Last night I spoke a little with you about how simple God-realization is. The very first notion that has always stood like a wall between man and the Divine is this: that to attain God is difficult—very difficult. This notion has stood on the mind like a massive wall. It is this very notion that has stopped the river of life from flowing into the ocean of the Lord. But this is not the only notion; there are others too that have solidified into such walls. Today I will speak to you about the second notion.
The second thing, the second sutra, the second difficulty, is born from the belief that the Divine is far away. Paramatma is very far—on some mountain peak, somewhere in the sky, beyond the sky, after death; some formless, some shapeless—an infinite distance lies between us and That! Man’s capacity is so small, and the Lord’s distance—endless! How will it ever be crossed? Our legs are small; in one stride we cannot go beyond a single step. We can take one step—that is our capacity—and the distance is infinite. How will it be covered? How will it be crossed?
No—it is impossible; this distance cannot be crossed. And if a journey cannot be completed, it is reasonable to abandon it and take up some journey that can be completed. Wealth can be acquired—that is possible. The distance between man and wealth is not too much. The earth is easy to conquer. The distance between man and the earth is not infinite. Fame is easy; rank and position are easy. However far Delhi may be, it is not too far; one can travel there. But the distance to God—too vast. To cross it is impossible.
This feeling of impossibility has taken deep root in man’s mind. Unless this feeling breaks, unless this vision shatters, there can be no movement.
And I want to say to you: that which we have thought far is the nearest of all—closer than close, the most intimate neighbor.
Let me try to explain with a small story.
There was a little village. And in that village, a poor farmer. He was poor, yes, but not unhappy. Poverty in itself has no necessary connection with misery—for the rich are seen to be miserable as well. He was poor but contented. His happiness did not arise because he had much; he was happy because he was satisfied with what he had. Happiness has nothing to do with what you possess; it has to do with how little suffices for you. Happiness is another name for contentment. He was indigent, but happy—because he was content.
But one night his entire happiness was destroyed—because his contentment was destroyed. For the first time he saw: I am truly very poor.
A fakir stayed as his guest that night. The fakir said, “Fool, how long will you go on breaking your head against the dust? I have traveled the whole earth, and I tell you, there are mines in the ground where diamonds and precious jewels can be found. With the effort you put into coaxing grain from your fields, you could become a millionaire.”
The fakir fell asleep—but the farmer could not. The moment ambition awakens, sleep is destroyed. The world keeps losing its sleep because man’s ambition keeps sharpening. He tossed and turned the whole night. This was the first night he could not sleep.
At dawn he woke and felt: there is no one on earth poorer than I.
Our poverty grows in exact proportion to our craving for wealth. Yesterday he was as he was—the same hut, the same field—but yesterday he did not know he was poor. That very day he sold his land and hut, took the money, and set out in search of diamond mines. He wandered from village to village; he found no diamond mine—only his money got spent. Twelve years later, begging on the royal road of a great city, he fell and died. He found nothing; and what he had, he lost.
Twelve years later, that same fakir passed through the village where the farmer had lived. He went to his hut—but other people lived there now. The farmer had sold his land and hut and gone. The fakir asked, “I came here twelve years ago. A farmer used to live here—where is he?”
The new owner said, “On the morning you departed, he sold this land and hut and left to search for diamonds. News has just come—he found no diamonds, but he did become a beggar. He died in some capital city on the road. People had to collect alms to provide a shroud.”
In truth, whoever goes out in search of diamonds becomes a beggar.
The fakir sat listening to this story. Just then, the new farmer’s little boy came out holding a stone, playing with it. The fakir said, “Where did you find this stone? This is a diamond!”
The farmer said, “No, it cannot be a diamond. Such stones are plenty on my field—the same field I bought from that man who went out searching for diamonds.”
But the sannyasin knew what a diamond is. He said, “Trust me—this is a diamond. Where is your field? Take me there.”
They went to the field. A small stream ran through it; the sand was white. Searching in that sand until evening, they collected several pieces whose value would be in the millions.
Perhaps you have not heard this incident. The farmer’s name was Ali Hafeez, and the village was Golconda. On the land of that very Ali Hafeez the Kohinoor diamond was found. The Kohinoor was discovered on the field of that same farmer who had sold his land and gone far away in search of diamonds.
Why do I tell you this story? Because the man who goes far away in search of the Divine wanders just like that farmer. Paramatma is right there where you are—on the very ground where you stand. The wealth of life is not far; it is very near—utterly close. Stretch out your hand—and you can have it. Open your eyes—and you can see it. Be ready to listen—and the music of life begins to be heard. So near is that treasure of the Lord.
Those who say He is far—they are false. For if He is far, then what is it that is near? If the Lord is distant, then who is it that is this nearness? What is this tree? What are these leaves? What is this wind? What are these singing birds? What are all these people sitting here? Whose eyes are these? Who is this that, alive within, speaks and wakes and lives? If the Lord is far—then who is near?
No—whatever is, is all Paramatma. Then that which is near is He as well. And he who cannot know the near, will he be able to know the far? He who cannot recognize the neighbor—will he recognize the Beyond? He who does not touch what is within reach—will he travel to other worlds? The one who cannot see in the neighbor—how will he see in the beyond? He who is blind to the near cannot be capable of seeing the far. And the one who knows the near—nothing remains far from him. Because he sees: that which is at hand has only spread out into the far.
We reach the shore of the ocean and take its water into our hands. The water near is the same water spread afar. The sunray falling upon you this morning is joined to that sun which is one hundred million miles away. The one who knows this ray has known the whole secret of the sun. The one who understands a single ray understands the mystery of the light of life. The one who knows the secret of a single drop of water has known the secret of all the oceans. The one who recognizes even a single particle of life has recognized all of life. Only by knowing the nearest does the journey to the far begin—and then, nothing remains far.
But we have been told: the Lord is very far. This notion of distance has slackened all our awakened energies. And do you know—what is far, we not only give up the idea of attaining; some among us, unwilling to accept their incapacity, give the same argument that the fox gave on seeing a bunch of grapes hanging. The grapes were visible; but the fox’s leap was short. She jumped and sprang, but could not reach. Exhausted, she turned back; and whoever she met on the way, she told them, “Don’t waste your effort—the grapes are sour!” She could not reach the grapes; she did not want to accept this weakness, this inability. So she called the grapes sour.
The great atheism that has arisen in the world has arisen because of the supposed distance of God—because of the “sourness” of God. The atheist says, “These things about God are sour—no substance to them, nothing worth attaining, nothing there at all.” Our leap falls short; we cannot cross such distance. Then what shall we do? We conclude: “That thing is not worth having; in fact, it is not.” God is nowhere. Drop the idea.
It is true: what is so far is as good as non-existent. The atheist is not wrong—he is quite right. That which is at an infinite distance—whether it is or is not—comes to the same. Only if He is near to life does His being have any meaning. If He is near—each moment, each breath—then His being has meaning. At such a distance, being and non-being are the same. So when man saw: “He is so far, I cannot attain,” then as a natural reaction of his ego, he declared, “Those grapes are sour—nothing worth having.” In the last three or four centuries we have even stopped speaking of God. The very topic vanishes.
I want to tell you: He is not far—and the grapes are not sour. Neither are the grapes sour, nor is He distant. He is very near—and the grapes are very sweet. So near that even the smallest leap can reach Him.
But understand this properly. First, understand the philosophy of distance—then the talk of nearness will come into view. Those who declared Him far—by what trick did they make Him far? What argument made the near into the far?
First: people turned God into a word—not an experience. They turned the Divine into scripture—not realization. They removed Paramatma from a living experience and made a web of verbal theories. By theory and word, God becomes very far.
It is as if a man reads every book ever written about swimming. If asked to lecture on swimming, he can lecture; if asked to write a book, he can write; if asked to research, he can take a Ph.D. But if you push him into water, he will fold his hands and plead, “Don’t push me—I will die!” He has learned everything about swimming—except swimming. To know about swimming is one thing; to know how to swim is a totally different thing.
To read all the books about love is one thing; to pass through the experience of love is entirely different. To memorize the Upanishads, the Gita, the Koran, the Bible regarding God is one thing; to pass through Paramatma is altogether different.
This illusion—that by learning words we have known God—has created an infinite distance between man and the Divine. Words have nothing to do with knowing God. Memorizing scripture does not move a single step in that direction; rather, the steps that would have moved stop; the journey that was about to begin does not begin—because we fall into the delusion that since we know the words, we have known the Lord.
A small child played in the garden outside his home. The cuckoo called; the morning breezes blew; flowers bloomed; the sun poured down light. He began to dance in delight. His mother was ill inside. He thought, “Mother cannot come out to see this showering moonlight. Why not fill a small box with some light, a little fragrance of flowers, some fresh morning air—and take it into her room?”
He brought a box outside. He filled it with sunrays. He shut in the fresh breezes, the fragrance of the blossoms, the voice of the cuckoo. Then, dancing, he carried the box inside, into the dark room where his mother lay sick. “Look what I have brought! I’ve brought sunrays. I’ve brought the cuckoo’s song. I’ve brought the fresh morning air. I’ve brought the fragrance of flowers—look what I have brought!”
He opened the box—but he stood stunned. The box was empty. There was nothing inside: neither the cuckoo’s song nor the sun’s rays nor fragrance nor cool air. It was empty and dark. The child began to weep. His mother said, “Don’t cry. You don’t know—sunrays cannot be put into boxes. Fresh morning air cannot be locked inside and brought in.”
Yet we try to pour life’s experiences into the boxes of words. We pour love into words. We pour God into words—lock Him in the caskets of scriptures. Then we imagine that by carrying these caskets on our heads we will arrive at experience.
It is natural that those who reach the shore of the Divine feel a pain and a compassion—that what they have known be carried to those who do not know, who are shut in dark, sick rooms. So they pour the light of the Lord into words and send it forth—Krishna’s, Mahavira’s, Christ’s, Buddha’s compassion—to those of us who lie ill in dark rooms.
The child’s love! For his mother he brought the box filled with all. But love alone cannot accomplish this: living experience cannot be boxed, nor can it be boxed by words. Words do reach us—empty and blank. They contain nothing of the experience of the Divine. And we sit clutching those words to our breasts. Distance will arise—word is distance; experience is nearness. Word has created the distance. On the basis of words we have become “knowledgeable.”
I once went to an orphanage. The organizers told me, “We also teach the children religion.”
In my view, this is utterly impossible. There can be no teaching of religion. Teaching is possible regarding things outside us. That which is within cannot be taught. Can there be a school of love? And if one is opened—and I just heard that in New York an institute has been started to teach the art of love—one thing is certain: those who learn the art of love there will never be able to love. They will only perform love—act it out—but not love.
You know—an actor who makes his living day and night by acting love—is never able to love. He becomes so skillful at the performance that the possibility of true love being born within vanishes. It ends in acting.
We know there can be no school of love—how then can there be a school of religion? Religion is experience, just like love. When we love one person, we call it love. When we love the totality, we call it religion. Religion is love in its vastness. The relation between one person and another is love; the relation between the individual and the whole is religion.
So I said to them, “I cannot imagine how you teach religion! Still, perhaps you have found some way—let me come and see.”
They took me—there were a hundred orphaned children. The organizers, with great delight, asked the children, “Is there God?”
The little ones raised their hands: “Yes, there is God!”
What can such children know of God’s existence? The old do not know—how then the children? Those hands are completely false—trained. Like a bear dancing in a circus—these children wag their hands. Trained hands—false. Lies are being taught in the name of religion. Their hands are lies. They know nothing of God—how could they?
They were asked, “Is there Atman?” And the children raised their hands. “Where is the Atman?” They put their hands on their chests—“Here!”
I asked a little boy, “Can you tell me where the heart is?”
He said, “We haven’t been taught that. That lesson has not been given. We were told: the Atman is here. But where the heart is—we haven’t been told yet.”
He has no idea of the heart—but he knows the Atman. These children will grow up; the hands trained in childhood will go on rising all their lives. Whenever the question arises—“Is there God?”—their false hands, which learned to rise in childhood, will rise. They will grow old—and their hands will remain false.
Let me ask you: if I ask you, “Is there God?”—the answer that arises within you—is it yours or taught? Is it yours—or is it your parents’, your teachers’, your society’s answer?
If taught, the hand is false. If it is yours, it may be true. If even one answer you possess regarding the vision of the Divine is your own—you will find Him utterly near. But if your answers are learned—He is very far. For your answers are false, and the Divine is truth. Borrowed, taught answers do not become pathways to truth.
All our answers are learned—and therefore false. If you were born in a Jain home, you learned one set of answers; a Muslim home, another; a Hindu home, a third; a communist home, a fourth. In Russia, if you ask a child, “Is there God?” he will say, “No.” That statement is just as false as our children saying, “Yes.” Both are learned. In neither is there any truth. Nothing learned can be true; only what is known is true. And between knowing and you—there is no distance; but between learning and truth—there is a great distance.
God has become far because we sit with a few learned answers about Him. Nothing is more dangerous than a learned answer.
I have heard—there were two small temples in a Japanese village. One was called the North Temple, the other the South Temple. There was enmity between them—as there has always been among temples.
Temples have never been friendly. The accident has never yet occurred that temples befriended one another! Temples have always been enemies. In truth, one temple is erected in enmity to another temple—otherwise, it would not be built at all.
There was conflict between the two. It is most unseemly that temples should quarrel—for if in the temples there is discord, where will friendship be? Yet that is how it has always been. For ten generations this feud had continued. The priests would not even look at each other’s faces. Each priest had two little boys to assist with small duties. They even told those boys, “Do not, even by mistake, go to the other temple. Do not pass near it. Even its shadow is impure.”
So it is. In Hindu scriptures it is written—and in Jain scriptures as well: “If you pass before a Jain temple and a mad elephant charges from behind, let yourself be crushed under its feet and die, but do not take shelter in a Jain temple.” And in Jain scriptures: “If you pass before a Hindu temple and a mad elephant charges, die beneath its feet, but do not take shelter in a Hindu temple.”
All the religions of the world talk like this—of enmity. Those priests had told their boys, “Do not set foot there.” But children are children. Even when elders try to spoil them, it takes time; to immediately spoil children is very difficult.
Sometimes the boys met on the road and chatted. One day the boy from the North Temple went out, and the South Temple boy asked, “Friend, where are you going?” Listening to endless discourse on wisdom, the North boy’s mind had also turned metaphysical. He said, “Where am I going? Wherever the winds take me!”
The South boy fell silent. He didn’t know what to say next. He went back to his master and said, “Today something strange happened. I returned defeated. That boy answered in such a way that I was left speechless. I asked, ‘Where are you going?’ He said, ‘Wherever the winds take me!’”
The master was angry. “Bad—very bad. No one from our temple has ever been defeated by anyone from that temple. Tomorrow you must defeat him. Ask again, ‘Where are you going?’ When he says, ‘Wherever the winds take me,’ tell him, ‘And if the winds are still, will you go anywhere or not?’ Then he will be flustered as you were. Leave him in that condition. No one from our temple must ever be defeated.”
Next day the boy stood again on the road, well prepared. The North boy came. He asked with great readiness, for his answer was prepared: “Where are you going?” But everything went awry. The North boy said, “Wherever my feet take me!” The prepared answer was useless—and the South boy lost again.
Those with prepared answers are always defeated in life—because life changes every day, every moment. Answers are fixed—life has moved on. The flow of life becomes new each moment, touches new shores, assumes new forms. Bound answers are always old. Life changes moment to moment; but one searches in his Gita, his Koran, his Bible—“Where is the answer written?” Meanwhile, life is changing. God becomes new each day; the book is always old; the answer is always old.
The boy lost again. He returned to his master: “I’ve lost again. That boy is very dishonest—he changed his answer today!”
Life, too, is very “dishonest.” Only the dead are “honest.” Life changes daily. If change itself is dishonesty, life is very dishonest. The flower opens in the morning; by evening it has changed. The stone remains the same—very sincere. The flower is “dishonest.” If change is dishonesty, then life is dishonest—and God too.
The master said, “Those people have always been dishonest. That is exactly the quarrel. Go again tomorrow, better prepared. Ask, ‘Where are you going?’ When he says, ‘Wherever my feet take me,’ say to him, ‘Remember—sometimes feet are cut off. Then what? If you had no feet, would you go anywhere?’”
Armed with his prepared answer, the boy stood again the next day. The same question. The same trouble. He asked, “Where are you going?” The other replied, “To buy vegetables!” And the prepared answer was left standing there!
We carry prepared answers—Hindu answers, Muslim answers, Christian answers. All prepared. For Jesus, the answer was from experience; for the Christian, it is learned, fixed. For Krishna, the answer was experiential; for the Hindu, learned. For Mahavira, the answer came from realization; for the Jain, learned. Therefore Mahavira, Krishna, and Christ can be true—but “Hindu,” “Muslim,” “Jain,” “Christian” are not true; they are false. Because of this falsity, a distance has arisen between Paramatma and oneself. This falsity must drop—then you can reach truth this very moment.
Your learned knowledge is the distance between you and the Lord—cultivated knowledge. And what do you have besides learned knowledge? Do you have anything known? One particle that is known is more valuable than a mountain learned. A single ray that is realized is more valuable than a whole learned sun—alive—and it transforms life.
But on the mind of man, learned, learned, learned knowledge keeps piling up. We take that to be knowledge. Like a blind man who has heard and learned a few things about light—will he gain any knowledge of light thereby? If he knows everything that physics has discovered about light—will that bring him into relationship with light? Will his eyes open? Will he know light?
But a man whose eyes are open—though he may know nothing “about” light—knows light. While a blind man who knows everything “about” it still does not know light.
We are like the blind who sit with others’ talk. The religious man is a rebellion against others’ learned words—a revolt for freedom. He rebels to be free of the learned, and to seek knowing; to drop learning. He rebels against fixed, learned, memorized answers—and searches for his own. And when one’s own answer comes—no distance remains. Distance exists only because of others’ answers.
You are a Hindu—hence distance. You are a Christian—hence distance. You have nothing of your own. You have gathered what Christ said two thousand years ago; what Krishna said three thousand years back; what Buddha said twenty-five hundred years ago. For them it was their own experience; for you, for me—it is no longer our own. All I have are words, locked away in boxes. Then interpret them, deduce meanings, toil, become a pundit. But has any pundit ever become a knower?
Between pundit and sage there is an ancient enmity. A pundit never becomes a sage. He cannot. His whole knowledge is dead—borrowed and stale. Borrowed, stale knowledge is like a man who builds a tank in his courtyard—brings clay and bricks, raises walls—and then begs water from others to fill it. The pundit’s mind is like a tank—borrowed, stale, begged from others. The sage’s knowing is like a well—not begged; dug out, brought forth from within.
When one digs a well—what does he do? He removes soil and stone; he throws them away; he hollows the earth. Then water springs forth from below. The water was always within. The well is always prepared—only covered over by layers of soil and stone. Remove the layers—and the well is present. The well is not to be brought from elsewhere; the water is not to be brought. It is—only hidden. It is to be discovered, uncovered, revealed.
The process is opposite with a tank. For the tank, you bring in soil, bricks, stones—join, raise walls upward. For a well—you remove soil and stones—dig downward. The tank rises upward; the well descends. For the tank, even after it is built, water does not come—then water must be begged. For the well, once made, the water comes of itself. Have you ever seen a well begging water from anywhere? Fill the tank with borrowed, stale water—and the tank fears someone may draw from it, for once water is taken, it becomes empty. The tank cries, “Bring more, bring more!” The tank is hoarding—afraid someone may take. If they do, it will be empty. But the well says, “Draw, draw from me!” For the more is drawn, the fresher water returns. The well calls, “Empty me—so that I may become new and alive each day.”
The tank is closed upon itself—no pores, no connections. The well is not closed upon itself—its veins reach to the ocean, connected to the far sea. The well knows, “I am a part of the ocean.” The tank believes, “I am, and not part of anything.” The tank lives in ego. The well has no ego—for it knows: “I am but a part of the ocean. Its channels fill me. What am I? Nothing.” The well lives in humility; the tank, in ego.
The difference between sage and pundit is the difference between well and tank. The sage is a well; the pundit, a tank. The pundit lives in the ego: “I know.” The sage lives egolessly: “What can I know? I am not.” A fragment of a distant ocean, a ray of a far sun, a particle of a vast life, a little leaf upon a great tree—and nothing more. What can ‘I’ know?” But the pundit says, “I know.”
And hear me: whoever imagines “I know”—based on borrowed knowledge, on words, on stale, learned knowing—stands at an infinite distance from God. But the one who says, “I do not know—what do I know? All that I ‘know’ is learned, heard, read. I know nothing”—the one who can create this courage within himself, who agrees to this bravery—“I am ignorant, I do not know”—he has denied all learned knowledge; he has rebelled. In that rebellion, in the awareness of ignorance, the humility arises that can make man into a well.
Let me explain with a small story.
There was a fakir, Augustine. For thirty years he collected as much knowledge as could be collected. Whatever could be known—he learned it. He amassed heaps of knowledge; yet no ray appeared. Knowing was complete—scriptures learned, words mastered, theories accumulated—but the way to the Lord did not open. Thousands began to worship him, calling him “supremely knowledgeable.” But inside he knew—no ray had dawned. Scriptures had come; words had come; doctrines had come. But knowing had not happened. He kept weeping, kept searching—more books, more books—but nowhere any trace of wisdom. Then he panicked. He grew old—seventy years. “Days are numbered,” he thought. “Now what? Will I die ignorant?”
One morning, before light, he reached the seashore. He made a vow there—as the sun rose—“Today I will not return. Either, O Lord, give me knowing—or today I will end myself in the sea. I will wait twelve more hours—sunrise to sunset. With the setting of the sun, I too shall set. Until then I wait—my final wager.”
He stood with eyes closed, hands outstretched, facing the sun—vow taken—at the ocean’s edge. Just then he heard someone behind him weeping, a faint sound behind a small rock. “Who could be here so early?” He turned—and was amazed. A small child was crying, head on his knees, tears flowing. “How did such a small child come to this deserted place so early!” He went to him and said, “Son, why are you crying? What is wrong? What happened?” His own eyes, too, were full of tears—after all, this was the last day of his life.
The child said, “Don’t ask—you cannot help.” He held a small cup in his hand—in it, his tears had fallen. “Since you ask, I will tell you—but you won’t be able to help. I’ve brought this cup to fill with the sea and take it home. But the ocean won’t fit in my cup. My cup is too small; the sea is too big. But today I’ve decided—either I’ll take it, or I won’t go home!”
As if lightning flashed in the fakir’s darkness, a veil was lifted. He began to dance. “I thought I had grown old. Now I see—my effort too has been like a child’s—trying to pour the ocean into a cup. I have been in error.” He folded his hands to the Lord: “No—no—my mistake. It may be possible some day to pour the ocean into a cup—for both cup and ocean have limits. But how can the Lord fit into my intellect? My intellect has limits; the Lord has none. Perhaps some day, by some science, the sea could be contained in a cup. But no science will ever discover a way to fit God into man’s ego, into my ‘I’—never!” He danced and said to the boy, “You have become my guru.” He touched the child’s feet and, dancing, returned to his hut.
His friends saw him arriving in such joy—never had they seen him dance. They surrounded him, asking, “Did you have the vision of God? Did you attain knowledge?”
He said, “Yes. Today I have known—because today I dropped the egoistic effort to know Him. And as soon as I dropped the idea, ‘I must know Him’—the moment my ‘I’ fell—I found He had always been present. It was the wall of my ‘I’ that made Him distant. When the ‘I’ was not—He was near.”
So the final thing I want to say in this morning’s meeting: other than your ‘I’, there is no distance between you and Paramatma. Where the ‘I’ is not, He is utterly near—closer than close. Then He is within you; then He and you are one.
But up to now we have been taught—He is far. We do not see from what this distance is created—hence distance persists.
Ego is distance. And the “knowledgeable” carry a great ego. The pundit carries a heavy ego. Upon borrowed, learned words they erect a mansion of ego and feel, “I know.” So long as this idea “I know” remains—He is far. The day you realize—“What do I know? All are learned things, borrowed answers. Where is an answer of my own?”—the day you search within and find “I know nothing”—that day the ‘I’ will fall. And where the ‘I’ falls—He draws near.
‘I’ is distance; ‘no-I’ becomes nearness. Ego is distance; egolessness becomes nearness. The wellspring is near; only the layers of the ego’s stones and earth obstruct it. Break them—and the spring reveals itself. This is the second sutra.
First sutra: To attain the Lord is simple.
Second sutra: The Lord is utterly near.
Tomorrow morning I will speak to you on the third sutra. I have told you the second—ponder it, search, inquire. For nothing happens by my saying it. Do not accept it on my word—else it becomes a learned answer, another’s answer. If you accept what I say and go on, the mistake remains the same. My answer cannot become your answer. Think, seek, test within—Is what I ‘know’ truly my knowing? Take every piece of your knowledge in hand and ask. And when no answer arises within, when it becomes clear that “I know nothing,” then His answer will begin to come.
A fakir once stayed in a village. People came to him—it was a Muslim village. They said, “Come to our mosque and explain to us about God.” The fakir said, “To explain about God is very difficult—forgive me.” But the villagers insisted. He went to the mosque—Friday—everyone gathered. Standing on the platform he said, “Before I say anything about God, I want to know one thing: Do you know God? Do you believe in God?” All raised their hands: “Yes—we know, we believe.” The fakir said, “Then forgive me—if you all know and believe, what is left for me to say? I will go back.”
They were trapped. Nothing more to say—having already claimed they knew and believed. The fakir descended and left. But the village was distressed—“What to do? He tricked us—and we trapped ourselves with what we said.” He had said, “If you already know and believe, what remains to be said? The matter is finished.” But in truth, none knew, none believed—all was false. Hence the pain: they had wanted to learn something from him.
Next Friday they went again and said, “Come.” The fakir replied, “What will I do there? To speak of God is difficult.” Still, he went. He stood and asked, “Before I speak—tell me: Do you know God? Do you believe?” This time they said, “We neither believe nor know.” The fakir said, “If you neither believe nor know, there is nothing to be said. The matter is finished. Why ask about God whom you neither know nor believe in?” He stepped down and left. “Forgive me—there is no need to speak to you.”
The villagers were much disturbed. Two answers were possible—and both had been given. They consulted their wise men and devised a third answer. On the third Friday they brought him again—convinced now that the fakir would be cornered. He came and asked the same question. Half the mosque stood on one side: “We know and believe.” The other half: “We neither know nor believe.” “Now what?” The fakir said, “The matter is finished. Those who know—tell those who do not. I will go. What need is there for me? Both are present—the thirsty and the water.”
They could not invent a fourth answer; thus, they did not go a fourth time. I asked that fakir, “They did not come a fourth time?” He said, “If they had come a fourth time, I would have had to speak. But they didn’t.” I asked, “What answer would have brought you to speak?” He said, “If they had given no answer at all—and remained silent—I would have spoken. For every answer is learned—only silence is unlearned.”
‘There is God’—this too is a learned answer. ‘There is no God’—this too is learned. Silence—unlearned. It is born with you.
Ask yourself, “Is there God?” If an answer arises—see whether it is learned—taught by father, mother, teacher, society. If it is learned, drop it. If an answer arises: “There is no God,” ask—taught by whom—Karl Marx, communists, atheists? If learned—drop it. What will remain? Unlearned silence. No learned answer will remain. Silence will remain. That silence is meditation. From that silence a door opens—and the fourth answer of God becomes available—when you stand in silence. You have no answer—standing in perfect humility, silent, calm, simply waiting. That waiting is meditation.
My talk is complete. Now we will sit for ten minutes for the morning meditation, and then depart. Sit at some little distance from each other so no one is touching anyone. So many sunrays are showering; so many birds are singing; all around, the Divine is present in countless forms. For ten minutes we will prepare to allow this to enter within—just waiting, leaving the mind open—an opening—mind open and letting the Divine come from all sides. In the sunray that falls upon your face—He is there. In the call of the bird that will strike your ear—He is there. In the breeze that will touch and pass—He is there. On all sides—He.
The experience of His omnipresence begins when you become utterly still. Meditation means nothing else. Meditation means: silent waiting.
What shall we do in that silence?
Close the eyes, leave the body loose and relaxed, and quietly—on all sides—He is—His presence—in the birds’ voices, in the tremor of the winds, in the falling leaves of the trees—listen silently to all. Keep sensing His presence, His being all around. In just ten minutes you will feel you have become something else; you have gone into another realm. Someone has come near who was far. Someone intimate has come close who was unknown. The unknown begins to become known; a well begins to be dug; within, springs begin to burst forth.
So I hope no one is touching anyone. If anyone is touching another, move a little away. Let no one be touching anyone—so that you become utterly alone. So that you do not even remember that another is present here. If even the slightest touch remains, move away.
Do not let the Guest turn back from the threshold. He comes every day to each door, but seeing the door closed, He turns back.
In the end, I bow to the Paramatma seated within each one of you. Please accept my pranam.
Osho's Commentary
Last night I spoke a little with you about how simple God-realization is. The very first notion that has always stood like a wall between man and the Divine is this: that to attain God is difficult—very difficult. This notion has stood on the mind like a massive wall. It is this very notion that has stopped the river of life from flowing into the ocean of the Lord. But this is not the only notion; there are others too that have solidified into such walls. Today I will speak to you about the second notion.
The second thing, the second sutra, the second difficulty, is born from the belief that the Divine is far away. Paramatma is very far—on some mountain peak, somewhere in the sky, beyond the sky, after death; some formless, some shapeless—an infinite distance lies between us and That! Man’s capacity is so small, and the Lord’s distance—endless! How will it ever be crossed? Our legs are small; in one stride we cannot go beyond a single step. We can take one step—that is our capacity—and the distance is infinite. How will it be covered? How will it be crossed?
No—it is impossible; this distance cannot be crossed. And if a journey cannot be completed, it is reasonable to abandon it and take up some journey that can be completed. Wealth can be acquired—that is possible. The distance between man and wealth is not too much. The earth is easy to conquer. The distance between man and the earth is not infinite. Fame is easy; rank and position are easy. However far Delhi may be, it is not too far; one can travel there. But the distance to God—too vast. To cross it is impossible.
This feeling of impossibility has taken deep root in man’s mind. Unless this feeling breaks, unless this vision shatters, there can be no movement.
And I want to say to you: that which we have thought far is the nearest of all—closer than close, the most intimate neighbor.
Let me try to explain with a small story.
There was a little village. And in that village, a poor farmer. He was poor, yes, but not unhappy. Poverty in itself has no necessary connection with misery—for the rich are seen to be miserable as well. He was poor but contented. His happiness did not arise because he had much; he was happy because he was satisfied with what he had. Happiness has nothing to do with what you possess; it has to do with how little suffices for you. Happiness is another name for contentment. He was indigent, but happy—because he was content.
But one night his entire happiness was destroyed—because his contentment was destroyed. For the first time he saw: I am truly very poor.
A fakir stayed as his guest that night. The fakir said, “Fool, how long will you go on breaking your head against the dust? I have traveled the whole earth, and I tell you, there are mines in the ground where diamonds and precious jewels can be found. With the effort you put into coaxing grain from your fields, you could become a millionaire.”
The fakir fell asleep—but the farmer could not. The moment ambition awakens, sleep is destroyed. The world keeps losing its sleep because man’s ambition keeps sharpening. He tossed and turned the whole night. This was the first night he could not sleep.
At dawn he woke and felt: there is no one on earth poorer than I.
Our poverty grows in exact proportion to our craving for wealth. Yesterday he was as he was—the same hut, the same field—but yesterday he did not know he was poor. That very day he sold his land and hut, took the money, and set out in search of diamond mines. He wandered from village to village; he found no diamond mine—only his money got spent. Twelve years later, begging on the royal road of a great city, he fell and died. He found nothing; and what he had, he lost.
Twelve years later, that same fakir passed through the village where the farmer had lived. He went to his hut—but other people lived there now. The farmer had sold his land and hut and gone. The fakir asked, “I came here twelve years ago. A farmer used to live here—where is he?”
The new owner said, “On the morning you departed, he sold this land and hut and left to search for diamonds. News has just come—he found no diamonds, but he did become a beggar. He died in some capital city on the road. People had to collect alms to provide a shroud.”
In truth, whoever goes out in search of diamonds becomes a beggar.
The fakir sat listening to this story. Just then, the new farmer’s little boy came out holding a stone, playing with it. The fakir said, “Where did you find this stone? This is a diamond!”
The farmer said, “No, it cannot be a diamond. Such stones are plenty on my field—the same field I bought from that man who went out searching for diamonds.”
But the sannyasin knew what a diamond is. He said, “Trust me—this is a diamond. Where is your field? Take me there.”
They went to the field. A small stream ran through it; the sand was white. Searching in that sand until evening, they collected several pieces whose value would be in the millions.
Perhaps you have not heard this incident. The farmer’s name was Ali Hafeez, and the village was Golconda. On the land of that very Ali Hafeez the Kohinoor diamond was found. The Kohinoor was discovered on the field of that same farmer who had sold his land and gone far away in search of diamonds.
Why do I tell you this story? Because the man who goes far away in search of the Divine wanders just like that farmer. Paramatma is right there where you are—on the very ground where you stand. The wealth of life is not far; it is very near—utterly close. Stretch out your hand—and you can have it. Open your eyes—and you can see it. Be ready to listen—and the music of life begins to be heard. So near is that treasure of the Lord.
Those who say He is far—they are false. For if He is far, then what is it that is near? If the Lord is distant, then who is it that is this nearness? What is this tree? What are these leaves? What is this wind? What are these singing birds? What are all these people sitting here? Whose eyes are these? Who is this that, alive within, speaks and wakes and lives? If the Lord is far—then who is near?
No—whatever is, is all Paramatma. Then that which is near is He as well. And he who cannot know the near, will he be able to know the far? He who cannot recognize the neighbor—will he recognize the Beyond? He who does not touch what is within reach—will he travel to other worlds? The one who cannot see in the neighbor—how will he see in the beyond? He who is blind to the near cannot be capable of seeing the far. And the one who knows the near—nothing remains far from him. Because he sees: that which is at hand has only spread out into the far.
We reach the shore of the ocean and take its water into our hands. The water near is the same water spread afar. The sunray falling upon you this morning is joined to that sun which is one hundred million miles away. The one who knows this ray has known the whole secret of the sun. The one who understands a single ray understands the mystery of the light of life. The one who knows the secret of a single drop of water has known the secret of all the oceans. The one who recognizes even a single particle of life has recognized all of life. Only by knowing the nearest does the journey to the far begin—and then, nothing remains far.
But we have been told: the Lord is very far. This notion of distance has slackened all our awakened energies. And do you know—what is far, we not only give up the idea of attaining; some among us, unwilling to accept their incapacity, give the same argument that the fox gave on seeing a bunch of grapes hanging. The grapes were visible; but the fox’s leap was short. She jumped and sprang, but could not reach. Exhausted, she turned back; and whoever she met on the way, she told them, “Don’t waste your effort—the grapes are sour!” She could not reach the grapes; she did not want to accept this weakness, this inability. So she called the grapes sour.
The great atheism that has arisen in the world has arisen because of the supposed distance of God—because of the “sourness” of God. The atheist says, “These things about God are sour—no substance to them, nothing worth attaining, nothing there at all.” Our leap falls short; we cannot cross such distance. Then what shall we do? We conclude: “That thing is not worth having; in fact, it is not.” God is nowhere. Drop the idea.
It is true: what is so far is as good as non-existent. The atheist is not wrong—he is quite right. That which is at an infinite distance—whether it is or is not—comes to the same. Only if He is near to life does His being have any meaning. If He is near—each moment, each breath—then His being has meaning. At such a distance, being and non-being are the same. So when man saw: “He is so far, I cannot attain,” then as a natural reaction of his ego, he declared, “Those grapes are sour—nothing worth having.” In the last three or four centuries we have even stopped speaking of God. The very topic vanishes.
I want to tell you: He is not far—and the grapes are not sour. Neither are the grapes sour, nor is He distant. He is very near—and the grapes are very sweet. So near that even the smallest leap can reach Him.
But understand this properly. First, understand the philosophy of distance—then the talk of nearness will come into view. Those who declared Him far—by what trick did they make Him far? What argument made the near into the far?
First: people turned God into a word—not an experience. They turned the Divine into scripture—not realization. They removed Paramatma from a living experience and made a web of verbal theories. By theory and word, God becomes very far.
It is as if a man reads every book ever written about swimming. If asked to lecture on swimming, he can lecture; if asked to write a book, he can write; if asked to research, he can take a Ph.D. But if you push him into water, he will fold his hands and plead, “Don’t push me—I will die!” He has learned everything about swimming—except swimming. To know about swimming is one thing; to know how to swim is a totally different thing.
To read all the books about love is one thing; to pass through the experience of love is entirely different. To memorize the Upanishads, the Gita, the Koran, the Bible regarding God is one thing; to pass through Paramatma is altogether different.
This illusion—that by learning words we have known God—has created an infinite distance between man and the Divine. Words have nothing to do with knowing God. Memorizing scripture does not move a single step in that direction; rather, the steps that would have moved stop; the journey that was about to begin does not begin—because we fall into the delusion that since we know the words, we have known the Lord.
A small child played in the garden outside his home. The cuckoo called; the morning breezes blew; flowers bloomed; the sun poured down light. He began to dance in delight. His mother was ill inside. He thought, “Mother cannot come out to see this showering moonlight. Why not fill a small box with some light, a little fragrance of flowers, some fresh morning air—and take it into her room?”
He brought a box outside. He filled it with sunrays. He shut in the fresh breezes, the fragrance of the blossoms, the voice of the cuckoo. Then, dancing, he carried the box inside, into the dark room where his mother lay sick. “Look what I have brought! I’ve brought sunrays. I’ve brought the cuckoo’s song. I’ve brought the fresh morning air. I’ve brought the fragrance of flowers—look what I have brought!”
He opened the box—but he stood stunned. The box was empty. There was nothing inside: neither the cuckoo’s song nor the sun’s rays nor fragrance nor cool air. It was empty and dark. The child began to weep. His mother said, “Don’t cry. You don’t know—sunrays cannot be put into boxes. Fresh morning air cannot be locked inside and brought in.”
Yet we try to pour life’s experiences into the boxes of words. We pour love into words. We pour God into words—lock Him in the caskets of scriptures. Then we imagine that by carrying these caskets on our heads we will arrive at experience.
It is natural that those who reach the shore of the Divine feel a pain and a compassion—that what they have known be carried to those who do not know, who are shut in dark, sick rooms. So they pour the light of the Lord into words and send it forth—Krishna’s, Mahavira’s, Christ’s, Buddha’s compassion—to those of us who lie ill in dark rooms.
The child’s love! For his mother he brought the box filled with all. But love alone cannot accomplish this: living experience cannot be boxed, nor can it be boxed by words. Words do reach us—empty and blank. They contain nothing of the experience of the Divine. And we sit clutching those words to our breasts. Distance will arise—word is distance; experience is nearness. Word has created the distance. On the basis of words we have become “knowledgeable.”
I once went to an orphanage. The organizers told me, “We also teach the children religion.”
In my view, this is utterly impossible. There can be no teaching of religion. Teaching is possible regarding things outside us. That which is within cannot be taught. Can there be a school of love? And if one is opened—and I just heard that in New York an institute has been started to teach the art of love—one thing is certain: those who learn the art of love there will never be able to love. They will only perform love—act it out—but not love.
You know—an actor who makes his living day and night by acting love—is never able to love. He becomes so skillful at the performance that the possibility of true love being born within vanishes. It ends in acting.
We know there can be no school of love—how then can there be a school of religion? Religion is experience, just like love. When we love one person, we call it love. When we love the totality, we call it religion. Religion is love in its vastness. The relation between one person and another is love; the relation between the individual and the whole is religion.
So I said to them, “I cannot imagine how you teach religion! Still, perhaps you have found some way—let me come and see.”
They took me—there were a hundred orphaned children. The organizers, with great delight, asked the children, “Is there God?”
The little ones raised their hands: “Yes, there is God!”
What can such children know of God’s existence? The old do not know—how then the children? Those hands are completely false—trained. Like a bear dancing in a circus—these children wag their hands. Trained hands—false. Lies are being taught in the name of religion. Their hands are lies. They know nothing of God—how could they?
They were asked, “Is there Atman?” And the children raised their hands. “Where is the Atman?” They put their hands on their chests—“Here!”
I asked a little boy, “Can you tell me where the heart is?”
He said, “We haven’t been taught that. That lesson has not been given. We were told: the Atman is here. But where the heart is—we haven’t been told yet.”
He has no idea of the heart—but he knows the Atman. These children will grow up; the hands trained in childhood will go on rising all their lives. Whenever the question arises—“Is there God?”—their false hands, which learned to rise in childhood, will rise. They will grow old—and their hands will remain false.
Let me ask you: if I ask you, “Is there God?”—the answer that arises within you—is it yours or taught? Is it yours—or is it your parents’, your teachers’, your society’s answer?
If taught, the hand is false. If it is yours, it may be true. If even one answer you possess regarding the vision of the Divine is your own—you will find Him utterly near. But if your answers are learned—He is very far. For your answers are false, and the Divine is truth. Borrowed, taught answers do not become pathways to truth.
All our answers are learned—and therefore false. If you were born in a Jain home, you learned one set of answers; a Muslim home, another; a Hindu home, a third; a communist home, a fourth. In Russia, if you ask a child, “Is there God?” he will say, “No.” That statement is just as false as our children saying, “Yes.” Both are learned. In neither is there any truth. Nothing learned can be true; only what is known is true. And between knowing and you—there is no distance; but between learning and truth—there is a great distance.
God has become far because we sit with a few learned answers about Him. Nothing is more dangerous than a learned answer.
I have heard—there were two small temples in a Japanese village. One was called the North Temple, the other the South Temple. There was enmity between them—as there has always been among temples.
Temples have never been friendly. The accident has never yet occurred that temples befriended one another! Temples have always been enemies. In truth, one temple is erected in enmity to another temple—otherwise, it would not be built at all.
There was conflict between the two. It is most unseemly that temples should quarrel—for if in the temples there is discord, where will friendship be? Yet that is how it has always been. For ten generations this feud had continued. The priests would not even look at each other’s faces. Each priest had two little boys to assist with small duties. They even told those boys, “Do not, even by mistake, go to the other temple. Do not pass near it. Even its shadow is impure.”
So it is. In Hindu scriptures it is written—and in Jain scriptures as well: “If you pass before a Jain temple and a mad elephant charges from behind, let yourself be crushed under its feet and die, but do not take shelter in a Jain temple.” And in Jain scriptures: “If you pass before a Hindu temple and a mad elephant charges, die beneath its feet, but do not take shelter in a Hindu temple.”
All the religions of the world talk like this—of enmity. Those priests had told their boys, “Do not set foot there.” But children are children. Even when elders try to spoil them, it takes time; to immediately spoil children is very difficult.
Sometimes the boys met on the road and chatted. One day the boy from the North Temple went out, and the South Temple boy asked, “Friend, where are you going?” Listening to endless discourse on wisdom, the North boy’s mind had also turned metaphysical. He said, “Where am I going? Wherever the winds take me!”
The South boy fell silent. He didn’t know what to say next. He went back to his master and said, “Today something strange happened. I returned defeated. That boy answered in such a way that I was left speechless. I asked, ‘Where are you going?’ He said, ‘Wherever the winds take me!’”
The master was angry. “Bad—very bad. No one from our temple has ever been defeated by anyone from that temple. Tomorrow you must defeat him. Ask again, ‘Where are you going?’ When he says, ‘Wherever the winds take me,’ tell him, ‘And if the winds are still, will you go anywhere or not?’ Then he will be flustered as you were. Leave him in that condition. No one from our temple must ever be defeated.”
Next day the boy stood again on the road, well prepared. The North boy came. He asked with great readiness, for his answer was prepared: “Where are you going?” But everything went awry. The North boy said, “Wherever my feet take me!” The prepared answer was useless—and the South boy lost again.
Those with prepared answers are always defeated in life—because life changes every day, every moment. Answers are fixed—life has moved on. The flow of life becomes new each moment, touches new shores, assumes new forms. Bound answers are always old. Life changes moment to moment; but one searches in his Gita, his Koran, his Bible—“Where is the answer written?” Meanwhile, life is changing. God becomes new each day; the book is always old; the answer is always old.
The boy lost again. He returned to his master: “I’ve lost again. That boy is very dishonest—he changed his answer today!”
Life, too, is very “dishonest.” Only the dead are “honest.” Life changes daily. If change itself is dishonesty, life is very dishonest. The flower opens in the morning; by evening it has changed. The stone remains the same—very sincere. The flower is “dishonest.” If change is dishonesty, then life is dishonest—and God too.
The master said, “Those people have always been dishonest. That is exactly the quarrel. Go again tomorrow, better prepared. Ask, ‘Where are you going?’ When he says, ‘Wherever my feet take me,’ say to him, ‘Remember—sometimes feet are cut off. Then what? If you had no feet, would you go anywhere?’”
Armed with his prepared answer, the boy stood again the next day. The same question. The same trouble. He asked, “Where are you going?” The other replied, “To buy vegetables!” And the prepared answer was left standing there!
We carry prepared answers—Hindu answers, Muslim answers, Christian answers. All prepared. For Jesus, the answer was from experience; for the Christian, it is learned, fixed. For Krishna, the answer was experiential; for the Hindu, learned. For Mahavira, the answer came from realization; for the Jain, learned. Therefore Mahavira, Krishna, and Christ can be true—but “Hindu,” “Muslim,” “Jain,” “Christian” are not true; they are false. Because of this falsity, a distance has arisen between Paramatma and oneself. This falsity must drop—then you can reach truth this very moment.
Your learned knowledge is the distance between you and the Lord—cultivated knowledge. And what do you have besides learned knowledge? Do you have anything known? One particle that is known is more valuable than a mountain learned. A single ray that is realized is more valuable than a whole learned sun—alive—and it transforms life.
But on the mind of man, learned, learned, learned knowledge keeps piling up. We take that to be knowledge. Like a blind man who has heard and learned a few things about light—will he gain any knowledge of light thereby? If he knows everything that physics has discovered about light—will that bring him into relationship with light? Will his eyes open? Will he know light?
But a man whose eyes are open—though he may know nothing “about” light—knows light. While a blind man who knows everything “about” it still does not know light.
We are like the blind who sit with others’ talk. The religious man is a rebellion against others’ learned words—a revolt for freedom. He rebels to be free of the learned, and to seek knowing; to drop learning. He rebels against fixed, learned, memorized answers—and searches for his own. And when one’s own answer comes—no distance remains. Distance exists only because of others’ answers.
You are a Hindu—hence distance. You are a Christian—hence distance. You have nothing of your own. You have gathered what Christ said two thousand years ago; what Krishna said three thousand years back; what Buddha said twenty-five hundred years ago. For them it was their own experience; for you, for me—it is no longer our own. All I have are words, locked away in boxes. Then interpret them, deduce meanings, toil, become a pundit. But has any pundit ever become a knower?
Between pundit and sage there is an ancient enmity. A pundit never becomes a sage. He cannot. His whole knowledge is dead—borrowed and stale. Borrowed, stale knowledge is like a man who builds a tank in his courtyard—brings clay and bricks, raises walls—and then begs water from others to fill it. The pundit’s mind is like a tank—borrowed, stale, begged from others. The sage’s knowing is like a well—not begged; dug out, brought forth from within.
When one digs a well—what does he do? He removes soil and stone; he throws them away; he hollows the earth. Then water springs forth from below. The water was always within. The well is always prepared—only covered over by layers of soil and stone. Remove the layers—and the well is present. The well is not to be brought from elsewhere; the water is not to be brought. It is—only hidden. It is to be discovered, uncovered, revealed.
The process is opposite with a tank. For the tank, you bring in soil, bricks, stones—join, raise walls upward. For a well—you remove soil and stones—dig downward. The tank rises upward; the well descends. For the tank, even after it is built, water does not come—then water must be begged. For the well, once made, the water comes of itself. Have you ever seen a well begging water from anywhere? Fill the tank with borrowed, stale water—and the tank fears someone may draw from it, for once water is taken, it becomes empty. The tank cries, “Bring more, bring more!” The tank is hoarding—afraid someone may take. If they do, it will be empty. But the well says, “Draw, draw from me!” For the more is drawn, the fresher water returns. The well calls, “Empty me—so that I may become new and alive each day.”
The tank is closed upon itself—no pores, no connections. The well is not closed upon itself—its veins reach to the ocean, connected to the far sea. The well knows, “I am a part of the ocean.” The tank believes, “I am, and not part of anything.” The tank lives in ego. The well has no ego—for it knows: “I am but a part of the ocean. Its channels fill me. What am I? Nothing.” The well lives in humility; the tank, in ego.
The difference between sage and pundit is the difference between well and tank. The sage is a well; the pundit, a tank. The pundit lives in the ego: “I know.” The sage lives egolessly: “What can I know? I am not.” A fragment of a distant ocean, a ray of a far sun, a particle of a vast life, a little leaf upon a great tree—and nothing more. What can ‘I’ know?” But the pundit says, “I know.”
And hear me: whoever imagines “I know”—based on borrowed knowledge, on words, on stale, learned knowing—stands at an infinite distance from God. But the one who says, “I do not know—what do I know? All that I ‘know’ is learned, heard, read. I know nothing”—the one who can create this courage within himself, who agrees to this bravery—“I am ignorant, I do not know”—he has denied all learned knowledge; he has rebelled. In that rebellion, in the awareness of ignorance, the humility arises that can make man into a well.
Let me explain with a small story.
There was a fakir, Augustine. For thirty years he collected as much knowledge as could be collected. Whatever could be known—he learned it. He amassed heaps of knowledge; yet no ray appeared. Knowing was complete—scriptures learned, words mastered, theories accumulated—but the way to the Lord did not open. Thousands began to worship him, calling him “supremely knowledgeable.” But inside he knew—no ray had dawned. Scriptures had come; words had come; doctrines had come. But knowing had not happened. He kept weeping, kept searching—more books, more books—but nowhere any trace of wisdom. Then he panicked. He grew old—seventy years. “Days are numbered,” he thought. “Now what? Will I die ignorant?”
One morning, before light, he reached the seashore. He made a vow there—as the sun rose—“Today I will not return. Either, O Lord, give me knowing—or today I will end myself in the sea. I will wait twelve more hours—sunrise to sunset. With the setting of the sun, I too shall set. Until then I wait—my final wager.”
He stood with eyes closed, hands outstretched, facing the sun—vow taken—at the ocean’s edge. Just then he heard someone behind him weeping, a faint sound behind a small rock. “Who could be here so early?” He turned—and was amazed. A small child was crying, head on his knees, tears flowing. “How did such a small child come to this deserted place so early!” He went to him and said, “Son, why are you crying? What is wrong? What happened?” His own eyes, too, were full of tears—after all, this was the last day of his life.
The child said, “Don’t ask—you cannot help.” He held a small cup in his hand—in it, his tears had fallen. “Since you ask, I will tell you—but you won’t be able to help. I’ve brought this cup to fill with the sea and take it home. But the ocean won’t fit in my cup. My cup is too small; the sea is too big. But today I’ve decided—either I’ll take it, or I won’t go home!”
As if lightning flashed in the fakir’s darkness, a veil was lifted. He began to dance. “I thought I had grown old. Now I see—my effort too has been like a child’s—trying to pour the ocean into a cup. I have been in error.” He folded his hands to the Lord: “No—no—my mistake. It may be possible some day to pour the ocean into a cup—for both cup and ocean have limits. But how can the Lord fit into my intellect? My intellect has limits; the Lord has none. Perhaps some day, by some science, the sea could be contained in a cup. But no science will ever discover a way to fit God into man’s ego, into my ‘I’—never!” He danced and said to the boy, “You have become my guru.” He touched the child’s feet and, dancing, returned to his hut.
His friends saw him arriving in such joy—never had they seen him dance. They surrounded him, asking, “Did you have the vision of God? Did you attain knowledge?”
He said, “Yes. Today I have known—because today I dropped the egoistic effort to know Him. And as soon as I dropped the idea, ‘I must know Him’—the moment my ‘I’ fell—I found He had always been present. It was the wall of my ‘I’ that made Him distant. When the ‘I’ was not—He was near.”
So the final thing I want to say in this morning’s meeting: other than your ‘I’, there is no distance between you and Paramatma. Where the ‘I’ is not, He is utterly near—closer than close. Then He is within you; then He and you are one.
But up to now we have been taught—He is far. We do not see from what this distance is created—hence distance persists.
Ego is distance. And the “knowledgeable” carry a great ego. The pundit carries a heavy ego. Upon borrowed, learned words they erect a mansion of ego and feel, “I know.” So long as this idea “I know” remains—He is far. The day you realize—“What do I know? All are learned things, borrowed answers. Where is an answer of my own?”—the day you search within and find “I know nothing”—that day the ‘I’ will fall. And where the ‘I’ falls—He draws near.
‘I’ is distance; ‘no-I’ becomes nearness. Ego is distance; egolessness becomes nearness. The wellspring is near; only the layers of the ego’s stones and earth obstruct it. Break them—and the spring reveals itself. This is the second sutra.
First sutra: To attain the Lord is simple.
Second sutra: The Lord is utterly near.
Tomorrow morning I will speak to you on the third sutra. I have told you the second—ponder it, search, inquire. For nothing happens by my saying it. Do not accept it on my word—else it becomes a learned answer, another’s answer. If you accept what I say and go on, the mistake remains the same. My answer cannot become your answer. Think, seek, test within—Is what I ‘know’ truly my knowing? Take every piece of your knowledge in hand and ask. And when no answer arises within, when it becomes clear that “I know nothing,” then His answer will begin to come.
A fakir once stayed in a village. People came to him—it was a Muslim village. They said, “Come to our mosque and explain to us about God.” The fakir said, “To explain about God is very difficult—forgive me.” But the villagers insisted. He went to the mosque—Friday—everyone gathered. Standing on the platform he said, “Before I say anything about God, I want to know one thing: Do you know God? Do you believe in God?” All raised their hands: “Yes—we know, we believe.” The fakir said, “Then forgive me—if you all know and believe, what is left for me to say? I will go back.”
They were trapped. Nothing more to say—having already claimed they knew and believed. The fakir descended and left. But the village was distressed—“What to do? He tricked us—and we trapped ourselves with what we said.” He had said, “If you already know and believe, what remains to be said? The matter is finished.” But in truth, none knew, none believed—all was false. Hence the pain: they had wanted to learn something from him.
Next Friday they went again and said, “Come.” The fakir replied, “What will I do there? To speak of God is difficult.” Still, he went. He stood and asked, “Before I speak—tell me: Do you know God? Do you believe?” This time they said, “We neither believe nor know.” The fakir said, “If you neither believe nor know, there is nothing to be said. The matter is finished. Why ask about God whom you neither know nor believe in?” He stepped down and left. “Forgive me—there is no need to speak to you.”
The villagers were much disturbed. Two answers were possible—and both had been given. They consulted their wise men and devised a third answer. On the third Friday they brought him again—convinced now that the fakir would be cornered. He came and asked the same question. Half the mosque stood on one side: “We know and believe.” The other half: “We neither know nor believe.” “Now what?” The fakir said, “The matter is finished. Those who know—tell those who do not. I will go. What need is there for me? Both are present—the thirsty and the water.”
They could not invent a fourth answer; thus, they did not go a fourth time. I asked that fakir, “They did not come a fourth time?” He said, “If they had come a fourth time, I would have had to speak. But they didn’t.” I asked, “What answer would have brought you to speak?” He said, “If they had given no answer at all—and remained silent—I would have spoken. For every answer is learned—only silence is unlearned.”
‘There is God’—this too is a learned answer. ‘There is no God’—this too is learned. Silence—unlearned. It is born with you.
Ask yourself, “Is there God?” If an answer arises—see whether it is learned—taught by father, mother, teacher, society. If it is learned, drop it. If an answer arises: “There is no God,” ask—taught by whom—Karl Marx, communists, atheists? If learned—drop it. What will remain? Unlearned silence. No learned answer will remain. Silence will remain. That silence is meditation. From that silence a door opens—and the fourth answer of God becomes available—when you stand in silence. You have no answer—standing in perfect humility, silent, calm, simply waiting. That waiting is meditation.
My talk is complete. Now we will sit for ten minutes for the morning meditation, and then depart. Sit at some little distance from each other so no one is touching anyone. So many sunrays are showering; so many birds are singing; all around, the Divine is present in countless forms. For ten minutes we will prepare to allow this to enter within—just waiting, leaving the mind open—an opening—mind open and letting the Divine come from all sides. In the sunray that falls upon your face—He is there. In the call of the bird that will strike your ear—He is there. In the breeze that will touch and pass—He is there. On all sides—He.
The experience of His omnipresence begins when you become utterly still. Meditation means nothing else. Meditation means: silent waiting.
What shall we do in that silence?
Close the eyes, leave the body loose and relaxed, and quietly—on all sides—He is—His presence—in the birds’ voices, in the tremor of the winds, in the falling leaves of the trees—listen silently to all. Keep sensing His presence, His being all around. In just ten minutes you will feel you have become something else; you have gone into another realm. Someone has come near who was far. Someone intimate has come close who was unknown. The unknown begins to become known; a well begins to be dug; within, springs begin to burst forth.
So I hope no one is touching anyone. If anyone is touching another, move a little away. Let no one be touching anyone—so that you become utterly alone. So that you do not even remember that another is present here. If even the slightest touch remains, move away.
Do not let the Guest turn back from the threshold. He comes every day to each door, but seeing the door closed, He turns back.
In the end, I bow to the Paramatma seated within each one of you. Please accept my pranam.