Naye Manushya Ka Dharam #6
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Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Questions in this Discourse
You have heard a very beautiful discourse from Osho today; if you wish to ask a question, you may. Yes, yes—go ahead.
A friend is asking:
It is said that Arvind experienced shunya, the vacuum. Was that the quest for truth?
A friend is asking:
It is said that Arvind experienced shunya, the vacuum. Was that the quest for truth?
To ask about Arvind is futile, because whenever we ask in relation to another—“What was that emptiness that happened to him?”—at most we can only fill ourselves with words. Arvind will become just a word, and Arvind’s shunya will become just a word. And whether he attained or did not attain—these too will become words. No, with respect to the other we can never be free of words. In relation to the other, words are unavoidable. Only in relation to oneself can one be free of words. So do not worry about what happened or did not happen to Arvind. Worry about what can happen to you!
And if I say that it did happen to Arvind, you will then ask someone else whether what I said about Arvind is right or wrong—you will still ask. Where will that end? This is an infinite regress, this endless questioning we go on with.
I have heard this: a man was going to a village and asked, “Where does the man named A live?” Someone said, “He lives next to the man named B.” He said, “Don’t put me in trouble—where does this B live?” “He lives next to the man named C.” He said, “But I have no idea where this C lives!”
You will ask me something about Arvind—Arvind is an other, and I too am an other. Both are useless for you—Arvind and I. Useless because they are others. The real question in the search for truth is always about oneself. Can I be in emptiness? That is the important question. And I will say this much: the day you can be in emptiness, that very day you will see for yourself who else has become empty. Then you will never ask who has attained and who has not.
But until it has happened to you, someone may claim he has attained, someone else may say another has not—what will come of it? Just talk. It has no meaning. Keep clear—this is what I have said—keep clear of gurus. If I say of Arvind, “Yes, he has attained,” you will say, “Let’s make Arvind our guru.” If I say, “No, he has not,” you will say, “Then let’s make you our guru.” This is our hunt for a guru. We try to find out: Did Buddha become enlightened? If he did, then let’s go fall at his feet. Was Mahavira truly a Tirthankara or a fake? If we can be sure, then let’s fall at his feet. But how will you ever be sure? Who will certify it? And why is there any need to certify?
Because I am saying: avoid the other. Otherwise Arvind will become an authority. You will sit reading his books—what else will you do? The believer in Arvind sits reading his books, sits waiting: “If Mother’s blessing comes, everything will happen.” All this gives birth to a world of the blind. Gurus are the kings of the blind world; that blind world springs from them. No—don’t worry about anyone; there is no need to worry. You don’t have to establish any authority or certify anyone. You have to enter emptiness—go.
It is a curious thing: where we truly have to go, we never ask such questions. No one comes and asks me, “Was Majnu’s love true?” He goes into his own love. No one asks, “Was Farhad’s love true?” He goes himself.
In love we go ourselves, and we never ask whose love is true and whose is false. In truth we do not go ourselves; therefore we keep asking whose truth is true, whose is false, who has attained and who has not. Remember only this: until it happens to you, it has happened to no one. And the day it happens to you, then whether it has happened to all or none is irrelevant—there is no point to the question. Arvind, or I, or anyone else—irrelevant. Nothing to do with you. Such people are superfluous; one should keep clear of them. Wherever you see a guru, turn and run; never wander that way, even by mistake. Because inevitably he tangles you up in the other. And avoiding the other is an essential part of the search for truth.
And if I say that it did happen to Arvind, you will then ask someone else whether what I said about Arvind is right or wrong—you will still ask. Where will that end? This is an infinite regress, this endless questioning we go on with.
I have heard this: a man was going to a village and asked, “Where does the man named A live?” Someone said, “He lives next to the man named B.” He said, “Don’t put me in trouble—where does this B live?” “He lives next to the man named C.” He said, “But I have no idea where this C lives!”
You will ask me something about Arvind—Arvind is an other, and I too am an other. Both are useless for you—Arvind and I. Useless because they are others. The real question in the search for truth is always about oneself. Can I be in emptiness? That is the important question. And I will say this much: the day you can be in emptiness, that very day you will see for yourself who else has become empty. Then you will never ask who has attained and who has not.
But until it has happened to you, someone may claim he has attained, someone else may say another has not—what will come of it? Just talk. It has no meaning. Keep clear—this is what I have said—keep clear of gurus. If I say of Arvind, “Yes, he has attained,” you will say, “Let’s make Arvind our guru.” If I say, “No, he has not,” you will say, “Then let’s make you our guru.” This is our hunt for a guru. We try to find out: Did Buddha become enlightened? If he did, then let’s go fall at his feet. Was Mahavira truly a Tirthankara or a fake? If we can be sure, then let’s fall at his feet. But how will you ever be sure? Who will certify it? And why is there any need to certify?
Because I am saying: avoid the other. Otherwise Arvind will become an authority. You will sit reading his books—what else will you do? The believer in Arvind sits reading his books, sits waiting: “If Mother’s blessing comes, everything will happen.” All this gives birth to a world of the blind. Gurus are the kings of the blind world; that blind world springs from them. No—don’t worry about anyone; there is no need to worry. You don’t have to establish any authority or certify anyone. You have to enter emptiness—go.
It is a curious thing: where we truly have to go, we never ask such questions. No one comes and asks me, “Was Majnu’s love true?” He goes into his own love. No one asks, “Was Farhad’s love true?” He goes himself.
In love we go ourselves, and we never ask whose love is true and whose is false. In truth we do not go ourselves; therefore we keep asking whose truth is true, whose is false, who has attained and who has not. Remember only this: until it happens to you, it has happened to no one. And the day it happens to you, then whether it has happened to all or none is irrelevant—there is no point to the question. Arvind, or I, or anyone else—irrelevant. Nothing to do with you. Such people are superfluous; one should keep clear of them. Wherever you see a guru, turn and run; never wander that way, even by mistake. Because inevitably he tangles you up in the other. And avoiding the other is an essential part of the search for truth.
Osho, what is the method to enter the void?
‘You ask, “What is the method to enter the void?”’
There cannot be a method to enter the void. And if you go by a method, at least the method will remain with you—then the void will not happen. For then how will you drop the method? You will end up asking for a method to drop the method. Once you catch hold of a method, you’ll ask, “Now how do I leave this?” It happens: someone says, “Chant Ram, Ram; Ram, Ram—you’ll enter the void.” The chant grips you, and then you say, “How do I drop this Ram, Ram now? I need a method to drop it.” In fact, to get rid of one method you need a second, and to drop the second, a third. Don’t get into this loop.
Do not turn “entering the void” into a method. Then you will ask, “But how do we go, if not by a method? We can’t go anywhere without a method.” It’s good we learned to breathe as children; otherwise we’d be asking for a method for that too!
I have heard: there was a centipede—one of those creatures with a hundred legs—walking down a path. A little bug saw it and was stunned: “A hundred legs! By what method does he lift them? Which comes first, when does the second follow?” He got flustered: “What a great mathematician this centipede must be—to keep track of a hundred legs moving in order. It’s hard enough with four!” He said, “Brother, stop! Tell me, by what method do you walk? How do you lift a hundred legs—first which, then which? Don’t you get mixed up?” The centipede said, “I’ve never thought about it; let me think.” He began to think—and fell down! He got confused: a hundred legs—this one forward or that one backward? He said, “You foolish bug! Never ask a centipede such a question. Knowing has brought trouble. Until now I just kept walking—without a method.”
The void is not a method—just understand the futility of words. Understand the futility of thought. As that futility is seen, the void arises naturally.
Suppose we are sitting here and the house catches fire; the flames are visible. No one will ask, “What is the method to get out?” You will find people getting out without any method. All etiquette is thrown aside: whether a woman is being jostled or not, whether one’s good wife is keeping up—everything is dropped, including any method. People rush out—where there are doors and where there aren’t. What happened? Seeing the flame becomes the method of getting out. Let the futility of words be seen, the futility of scriptures be seen, the futility of the outer be seen—that is the real point. If it is actually seen that words, discussions, theories, scriptures are useless—if it is seen that living twenty‑four hours in words and thoughts is futile—then, to the extent that this futility is seen with intensity, you will suddenly find yourself out. And this “getting out” will happen entirely without a method. If you try to get out by a method, you will be in a big tangle, because a method never ends—after one method comes another, then a third, and it goes on.
No—method won’t do. If you wish to enter the void, it will not be through method. Therefore what I am saying should be called a negative method.
You may be on the seashore with your wife, or a friend, or your beloved—or alone. Sitting there, if you feel, “What is the point of thinking here? There is the ocean, the sky. None of them are thinking: not the ocean, not the sky, not the trees, not the winds—no one is thinking. Let me also lie here without thinking. I think too much; thinking twenty‑four hours gets me nowhere but a tired head.”
You are right that outwardly you fall silent, but inside it keeps moving. Let it move. I say, there is momentum. It’s like a man riding a bicycle: you tell him to stop, he stops pedaling. He says, “I’ve stopped pedaling, but the wheels are still moving.” Of course they are. If you’ve been riding for two miles, even after you stop pedaling the wheels will turn for a while. But if, seeing the wheels turn without pedaling, you decide to pedal again—you’re back at it.
No—whether on the shore, at home, or lying in bed at night: darkness is pleasant, like silk surrounding you on all sides. Be quiet. Thoughts will continue within, because they have been running all day—there is momentum. Those who know say they have been running for lifetimes. Their momentum is heavy. Let them run, but don’t add pedaling. You add pedaling by taking one thought and instantly linking it to the next, then a third, then a fourth. Say, “Run as much as you will on your own; I won’t pedal.” Just stay quietly. Which is why I said, I cannot say when it will happen. One day, suddenly, you will discover a moment when there is no thought—an empty sky remains. In that empty sky, when you taste the flavor of bliss, that very taste will become your “method.” Then the mind will of itself begin to flow toward that bliss. The nature of mind is to flow toward joy.
I’m speaking here, and suppose in the nearby garden a sitar begins. By what method does your mind go to listen to it? Ever noticed? I am speaking here; I keep speaking, but your hearing here stops—suddenly you are gone. You are not here. The sitar has begun outside; it has seized your mind. Your mind has gone out.
Mind flows toward bliss—by itself, without any method—like rivers flow toward the ocean without a map in hand. In the same way mind flows toward joy. Someday, unpremeditatedly as you go on stopping and starting, a moment of bliss will occur—just a slight glimpse of truth—and then the mind will keep returning there. Of itself, whenever you have space, it will fall silent. This is not a method; but since our mind does nothing without a method, we keep asking for one. Then exploiters arise to take advantage of us: “Come, we’ll give you a method. For three and a half rupees take this mantra. We’ll whisper it in your ear; don’t take any other—this is the sure method. Keep going with this.”
Human beings are exploited in every way, and spiritual exploitation is the greatest. Gurus everywhere are doing it. Now in the West there is much restlessness, so they want methods. Hence all the troublemakers from the East are going West. They gather people and say, “We’ll give you a mantra. Take this necklace, keep turning these beads.” We are exploited because we fail to notice that the matter is not of method at all.
Let me say the final thing, then we’ll rise.
By a method you can never attain anything greater than the method. And the Divine is so vast—by what method of ours will we gain it? With two pennies you can only buy a two‑penny thing. You cannot buy the Divine—how many pennies would it take? If you want to climb a mountain, you can build steps—but however high the steps, they only reach a finite peak. How will you build steps to climb the endless summit of the Divine?
Here, only methodlessly—only those ready to leap without a method—enter this beginningless, endless vastness. Otherwise people sit calculating methods.
Let me tell you a small story.
I have heard: a king’s grand vizier died. The rule of that kingdom was that when a great vizier died, the whole realm would be searched—examinations held—to find the most intelligent man.
Exams were conducted; three men were chosen and brought to the capital for the final test. That night, the three ought to have been worried. But one spread a sheet over himself and promptly slept. The other two said, “Has this fellow dropped out or what? What’s happened? He isn’t even going to prepare?” The exam was unknown—no one knew what it would be. But the rumor in the town was that the test was fixed. They heard everywhere, “The exam is this: the king has had a room prepared with a marvelous lock. The lock itself bears a mathematical puzzle. Whoever solves it will open the lock. Tomorrow the three will be shut inside; whoever opens the lock and comes out will win, and become vizier.” The two panicked. They were neither thieves who knew locks, nor mathematicians, nor fond of riddles. They were in trouble.
They ran to everyone in town who knew mathematics, to those who picked locks, to engineers—brought back many books. “This is a matter of a lifetime—don’t sleep tonight!” They stayed up all night; by morning their condition was worse than at dusk—as happens with examinees. In the evening they could say two and two make four; in the morning, if you ask them two and two, they can’t even understand your question, let alone answer it.
But the third man slept all night. The other two were pleased: “Good—at least one is finished. Now only two competitors remain.” When morning came and they were exhausted, he too woke, singing, bathed. They hadn’t even bathed. “Forget all that today!” they said. They went; he followed behind, singing. “Why is this madman coming? He hasn’t prepared at all,” they thought. All three arrived.
The rumor was true. The king stood at the door and said, “Here is the puzzle‑lock. Whoever opens it and comes out—there is no key—this puzzle itself is the key—whoever comes out, wins. Now go inside; I will wait outside.” He shut the door, remained outside. The third man—the one who had slept—sat down in a corner with his eyes closed. The other two said, “What is he doing?” Then they said, “Who has time to bother about him?” They had smuggled books under their clothes. Students today are not thieves; students have always been thieves—where knowledge is mistaken for memory, theft is inevitable. There are many ways to steal. Poor fellows—they had sneaked the books in. They began their feverish calculations—sweat pouring, no solution in sight.
Suddenly the king walked in and said, “Stop this calculating; the one who needed to come out has already come out.” “Who?” they asked. “We two are still here.” “That third man,” said the king, “is out.” They looked—the corner was empty. “He’s gone,” said the king. “But how did he get out?” they asked. “He did no calculating!” The king said, “There was no question of calculation. The door wasn’t even locked; it was only latched.”
The door was merely caught. And the first mark of an intelligent person is that he first checks whether there is even a question to be answered. If you jump into answers, you get into trouble. He had gone out.
They asked that man, “What happened to you?” He said, “I thought at night, ‘To prepare for an exam one knows nothing about is dangerous—who knows what one might prepare! Better to be unprepared for such a test. To be prepared is risky when you don’t know. So I came unprepared. I even decided to forget any prior preparation so that in the morning I could at least stand clean and empty.’ When I sat in this room, I thought, ‘My forefathers never opened locks—if they had, their son would be king, not a vizier! This is not my line. Let me sit with eyes closed; if something occurs, it will happen.’ Sitting with eyes closed, it occurred to me, ‘First see whether there is even a lock!’ I went, unlatched the door, and walked out. There was no lock—only a latch.”
The Divine’s door is not locked—no method, no key is needed. It is simply stuck. But you sit with your book open, “By what method shall I get out?” Meanwhile the Divine waits on the other side: “Drop the book—come! It will do without any method.” Whatever is truly vital in life happens without method. Neither love happens by method, nor truth, nor poetry, nor music.
Whatever is significant in life lies outside method. Whatever is trivial lies within method. If you seek by method, you will gain the trivial; if you have the capacity to leap without method, the vast is found.
There cannot be a method to enter the void. And if you go by a method, at least the method will remain with you—then the void will not happen. For then how will you drop the method? You will end up asking for a method to drop the method. Once you catch hold of a method, you’ll ask, “Now how do I leave this?” It happens: someone says, “Chant Ram, Ram; Ram, Ram—you’ll enter the void.” The chant grips you, and then you say, “How do I drop this Ram, Ram now? I need a method to drop it.” In fact, to get rid of one method you need a second, and to drop the second, a third. Don’t get into this loop.
Do not turn “entering the void” into a method. Then you will ask, “But how do we go, if not by a method? We can’t go anywhere without a method.” It’s good we learned to breathe as children; otherwise we’d be asking for a method for that too!
I have heard: there was a centipede—one of those creatures with a hundred legs—walking down a path. A little bug saw it and was stunned: “A hundred legs! By what method does he lift them? Which comes first, when does the second follow?” He got flustered: “What a great mathematician this centipede must be—to keep track of a hundred legs moving in order. It’s hard enough with four!” He said, “Brother, stop! Tell me, by what method do you walk? How do you lift a hundred legs—first which, then which? Don’t you get mixed up?” The centipede said, “I’ve never thought about it; let me think.” He began to think—and fell down! He got confused: a hundred legs—this one forward or that one backward? He said, “You foolish bug! Never ask a centipede such a question. Knowing has brought trouble. Until now I just kept walking—without a method.”
The void is not a method—just understand the futility of words. Understand the futility of thought. As that futility is seen, the void arises naturally.
Suppose we are sitting here and the house catches fire; the flames are visible. No one will ask, “What is the method to get out?” You will find people getting out without any method. All etiquette is thrown aside: whether a woman is being jostled or not, whether one’s good wife is keeping up—everything is dropped, including any method. People rush out—where there are doors and where there aren’t. What happened? Seeing the flame becomes the method of getting out. Let the futility of words be seen, the futility of scriptures be seen, the futility of the outer be seen—that is the real point. If it is actually seen that words, discussions, theories, scriptures are useless—if it is seen that living twenty‑four hours in words and thoughts is futile—then, to the extent that this futility is seen with intensity, you will suddenly find yourself out. And this “getting out” will happen entirely without a method. If you try to get out by a method, you will be in a big tangle, because a method never ends—after one method comes another, then a third, and it goes on.
No—method won’t do. If you wish to enter the void, it will not be through method. Therefore what I am saying should be called a negative method.
You may be on the seashore with your wife, or a friend, or your beloved—or alone. Sitting there, if you feel, “What is the point of thinking here? There is the ocean, the sky. None of them are thinking: not the ocean, not the sky, not the trees, not the winds—no one is thinking. Let me also lie here without thinking. I think too much; thinking twenty‑four hours gets me nowhere but a tired head.”
You are right that outwardly you fall silent, but inside it keeps moving. Let it move. I say, there is momentum. It’s like a man riding a bicycle: you tell him to stop, he stops pedaling. He says, “I’ve stopped pedaling, but the wheels are still moving.” Of course they are. If you’ve been riding for two miles, even after you stop pedaling the wheels will turn for a while. But if, seeing the wheels turn without pedaling, you decide to pedal again—you’re back at it.
No—whether on the shore, at home, or lying in bed at night: darkness is pleasant, like silk surrounding you on all sides. Be quiet. Thoughts will continue within, because they have been running all day—there is momentum. Those who know say they have been running for lifetimes. Their momentum is heavy. Let them run, but don’t add pedaling. You add pedaling by taking one thought and instantly linking it to the next, then a third, then a fourth. Say, “Run as much as you will on your own; I won’t pedal.” Just stay quietly. Which is why I said, I cannot say when it will happen. One day, suddenly, you will discover a moment when there is no thought—an empty sky remains. In that empty sky, when you taste the flavor of bliss, that very taste will become your “method.” Then the mind will of itself begin to flow toward that bliss. The nature of mind is to flow toward joy.
I’m speaking here, and suppose in the nearby garden a sitar begins. By what method does your mind go to listen to it? Ever noticed? I am speaking here; I keep speaking, but your hearing here stops—suddenly you are gone. You are not here. The sitar has begun outside; it has seized your mind. Your mind has gone out.
Mind flows toward bliss—by itself, without any method—like rivers flow toward the ocean without a map in hand. In the same way mind flows toward joy. Someday, unpremeditatedly as you go on stopping and starting, a moment of bliss will occur—just a slight glimpse of truth—and then the mind will keep returning there. Of itself, whenever you have space, it will fall silent. This is not a method; but since our mind does nothing without a method, we keep asking for one. Then exploiters arise to take advantage of us: “Come, we’ll give you a method. For three and a half rupees take this mantra. We’ll whisper it in your ear; don’t take any other—this is the sure method. Keep going with this.”
Human beings are exploited in every way, and spiritual exploitation is the greatest. Gurus everywhere are doing it. Now in the West there is much restlessness, so they want methods. Hence all the troublemakers from the East are going West. They gather people and say, “We’ll give you a mantra. Take this necklace, keep turning these beads.” We are exploited because we fail to notice that the matter is not of method at all.
Let me say the final thing, then we’ll rise.
By a method you can never attain anything greater than the method. And the Divine is so vast—by what method of ours will we gain it? With two pennies you can only buy a two‑penny thing. You cannot buy the Divine—how many pennies would it take? If you want to climb a mountain, you can build steps—but however high the steps, they only reach a finite peak. How will you build steps to climb the endless summit of the Divine?
Here, only methodlessly—only those ready to leap without a method—enter this beginningless, endless vastness. Otherwise people sit calculating methods.
Let me tell you a small story.
I have heard: a king’s grand vizier died. The rule of that kingdom was that when a great vizier died, the whole realm would be searched—examinations held—to find the most intelligent man.
Exams were conducted; three men were chosen and brought to the capital for the final test. That night, the three ought to have been worried. But one spread a sheet over himself and promptly slept. The other two said, “Has this fellow dropped out or what? What’s happened? He isn’t even going to prepare?” The exam was unknown—no one knew what it would be. But the rumor in the town was that the test was fixed. They heard everywhere, “The exam is this: the king has had a room prepared with a marvelous lock. The lock itself bears a mathematical puzzle. Whoever solves it will open the lock. Tomorrow the three will be shut inside; whoever opens the lock and comes out will win, and become vizier.” The two panicked. They were neither thieves who knew locks, nor mathematicians, nor fond of riddles. They were in trouble.
They ran to everyone in town who knew mathematics, to those who picked locks, to engineers—brought back many books. “This is a matter of a lifetime—don’t sleep tonight!” They stayed up all night; by morning their condition was worse than at dusk—as happens with examinees. In the evening they could say two and two make four; in the morning, if you ask them two and two, they can’t even understand your question, let alone answer it.
But the third man slept all night. The other two were pleased: “Good—at least one is finished. Now only two competitors remain.” When morning came and they were exhausted, he too woke, singing, bathed. They hadn’t even bathed. “Forget all that today!” they said. They went; he followed behind, singing. “Why is this madman coming? He hasn’t prepared at all,” they thought. All three arrived.
The rumor was true. The king stood at the door and said, “Here is the puzzle‑lock. Whoever opens it and comes out—there is no key—this puzzle itself is the key—whoever comes out, wins. Now go inside; I will wait outside.” He shut the door, remained outside. The third man—the one who had slept—sat down in a corner with his eyes closed. The other two said, “What is he doing?” Then they said, “Who has time to bother about him?” They had smuggled books under their clothes. Students today are not thieves; students have always been thieves—where knowledge is mistaken for memory, theft is inevitable. There are many ways to steal. Poor fellows—they had sneaked the books in. They began their feverish calculations—sweat pouring, no solution in sight.
Suddenly the king walked in and said, “Stop this calculating; the one who needed to come out has already come out.” “Who?” they asked. “We two are still here.” “That third man,” said the king, “is out.” They looked—the corner was empty. “He’s gone,” said the king. “But how did he get out?” they asked. “He did no calculating!” The king said, “There was no question of calculation. The door wasn’t even locked; it was only latched.”
The door was merely caught. And the first mark of an intelligent person is that he first checks whether there is even a question to be answered. If you jump into answers, you get into trouble. He had gone out.
They asked that man, “What happened to you?” He said, “I thought at night, ‘To prepare for an exam one knows nothing about is dangerous—who knows what one might prepare! Better to be unprepared for such a test. To be prepared is risky when you don’t know. So I came unprepared. I even decided to forget any prior preparation so that in the morning I could at least stand clean and empty.’ When I sat in this room, I thought, ‘My forefathers never opened locks—if they had, their son would be king, not a vizier! This is not my line. Let me sit with eyes closed; if something occurs, it will happen.’ Sitting with eyes closed, it occurred to me, ‘First see whether there is even a lock!’ I went, unlatched the door, and walked out. There was no lock—only a latch.”
The Divine’s door is not locked—no method, no key is needed. It is simply stuck. But you sit with your book open, “By what method shall I get out?” Meanwhile the Divine waits on the other side: “Drop the book—come! It will do without any method.” Whatever is truly vital in life happens without method. Neither love happens by method, nor truth, nor poetry, nor music.
Whatever is significant in life lies outside method. Whatever is trivial lies within method. If you seek by method, you will gain the trivial; if you have the capacity to leap without method, the vast is found.
Osho's Commentary
Like a fish asking, “Where is the ocean?”—so is man’s question, “Where is truth?” The fish is born in the ocean, lives in it, dies in it. Perhaps for this very reason it remains unfamiliar with the ocean. What is far is always easy to know; what is near is always difficult. The fish cannot know the ocean as a whole. At night perhaps the stars in the sky are visible to her, and at dawn perhaps the rising sun is visible. Only one thing does not appear to the fish—the very ocean in which she is born, lives, and dies.
Where is truth?
Had it been somewhere far, we would have found it, searched it out. Had it been on the moon and stars, we would have reached there. Distance would not have been a barrier. We climb Mount Everest. If it were in the Pacific Ocean, we would dive deep. But truth is so within that we ourselves are not as close to ourselves as truth is to us. And this becomes the greatest difficulty. What is near becomes difficult to find—because to search you need a place, a space in which to move. Between us and truth there is not even that much distance. Hence the greatest difficulty is precisely this: we cannot find that which we ourselves are. It is not even right to say that truth is near, for nearness is also a name for distance. It is most accurate to say: what we are, that is truth. It cannot be otherwise.
I have heard a small story; let me begin with it.
I have heard that God created the world, and until He created man, He was at great peace. With the creation of man the trouble began. We can well understand that once man was made, even a moment’s peaceful living became difficult for God. His house was in the midst, close by, and people surrounded Him day and night, offering who knows what suggestions and laying who knows what complaints. One would say, “Let the sun not rise today,” and another, “Let it rain today.” Another would say, “Let the sun rise today,” and, “Let it not rain today.” As many people as there were, so many mouths; as many mouths, so many suggestions and complaints. God gathered all His gods and said, “Find me a place where I can be safe from man; otherwise, I created man and man will kill me. Show me a place where man cannot reach.” Someone said, “Gaurishankar will do—go to Everest.” God closed His eyes and said, “No, that will not do—before long Tenzing and Hillary will climb there.” Someone else said, “Then go to the moon.” He closed his eyes and said, “That too will not work—Armstrong’s feet are about to land there.”
There were many suggestions, but none appealed to Him. Then an old god whispered in His ear, “Then there is only one way: hide inside man.” God said, “That idea appeals—because man will hardly ever attempt to go there. Not everyone will go to that place.”
Who knows how true the story is—but its conclusion seems true. The whole tale may be fiction, but the last line rings true: that which we seek is hidden within us. And the danger of seeking is that seeking always carries us outward. The very thought of searching sends us outside.
Regarding the search for truth, if I am to speak, the first thing I will say is: you will not be able to search for truth. For the very meaning of searching is to seek what is lost. Truth was never lost by us. In fact, truth is precisely that which cannot be lost. Whatever can be lost cannot be truth. Truth is the life of our life, the being of our being—how could we lose it! Hence the phrase “search for truth” is self-contradictory. The search is never for truth; the search is always for untruth.
Therefore, the more man advances in searching, the more a world of untruth is constructed. Seeking will not do, also because seeking can only be for what is far; never for what is near. And also because in seeking at least two are required: the seeker, and that which is sought. In the case of truth, both are one. The one who seeks is the very one to be found. Elsewhere the painter is separate from the painting, the sculptor from the sculpture. Here, the search for truth is like the dancer: dance and dancer are one—there are not two. The seeker of truth and truth are one.
On the day Buddha attained truth—language compels us to say “attained.” No, it would be more appropriate to say, on the day Buddha realized that he had never lost truth—on that morning the people of the village gathered and asked, “What have you attained? Tell us clearly, so we too may set out on the search.” Buddha said, “Do not make this mistake—do not go in search. As long as I searched, I did not find. And do not ask what I attained, because I have attained nothing. What was always with me, that I have simply come to know. What is attained is what was not with us. What was already mine and was unknown to me—I have come to know it. Therefore do not say ‘what have I gained’; ask, ‘what have I lost?’ I can say this: I have lost the untruth. To say I have attained the truth is wrong—truth already was.”
Yet that which always is, so near—still we do not know it. And the patterns of our thinking and our seeking, our arrangements for searching, do not allow it to be known—because, as I said, searching means looking outside; searching means looking far; searching means looking for the other, for what I am not, for what I do not have. And truth means that which is. Not what will be, or could be; that which is—this very moment, here and now—and there was never a moment when it was not. That which is forever—this needs to be approached from many angles. Let us begin from one.
I have heard of a fakir woman—Rabia. One evening she was searching for something outside her hut. The neighbors thought, “An old woman—let us help.” It is an old-time story; now no one would do such a thing. Long ago. Now who would help an old woman? The neighbors came and asked, “What are you searching for? We will assist.” She said, “I have lost my needle.” So all began to search. They must have been foolish; not one asked, “Where did you lose it?” A needle is small, the way is broad, the sun is setting; without knowing where it was lost, how will you find it? But they were not the only fools; we all are. We all set out on searches—one seeks bliss, another truth, another God, another peace—without asking where it was lost. And the field in which we search is vast. If you do not know precisely where it was lost, to find it is nearly impossible. At last, as the sun dipped and darkness gathered, one man thought to ask, “Darkness is falling; a tiny needle will not be found. O old woman, tell us—where did you lose it?”
She said, “It is a sorrowful thing. Better you do not ask. Search—fine; do not raise this question.” They all stopped. “We should have asked at the start. Where was it lost? If you will not tell, we will stop searching. Do not trouble us for nothing.” The old woman said, “I lost it inside the house—but there is no light there, I have no lamp. So I thought, where there is light, there one can search. How to search in the dark? Therefore I search outside—here there is sunlight.” The people said, “You are mad, woman! You have gone insane! You must search where the thing was lost—what will the light do?” The old woman said, “But how can one search in the dark?” They said, “Let this madwoman keep searching; let us go home.” As they turned to leave, the old woman laughed loudly: “You call me mad! Then the whole world is mad—I have seen all people searching outside for that which is within.”
Our reason for searching outside is the same as Rabia’s: the light of our eyes falls outward, the reach of our hands falls outward. All our senses look outward, and within there is darkness. So we begin searching where there is light. Outside there is much light—our ears hear there, our eyes see there, our hands spread, our feet walk; all our senses are extraverted. They go outward, not inward. Wherever the senses can go, where the feet can carry us—there we search; where the eyes can see—there we search; where the ears can hear—there we search. But where neither eye sees nor ear hears nor hand gropes nor feet can move—how to search there? Our logic is the same as the old woman’s joke; we too set out to search outside.
By searching outside we certainly will find many things. By searching outside power can be found. Science is in error when it thinks it is finding truth; it is only finding power. Science has no truth in its hand—only the inventions of power. Therefore science must change its “truths” every day. Can truth change daily? In Newton’s time one “truth,” in Einstein’s time another. Science’s “truths” shift, hence today it rightly says, “We speak of approximate truth.” But think—is there such a thing as approximate truth? Is there approximate love? Either it is, or it is not. “Approximate truth” is only another name for falsehood, masquerading as truth. No—science discovers something else: the laws of life, the possession of laws—and, becoming master, it gains power but not essence. Truth does not come into its hands; power does. And for power to come into the hands of those without truth is dangerous, because then all power will be employed in the service of untruth—as it has been and is.
Science’s quest is for power; therefore it thinks in the language of conquering—“Conquer nature.” The other can always be fought with; the other can only be fought. Hence, fight and conquer, magnify strength. Whether the atom is explored or anything else—these are all searches for power. But truth is not attained thereby.
Truth is within. And into that inner dimension, that inward, science has no movement, because science is the very arrangement for searching the outer. Therefore science cannot discover truth.
But the scientific quest for power has created great difficulty for us: it seems as though science holds all the dimensions for searching; hence the very talk of the inner dimension has become dim and feeble. In the last thousand years we could not give birth to men of the caliber of Buddha, Mahavira, Christ—because they were born of journeys into the inner dimension. In the last three hundred years human genius gave us Einstein, Newton, Planck—fruits of the outer journey. But the genius that flowers from the inner search has been waning continuously for a thousand years. Slowly we have felt that all will be obtained from science; the inner is useless. Everything can be had outside.
Science is committing Rabia’s mistake—and someday the whole world will laugh at science just as those villagers laughed at Rabia: “Mad! If it was lost within, it must be searched within. What can light outside do?” There is sun and moon and stars, there is much light outside, the powers of nature abound outside, the expanse of the Divine spreads outside—but the first experience of truth happens within.
This “within” is the first aspect of truth: inwardness. The first quality, the first mark, the first fragrance of truth is innerness.
Let us consider truth from a second side.
Man can construct many things. But he cannot construct truth—because there is no way to construct what is. Whatever man constructs is, in a sense, untruth—untruth in the sense that it is constructed, created, made. Truth is that which is uncreated, unmade—whose quality is is-ness, being, that which is. When all made things were not, it was; when all made things pass away, it will be.
Man has made much, and from this making he fell into a delusion: that he can make truth also. Then he made many doctrines of truth—scriptures, systems. All philosophy is the foolish effort to construct truth—whether in the East or in the West. The world’s thinkers strive to construct truth. But construction can never be truth. What man makes can never be truth. Truth is that which existed before man, and will remain when man is no more. Truth means existence—what is.
We cannot make truth. Yet for five thousand years man has tried to do exactly that. Truth did not get made, but a multitude of doctrines did. And these doctrines have so tightly gripped man’s mind that the search for truth has ceased. Now, when we go in search of truth, we often return home with a doctrine. We go to seek truth, and come back having bought a Gita. We go to seek truth, and return with a Koran. We go seeking, and find a guru—receive his sayings, a doctrine, a system—Aurobindo, or Russell, or someone—and we come home. We bring home a doctrine and think we have found truth. Because of these doctrines so many “truths” are seen—whereas truth can only be one; untruths may be many.
Today there are three hundred religions on earth—three hundred claimants to truth. And besides these, innumerable private claims—beyond counting. But these three hundred are organized claimants, declaring that truth is here, and everywhere else is untruth.
These claimants to truth keep the world in conflict: the Hindu against the Muslim, the Muslim against the Hindu, the Christian against the Jain, the Jain against the Buddhist. All these claimants are entangled in struggle.
Where truth is, there will be peace, not conflict.
Where truth is, there will be accord, not quarrel.
Where truth is, there will be love, not hate.
But these religions, these scriptures, these doctrines do little beyond inciting man to fight. Surely, at their core, there is untruth.
What is untruth?
Untruth is that which man’s intellect has constructed—truths manufactured by the mind. Man has intellect; he can fabricate, he can erect imaginations, he can make well-organized games of concepts—houses of words, like houses of cards—and living in those word-houses, think he has found truth. Yes, constructing is easy; finding is difficult. A little cunning and calculative mind—and a doctrine is made. A little cleverness, a little arithmetic—and one manufactures a home-made truth. And home-made truths are a great problem: every household has its truth, and causes quarrel.
The point I wish to make in this second dimension is: truth cannot be made. Truth is already there. Therefore all doctrines man has made to “know” truth must be dropped from the mind; otherwise we will not know what is—we will go on imposing what we believe should be. We project our own mind. One sees Krishna, another Rama, another Hanuman, another heaven and moksha—we go on projecting our own doctrines. The human mind has immense projecting power; what it decides within, it can see without.
I have heard: the king of a town summoned Majnun and said, “Are you mad? This Laila is a very ordinary girl—not even beautiful. Why are you so mad after her? I have called very beautiful girls; look, choose anyone.” Majnun replied, “My lord, you are mad. Where do you have the eyes of Majnun with which to see Laila? The Laila I see cannot be seen by anyone but me—because to see Laila, one needs the eyes of Majnun. And the girls you have lined up—I see only Laila in them; no other face appears.”
Majnun spoke a priceless truth: what he saw was largely the function of his own eyes; the outside served only as a screen. What appears, we project. Therefore, the Hindu sees Hindu truths, the Muslim sees Muslim truths, the Christian sees Christian truths. Having seen their “truths,” how can they admit they are wrong—and that the opposite might be right? Man’s second great trouble in searching for truth is his own man-made truths. Hence the seeker must beware the man-made nets—even if spun by a great Tirthankara, a great Avatar, a great thinker. If man is to know truth, he must stand dropping all man-made notions, naked, silent, still—so that he projects nothing and sees only what is.
I have heard: in a village a poor man bought the king’s cow. The king’s cow—and the poor man—he was in trouble. He had no green grass—only dry straw. He would place it before the cow; she would shut her eyes and turn away. He pleaded, “You are our cow-mother; we campaign for you, even take bullets in Delhi—but you won’t accept even this much from your son?” But the cow-mother would not even glance at the son. In truth, no cow has ever said that man is her son. I doubt any cow would agree that man is worthy to be called her son. But man goes on imposing: “You are our mother.” He coaxed, then in anger even beat “mother,” but she would not agree. He thought, “I am in a fix—buying the king’s cow.” He went to an old villager for advice.
The old man said, “You are a fool. Go buy green glasses—put them on the cow’s eyes.” “Will such deception of a cow be so easy?” “Deceiving a man is easy; deceiving a cow is easier. Go buy green glasses.” He bought a pair for four annas and fixed them on the cow. The cow ate the dry straw as if it were green grass. The Brahmin said, “Mother, you did not accept the son—but you accepted green glasses!”
He went to thank the old man. “You seem very experienced about cows.” The old one said, “I have nothing to do with cows; I am experienced with men. On that basis I spoke.”
We all wear spectacles—of doctrines, scriptures, sects, gurus—layer upon layer, so that what is cannot be seen. For the search for truth, these spectacles must fall.
To be cautious of gurus, scriptures, sects is essential for the seeker of truth. But that is not all.
Let me come to a third point: even if you avoid gurus, scriptures, doctrines, sects—you will still have to avoid yourself. For the mind is very imaginative. We do not see what is; we go on seeing what “should be.” We live in imaginations. Hence our relationship with truth never happens. We live in our dreams—delighting in them, enclosed in their web, by day as well as by night. Sit with eyes closed in an armchair for a moment and you will find dreams standing all around. Even with eyes open, dreams stream within. This capacity to dream is the greatest obstruction to truth. Only a mind free of dreams can know truth—one that does not imagine. Only then will we see what is; otherwise we will see what we want to see. We constantly see what we want—and when reality breaks in, disillusionment follows. Then it seems, “Ah!” So those who have known truth have said, “All is maya.” They did not call existence maya; they called their world—what they had woven—maya. Because they found it to be a dream. We dream wondrously about everything; concerning everything we fabricate dreams.
Fifty years ago you could not find a cactus in any home. Now, in an educated home, a cactus must be present; the rose has been sent outside. Once the rose was the Brahmin and the cactus the Shudra; now the cactus has taken the Brahmin’s place, the Brahmin stands guard outside. The cactus has entered the house—this was never so. The dhatura once grew at the village edge; no one looked at it; no Kalidas, no Bhavabhuti praised it. What happened? How did the cactus become so charming? Man grew bored with the rose; he removed one projection and began another—fashion changes. We tire even of imagination. We make new ones. Only truth is that which never bores; imagination will inevitably bore—being your own, how long will you drag it? Then you become weary and need a new fantasy.
Hence fashions run even in the world of truth: sometimes one path, sometimes one rishi, sometimes one yogi, sometimes one guru. These are fashions. Mahesh Yogi came—his fashion has gone. It came loudly, and fashions come only to go. They arrive and depart—staying is difficult, for we tire of them. Our projections get exhausted. The mind seeks new sensations, fresh imaginings—so it spins new fantasies. We tire of the rose; it will return—the rose will have its revenge. In a little while you will tire of the cactus; the cactus will go out; the rose will come back. The mind braids new fantasies, unbraids the old. But it never allows a gap: the old goes and the new has already arrived—no interval, no empty space, no discontinuity. It is in that empty gap that a glimpse of truth comes. But we hurry—taking off the old shirt only when the new is in hand, changing trousers only when the next is ready; the body is never naked even for a moment. So too the mind is never naked, never empty. One fantasy goes only when another is grasped. The imaginative mind keeps itself entangled; thus what is never appears.
I have heard: when Pandit Nehru was in India, there were at least seven or eight inmates in a single asylum who believed they were Nehru. Outside the asylums, in the jails, there were many more—some said it, others did not, held it secretly—but many there were. Nehru once visited an asylum. An inmate was due for release; the officials held him back to be discharged by Nehru’s hand. Nehru asked, “Do people here really get cured?” The man said, “Absolutely. I am cured. I came three years ago; now I am fine.” As he was leaving, he asked, “Sir, I forgot—who are you?” “You don’t know me? I am Jawaharlal Nehru.” The man said, “Don’t worry—stay three years and you too will be cured. I had the same disease three years ago—I too thought I was Jawaharlal Nehru. Now I am perfectly fine.”
When Hitler ruled Germany, hundreds thought they were Hitler. As the war began, all over the world, in each country the biggest name there produced many replicas. What happened to them? Nothing—only that they drowned their energy in a great imagination. A seductive imagination. The fantasy of being Nehru was pleasing; they immersed themselves in it. Remember: what is pleasing need not be true. Beware of the pleasant too—otherwise freedom from imagination is difficult. Imagination is pleasant; truth need not be. Often truth is unpalatable, because it shatters our web of fantasies. Truth is sharp, cutting—it will slice us. The dream-net will break. When morning comes and sleep ends, how can dreams remain? They must break. Therefore if you tell someone to wake at five, do not wake him—he will rise cursing, because his beautiful dreams have been shattered, and the hard world begins.
To dream of being Nehru is pleasant; one can dream it. To dream of being God is pleasant; one can dream it. To dream of having attained truth is more pleasant still; one can dream it. Do not trust the one who claims “I have found.” The claimant has not found—for claim belongs to the world of untruth. Where truth is found, the “I” itself is lost—who will claim?
But claims go with imagination. Thus claimants to truth live with eyes and ears shut; lest any news arrive contradicting their claim, they close all doors and live within their proclamation.
For thousands of years the search for truth goes on, and truth is not found. Very few see even a ray; very few pass through its fire. Most are lost in dreams, make a dream and live in it. To live in dreams is easy—but it is not the pilgrimage of truth. And when a dream sits deep, breaking it is difficult—because many of our pleasures are tied to it. In life we have little joy; only dreams are sweet. Life holds sorrow; dreams hold sweetness. So slowly we escape life and enter dreams.
So our sannyasins, our escapists, flee life and sit in a lonely corner, entering some dream. There they continue dreaming—and mistake that dreaming for closeness to truth. In those dreams they can make Krishna dance, crucify Christ, stand Rama with bow and arrow—everything happens. But this has nothing to do with truth. Only the one whose mind has nothing moving within can know truth—mind stilled like a lake without a ripple. A mind in which no “second” remains, no dream; the film has snapped, the screen stands empty; you alone remain—only consciousness, sheer awareness. No object remains for consciousness—only subjectivity, only your pure being. If even for a single instant such a moment becomes available, three things happen at once. In such a moment you turn inward—no effort is needed; you suddenly find yourself standing within, as by an explosion. Like a man shaken awake from sleep—suddenly standing, awake. In that silent, empty, still moment of awareness you stand within where you have never stood. In that quiet, void moment, you know that which always is—was, is, will be—for which past, future, present have no gap; that which is non-temporal, beyond time—you come to know that which is.
And you will not know it as the other; you will know that it and I are one. There are not even two—the knower and the known are not two.
I have heard a story: a great fair on the seashore. Two salt dolls went there. A crowd on the shore, and a vast debate—scholars arguing about the depth of the sea. Some say it is so deep, some say otherwise—great controversy, scriptures open, crowds gathered. No one is stepping into the sea to find out. They argue from the shore. Those who sit on the shore argue about depth; depth is known only by one who goes into depth. The salt doll said, “Evening is near, and debate has no end. You wait—I will jump, and bring back the measure.” The salt doll agreed to jump only because there was an intimacy between the sea and itself; it is a part of the sea. There is no fear. Only those can leap into truth who feel this fearlessness—“We too have arisen from truth, and into it we shall go—why fear? Leap!” The salt doll leapt.
The crowd waited. The doll went deeper and deeper—descended into depth, entered into depth—but a great difficulty: it began to melt. It grew anxious: “How will I report back? This is trouble!” It reached the bottom—but by the time it reached, it had melted and become one with the sea. The doll was small; joining the sea, it became one with the entire sea. From wave to wave it cried: “Come! If you wish to know, you too must come here. Come! I cannot tell what I have known—for in knowing I have dissolved and disappeared.”
But who listens to the sea’s voice? Only the one who silences his own voice can hear the sea’s. Within us there is so much noise it is impossible to measure.
I have heard: Niagara’s roar can be heard ten or twenty miles away. Five or seven ladies went to see Niagara. The guide said, “Ladies, now I wish to tell you about Niagara. Its roar can be heard twenty miles away—but only if you are silent.” Even if it were heard twenty thousand miles away—what difference? The hearer must be silent.
The waves cried, but those on shore heard nothing. Those who stand on the shore do not understand the language of depth. The language of depth is different; the shore has another tongue.
The second doll said, “I will go find my friend; night is falling.” It too leapt. But neither the first returned nor the second. The second, the more it searched for the friend, the more it lost itself. It found its friend—only by losing itself and becoming one with the sea. Then it too cried to the people on the shore: “Go back! I have found my friend!” But who listens to the sea—their own voices are too loud.
We are filled with our own dreams, doctrines, noises, thoughts; we must beware of ourselves—otherwise we will neither see nor know truth. This “I, my” must grow silent in a deep sense.
In the end, the meaning of the search for truth is: entering the dimension of silence. We live in the dimension of words. We love—using words; we are angry—using words; we meet a friend—words; we meet an enemy—words. Awake, we use words; asleep, in dreams, we use words. We live in the dimension of word.
Truth will not be found anywhere in that dimension. In that dimension you will find scriptures—collections of words; doctrines—constructions of words; gurus—shopkeepers of words; claimants—skilled users of words. But in the dimension of word… Sartre called his autobiography “Words.” If we were to write ours—what beyond words do we have? But in a word-autobiography, there will be no truth anywhere. There is another autobiography—of silence, of emptiness, of the wordless—where all words are lost.
If you would set out for truth, seek the dimension of emptiness and silence. Wherever you lie on the seashore, avoid words for a while. But we are so frightened lest emptiness descend, lest truth come near—that even when there is no need we keep words running. Tell two people to sit silent for an hour—they will become so restless, change so many postures, feel so suffocated, neck aching, as if dying—because their only food was word; that was their life. They are in trouble.
Seat two people quietly for an hour, side by side—they panic, go mad. Word is our all—but in the search for truth it is nothing, only a hindrance. Sometimes, when silence descends—like when we love—silence begins to flower; but we hasten to fill it with words. We say, “I love you”—and the thing is gone, the quality lost, the fragrance that rises from silence would have been recognized; but we are afraid. The dimension from which silence arises is dangerous: there is the danger of breaking, dissolving, ending. So we say, “I love you”—and these words do not feel ours; they seem like a line from some film. Words are always stale, secondhand. How many lips have uttered, “I love you!”—and can love ever be stale? Love is ever fresh, innocent, virgin—but it will not be expressed through words. Even between lovers, soon a song, some talk must intervene, “Speak—why are you silent?” If the lover sits silent, the beloved thinks something is wrong, love is lost. We are enemies of silence because we are travelers of words.
In the search for truth, this insistent grip on words must be loosened. One must stop in the wordless, stand in the silence. And if you make effort, plan, arrange—it will not be so easy; let it happen unforced. Effortlessly—lying on a beach, fall silent. Effortlessly—gazing at the sky, fall silent. Resting against a tree trunk, fall silent. Looking into your wife’s eyes, fall silent. Embracing your child, fall silent. Some spontaneous moment in your twenty-four hours—fall silent. Drop words and abide in the wordless. Truth is not far—very near—but only for those who learn the art of abiding in silence.
And what is known in that silence—neither you can say it, nor I, nor has anyone ever said. What is known there becomes like a dumb man’s sweetness—tasted, but unsayable. For that which must be known by dropping words—how can it be told in words? That which is reached by going against words—how can it be brought into words? Hence, until today, no one has been able to say what truth is. Much has been said about how truth may be approached—but what truth is—there, all have fallen silent.
Jesus is hanging on the cross, and Pilate, the one who ordered his crucifixion, asks him at the last moment, “What is truth?” Quite a moment he chose to ask! Jesus is being hoisted onto the cross—the ropes are tightened, the hands have been nailed, he is hanging there—and Pilate asks him, “What is truth?” But Jesus remains silent. Christians have no answer for why Jesus fell silent. Because if they accept that Jesus fell silent, then how will Christian missionaries, with so many words, contrive to make the whole world Christian? How will they say that truth is in Christianity? For when he was asked, What is truth?, Jesus fell silent!
But he did not remain utterly silent. Through silence he spoke as well. If only Pilate had understood. But he did not. The language was different. When Jesus fell silent, he was saying: Be silent—and know. Yet even to say that would have been improper. Because to say “Be silent and know” would still require words! So he remained silent. But Pilate did not understand. The execution took place. Pilate probably concluded that Jesus did not know the truth. Whenever anyone came to Buddha and asked, What is truth?, he would say: Leave that aside and ask anything else. The man would say, But I have come only to know the truth. Then Buddha would say: In that case, drop all asking and be silent.
He would say, But how will I come to know? Buddha would say: Be silent for a few days; then I will ask you whether you came to know or not.
A man came—Moggalan. He said: I have set out to seek the truth—where is it? Buddha said: Wait a few days, be silent a few days, do not ask for a few days; then after a year I will ask you. He said: But I want to find out right now. Buddha said: If you want it now, then be silent now. I mention a year because it will take you a year. You are in a rush, in momentum; coming to a stop will take a year. Otherwise it can happen right now—the truth is here, all around—here it is! here it is!
Where is it? Nothing seems visible.
Buddha said: You are in a race. Stop, and it will be seen. Stop for a year. A monk sitting to one side burst out laughing.
Moggalan asked him: Why are you laughing? He said: Do not get deceived by Buddha. I too came some time ago asking where and what truth is. This Buddha said: Be silent for a year, then ask. If you want to ask, ask now; otherwise after a year you will be trapped. We fell silent for a year. Now there is nothing left even to ask. Now the tables are turned—this Buddha harasses me: Speak up now, ask! What should I ask? There is nothing left to ask. It is found—what is there to ask now? If you want to ask, ask now; otherwise after a year you will be caught. Buddha said: I will stand by my promise; you stand by yours. You will ask after a year; I will answer. A year passed; a crowd gathered one morning, and Buddha said: Where is Moggalan? He has run away. Where is Moggalan? Find him, because the year is complete, and I must ask whether he has anything to ask. They caught Moggalan and brought him—he had hidden behind a tree. Buddha said: Ask now—the year is up; have you forgotten the pledge? I told you that after a year of silence you would ask, and I would answer. Moggalan said: What is there to ask now? Now wherever you are, whatever appears to you, that is what I am as well; that is what appears to me too. The asker is gone. Now the knower has arrived.
Remember, as long as the asker remains, the knower does not arrive. When the asker goes out one door, the knower comes in through the other. Drop asking; pause, be still; in some uncontrived moment fall silent—and one day a glimpse will be given. Any day, any time it can happen. No prediction can be made about when it will happen. Nor can any prior forecast be made about how it will happen. The ways of truth are very unfamiliar, unknown; from where and in what moment truth will descend cannot be said.
Keep only one thing in mind: let your door not be closed—when truth knocks, let your door be open; be empty, willing to look into the void. Be open, be free, so that if it comes you can say, Come, the door is open. Let your door stay open. Silence is the name of that door being open. If I must put it into words, I will say: silence is truth; emptiness is truth.
These few things I have said—do not take them as truth. Words are not truth. Do not mistake the speaker for truth. What has truth to do with a speaker? But within this one who speaks there is also a non-speaker; and within you who listen there is also a non-listener—there is where one has to go.
You have listened to my words with such peace and love—I am deeply obliged. And in the end I bow to the Lord seated within all. Please accept my pranam.