Nahin Sanjh Nahin Bhor #4

Love answered with love and hatred answered with hatred is the general rule of the world. But the true master is not within the general rule; that is precisely why he is a master. He is not within the rule because he is not of the world. He is in the world and yet outside it. Therefore, what ordinarily works does not work in relation to the master.

Understand this. It is an important question. For centuries man has pondered it. It should not be so—and yet it is. Who could give more love than Jesus? And yet the outcome is the cross. An answer that satisfies ordinary logic does not arise. The mistake happens because you forget that the master belongs to another realm; he is a stranger here. His way of living, his mode of being, does not fit anywhere within the structure of this world.

What is love in this world? Here, love means: gratify the other’s ego. When you tell a woman, “No one is more beautiful than you,” she believes you love her. When a woman tells you, “There has never been a man like you; there never will be; you are incomparable,” the man feels loved. Wherever your ego is gratified, you feel—love.

With the master the difficulty is that he will not gratify your ego. He will cut it, shatter it, erase it, destroy it. In this world, it is hatred that does the very work the master’s love does.

In this world, anyone who wants to erase you is the enemy. Anyone who wants to wipe you out is a foe. In this world, hatred means: someone is out to annihilate you. If someone builds you up, you call it love; if someone dissolves you, you call it hatred. The master’s love is such that by effacing you, he makes you. He is unique. First he dissolves you—he will break you to pieces, bring down your house brick by brick. When you are utterly gone, from that very nothing he will raise you anew; your rebirth will happen. Through death your rebirth will come.

So the master—understand this—only if you can understand very deeply will you recognize his love. Only a few can understand so deeply, because only a few are that deep. Most people will feel, “An enemy has arrived.”

Therefore whatever you do with an enemy, that is what you will do with Buddha, Mahavira, Jesus; that is what you will do with me. You have always done it; you will continue to do it.

And one cannot even be angry with you. You are forgivable. You cannot do otherwise. The love you have known has always gratified your ego. What you have taken to be hatred has always been that which tried to erase you.

The master comes bearing a gift that is utterly unique. He brings a love that will feel to you like hatred—that this man is an enemy. It feels like hatred, so you begin to return hatred. This arises out of your misunderstanding.

But you are forgivable. If there is any fault, it is the master’s. He should not bring such a strange thing! What fault is yours? Your lifelong experience of what is called love and what is called hatred has no place for what the master brings. You cannot call it love. What kind of love is it that sets out to erase you! You can only call it hatred. And by your world’s general rule, the answer to hatred is hatred.

Jesus was not crucified for nothing. He angered people. The cross is only the announcement that the people among whom Jesus descended could not understand. They belonged to this world, to this shore. And Jesus brought news of the other shore—something that did not fit their language or match their experience. That is why Jesus, dying on the cross, said, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

They are forgivable. Do not be angry with them. They should not be punished. They are doing only what lies within their understanding. They are right according to their understanding. But when understanding itself is wrong, what can they do? They are unripe, innocent. Even a court pardons the unripe: if a ten-year-old child kills someone, the court pardons him—he is not yet of age. How can responsibility be placed on him?

And where is man mature? The crowd is unripe, childlike, childish. There is not even a ray of understanding.

So the general rule is absolutely true: give love and love will be returned; give hatred and hatred will be returned. But the master brings a kind of love that is utterly unfamiliar, unknown. To the eye it looks like poison and yet it is nectar. Only when you drink will you know it is nectar; to look at it, it appears like poison. That is the obstacle.

When you look, it seems: this man has come to efface us; to wipe us out. He is fragmenting us; he will break us apart. He says, “Surrender.” He says, “Drop the ego. Drop jealousy; drop possessiveness; drop violence; drop aggression. Not only that—drop thought; drop the mind; become no-mind.” He is giving a teaching in which you, as you know yourself, will not survive.

You are startled, you panic, you begin to defend yourself. From your self-defense arise Jesus’ crucifixion and Mansoor’s hanging. These are your measures of self-protection. Truly, you do not want to kill Jesus; you only want to save yourself. And you cannot figure out how you will save yourself if this man remains. This man is powerful. There is something extraordinary in him—a magnet that pulls. There is a lure; erase him, otherwise there is the danger that, against your own resolve, you may be drawn by his magnetism, pulled by his attraction.

So you will heap a thousand kinds of allegations, slander, accusations. These are your devices of self-protection. You build a fortress around yourself. You arrange it so that you will never go near this man. Understand this. If this man is good, then you will have to go. If he is lovable, you will have to go. If he is divine, you will have to go. And if you go, you will have to die. Therefore declare: this man is the devil. Do not let his shadow fall upon you.

But there is magnetism. His magnetism draws; it calls. If you do not erect a very strong Great Wall of China around yourself, then in some unguarded moment that magnetism may affect you. In some tender moment you may be pulled. If ever a door or window is open and this man enters within, there will be no way back. Before that, stack the bricks all around. Those very bricks you pile around yourself by abusing Mahavira. You pour so much abuse that within you no space remains for even the wish to go near this man.

To break his attraction you make arrangements of abuse; you levy false allegations; you spread defamation. And there are many like you who will support you. They will not even ask how much truth there is in the allegation, how much truth in the slander. They will accept your defamation instantly.

Have you observed: if you praise, they ask for proof; if you malign, they ask for no proof. For slander they are ever ready—hands outstretched, carpets laid, doors open, welcome banners hung—always prepared. Slander, and they are ready to accept. Not even for a moment will they raise a doubt. Why? Because they too want to save themselves, just as you want to save yourself.

Once you have gathered a dense cloud of defamation around someone, you have made your arrangements. You have raised armies, posted guards. Now you can rest easy within. Now this man has become the devil for you.

If he is not the devil, how will you restrain yourself in a tender moment? And such tender moments come to all—even the hardest. In certain moods—and such moods come to everyone, even the lowest—sometimes the mind soars in the sky; sometimes this earth appears utterly futile and a search for new meaning begins; sometimes, looking at this life, you feel, “What am I doing—this is all futile, off-key, useless.” Then some Jesus will pull you. Then some Buddha will call you. Then you will fall into the net of some master.

These feeling-moments come within you. To block them you must heap every possible abuse on Jesus. You will have to prove to yourself—convince yourself with all kinds of arguments—that this man is wrong; do not go near him, not even by mistake.

So remember: man maligns to protect himself. Before giving Socrates the hemlock, the very court that ordered it also felt within… Do you think those who stood to crucify Jesus had no doubt in their hearts? No question arose—What are we doing? Is this right? How is it justified?

The same happened with Socrates. The judge felt a great stirring, because this man is certainly unusual, different, unparalleled. But no error appears in him. Nothing could be proved against him in court except one thing: all of Athens is against him. Nothing else was established. But if everyone is against him—the jury against him, the magistrate against him, all the respected citizens against him—then he must be punished. The judge must have thought the whole night. The next morning he went to Socrates and said, “If you leave Athens, you will save me from committing a crime. If you stay in Athens, death is certain. I will have to pronounce the sentence. No one is on your side. Leave Athens.”

Socrates said, “Truth is no runaway. If death comes, death is right. But I will not flee to save my life. And tell me, for how many days will life be saved? I must die one day or another; I am old anyway. Whether death comes today, tomorrow, or the day after—it is certain. So what is the point of escape? I will not go anywhere. If there is life—good, life. If there is death—good, death. I will stay here.”

The magistrate understood: death will come anyway. What Socrates says is right—even with death standing before him, he speaks rightly. So he said, “Then do one thing: stay here, but give the court a promise that you will stop explaining things to people. Keep quiet. There are so many people—why go lane to lane teaching truth? Stay at home. It is your teaching of truth that has landed you in trouble. People are false, and your truth offends them. Whomever you talk to, sooner or later you make him prove that he is false. That truth makes him writhe. He cannot prove that he is true; he has not your talent, your intelligence. He has not your capacity, your experience. He cannot prove that he is true; it gets proved that he is false. But his ego is hurt; he wants revenge. Those are the very people gathered against you. And they are a crowd; they are the majority. I will be able to do nothing. So swear in court tomorrow that you will stop spreading truth.”

Socrates said, “Then what would I live for? What meaning would life have? The only meaning of my life is to make known what I have known. The sole purpose of my life is to flash a little light into eyes filled with darkness. If I cannot do that, then better to die. Then there is no point in living. And perhaps my death will make some people see, will make some understand. Those who could not come near me while I was alive—because it made them very uneasy—perhaps after my death they will come close. Perhaps while I lived they could not understand me; after I die, my death may kindle inquiry in them. So pass the sentence; do not worry.” But there is no condemnation in Socrates’ heart; there is forgiveness.

For Socrates it is perfectly clear why people are angry: when the ego is hurt, what else will people do but be angry? And the entire work of the master depends on hurting your ego. Therefore the rule that is general does not apply to the master.

These are all good signs. These abuses and accusations are news that the news has begun to reach people. They are signs that people have begun to squirm. Signs that people have started to think. Indicators that people have begun to take measures of defense. People resort to defense only when they are afraid; otherwise they don’t.

The more I am abused, slandered, and falsehoods are spread, the happier I am—because that means the work is spreading.

The greatest danger would be indifference. Then what I want to say to you, what I want to do, will not be possible.

Either love me, and something can happen. Or hate me, and something can happen. If you are indifferent, nothing will happen. Because hatred too is a kind of relationship. Opposite to love, granted, but still a relationship.

You must have often seen: love turns into hate; hate turns into love. Though opposed, they are very close to each other.

If you want to make someone an enemy, first make him a friend. Without friendship, enmity cannot arise. And once someone is your enemy, a relationship has already been forged—of opposition. But a relationship is a relationship; the connection is made.

The person who has started abusing me is at least curious about me. Today or tomorrow, sooner or later, in the morning or in the evening, while abusing perhaps the thought will occur to him: how much truth is there in these abuses? While abusing, another thought will arise: why am I abusing? This man has done me no harm. Perhaps I have never even seen him; never met him. There is no relationship, no acquaintance.

Falsehood is falsehood. However skillfully you speak, you may deceive the other, but how will you deceive yourself? And sometimes it happens that one exaggerates the abuse, spreads too many lies, which is natural... Everything grows. If you start lying, the lie keeps growing. At a certain point it becomes excessive. You yourself tell so many lies that you begin to suspect: what am I doing? Can this be true that far?

And when you have spoken many lies against someone and maligned him a lot, a feeling of compassion also arises in your mind toward him. These are very natural processes. A little compassion begins to arise in you for him: Oh, the poor fellow! And transformation will begin from that compassion.

Hatred can turn into love—certainly turn into love. The real danger is with those who remain indifferent: neither hatred nor love, who say, “We have nothing to do with it.” Such disinterested people will never be connected to Jesus, nor to Buddha, nor to Socrates, nor to me.

One who is connected to me through love has come very close; he will reap the full benefit of this nectar. One who is connected through hate has also taken a few steps. Today there is hatred; tomorrow it will become love. To be connected through hate means he has begun to defend himself against me. To begin defending against me means fear has arisen inside that this man can pull me in; I should guard myself. Now there will be a tug-of-war. The seeds of possibility are sown.

Therefore I am happy. The more I am maligned, abused, accused—the more the exaggerations—the more auspicious it is; the more the news will reach people.

Some people even come to me after hearing the slander: “Let us go and see. What is the matter with the man who is being abused so much?” They come on this pretext and are transformed; they fall in love; a revolution happens in their lives. Such people too should thank those who hurled abuses; otherwise they would not have come.

You ask, “Why were Buddha and Mahavira tortured; why?”

So, first thing: Buddha and Mahavira did not take it to be torture. From your side it looks like torture was given. Look also from the side of Buddha and Mahavira. There, the question of torture does not arise. In the state of consciousness in which Buddha and Mahavira live, what torture can there be? Even if you pave the ground around Buddha’s body with stones, not a bit of hurt touches Buddha. The body may break, be bathed in blood—Buddha is not hurt. Because the very Buddhahood of Buddha is this: I am not the body.

You hang Jesus on the cross—Jesus is not crucified. Because the very Jesusness of Jesus is this: I am immortal by nature, amrit-dharma—amritasya putrah, as the Vedic rishis say.

When Mansoor’s hands and feet were cut off, Mansoor burst into laughter. The crowd standing by was startled. Someone in the crowd asked, “Mansoor, have you gone mad? Your hands and feet are being cut off and you are laughing?”

Mansoor said: “What else should I do but laugh! Because you think you are cutting off my hands and feet. You are not even able to touch me. The body you are cutting—I left that long ago. The house you are pulling down—Mansoor has not lived in it for years. And you think you are felling Mansoor! What else can I do but laugh? Your foolishness is laughable.”

And on his face, at the time of death, there was such a mood of bliss that his master, who was also standing in the crowd—Junayd—asked, “Mansoor, such bliss on your face—what is the reason?” Mansoor said, “Reason? I am saying to God: come in any form you like, you will not be able to deceive me. I will recognize you. Today you have come in the form of the executioner! But you will not be able to deceive me; I will recognize you. Once recognition has happened, it has happened. Come in any form—you I will recognize. This is your last test of me—let us see whether Mansoor can recognize or not.

“Mansoor had recognized you in the flower—the rose had bloomed. He had recognized you in the songs of the birds—the songs were so sweet. He had recognized you in the snow-white clouds drifting in the sky—such unique clouds. He had recognized you in the rays of the sun, in the moon and stars, in the waves of the ocean, in the laughter of children. That was fine—that was your gentle form. But this fierce form! God himself stands to efface Mansoor. Will I recognize you in this? This tandava form—will I recognize you in this?”

Mansoor says: “I recognize you in this as well. You will not be able to deceive me. Come in any guise, I will recognize you—because I have recognized you.”

So the first thing: Buddha, Mahavira, Mansoor, Jesus, Socrates did not receive any torture. You certainly inflicted it. But what does your inflicting matter if the one to whom it is given does not receive it?

You may hurl an abuse at me. It does not reach me unless I accept it. You have given it—that is your choice; you are your own master. You may shape abuses with your lips; you have that right. But whether I take it or not, whether I keep it in my heart or not—that ownership is mine. I can say to you: thank you, I do not accept it. Then you will have to take your abuse back. Then your abuse will fall back upon you. Then you yourself will be crushed under the weight of your abuse. Then you will have to carry that burden yourself.

So torture was certainly inflicted by people, but it was not received.

And a final point: they even transmuted that torture into bliss. That is the art, the alchemy. The whole art of the true Master is this: he turns poison into nectar; he turns night into day; darkness into light; death into life; emptiness into fullness. That is his entire art. What does “true Master” mean?

Age kept advancing with every single sip.
We even drank poison with such mastery.

He drinks even poison with such mastery that poison becomes a supporter of life, an enhancer of life.

And by your torturing, no harm was done. If you had not crucified Jesus, the world would have forgotten him long ago. Because of the cross, you had to remember. The cross given to Jesus pierced the breast of humanity like a cross; forgetting Jesus became difficult. How will you forget? Your hands are smeared with blood. There is no way to wash them. On them is the blood of Jesus.

Those who crucified Jesus raised a revolution in the history of humankind. Do you see? We measure time by the name of Jesus—Before Christ and After Christ. Jesus breaks time into two. What came before Jesus and what came after become separate; history splits into two.

In this carpenter’s son there was nothing by which history should be split into two. Far greater scholars had been, but history did not split for them. Today half the world is Christian.

If only you had crucified Mahavira too, the story would be different. Then it would be difficult to forget Mahavira. Then the memory of Mahavira would haunt you, circle around you. After committing such a heinous act, how could you forgive yourselves?

Why did so many people bow at the feet of Jesus? Have you ever thought? They bowed because a sense of guilt arose: we crucified this man.

Such a loving man was crucified—something must be done. The blood stains on our hands must be washed. The splashes of blood on our clothes must be cleaned. We must bow at this man’s feet.

The cross given to Jesus was not a torture for Jesus—the first point. And it became a collaborator in completing Jesus’ work—the second point. Whatever intention you might have had—what has that to do with anything?

People like Jesus drink even poison with such mastery that it becomes nectar. The cross became a temple. The cross became a throne. Upon the throne on which Jesus sat, no one else has been able to sit. And it was you who made the mistake with your own hands. In truth, whatever you do will be a mistake.

Such a revolutionary impact Jesus had upon humankind.

The Muslims crucified Mansoor, and with that very cross... Among Muslims there have been great Sufis, people of great heights—yet they all fade. Mansoor’s name rose up. Mansoor began to shine separately in the sky. After Muhammad, if the world knows anyone’s name, it is Mansoor’s. Many faqirs came, great accomplished ones—but they were lost.

Your cross saved Mansoor. Your cross planted Mansoor deep in people’s eyes; it reached into their hearts. Mansoor’s voice still carries meaning today. The names of others have been lost.

And there is even a tale that Jesus himself arranged for his cross. The tale is significant only to say that the message Jesus wished to leave for the world be sealed with the cross, stamped so that it lasts forever; that he make such an arrangement.

Among the fakirs there is such a story that Jesus himself arranged his crucifixion, and that Judas did not betray Jesus—he only obeyed Jesus’ command, the one who delivered Jesus into the hands of his enemies.

There is even a saying that Judas did not betray Jesus. Jesus took Judas’ ultimate test of surrender: Jesus said to Judas, “Tonight go inform the enemy where I am and hand me over. If you have left everything to me, if your surrender is total, you will do this too.”

If the master tells the disciple, “Cut off my head; if your surrender is total, you will do even this,” and if you hesitate and say, “How can I do that?” then your ego still remains.

Imagine what Judas must have gone through the night Jesus said this to him! To hand his master over to the enemies. He must have been greatly shaken, thought deeply. But in the end he must have found: when the master says it—however painful—it must be done.

Judas delivered Jesus into the hands of the enemies.

And you know, the Christians did not write much of Judas’ story, because they accepted at face value that Judas betrayed. That is why in Western lands the word “Judas” became a symbol of betrayal and treachery; it came to mean traitor. But the story of Judas is worth inquiring into.

The day after Jesus was crucified, Judas hanged himself and committed suicide. It is something to be investigated: what happened? Why did Judas... If he had merely betrayed, if he had only committed treachery, he would have rejoiced. But why did he kill himself? There is the possibility that he had only obeyed the master’s command—against himself. Seeing Jesus hanging on the cross he must have thought: what remains for me now? And he killed himself.

There is great possibility that Jesus himself made the arrangement. Even if he did not, he must have rejoiced at this arrangement. Through it the work would spread; the message would endure—for thousands of years. This would go on echoing in people’s ears.

When death is associated with something, it becomes significant—because beyond death there is nothing; death is the last thing. And that with which death is associated also becomes ultimate.

So neither have the true masters taken that they were tortured, nor that anything bad happened, nor are they angry. But the general rule is indeed transgressed in the life of the true master.

“All the true masters have said: give love and you will receive love; give hatred and you will receive hatred. And yet all the true masters received hatred.”

So understand this sutra: the true master stands outside the law of this world—outside this world. He brings here a new kind of love—not the love that flatters your ego; not the love that decorates your disease and your wounds; not the love that leaves you unchanged, keeps you as you are; not the love that pushes you into darker pits; rather, the love that refines you, draws out the thorns embedded in your heart. If pain happens, you get angry. And in the end he pulls out even the thorn of the ego, and you have to pass through a very terrible pain—because it is the pain of death—the real death.

What you call death is a small death: only the body dies; the ego survives and is born again. In the presence of the master the death that happens is the great death, because the very possibility of your being born again ends. Your ego is so pulled out that the bridge of return is broken. You will no longer be able to return to this world.

So if the master who performs such a great operation on you makes you, now and then, angry, enraged, makes you run away—that is natural.

You have seen: when a thorn has stuck in a child’s foot and the mother tries to remove it, the child screams, gets angry, hits the mother—because taking out the thorn hurts. And the child has not yet the understanding that if the thorn stays longer, it will fester, the disease will spread. It has to be removed. The pain in removing it is momentary; thereafter there is only relief. But that pain is there.

If a child has a boil, pus has collected, and the mother presses it to expel the pus, the child screams and cries. This mother seems an enemy forever; nothing good ever comes from her—whatever she does is to harass and hurt.

Psychologists say that no child can ever truly forgive his mother. How can he? She has given him so many troubles.

Gurdjieff used to say: until you can forgive your parents, do not come to me. First forgive your parents. Why? He had written on his door: if you have not forgiven your parents, my door is closed to you. Why? What has forgiving one’s parents to do with it? You may never have thought.

All cultures, all societies instruct people: respect your parents. Why? Because if this is not taught, children will kill their parents. There is fear. By nature, the process of life is such that the parents have to anger the child a thousand times. The child wants to play with a snake—the mother has to pull him back. The child wants to go toward the fire—the mother has to stop him. A thousand occasions arise when she must say no, no, no. The child begins to feel: into what enemies’ hands have I fallen! Whatever I want to do is wrong! Everything is wrong! None of my feelings are respected—only insult upon insult.

The small child begins to think: wait, let me grow up; I will teach you a lesson. When the power is in my hands, I will show you.

And it is no wonder that when the parents grow old and power lies in the son’s hands, the sons often torment their parents. It is not surprising; it is the revenge of childhood—unconscious.

Therefore society teaches: respect your parents. If not taught, there will be danger. This must be instilled deeply: honor your parents; honoring your parents is the greatest thing in the world; touch their feet. This opposite teaching has to be implanted because the danger sits hidden within; unless something opposite is arranged there will be trouble.

In Western countries, because there is not so much arrangement for respect, children and parents rarely have good relations. The remedy has not been provided; the disease is present and there is no medicine.

Gurdjieff is right. He says: first forgive your parents. Because if you cannot forgive even them—and they only gave you little, everyday troubles—how will you forgive me? I am going to give you the ultimate trouble of life. First go and forgive your parents.

Give proof that now there is no opposition in your mind toward your parents. You have understood that they were helpless, that for your good they gave you pain—sometimes they removed a thorn; sometimes they pressed a wound to squeeze out the pus; sometimes they forced you to sleep at night; sometimes they forced you to wake up in the morning. All that was compulsion. Sometimes you wanted to eat and they did not let you; sometimes you wanted sweets and they snatched them away; sometimes you were crazy for delicious foods and they gave you only greens and vegetables. All these things are piled up within you. Those were small matters.

Gurdjieff is right: I will bring the final danger into your life—I will take away your ego. If you cannot forgive your parents, how will you forgive me?

Therefore, in the East we say: the debt to parents can still be repaid; how will you repay the debt to the master? Because the parents’ debt is small; the master’s debt has no way to be repaid.

The master brings a shower of nectar into your life. But preparation is needed before that: weeds have to be pulled; stones have to be removed; the soil has to be prepared. In preparing that ground, the pains that arise make people angry. And those who are afraid to pass through that pain remain far away and get entangled in slander, accusations, and countless devices. They are defending themselves so that they will not have to come near this man.

Final point: “And can the world ever find people more innocent in love and blessing than you?”

Whenever anyone gives a blessing to this world, the world will be annoyed. Whenever anyone brings compassion to this world, the world will be annoyed. Whenever anyone brings a love that transforms, a love that brings revolution, the world will be annoyed.

And let me remind you again: this is natural. That is why only a very few people can make use of the true masters—those few who are courageous. The crowd cannot use them. Only a very few pass through the alchemy of the true master and are transformed. Those few chosen ones are the salt of the earth; because of them there is some grace upon this earth. A few flowers bloom; a faint fragrance arises.

You ask: “Can the ultimate state be attained through continuous witnessing and without meditation?” Witnessing itself is meditation. Meditation and witnessing are not two. All the processes of meditation are simply doors leading you into witnessing.

Understand the two limbs of meditation; that’s where the mistake is happening.
The first limb of meditation is, in fact, not meditation at all—only a namesake. It is merely the preparation for meditation.

As I just said, imagine a gardener making a garden. You see him uprooting weeds, removing stones, digging the soil, bringing manure. Now the ground is clean and tidy—no plant is left. Not a single sprout is there. If you ask, “What are you doing?” the gardener says, “I am laying out a garden.” You will say, “What kind of garden? I don’t see a single plant. In fact, there were some—wild grass and weeds—and you have removed even those. What sort of gardening is this?” He will reply, “This is the preparation for a garden. The garden is not yet planted. I’m only removing the obstacles that would prevent it.” Removing obstacles, too, is part of the process.

All the so-called techniques of meditation are just the removal of obstacles. Once the obstacles are gone and the ground is ready, then witnessing is meditation. Witnessing is the real meditation.

For example, you do active meditation. Through breath you awaken the body’s energy. By the impacts and counter-impacts of breathing you activate the layers of dormant energy in the body. With the movement of breath you break the inertia that has settled in the body and the blocks that obstruct the flow of energy—so that your whole body becomes a flaming, vibrant current.

When this flame of energy has grown dense within you, then in the second stage you go into catharsis. Because the moment energy begins to flow, whatever stands in its way needs to be thrown out—cast off—so you cathart.

Catharsis is the uprooting of weeds. The energy is stirred—catharsis happens. Then you begin to sound the mantra “Hoo.” Now the body is prepared; bodily obstacles have been removed; now blows can be given to the mind. The mind, too, is asleep; it can be activated. Through the sound “Hoo,” or through the sound “Om,” or any sound, you create waves inside. For mind is nothing but a form of sound; thoughts are sound-forms. With sound-waves you expel thoughts; you stir the mind.

Then, in the fourth stage, you stand still, silent as a statue. The first three stages were only preparation; in the fourth, you remain only a witness.

The first stage struck the body. The second struck the obstructions between body and mind. The third struck the mind. In the fourth you are home. Only the soul is; only awareness is; only witnessing remains.

These are the four stages of meditation, and the fifth is celebration. For if, even for a moment, witnessing has been awakened—if for an instant the window has opened, the far sky has been glimpsed, the clouds, the moon, the stars have appeared, if for a moment beauty has showered—will you not give thanks?

So the fifth stage is not really a stage; it is simply gratitude, the feeling of grace—an offering: O Lord! Your compassion is boundless.

But amidst all these processes, the fundamental meaning of meditation is witnessing.

And you ask: “Through witnessing, and without meditation…”
You seem to be afraid of meditation. You are saying, “Can a garden be planted—without removing the weeds?” I have no objection; plant it. But your roses will never grow large; the weeds will devour them. The flowers on your rosebush will be small, poor, beggarly—and they will wither quickly. For weeds have an immense capacity to proliferate. The false is very productive; where the false crowds, truth is lost.

Picture it like this: there is a great hubbub of noise, and you are playing your one-stringed ektara. In such a clattering factory, where will the soft reed-note be heard? Find a place of silence, and then play your ektara; something will be heard there.

Prepare the ground. Meditation is the preparation of the ground; the goal is witnessing. Many people are afraid of meditation because it demands doing. Witnessing appeals to many because it seems you need do nothing.

But you will not be able to witness. You will sit with eyes closed, thoughts will go on, and you will remain lost in thoughts. The weeds will keep sprouting and the roses will keep wilting.

Make the preparation for witnessing. Everything requires preparation. If you are not properly prepared, you cannot make a direct leap. Though, in principle, it is true that mere witnessing is enough.

If you think you can succeed in being a witness—without meditation—then you have my blessings. Try.

In principle, it is true that witnessing suffices; but it is true only in principle, not in practice. Practically, it is essential to break through the hindrances, obstacles, resistances.

But you don’t want to make that much effort. People are frightened of effort. They don’t want to labor. They want something for free! So witnessing looks attractive: nothing to do. You sit with eyes closed. But closing your eyes won’t make anything happen. With eyes closed, the same world remains before you that was there with eyes open. No difference will occur. The same images will pass; the same desires will arise; the same thoughts will surge.

All of Krishnamurti’s teaching is of witnessing. But after forty years of teaching, how many attained witnessing? Having listened and listened to Krishnamurti, people became highly skilled at conversation.

People come to me who have listened to him; they say: “What is the use of meditation?” I tell them too: “There is no special use. Witnessing is enough.” They say, “We have understood that by listening—but it doesn’t happen!” I say, “Now it’s up to you. About meditation you say: ‘What’s the point? What will dancing, jumping, breathing, pranayama, pratyahara, yama and niyama do?’”

Listening to Krishnamurti, they have settled into the idea that yoga is futile, that practice is futile. But witnessing is not happening. If the point is understood, it should also become a lived reality. They say, “That is our predicament. Intellectually we understand, but it doesn’t happen!”

This has become a big snag. Now the snag is that they are not even ready to prepare through meditation. Their mind has turned against meditation. They have collected all the arguments—against practice. And witnessing is not arising. They are stuck in a noose.

If you tell them, “Meditate,” they are ready with every argument: “What is the use of practice? What can action do? The real thing is witnessing—becoming a mere seer.”

I tell them, “You are absolutely right. But then why don’t you become it?”

There is the rub. You cannot be a witness. The talk of witnessing seems logically sound. And you cannot practice meditation, because one idea has lodged in the mind: what need is there for preparation; the witness is already within—one just has to turn the eyes to it. But even to turn the eyes, the neck must turn, and your neck is paralyzed. So a little massage, a little medicine, so the neck can turn a bit. For lifetimes you have looked outward; the neck no longer turns inward. For lifetimes your eyes have looked outward; they don’t go in.

It’s a very simple statement—“Go within; everything is there.” But how to go within? You are habituated to the outside. Living outside has become your definition of life. The door inwards is forgotten. The eye does not turn inward; the hands do not reach in.

So I say to you: if witnessing ripens for you, wonderful. But don’t get entangled in barren theories. Practically, move in sequence.

Begin with action—and go to non-action. Begin with meditation—and go to samadhi. Start in shallow waters, then slowly go deeper… then into the bottomless depths. Do not hurry. Gently, step by step…

But you seem to be in a hurry.

The question is quite extraordinary: “Can the ultimate state be attained through continuous witnessing and without meditation?” And then: “And when only witnessing remains, how to be free of that too?”

You are in a great rush! Witnessing has not happened yet. Meditation has not happened yet. Meditation hasn’t even begun; theoretically you have adopted the notion: it would be good if witnessing were accomplished—without meditation. If it had happened, you would not be asking. It has not happened. Yet you go further:

“If witnessing is accomplished—without meditation—then how to be free of that?”

Not such haste. If you leap like this, you will break your hands and feet. The result of such leaps is often madness.

Go step by step. Go with order. There is nothing to hurry for; go with patience. Go with waiting.

Patience and waiting are essential limbs of trust. This restlessness is greed. And the desire to get without doing anything is dishonesty. First, you won’t do meditation; you abandon that. Then you say, “Witnessing has happened”—though it hasn’t; you imagine it has—and now: “How to be rid of that?”

There is never any need to get rid of witnessing. On the day witnessing becomes perfect, it dissolves by itself. There is nothing to be done there. The doing is before witnessing; therefore meditation can be done.

The final extract of meditation is witnessing. After witnessing, the doer is no more. The very meaning of witnessing is that only the seer remains; the doer does not. Then how can you sensibly ask, “What should we do to get free of witnessing?”

The doer is gone; that is why the witness has come. Now there is no way of doing anything. But witnessing departs on its own. There is a secret behind it.

You light a lamp: first the oil burns. When the oil is finished, the wick starts burning. And when the wick is completely consumed, the flame goes out. You won’t have to put it out. Why put it out, when it will happen on its own? Yes, if oil remains, you would have to extinguish it; if the reservoir is full, the flame won’t go out by itself, because the oil keeps feeding it.

But once the oil has burned away, only the wick is left. How long can a wick burn? There is no oil left to feed it; the same fire that consumed the oil will now consume the wick. And the last event: that same fire then performs its own self-immolation. When the wick is gone, the flame vanishes.

Meditation burns the oil. The state of witnessing is the state of the wick. You have nothing to do; one day you find: witnessing has arisen. A great peace descends—an incomparable peace. A great bliss showers—great bliss. Heaven arises all around you. A fragrance of virtue fills your life. Sin vanishes—it went with the oil. The world is no more. You are in a celestial state.

But when no oil remains, how long will the wick last? In a short while you will find: there is a flare—a surge. Witnessing becomes very deep. Just as before going out the wick flares up; just as before dying a person sometimes surges with energy; so, just before the ego is utterly extinguished, inside you there is a last leaping—an ultimate glow. Witnessing becomes profoundly intense; the whole wick is burning. There is no oil left; the wick is entirely aflame. The light spreads all at once. Within, a vast joy—a great heaven. And then, the wick too is gone.

Hell went with the oil; heaven goes with the wick. Sin went with the oil; merit goes with the wick. What remains we have called moksha. We coined a new word for it; we did not call it heaven. How could we call it heaven?

First, sorrow goes and happiness remains. Then happiness also goes. When both pleasure and pain have vanished, what remains we call ananda—bliss. That is the third state.

There is no word like “ananda” in any other language. There is no word like “moksha” in any other language. Heaven and hell exist in Arabic, English, French, Italian, German. But there is no word like moksha, no word like nirvana.

We have a third word because we have known the ultimate state as well—the final disappearing.

Therefore, when a Christian seeker quests, he seeks heaven. But if you ask an Eastern sage, he will say: “Why seek even heaven? If you must seek, seek moksha—where even heaven is no more.” Understand this.

As long as happiness exists, sorrow will stand like its shadow. As long as light exists, darkness will define it. A lamp burns, the room is lit, but there is always a corner where darkness stands. Darkness must vanish, and so must light. Sorrow must go, and so must happiness. That state we have called the supreme state—the state of God. That is godliness, that is Bhagavatta.

Such a one we have called “Bhagwan”—the God-realized—whose sorrow is gone, whose happiness is gone; who is beyond duality; who has transcended all pairs of opposites.

So for now you do have something to do: meditate. And you are busy thinking: “How shall we drop witnessing?” Finish the doing first. If you do not finish it now, it will trouble you later. The urge to do—kriya-vasana—will remain. It is still there.

Now you ask, “If witnessing remains, what should we do? How to be free of it?”

Do not keep alive this urge to do. Do not preserve this oil. Let this oil be spent. Exhaust it in meditation itself. However much you need to jump and dance—jump and dance. Let the impulse to act be fulfilled in meditation. Not a trace of the urge to do should remain. If even a little remains—if some oil is left—then the wick will not extinguish itself.

And remember: if you extinguish the wick, you will have to return—because, in blowing it out, you will survive; the one who blows-out remains. When the wick goes out by itself, there is no return. The Buddha called such consciousness anagami—the non-returner; there is no way for it to come back. Its cycle of coming and going is complete.

If you put it out, your craving still remains. Otherwise, why would you put it out? What is the purpose? When it is to go out, it will go out.

But your mind carries the urge to do; and it will continue until you discharge it in meditation.

That is why I say: make meditation as active as possible.

People ask me, “Why do you advocate active meditation so much?” I do so in order that activity be exhausted—because witnessing is inaction.

If you sit passively in meditation, your activity will cling inside, like oil in your consciousness, and it will not allow the supreme event to happen; you will be deprived of that incomparable beauty—of the flame going out on its own—without anyone extinguishing it, without a putter-out, without any act, without any doer, without any desire. That flame dissolving by itself into the void—by itself, of itself—you will miss that event. And that very event is nirvana.

Hence the Buddha gave the word nirvana. Nirvana means: the going out of the flame. The lamp going out is called nirvana.

Therefore my emphasis is: meditate as actively as you can, so that the urge to act—the doer’s craving—grows thin. Let witnessing remain; let not even a fragment of the doer persist. Do whatever was to be done. Run as much as there was to run.

Tire yourself out—then in witnessing you will sit silent. And if in witnessing you sit utterly still, with not even a trace of the urge to do—this or that—then the oil is gone. Now you can relax. The wick will burn away by itself.

And on the day the wick burns itself out and vanishes into the void, the Ultimate happens; sat-chit-ananda flowers; that day—samadhi.

What is the need for control? To become a controller is the ego itself. Thoughts are not yours; why do you want to be their master?

Thoughts come and go. They pause in you for a moment and depart. You are an inn; thoughts are guests. You are the host. What is the need to grab your guests by the throat and control them?

It is in the very effort to control that people go mad.

You will never become the master of thought. Yes, a certain mastery does arise—but it is not mastery over thought. It arises from knowing this truth: what have I to do with thought? They come—they go. It’s a crowd passing on the road. The rumble of a train, a plane flying by, a horn on the street, a child’s cry, a dog’s bark—just as all these things are happening, so thought too is happening—outside me.

Thought is not within you. It is certainly in your head, but not in you—because you are within the head; you are behind thought. Thought revolves before your inner eye. Close your eyes and you will see: thoughts circling. So you are separate and distinct from thought. You are the witness. What is there to control?

Many people fall into this delusion—and your so-called saints and renunciates keep telling you: control the mind; get a grip on the mind.

Trying to control the mind is like clenching a fist around mercury: it scatters and spreads across the floor. The more you try to grasp it, the more it breaks apart. The more you lunge, the deeper the trouble.

Do not get entangled in the futility of controlling thought. I do not teach control of thought. I teach awakening—awareness of thought, toward thought.

Like swallows, my vagabond thoughts
who knows from what far provinces they arrive.
They tuck straws into the rafters of my roof.
I wish they would settle here,
that I might keep them, tend them, cherish them in the mind’s small cage.
When I wish—I’d take them down,
spend a few solitary moments in their company.
But they will not stay—they fly away.
Only the murky traces of their arrival
remind me of them,
and make the mind even more desolate.
Like swallows, my vagabond thoughts—
who knows whence they come,
and where they fly away!

These are birds of the sky; waves moving in the vastness. Let them come, let them go. Do not become sad when they leave. Do not be disturbed when they arrive. Watch their coming and going with a neutral heart.

As someone sits on a riverbank and watches the river flow, so sit on the bank and watch the stream of thought flow.

There is a very lovely story in Buddha’s life. I have always delighted in it. Buddha was passing through a forest. He felt thirsty. He was old—this was in his last days, about six months before his death.

Buddha sat beneath a tree and said to Ananda: Ananda, I am very thirsty. I cannot go on. We left a spring behind us; go back with my begging bowl and bring water.

Ananda went back. But the spring they had left had become completely muddy. Just then bullock carts had passed through it; leaves, silt, all were stirred up. The water was utterly dirty—certainly not fit to drink. And Ananda could not bring such water for Buddha. He returned and said, I will go further on and find a river. That spring has become filthy. People passed through it; carts crossed; the oxen drank, the horses drank—it is completely foul. It is not fit for you. Buddha said: Do not trouble yourself in vain. Go again. Bring water from that same spring.

Since Buddha had spoken, Ananda could not refuse. He went again—and was amazed. The water had become clear. The leaves had drifted off, the dust and debris had settled to the bottom.

Buddha had only told Ananda this: If the water is still dirty, just sit on the bank; wait a little.

Ananda sat down. The last fine particles of silt were still floating—soon they too flowed away. The water became crystal clear. Then he filled the bowl.

He came back dancing. He placed his head at Buddha’s feet and said: You have given me a very deep message. Today I have found a sutra. I will use this same sutra with the mind. Today a great thing has become clear within me. Your great compassion sent me back. I was not willing to go—but a revolution has happened—just sitting on that bank.

Sitting by that spring I understood: had I stepped into the water—had you not told me otherwise—I would have tried to purify it, and in doing so I would only have made it more impure. The moment I stepped in, more mud would have risen. You spoke rightly: sit on the bank and wait. Do nothing; just keep watching. The spring will clear by itself. So too I will do with my mind. I keep wading into it, trying to bring it under control. In that very effort the mind slips from my hands. Today, just as that spring became calm and pure, so I will let the spring of my mind become calm and pure.

Buddha said: That is exactly why I sent you back. A true master makes use of every situation. I wanted this awakening to happen to you; for this very insight, this seed to sprout in you. Well done, Ananda. Auspicious, Ananda. You have understood. You have shown wisdom. This is the secret.

Do not even think of controlling the mind. Learn to sit on the bank of the mind. What have you to do with it—whether good thoughts come or not? Even if bad thoughts come, they are not yours. Let the bad come; let the good come. Let the bad go; let the good go. They come by themselves; they go by themselves. What of yours do they take away? You sit. Stay awake and keep watching.

Just watch; do not judge. Do not evaluate. Do not become a judge. Do not say: this is good; do not say: this is bad. Do not say: let me hold on to the good—collect it, polish it. Do not push the bad away. Do not get into this shoving and grappling at all.

Therefore all the wise have given this sutra: Do not judge thoughts as good or bad. Do not choose among thoughts which to grasp and which to discard. This is the meaning of witnessing.

Merely by listening to what I say, merely by understanding it, it will not descend into experience. Do something. Walk a little according to what I say. Do not turn what I say into a mere intellectual possession. Otherwise, how will it connect with experience?

I sing songs—of rivers and lakes. You listen. You even memorize the songs. You say, “The songs are very lovely.” You too begin to hum them—of rivers and lakes. But that will not quench your thirst.

The rivers and lakes of songs cannot quench thirst. Yet it is not that the rivers and lakes of songs are utterly useless. Their very value is that they inflame your thirst, so that you set out in search of the real lakes.

I sing these songs—of rivers and lakes—so that a trust may well up in your heart that yes, rivers and lakes exist, they can be found. So that you can look into my eyes and see: yes, there are rivers and lakes; so that you can take my hand in your hand and see: yes, there is a possibility that we too may be fulfilled, that fulfillment happens; that there is such a state of contentment where there remains nothing to gain, nowhere to go; that such a thing happens—such a miracle happens in this world—that a man becomes desireless. And in that desirelessness the rain of liberation descends.

I sing songs—of rivers and lakes—not so that you memorize them and hum them too, but so that trust arises in you, strength comes into your legs, and you can set out on the search.

It is a long journey. You will have to pass through forests and mountains. You will have to cross a thousand kinds of rocks and peaks. And there are a thousand kinds of obstacles within you, which you will have to break through. The journey is arduous. But if you trust that the lake exists, you will complete the journey. If you do not trust that the lake exists, how will you even walk? How will you take the very first step?

The whole meaning of the songs is only this: that trust may arise in you that the lakes are.

And trust is not enough. Trust cannot turn into the lake. The lake has to be found. So I understand your difficulty.

You say: “The one who does not come to you is worthy of forgiveness, because he does not know what he is doing. But even being with you, even as your sannyasin, your words are not descending into my experience. At the level of the mind I can grasp them, but they do not enter experience. This is my pain.”

How can experience happen just by listening to words? By listening, aspiration can arise, thirst can arise.

That is your pain. Do not take that pain as suffering. This is what I want—that by listening to me again and again, gradually such a pain arises within you, and it becomes clear: what will happen by only listening! Gradually a whirlwind arises within you, a storm arises, that now something must be done, now somewhere one must go.

This is the pain, and I will not make the slightest effort to pacify it. Because if this pain is quieted, you will remain exactly where you are.

Let this pain become strong; let it grow dense; let it become a sting; let it become a dagger embedded in your chest. Let it go on increasing until you reach the lake—becoming a flame of fire. Let it burn you. Let it turn you to ash.

That is why I have said that people become annoyed with the true master. You go in search of consolation, and the true master wants to give truth—not consolation.