Nahin Ram Bin Thaon #5

Many things have to be understood.

Freedom from fear has nothing to do with another. A master cannot make a disciple free of fear, because fear is inside and the master is outside. At most a master can create an illusion of fearlessness—but then he is not a true master—he can instill confidence, give you a belief so it seems as if fear has vanished. Bravery can be induced from the outside, a kind of outward fearlessness (nirbhaya) can be produced from the outside; not real fearlessness (abhaya).

Abhaya means that within you no cause for fear remains. Nirbhaya means the inner cause is still there, but from the outside we have held ourselves together, made ourselves tough.

There is not much difference between a coward and a so‑called fearless person. The coward cannot hide his fear; the fearless one hides it—that’s all. The one you call fearless is inwardly still a coward. And the one you call a coward can, with a little technique, appear fearless. So a master can make you appear fearless. But abhaya can only be attained from within.

Abhaya cannot be pasted on from above. It is not a paint, not an outer decoration or ornament. It is an inner experience.

By inner experience I mean: until the self is realized, abhaya will not be born. Fear exists because we take ourselves to be the body. Not only do we believe it, we “know” only this much—that we are the body. And the body will die; death is certain for the body. When our annihilation is certain, when death is bound to happen, how can there be abhaya?

The thought of vanishing makes us tremble. Death may look far, yet it is near. Whether it comes in seventy years or seven days, what difference does it make? Death always stands close by—no neighbor is closer. The awareness of death makes one shiver.

A master can make you forget. He can explain: the soul is immortal; you will never die; no one ever dies. If you understand and accept this doctrine, then a kind of nirbhayata will arise, not abhaya. Because the doctrine has been given by someone else, it is not your own experience. However much you trust it, that trust can never be total. Total trust comes only after your own knowing.

So until you know that the soul is deathless, abhaya will not be. With a false guru, nirbhayata is produced; with a true master, for the first time fear is born in its reality.

Therefore it may be that coming to me your fear has become more intense, seems more profound. It will—and it should. For what is within you has to be brought to light. Whatever you have hidden and suppressed has to be released. Wherever you have deceived yourself, all the walls of deception must be pulled down. You must be revealed in your nakedness. Only then can the journey proceed. One who sets out in search of truth must first learn to recognize the false. One moving toward the real must first shatter the unreal.

So all the consolations you have collected, the false peace you have fabricated, the flowers you have pasted on from the outside rather than grown from within—these will all fall away near me. And as they fall, fear will increase. I will not tell you that the soul is immortal. First I must tell you the body is mortal—you will die. Whatever you now take yourself to be, there is no way for it to survive. Whatever survives, you do not yet know. You will die, utterly die. No one can save you—not the doctrine of the soul’s immortality, not any master. No one can save you; you are of the nature of death.

First your sense of mortality must be deepened. Then your trembling will intensify. A moment will come when you are nothing but fear—when every pore is filled with weeping. When in every fiber you see the flames of death burning—when you are standing right upon your own funeral pyre—at that very instant the leap happens. In that instant you will drop the body; in that instant your identification with the body will break; in that instant your eyes will turn toward that which is deathless. Only the total experience of fear takes you into abhaya.

Life is very paradoxical. It will sound upside down that first I lead you into fear, and only then can you enter abhaya. It seems more straightforward to make you fearless: to cover and conceal your fear, to paint your death with lovely colors, to tell you, “Death is a friend,” to say, “Death is the door to the divine,” to say, “Why worry? You will never die; you have never died.”

Such things sound pleasant; your fear will seem to lessen, your trembling will diminish. But then you will cling to the body still more tightly, because you do not yet know who you are. So when I tell you “You are immortal,” you will take it to apply to the very false entity you now think you are. You will deem your ego immortal; and that is not immortal. Nothing in this world is more death‑bound than the ego. Nothing is more untrue than the ego. The ego is already dead.

So first I will make you thoroughly afraid. Fear will seem to be your very soul; torment will become dense; you will not even be able to sleep peacefully. You will wake, sit, and still keep trembling. Death will appear everywhere. This whole world will seem ready to kill you, to erase you. As if you have been thrown into an ocean where huge roaring waves arise and each one is eager to swallow you. No shore in sight, no boat, no support—however much you cry, there is none to hear; on all sides only the thunder of the waves; and there you are, and your death.

In the deep realization of this death a transformation happens: you take a leap out of the body, and for the first time there is a glimpse and taste of the soul.

With a true master, first you will meet pain; first you will meet longing; first you will meet every kind of anguish. Only then will that contentment be born—that nectar‑knowing from which abhaya can grow.

Understand this too: often we go in search of religion because of fear. Hence our natural desire is that someone reduce our fear. The question is not to reduce fear; the question is to uproot it. The issue is not to adjust you to fear; the issue is to burn fear utterly.

And in this world we only drop what becomes so painful that it can no longer be borne. Your identification with the body is not yet that painful. However much saints or tirthankaras tell you to drop the body, that you are not the body, you listen—but inside you still cling to the body. You may even recite every morning, “I am not the body,” repeat it a thousand times, but you know you are the body.

A blow to the body hurts you. When the body is ill, you are ill. When the body looks beautiful, you look beautiful. When the body becomes ugly, you become ugly. When the body grows old, you grow old. And when the body dies, you will die. Words can create a false atmosphere; without experience, truth does not dawn.

So you have come to get rid of fear. But I will increase your fear—because that is the way to end it.

Here is a very basic formula of life’s complexity: when a disciple goes to a master, the disciple’s desire is one thing and the master’s desire is another. It has to be so. The disciple stands in darkness; he does not yet know even his own good. He thinks he knows. The master stands in the light; he knows what helps. So often you go to a master for one reason, and the master begins to do something else with you.

Take this as a touchstone: if the reason for which you went to the master is the very reason he accepts and works upon, he too is standing in darkness.

You have come to me because of fear—I know. But it is not my task to lessen your fear; it is to awaken abhaya. You did not come for abhaya. You came for nirbhayata, a little courage to fight—you would be satisfied with that. You are easily satisfied; your discontent is not very deep. A drowning man is content with a straw. You are looking for a straw; I know that no one is saved by a straw. Perhaps because of the straw you will drown—whoever takes a straw for a boat stops looking for a real boat. Whoever mistakes a false shore will find the true shore very far. Whatever reason you have come with is not my concern. I will do what is right to do.

Recently in some universities in the West, psychological studies on fasting have been done, and a very surprising fact has emerged—one you would hardly imagine, because man is so complex that what you suppose does not always work. The finding is this: those who succeed at fasting and those who do not… Our age‑old assumption is that one who succeeds at fasting is deeply inward, a great meditator; he forgets food and hunger—his devotion to God is intense, his prayer complete. And one who cannot fast—who is harried by hunger and breaks the fast—we deem him outward‑turned, lacking devotion, irreligious. Hence all religions have used fasting to make a person religious.

But the psychologists’ findings are the reverse. They say: the extrovert succeeds at fasting; the introvert does not. The extrovert, whose eyes are turned outward, manages fasting. The introvert, whose eyes are turned inward, fails.

Understand this a little. The same applies to other aspects of life. The extrovert lives from the outside. If a beautiful woman passes by, seeing her his lust is aroused. If he does not see a beautiful woman, lust is not aroused. Such a man, if he sits in a forest, will feel his lust has gone—he is extrovert; the cause of his passion is outside.

If an extrovert sees a hotel from where the aroma of food is coming, hunger arises. If this man sits in a temple, where there is no smell of food, no talk of food, no sight of food—he will fast successfully.

An introvert lives from within. When he feels hungry, he looks for food. The extrovert becomes hungry when he sees food. The introvert’s lust arises from within; then he finds a woman. The extrovert sees a woman and then feels lust. For the extrovert, the cause is outside and the outer provokes the inner. For the introvert, the cause is inside, and from within his behavior is directed.

So, on the day you fast: if you are extrovert, sit in a temple and the fast will succeed; if you are introvert, it will make no difference—sitting in a temple you will still feel hunger. Hunger is hunger; how will a temple change it?

On Yom Kippur, the Jewish day of fasting, many fasters were studied scientifically. On that day people go to the synagogue and spend the whole day there. It was found that the extroverts forgot food; the introverts could not forget food, because their hunger was experienced from within.

The Jains in this country do exactly the same. During Paryushana, on fasting days they sit in a sthana or temple. There scriptures are discussed; there is no talk of food, no sight or smell of it—they forget it. Their causation is outside. But for the introvert, it makes no difference. When hunger arises, it arises—no matter how loudly the scriptures are being recited.

This overturns many assumptions. It means those who attain celibacy by going to the forest are extroverts. The introvert will not attain celibacy by going there. And the extrovert cannot be religious; only the introvert can be religious. For one who cannot sense even his own inner hunger and thirst, how will he sense his own soul, which is even more inward? He whose hunger and thirst are determined from outside, who is not even related to his own hunger and thirst—how will he go within?

So the extrovert cannot be religious. Yet the extrovert is the one who succeeds in the so‑called religious world. The introvert can be religious, but in the so‑called religious world he fails. This is surprising. It means that the crowds collected in the name of religion are usually of extroverts.

One basic reason Jainism could not flower into mysticism is this. Its crowd is of extroverts; it emphasizes fasting. The introvert cannot succeed there; the extrovert does. Observe Jain monks—by and large you will find them extrovert.

Hence mysticism did not arise in Jainism. The mystic is an introvert. Jainism remained a dry arithmetic. Its religious process became businesslike. Its arithmetic is outer: how much celibacy, how many fasts, how little you ate, what you ate or did not, when you slept and rose—outer bookkeeping. Those who succeed at such things are extroverts. The inner music does not awaken in them.

Life is very paradoxical and complex. Here, the person who suppresses fear and cultivates “fearlessness” appears to have abhaya—and he will never know abhaya. Only the one who fully experiences the fear within, lives it through, passes beyond it—only he is born into abhaya.

Abhaya is not the opposite of fear; it is the absence of fear. Nirbhayata is the opposite, the other extreme of fear. Abhaya is fear’s complete disappearance—its absence.

Nirbhayata can be cultivated fairly easily; a little discipline is needed. Even the most frightened person can be made into a soldier with some drill, some organization, some pep; fear gets pushed down into the unconscious. But to become abhaya is arduous, because fear must be destroyed root and branch.

So remember: if your fear increases by coming to me, it is an auspicious sign. Do not try to become fearless. By trying that you have been dragging fear for lives. Become afraid—utterly afraid, like a leaf trembling in a storm. Do not restrain yourself. Do not fight fear, because if you fight you will suppress; if you suppress, it will remain. Become one with fear. Understand: fear is my destiny. Tremble, be afraid—and do not try to hold yourself together. Do not bind yourself with discipline; do not repress; let fear come—be wholly shaken by it; become fear itself.

Soon you will find that one day, suddenly, the trembling has ended—without your doing anything. Without any discipline from you, fear has become zero. And the day you find there is no trembling, not even a single hair is affected by fear—instantly you will see that between you and the body there is a distance, a gulf, with no bridge over it.

Who trembles? The body cannot tremble—body is matter. The soul cannot tremble—the soul is deathless. Then who trembles? Between body and soul there is a bridge of identification; that bridge trembles. All the trembling is of that bridge, all the fear is of that. The identification—“I am the body”—that line trembles. It must tremble, because on one side is dead matter and on the other the deathless self; their levels are so different that to bridge them is to have a bridge that will shake.

Neither you tremble, nor does your body tremble. Neither do you die, nor does your body die. The body is already dead—what more can die? You are immortal—there is no way for you to die. Then who dies? The bridge between the two—only that breaks; only that dies.

That bridge is what we call ego, asmitā, the “I‑sense.”

When a man dies, what really happens? The body is exactly as it was just before death—not a whit different. All the atoms are there, the elements are present. The soul is exactly as it ever is—unchanged, eternal. How then did death happen?

Death is the breaking of the join between the two. That which was joined—the eternal to the non‑eternal—separates. Death is a disjunction. The gulf appears between; the bridge is lost; the connecting link is destroyed. Always the bridge dies. And as long as you take yourself to be that bridge, you will tremble, be afraid, remain in fear. My love will not erase it. No love can erase it.

But the day your fear is gone, love will certainly be born in you. A stream of love will spring from within. In the life of a fearful person, flowers of love cannot bloom. In the life of a fearful person, knowingly or unknowingly, enmity persists, hatred persists. How can one who is afraid love? One who himself is shaking—how will he give birth to love? One who is afraid sees enemies all around—how will he love? When destruction seems to be coming from every side, where is the moment for love? When the inner fear goes, love arises.

And that love is unconditional. It is not related to any person. That love becomes your state, just as fear is now your state. You are not afraid because of someone; no one is frightening you—you are afraid; fear is your state. When this state changes, trembling goes and you become still; from stillness the state of love arises. From trembling, fear; from stillness, love.

Love is an infinite stillness, a settling. Love is a state of being—what Krishna calls sthitaprajña. Only one whose wisdom is steady—unshaking—gives birth to love. As a lamp’s flame trembles in a storm, so you tremble in fear. As the flame becomes steady in a closed room where no breeze enters, so is the nature of your love. When you are unshaken, love arises. And this love has no relation to a person. The question “whom to love?” does not arise; you become love‑full. Even if you lift a stone, your love flows toward it. If you raise your eyes to a tree, your love flows toward the tree. Whether you look at sky, sea, or river, whether someone comes to you or no one comes, even if you sit alone—love showers around you. Like a lamp left alone in the night—its rays still pour out. Love then is your nature.

There are two states in life: fear and love. The satellites of fear are anger, hatred, envy, competition, jealousy—all that we have called sin are adjuncts of fear. The satellites of love are compassion, nonviolence, kindness—all that we have called virtue are adjuncts of love. And there are only two states for a person: fear—which means you have taken yourself to be the body; and love—which means you have recognized yourself as the soul.

Therefore I am not speaking of the “love” husbands and wives do with each other, parents with children, and so on. I am not speaking of that; it is a net of fear. The husband is afraid, the wife is afraid—both are afraid; they stand together out of fear. Another’s presence gives a sense of support—as if one is not alone. Even if the other is also afraid, his presence seems to lessen fear.

At night you pass alone through a dark lane and you whistle; hearing your own whistle you feel some confidence, as if there is nothing to fear. You hum a song; hearing your own voice it seems someone is with you. Or at least you forget for a while in the humming that there is darkness and the lane is empty. You get lost in the song and forget the lane.

The husband gets lost in the wife; the wife gets lost in the husband; the mother gets lost in the children; friends get lost in friends. We keep losing ourselves somewhere. In that oblivion, for that much while, trembling is not noticed; death is forgotten; fear stays hidden.

No, I am not talking about that love. I am speaking of the love that has no relation with anyone—that is unaccompanied. This does not mean that when such love is born you will run away from your wife or leave your children. When that love is born, the “wife‑sense” will dissolve. The feeling “my child is mine” will disappear. The feeling will remain that he is God’s; you are only an instrument. And your love will rain day and night. Who is worthy or unworthy will no longer be a question. You will flow like a river, and whoever is thirsty may fill his vessel and go. Your giving will become unobstructed.

My love will not remove your fear; in my love you may forget your fear. If you forget it, then my love becomes like a drug—and that would harm you. So I am always alert that in my love your fear does not get covered. My love is love only when your fear is exposed. I am not eager to bandage your wound. I am eager that your wound be removed from the roots—no matter how long it takes or how much effort it is—so that you become wound‑free.

And there is no hurry. You have already wasted so many lives—there is no hurry. In haste, do not start hiding the wound. Hiding is always easy; bandaging brings convenience. Or drugs can be given so the pain is not felt.

Doctrines and scriptures are such drugs—they numb the pain. The pain remains, the wound remains. Religion’s concern is neither to make you forget your pain nor to cover it. Religion’s concern is that all the pus, all the pain, all the suffering be removed from your life, root and all—that you become utterly free.

It will be so—naturally. When I sit utterly silent, you are not able to sit silent; inside you the stream of thoughts flows, an undercurrent keeps moving—you start talking to yourself. The habit of inner talking has become so deep, so carved in stone, that not even for a moment do you find rest within. If I sit completely silent, you will simply forget me. Your inner stream becomes active, your old habit seizes you, you get absorbed in inner conversation. It’s a monologue—you speak alone, yet you do speak. Then even my silence is hard for you to see, because we can only see that which has its opposite as a background.

A psychologist once did an experiment at a university. On a large black blackboard he drew a tiny white dot and asked the students, “What do you see?” Not one of them saw the big blackboard; all said, “We see a small white dot.” That tiny white dot stands out because behind it is a black surface, the blackboard. It emerges to sight.

If I sit absolutely still, silence is one-toned—there is no opposite. It’s as if someone makes a white mark on a white wall; it won’t be seen—how could it be seen? To make it visible, the opposite is needed. If I sit silent, it is a white mark on a white wall—you will miss it.

If I am speaking, there is silence between every two words. I speak the words for you; for myself I remain silence. Words are only on the surface; within, I am silence. There is no inner dialogue in me. When I sit alone, I am not talking inside. Speaking is for you; silence is my nature. So between every two words I am present. When one word has ended and the next has not yet begun, in between is my silence. On both sides there are dark lines; in between is a bright white line. Because of those two dark lines, my silence will seem more apparent to you while I am speaking, and less apparent while I am quiet. We see only what appears against the background of its opposite.

If the ugly disappeared from the world, who would be beautiful? If there were no noise in the world, how would you know peace? It is because the night is dark that the lamp’s light is seen. It is because there is death that life has flavor. It is because there is hatred that love has a certain ecstasy. It is because thorns prick that we cherish flowers. Opposites make things visible, give them to be experienced.

So when I speak, there is a void, an empty space between the resonance of two words; that empty space will be seen by you more vividly. But then I also understand your difficulty: what should you do then? Should you grasp the meaning of the words, or the silence? Because if you pursue the meaning of the words, the silence is lost. For a moment the silence glimmers; if you are filled with the memory of the first word, you will miss it; if you are waiting for the second word, you will miss it. That fine line of silence, bordered on both sides by words—if your attention is on those borders, you will miss the line. And if you attend to the silence, the words will not enter you. What should you do?

If you follow your own mind, you will attend to the words. If you heed me, drop concern for the words and attend to the silence. Because what I am saying—its meaning is not in the words but in the silence. What I want to convey to you is not in the lines but in between the lines, where the space is empty. And if I am using words at all, it is only like the blackboard, so that the white dot can be seen. The blackboard exists to show the white dot; it has no meaning of its own.

So when you listen to me, let go of concern for meaning. Meaning will arise from the void; it is from silence that you will receive it. Hear the words, but catch the silence—let your attention be on the silence. When one word has faded and the next has not yet risen, only then will you connect with me. That is the juncture, the place where the door opens. Therefore do not worry much about what I am saying; be concerned with what I am not saying in between what I am saying—where the empty spaces are. It is only through emptiness that you can enter within me, and only through emptiness can I enter within you.

If I do not speak, you keep speaking inside; then you cannot grasp my silence. When I speak, your inner talking stops. You become occupied, and the inner stream is cut into pieces. You become eager to listen, and your inner conversation breaks. So there is one advantage in speaking—not that I can tell you what I want to say, but that your inner stream of talking gets shattered.

I speak so that you do not speak. That is all the meaning there is.

But what I want to tell you lies in the gaps between the words—in the wordless. Do not worry about what I am saying; let your attention descend into the emptiness in between. And you will have a taste of supreme bliss. In that moment neither I nor you will remain. In that moment there will be neither speaker nor listener. In that moment what is hidden within both will become one, will meet. In that moment there is a deep embrace, the confluence of two rivers; in that moment two consciousnesses drop their boundaries and become boundless.

Your mind will say, “Listen to what he is saying.” But anything that is truly significant cannot be said. Words are all hollow; words have no real value. Words are but the froth thrown up on the surface of the ocean’s waves. From a distance the froth seems very lovely. It looks as if the ocean’s wave is wearing a silver crown; as if flowers are blooming upon the wave—white, endless flowers—but only from afar. Go near and take the froth in your hand: they are bubbles of water; they will all scatter.

Words are no more than the foam upon the ocean of consciousness. If consciousness is deep, the foam is beautiful. If there is music within, even the foam carries a melody. If life within is quiet, a kind of poetry is born in the foam.

What I am speaking is foam. If you feel a sense of poetry in it, an experience of beauty, take it only as a pointer. Trying to clutch that foam in your fists and lock it in a safe will do nothing. Attend to where the foam comes from—to the emptiness from which it rises, to the depth where it is born. Words are foam; the ocean is in the void. So when I am silent between two words, the temple doors are open—enter then.

The whole gestalt will have to change. “Gestalt” is a German word that means a pattern or configuration. In Germany there is a school of psychologists, Gestalt psychology.

You may have seen in children’s magazines a drawing of an old woman—but hidden in that drawing there is also a young woman. If you look carefully, you begin to see the young woman. If you keep looking, the young woman changes and the old woman appears. Both are made of the same lines.

There is a curious fact: you cannot see both at the same time. You can see both—first you saw the old woman, then you discovered the young, and now you are familiar with both. But whenever you look, you will be able to see only one. And you know the other is present; there is no question of not knowing. Yet when you see the young woman, you cannot see the old; when you see the old, the young disappears. You know both are in the drawing, but both cannot be seen together. In German they call this a gestalt—a frame, a configuration.

So when you listen to my words, you will not be able to hear the silence—the gestalt has shifted. Then your whole consciousness is engaged in grasping the words, and you are deprived of the void. And when you catch hold of my emptiness, you will not be able to grasp the words. When the young woman appears, the old does not; when the old appears, the young does not. Both are present; you can catch hold of only one.

Your mind will say, “Catch the words,” because the mind always lives on words. Words are its food. The mind is enriched by words; its entire wealth is words. Where words go, mind goes. If words are not there, mind is not there. So the mind will say, “Hold on to the words; they are precious. Memorize each one; the essence is hidden in them; all truth is in them. Do not miss even a single word—drink them in.” That is what the mind will tell you. That is what it has always told you.

And then how many scriptures you have memorized! How many Gitas, Korans, Bibles you have drunk! Even so, there is no glimpse of truth. If my words also enter you and accumulate, even then there will be no glimpse of truth. Where the Gita fails, where the Koran fails, there I too will not succeed. No word can ever succeed. Your mind will drink the words and grow stronger. Do not listen to the mind.

If you listen to me, then grasp and drink the void, the silence. Do not be concerned at all with what I am saying. I myself am not concerned with what I am saying! What I said yesterday—I have no concern for today. What I say today—I will have no concern for tomorrow.

That is why many friends fall into great difficulty. They say, “Yesterday you said one thing; today you say another. Which should we accept?”

I understand their trouble, because they are clinging to the words. For me, saying is not valuable at all. What is valuable is the empty space between what is said. Yesterday I used one blackboard; today I am using another. The blackboard is purposeless; the white dot upon it—that is the purpose. Yesterday, between one pair of words I opened for you my doorway of emptiness; today I open it between another pair. For me the consistency is of that emptiness between. Whether the doors are made of wood or silver or gold, whether flowers are carved upon them or leaves, whether they are plain or ornate—it is irrelevant. What matters is that the door opens, that empty space from where you can enter into me and I can enter into you.

Those who listen to the words will find many inconsistencies in them. Sometimes I say one thing, sometimes another. They are certainly right—there are inconsistencies—but that is not the point at all. Words for me are only an instrument to open the void. And those who see the void will find that I am perfectly consistent. Because yesterday I opened the same emptiness; today I open the same emptiness; and I will continue to open the same emptiness. The doors will go on changing. They should change; there is a use in changing the door. If I were to repeat today exactly what I said yesterday, and the day before, you would go to sleep. Your inner chatter would start up again.

That is why people fall asleep listening to sermons in temples. The reason is that the story is familiar—there is nothing worth listening to—so how to remain alert? They know that Sita is lost, they know Ravana abducts her, and they know the end too—that Sita will return, there will be a war, and Rama will win. All is known—so many times known—that nothing remains new to hear. And when nothing is new, sleep takes over. Repetition of the old brings sleep. Mothers know this, though you may not. They say to the child, “Sleep, my little king, sleep, my little king,” making it into a song, a lullaby. The same line repeated again and again: “Sleep, my little king, sleep…” For a while the child listens, then gets bored—the same thing, the same thing—and falls asleep.

Your mantras work like lullabies. You sit and chant, “Ram, Ram, Ram, Ram…” and sleep comes, drowsiness seizes you. For how long will you listen to “Ram, Ram”? The same, the same. Boredom arises; from boredom comes drowsiness; drowsiness leads into sleep.

If I were to tell you the same thing every day, using the same words, you would begin to doze. And here I am trying to wake you up, not to lull you to sleep. Therefore I change my words every day; for me, words are meaningless. There is no question of their consistency or inconsistency. I have no relish in what I say. The relish is only in the spaces I leave between what I say—that is my invitation. If you miss that, you miss everything.

You can memorize all my words; there will be no essence in it, only an increase of your burden. As it is, your burden is heavy enough. As it is, you already know more than you need. As it is, your knowledge is killing your aliveness. These words will only add to your knowledge; you will become even more of a knower. You will be able to argue skillfully, to explain, to change others, to batter their intellects. It will be hard to defeat you. But you will remain you—sickly, ailing, arrived nowhere. Wherever you find that your mind has dropped away, wherever you find that the silence between words has been heard by you, dive there. That is the ghat from where the crossing is made. That is the ford from which the boat sets off toward the other shore.

Anything more?

Hmm! Whenever you ask a question, distance will be felt. Because in asking, your mind has to be alert; you have to think, to ponder. When you think, when you reflect, distance arises. Then your mind is active. It is in the activity of the mind that meditation is lost. And when you listen, your mind is inactive; there is nothing left for it to do. Then you listen in a passivity, in a state of non-doing.

When you ask, there is an aggression. The question is aggressive; in it there is an attack, a curiosity, an anxiety, a tension to know. A question is an inner upheaval; therefore the distance increases. As soon as you have asked, the mind finds rest. Now you have nothing to do—only to listen. Listening is not an act; for listening you have nothing to do. You only have to be here. No effort is required to listen. Just sit empty and you will hear. The moment you listen—sit empty, do nothing, become inactive—the note of meditation is tuned.

Then, what I am speaking: if your mind becomes totally absorbed in it, if you completely forget that you are here, if you dissolve, then of course it will seem you have entered another realm. You can enter that very realm any time—without me too—only the thread has to be caught.

The key is: when your mind is not doing anything, you enter the other dimension. Then a new dimension opens that was unfamiliar. The unknown comes near; the known drops away. If, while listening to me, you feel you have reached another world, do not connect it with me; otherwise a dependence, a dependency, will arise. Then you will become my slaves, which is the greatest obstacle on the spiritual path. Then you become dependent; you will feel your entry into the other realm happens through me—which is wrong. I am only an instrument; it is you who go, you who enter. But because your eyes are fixed on me, the illusion can arise.

So do this experiment at home as well, in solitude. Sometimes do it with the birds, sometimes with a flowing stream; sometimes when the winds pass, shaking the leaves of the trees—listen to that sound. Become silent. Just as you fall silent by my side, in the same way fall silent by the river. The river is not your guru; the river doesn’t even know you are sitting on its bank. The winds have nothing to do with you; the sound resounding in the trees is not resounding for you. Sit by a tree and listen to that sound; instantly you will enter the other realm. And then you will come to know that to become dependent on a guru is also the creation of a new world; it is a new bondage. You change the guru—that is only changing the bondage. One prison has not even been left and you are already arranging the next.

If you become dependent on me, this satsang becomes harmful. If I become your only door for entry into the other world, then this door too will lead you into a prison. Then without me you will begin to suffer. Then I am an addiction. If the guru becomes an addiction, the whole affair is futile.

Therefore, that little glimpse of the other realm which comes while sitting silently and listening... Mahavira called such a person a shravaka. One who, by listening, experiences the other world is a shravaka. Mahavira says there are four kinds of fords, four tirthas, from where the journey begins to the other shore, to the other world: a monk, a nun, a male listener, a female listener. Mahavira said, some reach there through austerities, and some reach there simply by listening. The monks and nuns work very hard; then the far shore becomes visible. But the true shravaka and shravika enter that other realm just by listening.

Krishnamurti continuously emphasizes right listening—samyak shravana. But even right listening can be dangerous. It has its use, because the first glimpses are received from there. Then do not make those glimpses the basis of your life. Try to find those glimpses in different situations, so there can be freedom from the guru. So sometimes by a tree, sometimes by a river, sometimes standing in the middle of the marketplace, listen to the sounds and become silent. There too the same other realm will instantly open.

When you ask, when you want to ask, you become restless inside. Questions agitate you and make the mind aggressive. A question too is a kind of deep violence. But when you listen, the mind becomes quiet; the tension settles, the waves dissolve. In that listening, there is a glimpse of the other world.

Certainly, at times I shake you like a storm, and at times I give you rest like the deep shade of a tree. Many times you need to be shaken, so that much that is clinging like rubbish may fall away. And many times you need to be given rest, so that what is new and being born within you can settle rightly.

A gardener sometimes prunes the plant, sometimes waters it. Sometimes he shakes the plant to drop its old leaves; sometimes he props it with a stick to give it support. Sometimes he keeps the plant in the sun, and sometimes he moves it into the shade.

You are like a newly sprouting plant, and you need many things. If you get only shade, shade, you will slowly become impotent. If only peace is showered upon you, you will become like a corpse. Your aliveness will be lost; your zest will wither; your celebration will slowly grow quiet. There will be peace in your life, but there will be no joy. And if there is no joy, then peace alone is lifeless; it belongs to the dead, to the cremation ground.

So sometimes it is necessary to bring you alive like a storm, sometimes necessary to challenge you and to give you a call to the faraway—so that your surge arises and you start running on the journey to the infinite. So that you remain alive, and your peace does not become death.

Otherwise you will find many monks and renunciates who, in search of peace, have almost died. They are like stone statues. Their hearts do not beat within, because they are afraid the heartbeat might disturb their peace. They breathe timidly, because every breath can create an uproar. They live frightened, cautiously, lest something go wrong. Their peace is very weak, very afraid; anything can destroy it. They are like plants that have been kept only in the shade. Now it is difficult to bring them into the sun; in the sun they will wilt and die.

But is there any life in shade alone? Both sun and shade are needed, because the sun gives life. But even life, when in excess, becomes derangement. If energy grows so much that you cannot contain it, you will go mad.

Therefore both have to be done, and a music has to be created between the two. You must be shaken, and you must be given rest. You must be left in the sun, and you must be brought into the shade. Because I do not want to take you only into the world of peace; I want to take you into the world of bliss.

Peace dancing is called bliss. Peace filled with festivity, filled with exuberance, is called bliss. Bliss is such an activity in which, at the center, non-activity remains. Bliss is such a dance in which the dancer is lost. The dancer is utterly silent, and the dance continues. Bliss is such a leap that we touch the highest of heights and yet never leave the ground.

It is easy to cultivate the partial; it is difficult to cultivate the whole. Worldly people cultivate life; the so-called monks and renunciates cultivate death. I want you to cultivate both together. Let your ego be utterly dead, and your divinity utterly alive. Let death be your left hand and life your right hand. Let one breath be your death, and the next breath your life. Be like a storm—dancing, young, brimming with energy, a flood of energy—and be also silence, emptiness, tranquility. Like Krishna, let a flute be on your lips; and like Buddha, sit silent under the bodhi tree. Let the flute not disturb you, and let your silence not become an enemy of the flute.

The day emptiness puts the flute to its lips, the day music begins to arise out of silence, on that day you have known the ultimate meaning of life; that day is fulfillment—beyond it there is nothing more.

Therefore, sometimes I shake you, so that the flute does not slip from your hands. Sometimes I keep you in rest, so that the emptiness that will flow through the flute may be born. The note of the void, the music of silence, bliss in dance—this is the goal.

Enough for today.