Mati Kahe Kumhar Su #1

My beloved Atman!
A strange and astonishing misfortune has, day by day, cast its dark shadow over humankind. By now, perhaps, we no longer even notice it. If someone were born ill, how would he ever know what health is? If someone were born blind, how would he ever know there is light in the world? In the same way, as if from birth itself, we have been deprived of a wondrous experience. Slowly, slowly, humanity has even forgotten that such an experience exists. All the words that point toward that experience have begun to sound false and hollow.
Is there any word today more hollow and useless than ‘God’? Is there any word today more hollow and useless than ‘religion’? Is there any institution more unnecessary than temples, any state of mind more futile than prayers? It seems all connection with the Supreme, with Paramatma, has ended in human life!
Because of this misfortune we no longer even feel how we are living — in what anxiety, sorrow, pain, and trouble. And whenever the question arises, ‘Why has man’s connection with God been broken?’ even animals and birds seem more joyous than we are. The flowers blossoming upon plants appear more radiant than the eyes of man. The moon and stars in the sky, the waves of the ocean, the gusts of wind — all seem more exuberant than man. What has happened to man? Only man, alone in this vast world, seems diseased and ill. But if we ask why it has become so, why the connection with God is broken, those whom we call ‘religious’ will say: ‘Because of the atheists, because of the scientists, because of materialism, because of Western education — that is why man’s connection with God has been severed.’
These statements are utterly false. No atheist has the power to cut man off from Paramatma. It would be like saying… and no materialist has the power to separate spirituality from human life. No might of the West can extinguish the lamp we call religion. It is as absurd as if my house were dark and, when asked what happened to the lamp, I were to say: ‘What could I do! I lit the lamp, but darkness came and blew it out!’ You would laugh and say, ‘What power does darkness have to put out light?’
Darkness has never extinguished any light. Even a small earthen lamp has enough power that all the darkness in the world cannot put it out.
Yes, when the lamp goes out, darkness certainly comes in. It is not that darkness puts out the lamp; the lamp goes out, and then darkness enters.
Religion’s lamp was not put out by atheism; the lamp went out — therefore atheism appeared. Spirituality was not extinguished by materialism; spirituality went dim — therefore materialism is. Then whose doing is it? For when one says that atheism and materialism are destroying religion, he does not realize he is declaring religion weak and atheism strong. He does not know he is not speaking in favor of religion but against it. He is admitting that the forces of darkness are greater than the forces of light.
And if darkness is more powerful and can extinguish light, then remember, there is no possibility for light ever to shine in this world. Because darkness will always blow it out; you light it, and darkness will put it out. If atheism can wipe out religion, then there is no possibility left for religion to be born again.
But I say, the very premise is wrong, the argument false, the logic deceitful. It is the same kind of logic we Indians also use in another matter.
Ask us Indians — ask ourselves — why did we become weak? Why did we become so degraded and destitute upon this earth?
We will immediately say: the Muslims came, they defeated us and weakened us. The English came, they enslaved us and weakened us. Because of a thousand years of slavery we have become degraded and destitute.
That argument is just as false. No one becomes weak because of slavery; whoever is weak becomes a slave. Does slavery make anyone weak? Weakness certainly brings slavery. Does slavery make one degraded and destitute? The degraded do become slaves.
But in these arguments there is cleverness — cunningness, subtle craftiness. With such arguments we save ourselves and shift the responsibility onto others.
Whenever the religious leaders of the world and the so‑called religious people heap this responsibility upon the atheists, the irreligious, the materialists — saying, ‘Because of you life is being ruined, light is being extinguished’ — they are using a trick. They want to divert your attention from the fact that because of them, because of the religious, because of the priests, because of the sects, because of Christians, Hindus, Muslims, Jains and Buddhists, the lamp of religion has gone out. To hide this fact, blame is thrown upon others. And atheists have no organization anywhere to protest. They have no scripture, no temple, to raise an objection. Materialists have no sect to counter. So the statement is quietly accepted. On one‑sided testimony, the verdict is believed!
In this first talk I want to tell you that there is no hand greater than that of the religious leaders, the priests, the temples and mosques, than that of Hindus and Muslims, Christians and Jains, in breaking man’s connection with God. And if this earth is to be rejoined to the Lord, then we will have to fold our hands and step away from a few things. We will have to step away from sects if we wish to witness the birth of religion. And the ‘religious leader’ will have to be bid farewell if we wish to raise our eyes toward the vision of the Lord.
Why do I say this?
I say it because whenever anyone turns love into a business…
The business of love, first of all, cannot be. Love can never be a trade. You cannot buy it in a shop. But if someone opens a shop of love and sells love, know well that deception is afoot. And if you take what you buy in that shop to be love, then understand too that the love which could have been available to you will never become available.
If the business of love is impossible, how can there be a business of prayer? Prayer is but love in its vastness. If love cannot be bought in the marketplace or at a counter, how can Paramatma be obtained there?
Yet there are shops selling God, which we call ‘religions.’ There are shops selling God, which we call temples and mosques, Shiva‑shrines and gurudwaras. There are shopkeepers selling God, whom we call gurus, priests, pastors, and the like. All these have raised a wall between man and the Lord, making union with Him difficult.
How have they raised this wall?
They have raised it with great cleverness. The first brick of this wall is this: all the gurus of the world have gone hoarse shouting one thing — that it is very difficult to attain God. For three thousand years this propaganda has echoed around the world: God is extremely rare, very hard to attain. Do you know that this very statement has laid the strongest stone between man and God?
No, perhaps it has not occurred to you. If you repeat for thousands of years that something is difficult, then by that very repetition it becomes difficult. The propaganda of difficulty grips the human mind, and one begins to feel, ‘How will I attain such a difficult thing? This is beyond my capacity. Beyond my strength. Beyond my limits. I am such a small human being; how could I attain it?’ And if after lifetimes of effort we cannot attain it, then if we drop the effort, have we really made a mistake?
A psychologist in Russia conducted a small experiment. He wanted to find out whether by repeating that something is difficult, more difficult, still more difficult, does it actually become difficult? In a university mathematics class of thirty students he performed an experiment. He took fifteen into one room, fifteen into another. Students of the same class, the same general intelligence.
Before the first fifteen, he wrote a mathematical problem on the board. And he said: ‘I do not expect any of you will be able to solve this problem. It is very difficult. So difficult that on earth there are perhaps only ten or five mathematicians who can solve it. You have no capacity for it. But you may ask, then why give it to you at all? To discover whether students of this level can at least take one or two steps in the right direction. There is no possibility that you will solve the whole thing. But if even one or two steps are taken rightly by one or two of you, it will be a matter of great pride. Try. Perhaps one person may take a step or two correctly. The problem is very difficult. There is no hope. Students of higher classes have failed. But perhaps!’
When those students heard this, their hands went limp. The energy that rises in the soul to solve a problem fell asleep. The power that awakens and accepts a challenge had already accepted that it cannot be solved. If it cannot be solved, the spirit stops taking up the struggle. Their hands began to work upon the problem deadened, dull, lethargic. The decision is already made: it cannot be solved. The result is known beforehand: failure is certain. And when failure is known, can there be life in your steps toward success? Can there be movement, can there be strength? They are working on the problem knowing it will not be solved.
The psychologist went to the other fifteen. He wrote the same problem on the board and said: ‘This problem is very simple. So simple that students of classes lower than yours have solved it completely. But you may ask, then why give it to us if it is so simple? I am engaged in research and want to see whether in this higher class there is even a single student who cannot solve such a problem. We want to find out if, even after passing our examinations, such students arrive who cannot solve what is this simple. No one will fail. Students of lower classes have succeeded, they have solved it fully. It is very simple.’
These fifteen too began working on the problem — but their condition was very different. They knew the problem would be solved. They knew it had to be solved. They knew that if in lower classes it had been solved, how could they lose! It is such a simple problem. The energy in their beings arose, and with cheerfulness and joy they started solving. The problem was the same.
An hour later, when they had finished, in the first class where they had been told it was difficult, only three solved it; twelve failed. In the second class only one failed; fourteen succeeded.
The problem was the same; the students were of the same level. What happened? A state was created that it is difficult. A state was created that it is simple. And the stance with which we take our first step is the stance on which our last step comes to completion.
For five thousand years history has been repeating ‘God is difficult, difficult, difficult.’ Then it became so difficult that man stopped even looking in that direction. What is beyond our capacity cannot become our aspiration. What is beyond our strength cannot become our longing. All right, we may offer flowers in a temple now and then; all right, we may remember Him on a fasting day or a festival. But it is beyond our capacity, far from us.
In Japan, some three hundred years ago, a small state was attacked by a neighboring great king. The attacker is powerful; he has ten times the strength. The state attacked is small and poor. There are neither soldiers nor arms, nor the materials of war.
The commander, in panic, said to the king: ‘It is beyond my capacity to go to war. How can I go knowing I must have my soldiers slaughtered! Defeat is certain. Forgive me, I refuse. There is no chance of winning. They have ten times the soldiers; ten times the war materials; modern means. We have none. Defeat is certain, therefore it is better to be defeated without fighting. What purpose in cutting people down for nothing?’
The king too was afraid. He knew the words were true. It would not be fair to call the commander a coward. He had fought many wars before. This is the first time he refuses. And in his refusal, cowardice is not at work; it is plain, simple arithmetic — two and two make four. Defeat is certain. But the king’s heart did not accept to be defeated without defeat. He was restless all night. In the morning he asked his vizier, ‘What should be done? The enemy advances day by day!’
The vizier said: ‘I know a fakir. Whenever my life has been in confusion, I have gone to him. I have never returned without a suggestion. It is morning; let us go and ask.’
They reached the fakir’s door. The commander went too. The fakir laughed and said: ‘Leave this commander; leave him. For the one who declares before going that defeat is certain has no possibility of victory left. I will go in the commander’s place, and take the armies myself.’
The king was even more afraid. The commander is seasoned, has fought and won many battles. This fakir — who does not even know how to hold a sword! But the fakir said: ‘Be at ease; within eight or ten days we shall return victorious.’
The fakir set off with the armies. The soldiers trembled; their hands and feet were shaking. When the commander refused, now this stranger — inexperienced, a fakir! But the fakir went singing. They reached a river on whose far side the enemy camped. The fakir stopped them by a temple and said: ‘Wait a moment. Let me ask the deity of the temple whether we shall win or lose. This has always been my habit. Whenever I have been in difficulty, I ask the deity of this temple.’
The soldiers said, ‘How will the deity say? How will we understand what the deity says?’ He said, ‘There is a way.’ The soldiers ringed the temple. The fakir took from his pocket a bright gold coin and said: ‘O Lord! If we are to return victorious, let the coin fall heads; if we are to return defeated, let it fall tails.’
He tossed the coin high into the air. In the sunlight the coin flashed; the breath of all the soldiers stopped — now? Stunned, they watched. The coin fell — it was heads. The fakir said, ‘Look! Victory is certain!’ He slipped the coin into his pocket. And the soldiers, with a new zeal, a new life, leapt into battle.
Ten days later they were returning in triumph. Near the temple the soldiers said to the fakir, ‘Perhaps you have forgotten! At least let us go and thank the temple deity who gave the message of victory…’ The fakir laughed and said, ‘Let it be. No special need.’ But the soldiers said, ‘How can you say such a thing! At least let gratitude be expressed to the one who gave the message!’ The fakir said, ‘Leave it. The deity had nothing to do with it. If you must give thanks, give it to me.’ The soldiers said, ‘To you?’ The fakir took out the coin and said, ‘Look at it. It was heads on both sides. It had no tail at all. So if you must give thanks, give it to me. God had no hand in this.’
How did those soldiers return victorious? What happened in their souls? Do you think they could have returned victorious without that fakir? Do you think they could have won with their commander? Do you think they could have won without that coin? Do you think victory could have come without that hope and that trust that victory is certain?
But regarding God, just the opposite has happened. The fakir’s coin had heads on both sides; our coin has tails on both sides. We toss it — and always defeat! It is tails both sides. And I tell you, this two‑tailed coin has been minted by the religious leaders. Why? You will say, what interest would they have in separating man from God? What benefit could there be for them in creating this distance?
If you remember even a few laws of business, you will understand. If Paramatma is very easy for man to attain, the religious leader is no longer needed in between. If Paramatma is utterly simple to attain, there is no vacancy for a middleman, no need for a broker. The harder God is to attain, the more useful and necessary becomes the mediator in between — the agent, the broker, the businessman. If God is difficult, then the guru is needed. For to reach the difficult, without the guru who will give the knowledge, who will show the path? The path to the difficult is arduous, like climbing a mountain, like walking on the edge of a sword. So someone is needed to show the way, someone to hold your hand.
By declaring God difficult, the religious leader has secured his own necessity. And as God has been made more and more difficult, the business of the religious leader has spread and grown. Today crores upon crores of religious leaders live off this exploitation of man. Just the Catholic priests number twelve lakhs. And there are three hundred religions in the world. These are the priests of only one. There are three hundred religions, three hundred sects. Each has its gurus, its monks, its priests, its scholars. And they all live by one claim: that they will tell you the trick to meet God. Though because of these crores of gurus humanity cannot be joined to Paramatma.
In calling it difficult there is profit. In the marketplace, the rarer a thing becomes, the higher its price rises. The more easily available a thing is, the lower its price. What is freely abundant, we forget even that it has any price. We do not think air has any price. We do not think water has any price. But in a desert, in the wasteland, the price of water becomes apparent. And when travelers journey to the moon, then the price of air will be known.
The more simple and easily available something is, the less value it holds for trade. The religious leader trades in God; he sells God. Naturally, the straight rules of economics apply: God must be rare, scarce, very difficult. So difficult that it commands a great price.
A king lost his way one night in a forest. In the early morning he reached a village, tired out, and stopped at a hut. He said, ‘I am very hungry; if I could get something…’ The hut had nothing; only two or three eggs lay there. The owner gave them. The king ate. Then he said, ‘Thank you. How much do I owe?’ The old man said, ‘Not much, just one hundred rupees.’ The king said, ‘One hundred rupees! For two or three eggs! I have bought very costly things in my day, but never did I imagine eggs could be so expensive. Are eggs so rare here?’ The old man laughed and said, ‘No, sir, eggs are not rare — kings are. Eggs are available daily, but a king is very rare here.’ The king paid the hundred rupees.
Rarity becomes the measure of price. ‘God is very difficult! Very difficult! Sometimes one person attains Him, the rest remain deprived!’ Then a price can be charged. In medieval Europe, the Christian Pope took lakhs from people to deliver them to heaven. He would write letters to God. Those letters were placed in the grave. Who knows whether the letters ever arrived or what became of them! No one returns. But if those graves were opened, the letters would still be found lying there. The Pope is more clever — he took lakhs. In our villages the Brahmin‑pandit is less shrewd; he settles for a scrawny cow! But the rule is the same — heaven is sold, liberation is sold, religion is sold, God is sold!
Therefore it was very necessary to make it difficult. For three or four thousand years the chant of difficulty has been repeated. The result is that man has accepted it is difficult. Two fatal consequences have followed from fixing this difficulty.
First: the simple and straightforward people stopped going in that direction. The humble people ceased to raise their eyes that way. They accepted that it is beyond their capacity, beyond their worthiness.
Yet it is precisely the humble and simple who are worthy to attain the Lord. But the result of this false teaching has been that the humble and simple stopped lifting their eyes toward Him.
The second fatal consequence: the egoists, the proud, began the journey in that direction. The only delight of the ego is to attain what is difficult — to climb Everest. What is there in climbing a small hill of Junagadh? It is Gaurishankar that must be climbed! Why? What need is there to climb Gaurishankar?
No, but I will be the first man! I will be Hillary, I will be Tenzing! I will plant the flag! My footsteps will fall where no human foot has ever fallen!
The most egoistic seek the difficult so that they may do it. The simple does not appeal to the ego. So the egoists of the world set out to attain God.
That is why it is harder to find a more egoistic person than a sannyasin. Even a politician may have humility, but in a sannyasin it is almost impossible. Why? Is there a fault in sannyas? No. But the egoists become eager because God is difficult. Their ego is not content unless God is also caught in their fist. Wealth cannot satisfy them. The throne of Delhi cannot satisfy them. If anything can satisfy, it is only that even God be in their fist.
This ultimate thirst of the ego — since God has been made difficult, the ego has galloped that way. And the wonder is that the ego can never meet God. Humility can attain God, the ego never. But the humble were tired, gave up, fell silent; and the egoists, at top speed, riding the horses of their pride, rushed toward ‘God.’ A calamity occurred in the world: the proud grew more and more ‘religious,’ while the humble and simple stood silently outside the temples. They gave up hope. And those who cannot attain set out in that direction.
The root cause of the murder of religion is the doctrine of God’s difficulty. This is the first sutra I want to place before you today. And if ever you would allow God to enter your life, etch deeply in your heart that there is nothing more simple than to attain God. God is supremely simple, simplest — ultimately simple. Nothing is simpler than that.
Why? Why do I say nothing is simpler than attaining God?
I say so because — if a fish begins to ask, ‘Where is the ocean? I want to attain it!’ — what would we say to the fish?
We would say, it is not a question of where the ocean is. You are, and you cannot be without the ocean. Your being is always in the ocean. Wherever you are, there is the ocean. You are formed of the ocean, you are the ocean, and you dissolve into the ocean.
For the fish, the ocean is as simple as God is for man. For what does ‘Paramatma’ mean? It means: the stream of life. It means: that which is living, prana, consciousness — that which pervades all — that. Without that we cannot be even for a single moment. We live in God, arise as waves in that same ocean and dissolve back into it. That from which we are formed, in which we live, in which we die — can that be difficult to attain? Difficult to lose it, yes — but how to be difficult to attain? If the fish wishes to lose the ocean, then difficulty begins. If the fish wishes to lose the ocean, difficulty begins. To attain, what difficulty is there? It is already attained.
So I tell you: it is difficult to lose God, not to attain Him. And the great difficulty that all humanity is passing through is because we are trying to lose God. This wretched, withered, impoverished, anxious, grief‑ridden human condition — why is it so? Because we are trying to lose God.
The fish tries to lose the ocean, to go away from it — she becomes impoverished, her very life flutters and gasps upon the sand, she trembles in the sun, she nears death.
Man is almost in that condition. This difficulty we are suffering is the difficulty of losing God. But to attain God is utterly simple — because we have Him already. We have not lost Him for even a single instant; we have not been apart from Him for a single instant. Not for a single instant can we breathe without Him.
But in imagination and thought we have separated from Him — in fancy we have moved away. Just so, someone sleeps tonight in Junagadh and dreams he is not in Junagadh but in Calcutta. He can dream he is in Calcutta — though dreaming does not carry him there. But he can dream of being there. In the morning if he asks, ‘How did I return from Calcutta?’ people will laugh and say, ‘You slept here all night; you never went to Calcutta.’ But he will insist, ‘I was there! I was in Calcutta! How did I return?’
On the day one rediscovers God, a similar laughter arises within — that which was never lost, how did I lose it! From whom I never went far, how did I go far! In the imagination, in the dream, in sleep, in unconsciousness.
Man, in truth, cannot for even a single moment be far from God. For whatever we can move away from would not be God at all. We can leave only what is separate, different, apart from our very life. You can leave your house, your wife, your children, your village — but how will you leave yourself? And where will you go? Wherever you go, you will find yourself present. No one can run away from oneself.
Paramatma is our very nature. We cannot run away from Him. The attempt to leave creates the difficulty.
So I tell you: God is simple — utterly simple. It is hard to lose Him; to attain Him is utterly simple. The heart that allows this first sutra to settle deeply — that God is simple to attain — has completed half the journey without moving a step. Half the journey is done. His life becomes ready to set out. His consciousness prepares. The journey is very simple; what is needed is the full readiness of the heart.
In these three days, regarding that full readiness of the heart, the first sutra I have to say is: to attain the Lord is extremely simple; nothing is simpler.
What is the simplest thing for a seed? What is the simplest thing for a seed?
The simplest thing for a seed is to become a sprout. Nothing else is simpler. If there is to be difficulty for the seed, it will be this: that it should remain a seed, no sprout should break forth, no leaves emerge, no flowers blossom. The difficulty for the seed is that the shell not break — that it not become the plant it was born to become.
What is the simplest for man? To become divine. That is the hidden possibility within, the seed. Man is a seed; Paramatma is his manifest form. That which is hidden should manifest — flowers should bloom, the sprout should emerge, the plant should grow.
But we all remain seeds — that is why our life is a difficulty.
I tell you, it is very simple. You will say, merely by saying so, merely by accepting it, nothing becomes simple. Nothing!
No — it becomes simple. Upon this foundation further work is possible. Upon this stance further steps can be taken. Therefore, in this first talk I am speaking to you only about this foundation. Till now, many devices have been used to increase its difficulty.
One device has been this: that to attain Him one must belong to some organization, be a member of some sect, stand with some crowd — whether it be the crowd of Hindus, or of Muslims, or of Christians, or of Jains. Each person must stand with a crowd; then he can attain the Lord.
This is utterly false, untrue. What has the crowd to do with the Lord? The relationship with the Lord is always of the individual — in solitary intimacy, in aloneness, in one’s own innermost. What has the crowd to do with it? Has any crowd ever had the direct vision of God? The vision is not a war to be fought with armies, to be reached with a crowd. There one must go alone, taking only oneself. When does Christ meet God? In aloneness, in solitude. When does Mohammed meet Him? Alone, in solitude. When does Mahavira meet Him? Alone. When does Buddha meet Him? Alone. Has any crowd, anywhere, ever had the direct encounter with God? Has any crowd ever been able to present itself before Him? The encounter is always personal, individual, a direct face‑to‑face.
Yet we have been taught that without being a Hindu, no one can be religious; without being a Muslim, no one can be religious. I tell you, so long as someone remains a Hindu, or remains a Muslim, there is no possibility of his being religious. That is why so much irreligion has been possible in the name of religions.
Do you know which temples the irreligious set on fire? Which mosques they burned? Which children the irreligious killed, which women they dishonored? What have the irreligious done — and what have the so‑called religious done? If someday the sins of the irreligious are piled up on one side, and those of the so‑called religious on the other, you will be stunned. The pan of sin held by the religious will sink with such weight you cannot even imagine!
How could this be? How could a religious man set fire? How could he murder? How could he shed blood?
He was not religious at all. In the name of religion a false thing was taught to him. True religion — the religion of the simplicity of the Lord, which I am speaking of — will teach a person aloneness. False religion, the religion of God’s difficulty, teaches one to be a part of a crowd. And the more a man becomes a part of the crowd, the more difficult it becomes to attain God — for crowds never go to God, never have, never can. Have you ever heard an incident where ten or twenty people attained the vision of God together? One alone, in his total loneliness, attains that state.
To make God difficult, the first trick used was to tie religion to the crowd — which is utterly wrong. Religion is personal and individual. It has no relation to organization, sect, or denomination. That is why there are Hindus, Muslims, Christians, Jains, Buddhists, Parsis — so many people, so many illnesses, so many names — but nowhere a religious man.
So if you wish to feel the simplicity of the path to God, first be clear: it is a solitary encounter. Not even your closest friend can go with you; not your wife, not your son, not your neighbor. Whenever you go, you go alone. Whenever you stand, you stand alone. All the deepest experiences of life are experiences of the alone; they have nothing to do with the crowd.
Even now, as we sit here together — if we were to commit a murder, it is very difficult for an individual to kill alone, very easy for a crowd. If we were to set a fire, it is very difficult alone, very easy in a crowd.
Why? Bad deeds are always easy for the crowd. Why?
Because in a crowd, each person loses his own responsibility. If we all go and set a house on fire, no one can say to me, ‘You did it!’ None of you can single me out. You will say, ‘The crowd did it. I was only with them.’ Your conscience feels no prick. You are only a part of a big crowd. But stand alone before that same house you burned with the crowd and try to set it on fire alone — your whole being will refuse. You will think twenty‑five times: What am I doing? Is this right or not?
For sin, a crowd is necessary. For virtue, it is utterly unnecessary. If you wish to love, do you first form an organization? Do you gather a crowd — ‘We are going to love; come, let us form a crowd, then we will love’? Love is the experience of one alone. If you wish to create poetry, do you gather people — ‘Come, let us write a poem’? Poetry is the experience of the one. Whatever is highest in life is the experience of the alone. Whatever is lowest is the experience of the crowd. The crowd is a dangerous phenomenon. But religion became tied to the crowd; therefore God became difficult to reach.
The religious person, who moves toward the simplicity of the Lord, should remember: this is a solitary journey.
There was a mystic, Eckhart. He used to say: the flight of the alone to the Alone. Alone, flying toward the Alone. Here no one is anyone’s companion.
Eckhart was sitting beneath a tree in a forest — flying alone to the Alone — when some friends from the city, out hunting, came by. They saw ‘poor Eckhart.’ Those who always live in the crowd think a man who lives alone is ‘poor.’ The truth is the reverse. The one who knows how to live alone looks at the crowd with compassion: ‘Poor people!’ But those friends thought, ‘Poor Eckhart, sitting all alone; he must be bored, frightened.’ Those who live in the crowd think aloneness creates boredom. They do not know aloneness creates bliss; it is the crowd that is always boring. Without the experience they cannot imagine it. They went to Eckhart. They thought, ‘Let us give him company, some companionship.’ He was sitting with eyes closed, his spirit flying in some other realm. They shook him; he opened his eyes. They said, ‘Eckhart! Sitting alone like this you must be bored. We thought we would keep you company.’
Eckhart laughed heartily and said, ‘This is too much of a joke! When I was alone I was not alone — I was meeting with Him. And you have come and opened my eyes and made me lonely again.’
Eckhart said, ‘When I was alone, I was not alone — I was in union with Him. You came to give me company, and you have made me lonely again. Go your way!’
There is an outer union and there is an inner union. All outer unions are with the crowd; the inner union is with God. God became difficult because we linked religion with the crowd. Religion is essentially, fundamentally, individually personal. It has nothing — not even distantly — to do with the crowd.
Therefore, if you wish to be religious, it is a search of the alone. There is no need for you to be Hindu or Muslim. The day there is religion on earth there will be religious and irreligious — but no Hindus and Muslims. They are unnecessary. They are obstructions.
Secondly: those who made religion difficult turned our eyes away from God and fastened them upon substitutes. The greatest trick of cunning minds is this: if you want to turn eyes away from the real issue, fix them upon another issue. If the nation is starving, poverty is increasing, population is rising, and within a few years a catastrophe looms so great it may be impossible to save the country — if you want to turn eyes from that, launch a cow‑protection movement: the cow must be saved! Minds are diverted. The real problem disappears from their awareness, and a pseudo‑problem stands before them — whether the cow should be slaughtered or not! When man stands near death, take people’s eyes to a fake problem.
The exploiters of the world have always tried to turn people’s eyes away from the real issues of life. To turn eyes away from God, what device was used? Temples were raised, mosques built. It was said these are the houses of God — come inside.
Is a mosque the house of God? A temple the house of God? Can houses made by man be houses of God? Then man is greater than God. And stone idols are placed there — and that is God! Can idols made by man be God? Then leave aside the old statement that He is the creator; say rather that we are the creators — we have made God!
Eyes were turned away from real life and fixed upon false questions — that here is God, fight for this, worship this!
One night a black man was knocking at the door of a church. Dark night, and this black man stood at the door knocking. The priest opened the door. He saw a black man standing there — and that church belonged to the whites, it was the church of the fair‑skinned.
It is a strange thing, that even in the temple skin is examined — whether Hindu or Muslim, shudra or brahmin!
He was a black man, and it was an English church. The priest must have flared with anger that this fool disturbed his sleep at midnight. He blocked the doors with both hands and said, ‘How have you come? What do you want?’
The black man said, ‘Nothing else, only move aside and let me come into the church. I want to see the Lord.’
The priest said, ‘The Lord’s vision is not so easy. Go first and make your heart calm, purify your mind, fill your being with prayer — then! Then the vision of the Lord happens!’
He shut the door. The black man went away. The priest slept contentedly. Now the great joke: the sacred temple of God becomes impure if an impure man enters! It should be otherwise — that if an impure man steps into the sacred temple, he becomes pure. But here it seems God Himself becomes impure! This impure man is very strong; God seems weak, impotent. There appears to be no power in Him. One impure man comes — and God becomes impure, the temple defiled! How can religion arise from such weak temples?
We need such temples that whoever enters impure comes out pure. Only that can we call a temple. How can we call the other a temple? But no thing made by man can be such a temple. Why not? Because whatever man makes is smaller than man, not greater. The creation is never greater than the creator.
The black man went away. The priest was at peace. Dawn, months passed. A couple of times the thought came that he had not returned! He did not return — the priest thought the trick worked. But after a year, on the first day of the new year, that man came again in the morning. The priest saw him and was perturbed. Perturbed also because the man was not coming toward the church; from his way of coming it seemed the condition had been fulfilled. His eyes were so calm like a lake. His face shone with such light, such radiance, as if he were a flame. His walk was such it seemed not a man but a god was walking.
The priest was alarmed — perhaps the condition has been fulfilled! He ran to shut the door. But shutting was useless; the man did not even glance at the church; he passed by. The priest was astonished. The condition seemed fulfilled — then why did he not come! He went after him, stopped him and said, ‘My friend, you did not come?’
The black man laughed and said, ‘This is a great joke. I was going to come, and for a whole year I left everything and remembered only Him. For Him I wept, for Him I woke and slept. He was in my dreams and in my waking. I tried to purify my mind. Last night it seemed the moment had come; the mind was stainless. I was happy that in the morning, on the first day of the year, I would enter the church. But at night all was upset. God Himself appeared to me in a dream and said: “What do you want? Why are you praying, why practicing, why shedding tears? What do you want? Speak — I will grant it.” I said, “I want nothing else — only to enter that village church.” God became sad and said, “Ask anything else but this.” I pleaded, “So small a thing you will not grant!” He said, “Leave this, ask something else.” I insisted. Then He said, “Since you do not agree, I will tell you. For ten years I myself have been trying to enter that church. The priest will not let me in — how will he let you in? It is beyond my power. I cannot take you into that church.”
‘Therefore I did not come. Where even God cannot enter, how can I?’
Who knows whether this story is fact or not, but history says it must be true. History testifies that to this day God has not been given entrance into any temple — nor will He be.
We can enter into God — we can go to Him. The drop can fall into the ocean; but how can the ocean come into the drop? How can the ocean seek the drop, come to the drop? We sit holding our drop and shout that the ocean should come into the drop! There is only one way: the drop must fall into the ocean.
Man can enter into Paramatma. A drop can sink into the ocean. But man has made his idols, his mosques, his temples, and says to God: ‘Come here!’ We call the ocean into the drop. We fail; God does not come — then it seems very difficult to attain Him.
God is not difficult to attain. We are doing a foolish thing; therefore it has become difficult. We are calling the ocean into the drop, crying and wailing, and then declaring, ‘God is very difficult to attain.’ To attain God is as simple as the drop falling into the ocean. To bring God into things made by man is difficult — impossible. Because what man makes will be so small — how to bring the Vast, the Infinite, into it! No temple is so large, no mosque so vast, no scripture so immense, no sect so great that it can contain the Infinite, the Beginningless, within itself.
But we all claim: ‘Our book contains God! Our temple contains God! Our idol contains God!’ These claimants have murdered religion. There can be no such claim. If He is, He is everywhere. If He is not, He is nowhere. If He is, then He is in the flower, in the leaf, in the stone, in the tavern, in the temple, in the brothel — everywhere, if He is. And whenever an eye capable of seeing awakens, He is seen everywhere. And if He is not, then He is not in your temple either, nor in the mosque, nor in your idol — nowhere. For the one to whom He is not visible in the tree, not visible in the stars, not visible in the sky, not visible in the flowers, not visible in people’s eyes — that man goes to the temple and says, ‘I am going to God’s temple!’ And God is all around. If he does not see Him here, will he see Him there? Impossible. And if he begins to see Him here, what place is left to go to a temple? Wherever he is, there is the temple.
The religious man is not the one who goes to the temple. The religious man is the one for whom wherever he stands is a temple. Wherever he lives is a temple. When he rises, it is in the temple; when he walks, it is in the temple; when he lives, he lives in the temple; when he dies, he dies in the temple. Because He is everywhere, everything is a temple. The whole cosmos is His temple.
But the gurus have built small, small temples — symbols, substitutes — and they have fixed our eyes upon them: ‘Search here, search here.’ For thousands of years we are trying to press oil from sand! Oil does not come. We begin to say oil itself is impossible to obtain.
It comes very easily from the sesame, never from sand. We do not understand: the difficulty is not with the oil, the difficulty is that we cling to sand.
So long as man clings to temples and mosques, attaining God is impossible. He is in life, He is in all, He is in the whole. How one can go to Him, I will speak of in the coming talks. No one knows — merely by hearing something, something can happen. No one knows — if even a single ray of truth enters thought, the darkness of life is dispelled. No one knows in which moment some glimpse may seize the soul. And in these three days, if what I say is to be truly understood, there is one more thing I must tell you now.
As I said, no one knows — in which moment He may seize you and call you. His invitation may come and you be drawn, and your being rise and be dissolved, and a union happen. But for that, receptivity is needed within — a clienthood, a readiness — that we be prepared. The sun stands outside; we sit inside with our doors shut. The sun is not so immodest as to come and pound upon the door, shouting, ‘Open! Let me in!’ The sun waits outside. Its rays fall upon the door. It waits and waits. If you open, it enters; the darkness dissolves.
Just so, if the doors of our mind are open, the Lord is always standing at the door. But He is not ill‑mannered that He should bang upon it. He will not become a guest by force in your house. If the doors open, the rays enter, light comes in, darkness vanishes.
When the doors of the mind are open — opening — I call this ‘dhyana,’ meditation. By meditation I mean: the door open, the mind open. That whenever He comes, He should not find the door shut; that He not turn away.
In these three days we shall talk a little, try to understand, and also try to open the doors of the mind — so that if He comes, He not go back from the threshold. This I call meditation.
A small process of meditation I will explain now. We will sit in meditation here for ten minutes, and then depart. Very simple — as I have been saying, to attain the Lord is very simple, utterly simple. But only for those who are ready to become simple — then it can happen this very moment; there is no need to postpone to tomorrow. Those who can be simple…
How to be simple?
We shall now do a small experiment — of becoming simple, of opening the doors, of leaving the mind quiet, leaving it silent. There is nothing to do. The night speaks, the crickets sing, perhaps a bird will call, the breeze will blow, some tree will stir — sit silently and only listen. This vast sound of the Infinite vibrating all around, this unstruck music resounding everywhere — just silently listen. From only this listening — perhaps in the chirring of the cricket, a glimpse of His voice will begin to be felt. Only listen. Do nothing else. You will be amazed; perhaps it has never occurred to you that by merely listening the mind becomes so quiet as you cannot imagine!
So we shall do this experiment now: for ten minutes we will sit with eyes closed, silent. The lights will be put out. You will be alone in dense darkness. The crowd will dissolve. Then there is no one — only you, alone. And there is the stillness of night, and the sounds of the night — just keep silently listening, silently listening. Leave the mind utterly open — let the sound of the cricket resound within, resound, and pass away. As in an empty house a sound echoes and then is gone, and the house remains empty as before — again a sound comes, echoes, departs, the house remains empty — so silently listen to the sound of the night.
In this listening many things can happen — let me tell you; and if they happen, do not stop them. As soon as the mind becomes quiet, many repressed feelings begin to flow. If you resist them, the mind closes again. It can happen — it happens daily — that as soon as you become quiet, tears may begin to flow. Do not forcibly stop them. Some feeling will seize the mind, overflow; the eyes will fill and tears will flow. Any state can arise. Each person’s state may be different. Whatever happens, do not resist it, do not stop it in the least. Let whatever happens, happen.
We shall all sit at some distance from one another, because some may become so quiet that they feel like falling down, like lying down — let them lie down. Allow whatever arises from within to happen. Many will fall — do not stop yourself by force. If the body begins to fall, leave it like a corpse — let it fall if it falls. Let it slump forward, fall backward, go wherever it goes. Whatever happens, let it happen quietly. For ten minutes, do only this one thing — keep silently listening. Then let whatever happens, happen. Do not stop it at all. In this way you will attain the simplicity of a child. You are not resisting; you are allowing.
Two images: one is a leaf hanging on a branch. The wind comes — it moves, but unwillingly. It clings tightly to the branch, afraid lest it break. The wind passes; again it becomes still in its place. Another is a dry leaf. The wind comes — it flies. It clings to nothing; there is no holding. The wind goes east — the leaf goes east. The wind goes west — the leaf goes west. The wind ceases — the leaf falls to the ground. The wind comes again — the leaf rises into the sky. The leaf says nothing; it has let itself go. The dry leaf keeps flying.
Become just like the dry leaf in meditation. If the body falls, let it fall. If tears begin to flow, let them flow. Now simply close your eyes and sit a little apart from one another.