is no ill omen for your son. I weep for myself: the one has been born at whose feet one could sit and taste bliss for aeons, but my time to die has come—and it will be long before he grows and reveals himself. I cannot remain that long. My departure is at hand.’

When Jesus was born, the whole world was waiting, especially throughout Central Asia. The indication was that four special stars would appear when Jesus was born. Those who knew this secret—one man from India went to offer congratulations at Jesus’ birth, one from Egypt, and two from other lands. When these four men saw the four stars in the sky, knowing the sign that a birth would take place with these four stars, they hurried to find the child. It had been foretold that for those who recognized the stars, the stars themselves would show the way—so the stars moved ahead and the travelers followed.

Herod, the emperor at the time of Jesus, was first visited by the sage from Egypt who was following those stars. He told King Herod, ‘Do you not know? A sovereign has been born!’ But Herod could not understand what ‘sovereign’ meant; he thought an enemy had been born who would overthrow him. So he had all the newborns in Jerusalem killed. But the news reached Mary, and she fled with the child. She fled in time. Jesus was born in a stable—where horses were tied, filth lay, and there was no light. Hidden there, in a stable, Jesus was born.

In one respect the story of Jesus’ birth is even more special than the stories of Mahavira and Buddha, and that relates directly to your question of what must be done to give birth to such a great being. The soul of Jesus had to take birth; a mother was available, but a father was not. A great difficulty arose. Mary was worthy to give birth to Jesus, but Mary’s husband was not worthy to father Jesus. That is why it is said to this day that Jesus was born of the Virgin Mary—there is a reason for saying so. The father was irrelevant; he was born of a virgin.

Therefore a disembodied soul entered Jesus’ father—what they call the Holy Ghost. Through Jesus’ father another soul was present in place of the father. Jesus’ human father was not present; only the body was. As I have said about Shankara entering a body, in the same way a soul entered Jesus’ father and Jesus was born. Hence the father could say, ‘I had nothing to do with it.’ He himself did not know how or when anything happened. In his perception Mary remained a virgin, and a virgin bore a son. He was completely unconscious of it; his body was used only as a medium.

But Christianity does not have this key clearly. Therefore the poor Christian priest keeps trying somehow to prove that he was born of a virgin, without understanding what ‘born of a virgin’ means. He cannot really prove it. And the greatest objection raised in the West against Jesus—which his followers have not been able to answer—is: how can a son be born to a virgin? It is unscientific.

This is correct: a son cannot be born to a virgin. But in this case he was born of a ‘virgin’ in the sense that the father was non-existent—only a medium. The father was not consciously a father in this event. He knew nothing; he was merely used as an instrument, and the event had to be orchestrated.

Many times it has happened that lofty souls wished to be born, but we could not provide a worthy womb. Today it has become extremely difficult—almost impossible—to make such a womb available, because the science of conception has been lost. What we call conception today is altogether animal-like; there is no science in it. Those who once understood all this had settled everything—keeping account of hour and moment, of special hours, special moments...

As a rule, we have no sense of such things. You may not know that on the full-moon day the maximum number of people go mad, and on the new-moon day the least. Science has not yet been able to explain what this is, but certainly the full moon brings a certain derangement within us. Just as it raises tides in the ocean, in some way it raises movements in our minds toward imbalance. In English the word ‘lunatic’ literally means moon-struck: lunar is the moon, and lunatic the one struck by the moon—one on whom the moon’s attack has made him mad.

There is an account for every hour and minute of the day as to what influences prevail on Earth at that time. If conception takes place under particular influences, the results will be very different; if not, they can be quite the opposite. All of astrology arose from this concern: when did conception occur, what was the exact hour and minute? The influences of that moment can give some indications—at least broad hints of what may unfold.

So there must be a sense of the right time—of hour and moment; the power of meditation before lovemaking; years of celibacy preceding union—remember my understanding of celibacy: not suppression, not holding back, but something that has come and happened on its own. Then, with a prayerful heart, enter lovemaking and extend an invitation to pure souls. Many souls are available, and among souls there is a continual competition to enter a womb. If you can invite special souls, the result will become more definite. Then, for nine months, provide the child in the womb with a special mental and spiritual atmosphere.

For example, Mahavira’s mother was kept in very special conditions; Buddha’s mother as well. Before the Buddha’s birth there was even the indication that he would be born from a standing woman; not indoors, but outside the house. This seemed strange. And indeed, one year, as she was going to her parents’ home, standing under a tree, Buddha’s mother gave birth—under the open sky.

Usually children are born in darkness. Usually lovemaking happens in dark rooms, furtively, with nervousness and a sense of guilt. The results are bound to be unfortunate—as if it were some sin, some crime, being done in secret so that no one comes to know.

For this, freedom, simplicity, purity are essential. Small things bring results—the color of the room, its aura, its fragrance. There is an entire science for all of this. If the whole science of conception is applied, the human lineage can be transformed from the roots. Small things will make a difference.

A scientist is now conducting a small experiment that could bring a radical change. He has devised a small belt to be tied around the belly of a pregnant woman. Accidentally, such a belt was tied for a sick woman for some other reason, but the effect on the child was unprecedented. Because of the belt, pressure fell where the child’s head lay, and the child was born with a greatly increased intelligence quotient—the IQ rose markedly. It had happened accidentally: pressure had been applied to a particular center of the brain. Now he has carried out many systematic experiments, because it could have been merely a coincidence that this child would have been intelligent anyway. But having done hundreds of experiments, he has shown that pressure applied to particular spots on the mother’s abdomen during pregnancy brings about changes in the child’s intelligence.

There are many yogic postures that create specific pressures, many breathing processes that do the same, and many sound intonations that apply particular pressures. All of these support the child’s talent, health, capacities, and possibilities to manifest fully. So far, man keeps discovering countless troublesome things, but what is truly needed—that man discover his own future—very little search is happening there. Yet all this is entirely possible. As soon as a child enters the mother, glimpses of that child’s possibilities begin to arise in the mother. It is a two-way process. If the mother becomes angry during these days, the child will be prone to anger; and if an angry soul has entered, a mother who never used to be angry will find anger arising. This too is very indicative, and seeing such indications experiments can be made to transform that child’s anger from the seed itself.

Even today there are many souls on Earth, unborn as yet, who could take birth. A strange situation has arisen—like a university that educates people up to a bachelor’s degree, but has no master’s program and no facilities for research, so many B.A. graduates wander about wondering where they can do an M.A. or pursue research. Our Earth develops some people’s talent and soul up to a point and then leaves them there; for what comes after, we have no arrangements.

Arrangements for what comes after can be made in a planned way. Conditions can be created in which the noblest souls can enter. Let me repeat two or three fundamental points. First, our attitude toward sex is sick, neurotic, and dangerous. Until the sacredness of sex is accepted on Earth, we will keep doing great harm. Until meditation is united with sex beforehand, sex will remain animalistic; it cannot become human. And unless there is a long celibacy before lovemaking, a powerful seed cannot be formed, and therefore a powerful soul cannot be given birth.

Let us take one last question.

I will explain only your preparation, because my preparation I have to do; it is of no use to you. And I have nothing to prepare—there is already preparation! What is your preparation? Three things.

First, thousands of years have made us believers, not seekers. A believing mind has been produced, not an inquiring mind. So we believe, but we do not search. And whatever is significant to be attained in this world never comes without searching. And even if everything else were attained, at least one’s own being does not come without seeking. So the first preparation is a mind filled with inquiry. A mind full of inquiry is the first preparation.

You may say, We do have curiosity; we ask questions. But remember, there are curiosities that are only in search of answers. I do not call these inquiry. What is needed is inquiry that is not merely after answers, but is in search of experience. Someone else can give you an answer; no one else can give you an experience.

There are people who seem to be asking—and it appears their asking is religious—they ask, Is there God or not? Is there liberation or not? But it looks as if they are hunting for answers—let someone give them an answer. And the one who is looking for an answer will, today or tomorrow, settle for belief. Because the answer-seeker is not ready to take much trouble. He says, Let me find someone I can believe in; let me get the answer and be satisfied.

I have no answers to give anyone. I have no interest in answers. And if I sometimes speak in the language of answers, it is only so that those who are chasing answers do not run away completely—so that they linger a little. I try to keep them for a while, in the hope that by breaking their hunger for answers, perhaps a seed of longing for experience can be awakened in them.

People do ask; very few want to know. Answers are cheap. They are in books; they are with gurus; they are written down. Answers are purely intellectual. They have nothing to do with total living. What is needed is the search for experience, the inquiry for experience. For example, let me tell you an incident.

In Tibet there was a fakir, Milarepa. When Milarepa went to his master, the rule in Tibet was: first do three circumambulations of the master, then bow seven times, then sit politely in a corner; and when the time comes and the master asks what you want to ask, then ask. When Milarepa went to his master, he went straight up and seized the master by the neck—no three rounds, no seven bows, no polite sitting in a corner—he grabbed the master’s neck and said, Speak quickly whatever you have to say, because I don’t even know what to ask! He said, I don’t even know what to ask; I only know this much—that I know nothing. If you have something to say, say it!

The master said, Show a little decorum. You must know: do three circumambulations, bow your head seven times, sit politely in a corner and then ask.

Milarepa said, I’ll do that later. If, while bowing seven times and circling three times and sitting politely, I die, who will be responsible? If I die, will you be responsible or will I? If you promise I won’t die in the meantime, then I can do not just seven but seven hundred rounds. First give the answer; then at leisure we will do these things—courtesy can be observed later too.

The master said, Sit down. You have come not in search of an answer but in search of experience. And it is good you didn’t do the rounds. Because we have kept those rounds for those who can keep circling. That arrangement is for them. When they do the rounds, we immediately understand: a useless man has come, one who has time for circling.

So the first element I expect is inquiry for experience—not for answers, not for philosophy, not for metaphysics—but of the very life-breath. Not merely to know, but to attain. And not merely to attain, but to be. That is the first point.

Second, whenever we set out to get something, we must lose something. In this world nothing is gained without losing. But by losing wealth, truth will not be found—lose as much as you like. Neither can truth be bought by having wealth, nor by renouncing it. Some think, If there is plenty of money, we will buy it. Others think, If we renounce money, we will get it. Both are thinking in terms of buying with money. Truth cannot be had by money. In fact, by losing what we have, truth cannot be had until we are ready to lose ourselves—not by losing our having, but by losing our being. Not by giving up what we own, but by daring to give up what we are.

So the second element is: are we ready to lose ourselves, to give ourselves? And it is not that Truth demands from you—why would it! Mere readiness to give is enough. Readiness itself becomes the giving. Once you are ready, the matter is finished. But your readiness must be complete—that you can lose yourself. One who cannot lose himself cannot set out upon this great pilgrimage.

The second element...we are always ready to lose something else. One man says, I will leave my house. Another says, I will leave my parents, my wife, my son, my wealth. But no one comes and says, I will leave myself. And until someone comes and says, I will leave myself, there is no movement in the world of truth. For is your wife really yours, whom you are leaving? No husband can truly say, My wife is mine. In twenty-four hours, twenty-four times it becomes clear she is not. What is not mine, that we leave—we are deceiving. Whom are we deceiving? Is the wealth yours that you say you will renounce? Other than yourself, what do you truly have? That which is, you do not talk of leaving; that which is not, you talk of leaving. Nothing comes of that.

The second expectation is the courage to leave oneself. And the third expectation, the third preparation, is waiting—endless waiting—and patience. In fact, this journey is such that anyone who says, I want it right now, is being a bit childish. It is not that it cannot be had now—it can be had now. But it comes only to one who does not demand it now—who says, Whenever it comes, I am content. It is received even now, but by the one who says, Even if it comes someday, I am willing to wait. Patience is needed. And patience has almost disappeared. There is no other reason for the decline of religion in the world than the decline of patience. Because patience is the fundamental root of religion. Only the patient can be religious. For in this world everything else is cash. Religion cannot be seen, cannot be touched by hand, cannot be locked in a strongbox, cannot be kept in a bank balance, cannot be put in a safe deposit and locked while you sleep at home. Religion is the one thing for which only the patient person agrees to search.

And there is a great difficulty with religion: it is not obtained in pieces—that today you get one inch, tomorrow two, and so some hope remains. Even the impatient can keep hoping: never mind, if I got one rupee today, tomorrow I can get two; tomorrow two, the day after four; and when four are had, then billions can be had. No—religion either happens or it doesn’t. There is no partition between. The day it happens, it happens all at once—an explosion. And until it happens, nothing happens. Dense darkness remains.

In those moments of darkness, the impatient begin to search for something else that can be had immediately. They start picking up pebbles and stones that can be had now, lying right here. They start seeking wealth, seeking fame—things that can be had, that do not seem distant—here they are! And there is one convenience with worldly things: you can obtain them in fragments, in installments, in parts. Religion cannot be had in installments.

So waiting is the third element—endless waiting, infinite patience, awaiting. It is very difficult, because the mind says, Who knows whether it will be had or not? Who knows whether we are sitting here in vain? Who knows—now it’s been long; shall we get up? Who knows what else we might have earned in this time, what else we might have done? That slipped by, and here nothing was gained. Such a mind, filled with impatience, cannot become still. In fact, impatience has no relationship with peace; no connection with balance; no relation with silence. Impatience means restlessness, bustle, fickleness, running about. Such a mind will miss. Patience means the ocean has stilled—no wave at all—a mirror. And the wonder is, the moon is always above; if the ocean becomes a mirror, it can catch it right now. But if the ocean is full of waves, it cannot catch the moon.

Truth is always present; the divine is near on all sides—here and now. But our mind, filled with impatience—wavering, trembling—there no grasp can settle, no reflection can form; it cannot become a mirror. Waiting turns consciousness into a mirror. And the day we become a mirror, that very day everything is found. Because everything was always present; only we were not present. By becoming a mirror, we become present. And the moment we are a mirror, that which is present becomes visible.

Fulfill these three conditions. If these three are fulfilled, the matter is complete. The rest that has to happen will happen very simply. The difficulty, in fact, is like this: I am standing before you with water in my hands and saying, Please cup both your hands so that when I pour, your hands can become a bowl. You are standing with hands spread open. If only your hands were cupped a little—if you paused and stood still, bound together for a single moment—it could be poured. And do not fall into the illusion that I am pouring it. The moment your hands are cupped, it descends. I too can only be a witness to it—nothing more. I can bear witness and say, Yes, it is so: this man cupped his hands, and the event happened.

In truth, initiation means only this—this is the meaning of diksha. How can one man give initiation to another? Initiation is always from the divine alone. Yes, this much can happen: one who has gone a little ahead can become a witness. He can say, Yes, the hands are rightly cupped; initiation will happen.

On my side no special preparation is needed. If your preparation is complete, I can become a witness. And I have spoken of the three sutras of your preparation. Do not think about them; by trying to live them, these three sutras can be grasped immediately. If you think, you miss; if you think, you slip. Just a little thinking, and we miss. Do not think. Understand these three sutras—Am I not, inside, in search of answers? Turn your attention to the search for experience. Am I not merely setting out to find some intellectual theory—whether God created the world or not? Even if he did, what difference does it make; if he did not, what difference does it make. Am I truly setting out to seek an experience? Make this clear within.

It would even be good, if you have not set out in search of experience, that this too becomes clear—that you are only looking for answers. Even then something will become clear, and an honesty will be born. Then at least we will not get into the trouble of experience; we will understand the answers and finish the matter.

And remember, the one to whom it becomes clear that he is only looking for answers—he will immediately come to know that he has set out on a futile search. What will I do with an answer given in words? Words neither fill the stomach nor end hunger, nor do they quench thirst. Nothing happens through words. If you have to cross a river, you need a boat; a dictionary boat will not do. And if you go to the riverbank carrying a book in which it is written: boat—and boat means that which takes one across a river—then the book will drown, you will drown, and the river will laugh, What a madman! If you had to cross with the boat of a book, you should have crossed in the book’s river. One should not bring the book’s boat into the real river. If in the book you had made both a boat and a river, the job would have been done.

So if it is only answers you seek, then books are enough. Then there is no need to do anything in life. But if this becomes clear, then today or tomorrow weariness with books will arise; today or tomorrow words will seem useless; all theories will begin to feel like junk; all scriptures will begin to feel like loads to be taken off—Now put them down from the shoulder—and the search for experience will begin. But honestly make it clear within yourself what you are seeking. Is this mere curiosity, or is it inquiry? Is it just inquiry, or mumuksha? Mumuksha means an inquiry that longs to experience.

Second, decide what you are ready to give. This is to be decided within. If the divine were to stand before me today and ask, What can you give me in exchange? I am ready to give myself to you. If God says, I am ready to come to you—what are you ready to give me?

Will you take out rupees from your pocket and count them? Most will count. They will think: Shall I give five? Ten? How much? Or what will you give? In such a moment can you give yourself, and say to the divine, Other than myself, what do I have?

If this becomes clear to you, then the second sutra will become life-changing for you: I am ready to give myself. This only needs to become clear within you; that is enough. It should be clear that when the moment comes, I can give myself. I will not miss. I will not say, Wait a little. Let me ask at home; let me talk with friends. How can I give myself right now—wait a few days. Let the son’s wedding happen. Let it be clear that I can put myself at stake!

There is no gamble greater than religion. All other gambles are very small. In them you stake something and lose; you stake something and win something; you remain outside. In religion, the stake is you yourself. And there is no winning or losing—because when you yourself are the stake, who will win and who will lose! The stake is you. Then there is no way for win or loss. Then you are gone. Make this clear.

And third, make it clear that when we set out in search of the infinite, childish impatience will not work. Infinite patience is needed. And the one who agrees to infinite patience receives it now, here.

Make these three a little clear in your mind, and the preparation goes on happening.

Is there anything more to ask? All right, go on—ask.

In fact, on the day inquiry is complete, doubt will no longer remain. This is a very interesting point; it’s worth understanding a little.

When does doubt actually arise? Inquiry is not doubt. Doubt happens only to those who have some belief. One who has a belief can doubt; but if one has no belief, what is there to doubt? On what will doubt stand? How will you doubt?

Where there is search, there is neither doubt nor belief. Doubt arises only when there has been some prior belief; it is born in opposition to a preconceived belief. Someone says, “I doubt God.” That means he must have had some belief in God—otherwise how would the doubt arise? No—the seeker has neither doubt nor belief. The seeker says, “I don’t know—so how can I doubt? How can I believe?” The seeker is not an unbeliever. The seeker’s mind is unclouded, because it is free of belief. Where there is no belief, there is no doubt.

So here is the paradox: all believers carry doubt within. And the one who says, “I believe firmly,” carries an equally firm doubt. To suppress that firm doubt he is forced to hold a firm belief. Inside, a solid doubt is seated; it is trying to rise up. He pushes it down with solid belief. With eyes closed he goes on chanting “Ram, Ram”—“Push this doubt down, keep firm belief.” But firm belief against whom? Against himself. So within, there is doubt.

When search or inquiry is complete, there is neither belief nor doubt. There is only search, only inquiry. What is—this we want to know. About what is, we have neither belief nor doubt.

Do you get my meaning? Inquiry is very pure. It is free not only of doubt but also of belief. Inquiry is the purest state of mind, in which no waves of doubt arise and there are no shores of belief. Both are absent. Therefore inquiry is the purest consciousness. Mere inquiry is the purest state of the mind; there is no state more purified, more holy than that. In everything else, there is some admixture.

When inquiry becomes complete—that was the first sutra I told you—on that very day the second will also be fulfilled, easily. Because once you set out to seek the Ultimate, you yourself begin to see: what is the stake? What is to be put on the line?

Search cannot be free. To take even one step here, you have to walk, you have to put yourself into it. To climb even one stair, a weight comes upon the heart and the blood pressure rises. To do even a little, something happens. In this world, to obtain anything, to search for anything, something is demanded. We have set out to seek the Ultimate, the fundamental mysteries of existence, the primal secret; to seek truth, to seek the Divine—what do we stake? To one whose inquiry is complete, it becomes clear: other than myself, I have nothing. I am utterly alone. Only this can be staked; I have nothing else.

And one whose inquiry is complete, his stake too becomes complete. Complete inquiry cannot place a partial bet. A partial bet is placed only when there is a little doubt. A gambler puts five rupees down while keeping ten in his pocket. He suspects he may lose; otherwise he would put all ten. He puts five because he is afraid—it isn’t certain what will happen. Doubt is there, trust is there; both are present. The atheist within is saying, “What if you lose?” The theist within says, “Put it down.” So he says, “Put five—make a compromise.” He wagers in the middle, and still saves five. But if there is neither doubt nor belief, and the mind is whole, not divided, undivided—then the stake becomes total. Then we are able to put our whole being on the line.

And one whose inquiry is complete and whose stake is complete becomes ready for infinite waiting. Because to attain the Total, you cannot be in a hurry as you are with trivial things.

So the three steps I have spoken of are bound together in a deep sequence. If you complete the first, you begin to stand on the second. If you complete the second, you begin to stand on the third. Among the three there is an inner, inevitable relationship.