I have heard that there was a great royal palace. At midnight the palace caught fire. Those who had eyes found their way out. There was also a blind man inside. He began to grope from door to door, seeking a way out. But all the doors were shut—only one was open. He stretched his hands at each closed door, examined it, found it locked, and moved on. At every closed door he labored, but the doors were closed. The fire kept rising; danger to life kept mounting. At last he arrived at the door that was open. But ill-fortune—at that very door his head began to itch. He scratched his itch and walked past the doorway. Again there were only closed doors, and again he wandered among them.
If you were watching that man, what would pass in your mind? What a wretched fellow—he toils at the locked doors and misses the open one!
But this did not happen only in some royal palace. It happens every day in the palace of life. The whole palace of life is in darkness, and it is on fire. And there is only one door open; all others are closed. And at the closed doors we all labor beyond measure! At the open door a small lapse and we miss it. Then again, only closed doors. And so it goes on, birth after birth, lives upon lives. There is the door of wealth—it is a closed door; it does not lead outside of life. There is the door of fame—it too is closed; it does not take you out of life’s blaze; it draws you deeper within the fire.
There is one door in life’s burning mansion—the name of that door is meditation. It is the one open door that leads beyond the fire of life.
But there, your head begins to itch, an ant bites your foot, something or other happens—and man misses. Then there are only closed doors, and the wandering among closed doors begins again.
I begin these preliminary talks for the coming three days with this story so that you remember: at that open door do not be distracted by something small and miss. And remember also that apart from meditation, no other door ever was, is, or can be open. Whoever has gone beyond life’s fire has gone through that one door. Whoever will ever go beyond, will go through the same door.
All other doors only look like doors, but they are shut. Wealth appears as if it might lead out of life’s fire—otherwise, no one would be mad enough to go on collecting wealth! It looks like a door—only looks. It is not a door; it is closed. If only a wall were visible, it would be better, because we would not try to break our head against a wall. But at a closed door people work harder—perhaps it will open. Yet the door of wealth has never opened, no matter how much one labors. It does not lead out; it leads you further in.
So too, there are many such doors—of fame, of renown, of ego, of position, of prestige. Not one of these doors takes you out. And those who stand at these doors—seeing them, those left behind feel: perhaps now they will get out, now they will get out! Looking at the very rich, the poor man thinks: perhaps the wealthy will now be free of life’s pain, life’s suffering, life’s fire, life’s darkness. Those who stand upon the height of glory—the obscure behind them weep and think: now this person will get out. Those who stand at those closed doors themselves behave as though they are close to escape.
Understand their hope through one more small story.
There is a hospital. Only those patients are admitted there for whom there is no hope of survival. There is a single door; near the door a long corridor. Along the corridor lie the patients’ cots. The patient on cot number one would sometimes rise in the morning and say: Ah! What a sunrise! What flowers have blossomed! How the birds are singing! And none of the patients in the ward could see anything. There was no door there, no window. They burned inwardly: when will this patient die, so that we may gain the first cot?
Then the patient had a heart attack, and all the ward prayed to God that he might die, so that one of them could have his place. From there one could see the sun, the flowers blooming, the birds singing, the moon, the stars. Blessed is he who is near the door. But the man survived, and again in the morning he would say: What fragrance! What sunrays! What joy at this door—open sky!
Again another attack came to the man. Again they all prayed he might die so that one of them might get the place.
Again and again this happened, yet the patient did not die. And again and again, when he recovered, he would peek out and speak of the beauty beyond the door.
The entire ward was filled with rivalry, envy, jealousy. At last the patient died. Then all of them tried to get the first place. By bribes, by service to the doctors, somehow one succeeded and came to the first cot. Peeping out—there was a wall. Outside the door was also a boundary wall! No sun was visible, no flowers blossomed, no moon ever appeared, no rays ever came! The heart sank with a thud. But if he now said there was nothing, the whole ward would call him a fool. He looked at the wall, returned, smiled, and said: Blessed my fate—what a sunrise, what flowers in bloom, what fragrance! And again the whole ward was troubled in the same snare—when will he die so we may get the place!
Those who stand at the places of presidents stand at such closed doors—where ahead there is neither sun nor light nor flowers. Those who stand at the doors of wealth stand at such doors where there is only a wall. Yet turning back they say: so many flowers are in bloom, the sun has risen, the moon has come out, the birds are singing! If they did not say so, they would be thought idiots.
But sometimes, from those doors too, a few people—courageous, daring—return and declare: there is nothing. At times a Mahavira, at times a Buddha returns from that door and says: it was a mistake; it was competition. There is nothing there—nothing at all.
Yet the unintelligent are unwilling to admit their unintelligence, and their vanity keeps thousands mad—hoping when they will get there. But all those doors are closed. There is one door open, and it is the door of meditation. And the strange thing is: all the doors that seem to open outward are shut. The door that seems to open inward is the open one.
The door of meditation opens inward; the door of wealth opens outward.
All doors opening outward have proved deceptive. No door that opens outward ever opens at all—it is closed. In truth, outward there is only a wall; there is nothing there to open. The door that opens is the one that opens inward. But we pass it by: a small thing distracts us and we miss.
These three days I invite you to labor a little at that inner door.
The difficulty begins in the inner journey because for lives we are habituated to going outward. That path we know well; it is familiar, known; there is no fear of mistake there. The other journey is utterly unfamiliar—the one that goes inward. And the door of meditation opens inward. At that door—Swami Ram used to joke—at that door the sign says: Pull. Not Push. On that door it is written: pull inward; do not push outward. By pushing outward the door closes tighter.
That door simply does not open outward. It says: Pull. And we, being habituated to outer doors—even if we reach the inner door—keep on pushing there as well. Our habit is outward.
This journey to the inner door is not difficult in itself. It is difficult only because our habit is outward. And habits can prove so dangerous that we do not even come to know. We go on moving according to habit. We all live in habit, and our whole conditioning is outward. That alone is the difficulty; otherwise, there is no difficulty in going inward.
But we have no experience of going there—our experiences are all outward. We only know how to collide with those doors that never open. Then, tired of one door, we start knocking at another. Tired of the second, we knock at the third. There are thousands of doors in that palace. But we miss the one door. And the sole reason is that our whole personality’s grip is outward. And habits are so dangerous, so strong and mechanical, that we do not even notice.
You walk along the road. You do not know why your two hands are swinging. Scientists say that a million years ago the ancestors of man walked on all fours. Much later man stood on two feet. That four-limbed habit still persists. Now we walk on two feet, yet both hands swing—right hand with left foot, left hand with right foot. They give no help in walking; they have no relation to movement. But the million-year-old habit follows, continues; that dead habit keeps doing its work.
Perhaps you never noticed: when our hands swing, we are giving news of the man of a million years ago who walked on all fours. The habit remained. The body has not yet realized that man walks on two feet. The body does not know; it still lives in a million-year-old habit.
Man ordinarily lives in habit, and breaking habit feels difficult. We too have habits that become obstacles in meditation.
There is no other obstacle in meditation except our habits.
If we understand our habits and make even a small effort to be free of them, meditation begins to flow as simply as when a stone is lifted from a spring and water runs free; as easily as a spark leaps when a flint is struck. Just so easily one enters meditation. But our habits are contrary. Let us understand some of these habits in a preliminary way; from tomorrow we will try to go deeper into them.
One of our habits is to always be doing something. For meditation, no habit is more dangerous or more opposite than this one.
Meditation is non-doing. Meditation is not-doing. Meditation is doing nothing at all.
And our habit is to do something—anything! Even when a man sits idle, he is doing something. If you look into the skull of the one we say “is doing nothing,” you will find he is doing a great deal. Man is never unoccupied, never unengaged, never empty. The man who becomes empty becomes filled by the Paramatma.
The art of becoming empty is meditation.
But we know only the art of being filled—filled somehow. If nothing else, a man will turn on the radio, pick up a newspaper, look around for someone to talk to. If even that is not possible...
I was traveling in a train. There was another gentleman in my compartment. I, as usual, sleep while traveling. As soon as I entered the compartment, I lay down and slept. The gentleman seemed very restless, for he desired that I wake so he could talk. After about eight hours I got up; he was completely ready. Seeing his readiness, I closed my eyes again. He became very agitated. With eyes closed I kept wondering what he was doing. He took yesterday’s newspaper—which he had read several times—and began to read it again. He had read it so much, and again he started. Then he threw it down.
With eyes closed I would glance at him now and then to see what he was up to. His restlessness increased. He opened the window, then shut it; took something out of the suitcase, then put it back; went to the bathroom, came out again.
Then I laughed. He said: Why are you laughing? And you are a strange man—fourteen hours are passing. I thought someone had come, there would be some company. You lie there with eyes closed, and my very life is trembling! Had you not been here, there would at least have been the relief of being alone.
I said: I too am gaining experience and much enjoyment—watching your doings. Why do you open these windows again and again? If you want them open, leave them open; if you want them closed, keep them closed. What are you repeatedly taking out of the suitcase and putting back?
He said: I am doing nothing. You have recognized rightly—I am trying somehow to do something, because without doing, the mind gets very frightened. And how long can one sleep?
If you think about yourself, you will find the same condition—something or other. If everything were arranged for you for three months and you were told: sit empty for three months, you would say: I’ll jump from the roof, hang myself. Three months, you say? Three hours are very difficult!
Those imprisoned do not suffer from the jail itself. The real suffering is from becoming without work. That is why in prison people write commentaries on the Gita, compose The Secret of the Gita—God knows what all they do. Something is needed to do. People in prison read books, write books. Some work—emptiness is very hard.
And one who cannot be empty cannot enter meditation.
Even in the name of meditation people do things. Someone turns a rosary, someone chants Ram-Ram, someone does asanas, someone stands on the head. In the name of meditation, people do something. But meditation has nothing to do with doing, because as long as you do, the mind is filled with tension.
When you do nothing, the lake of the mind becomes utterly silent.
So long as you act, the surface of the mind-lake is stirred with ripples. When you do nothing, the lake goes to sleep, it becomes still. Out of that stillness the door opens. As long as you do, the pushing continues. You are pushing.
Remember: doing is the door that goes outward; non-doing is the door that goes inward.
It is astonishing. If even for a single instant one abides in non-doing, all that is to be attained is attained. Those doors open which alone can truly open. One arrives where life’s treasure is. In a single instant of non-doing, one comes to the place where through lives and lives of doing no one ever arrives.
Through doing you can always reach the other; through doing you cannot reach yourself. If you have to come to me, you must walk—there is distance between you and me. If you do not walk, the distance will not be covered. But if I have to come to myself, where is the need to walk—there is no distance there.
If you are to go to the other, walking is necessary. If you are to come to yourself, stopping is necessary.
If you are to obtain something else, doing is necessary. If you are to attain your own self, doing is not necessary. Because I am; there is no question of attaining me by doing. I already am. That which is already there cannot be attained by doing. That which is not there must be attained by doing. If you want wealth, you have to do something; by not-doing, wealth will not come. If you want fame, you have to do something; by not doing anything, fame will not come.
But if you are to attain yourself, then if you do anything you will go astray—because it is. It already is. Even when you feel you have not found it, it is. There is no question of attaining it by doing; it must be attained by not-doing. Understand this secret well. Everything in the world is attained by doing—except oneself, which is attained by not-doing.
Dharma is attained by non-doing; adharma is attained by doing.
Therefore whatever you do will be adharma. Whatever you do will be adharma. Build a temple—it will be adharma; build a charitable hall—it will be adharma. Whatever you do—because doing connects you to the outside.
But once the state of non-doing is found, that which is dharma is found.
And the more amazing thing: the one who knows non-doing—then even if he acts, he remains a non-doer. Then whatever he does makes no difference.
Mahavira also walks, begs for food, speaks, sleeps, rises—he does everything; but he remains a non-doer. Now doing has no connection.
Now his doing is as when an actor performs in a play. He does everything. And within? Within he does nothing. He plays Ram and beats his chest and weeps when Sita is lost. And within? Within he neither beats his chest nor weeps. He becomes Ravana and fights for Lanka; Lanka burns; at night he returns home and sleeps happily. Within—nothing is touched; only the acting remains outside.
Hence we do not call Krishna’s character a character—we call it Leela. Everyone else’s we call a character. Ram’s we call a character; but Krishna’s we do not call a character. And there is a difference between Leela and character. Leela means: play. Therefore a man as unique as Krishna is hard to find in the world. He can do all kinds of acts because for him it is not a question of character. For him everything is Leela—a part in a play, nothing more. So he can do such acts as we cannot even imagine. Ten women are dancing, and he stands among them and dances. It goes beyond our imagination—what is this man doing!
But Krishna says: this is Leela; there is no character here. We are not doing anything. Within, non-doing remains established; outside, all doing goes on.
When character becomes Leela, from that day dharma begins. So long as there is character, we belong to adharma. And character becomes Leela the day we experience within the non-doer—who is found by doing nothing.
Therefore meditation is not to be done—and our habit is to do. Ask us anything, and we are in the habit of doing. If someone asks, Where are you going? we may even say: I am going to do meditation. Our habit! Even when we speak of meditation, we say: to do meditation. But we do not know that meditation has no relation to doing. Meditation is non-doing.
In Japan there was a fakir with a small ashram. His ashram had great renown. The emperor of Japan himself went to see it. The fakir took him before each hut and explained: here the monks bathe; here the monks eat; here the monks rest. After they had gone around all the huts—there was a large building in the middle—the emperor kept asking: Fine, they bathe in the huts—but what do they do in this building?
The fakir would not speak of that building at all, as if it did not exist! Then the emperor came back to the gate, and the large building in the middle—the fakir did not mention it.
The emperor was filled with anger. Mounting his horse at the gate he said: Either you are mad, or I am. I came to see your ashram; you showed me the huts—here the monks cook, here they bathe—what need was there to show me that? And that big building in the middle—I asked you twenty-five times what they do there, and you became deaf as if you hadn’t heard!
The fakir still laughed and said: Salutations!
The emperor said: Can you not hear that I am asking: what do you do in that building?
The fakir said: Forgive me—you ask a wrong question. How can I answer? For a wrong question any answer will be wrong. Your question is wrong. In that building we do nothing. You ask, What do you do there? so I understood that this man understands only the language of doing. So I showed you where they bathe, where they eat. I understood—you are a man who understands the language of doing; you cannot understand the language of non-doing. There we do nothing, and you ask: what do you do? So I kept silent—what could I say?
The emperor said: Nothing! You must do something. Why was it built then?
He said: Forgive me. Come again some time. Truly, we do nothing there. It was built. And if I tell you, perhaps you will not understand. That is our meditation hall.
The emperor said: Fine—then why don’t you say you do meditation?
The fakir said: That is the difficulty. One can do bathing, one can do eating, one can do exercise—meditation cannot be done.
The name of non-doing is meditation.
We too understand only the language of doing—of bathing. So we think meditation must be some act. Many unintelligent people even explain that it is an inner bath, a spiritual bath. As coolness is obtained by bathing, so is coolness by meditation. But so long as you understand in the language of doing, you cannot understand, because the language of doing is itself the obstacle.
So in these three days, keep clear that what we call “doing meditation” is non-doing. In that time, do nothing. Drop all doing. Simply remain. This does not occur to us. We walk on the road—that is doing; we eat—that is doing; we sleep—that is doing; we sit—that is doing; we get up—that is doing—all acts. Behind all these acts there is someone within who does them.
If we can perform an act, why can we not also be without acting? If I can open my hand, why can I not close it? If I can open my eyes, why can I not shut them? Whatever we can do—the reverse is also possible.
Until now we have known only one direction in life—of doing. We know no direction of non-doing. So we have no idea. Even when we speak of love, we say: I do love! But those who have known love know love is not done. It is not an act.
You cannot do love. Or try—seat someone beside you for half an hour and try to do love. In half an hour your heads will be exhausted—his and yours. You will find: no, it cannot be done.
Love happens. Love is; it cannot be done.
But we think of love also in the language of doing. Our habit of doing has become so strong that whatever we can think of we think in that language. We are even heard saying: I take breath. But you have never taken a breath yet in your life—nor can you. Breath goes on. And if you were taking breath, then death would become difficult: Death would come to the door and you would say: stand there—I am taking breath; I will keep taking breath. But we know—when death comes to the door, you do not take any breath; if it goes, it goes; if it comes, it comes. No man has ever taken breath. But we have made breathing an act; we speak as if inhalation and exhalation are an action. They are not—they are a happening. We are not doing it; it is happening.
That which is seated within, within, needs to do nothing. It is. And it always is. There is no way for it to be destroyed. It always will be. If its being is to be known, without freedom from doing it is very difficult to know. Because as long as we are entangled in doing, being is not noticed. Doing means “doing”; being means “being.” One who is entangled in doing does not come to know what is within, who is within. When all activity drops—even for a single instant—only being remains. The winds are blowing; there is a tree; the leaves are moving. But the tree is not moving the leaves; the winds are blowing and the leaves move. Breath moves—everything is happening.
The state of meditation means: relax into being. Whatever is happening—let it happen. If thoughts are moving, let them move. Who are you to stop them? Let it be. Whatever is happening—the leaves moving, the wind blowing, the stars appearing in the sky; a child crying, a bird calling; within, thoughts moving, heart beating, breath flowing, blood coursing—everything is going on. Let all this go on. You do nothing; you just remain. If even for an instant—even a single pulse of a moment—you taste this remaining, then the movement into meditation has begun. That inner door that opens—opens. If you get even a glimpse of it, then there is no difficulty. Then you have recognized the path, and you can go deeper and deeper and deeper.
So be a little watchful of the habit of doing. Let no one come here even by mistake thinking: we are going to do meditation.
Tomorrow morning we will sit for meditation.
Now, even sitting is an act; we will do—it is an act; we will come, we will go—also acts.
All the language of man is the language of action, and the language of the Paramatma is the language of non-action.
The Paramatma is doing nothing. Those who say: God made the world—are utterly unintelligent. They are thinking in their own language—the language of doing—that God made the world as a potter makes a pot.
A potter makes a pot; God never made the world. From God the world is arising. It is not a conscious act. It is not some activity of God—sitting somewhere and making the world. The world is happening. This becoming is happening. No one sitting somewhere is making it. As you “take” breath—just so the whole flow of life moves. The illusion of doing has arisen only in man. The birds have no such illusion; the plants have no such illusion; the clouds have no such illusion; the moon and stars have no such illusion—no one has it. Man has the illusion that we do—and this illusion of doing sits upon life like a rock.
There is no greater untruth than that we do. Everything happens. And one who would enter meditation must understand well that everything is happening. So do not even try: I will become peaceful. No endeavor disturbs peace more than the effort to be peaceful. Do not even try: I will become pure. Do not even try: I will attain God. None of your endeavors will succeed. In that direction no effort works. No attempt works. There, those arrive who do nothing. Those arrive who do nothing! For whom even the illusion that we can do something has dropped.
In the coming three days, let this understanding be borne with great attentiveness—the deeper this understanding goes, the more result there will be in meditation.
We will sit for meditation in the morning and at night, and for three days we must labor at that same door—there. But you will be here twenty-four hours for three days. So to avoid missing that door, keep watch. For twenty-four hours keep the awareness: I am not doing anything—it is happening. If I am walking, understand that walking is happening, an activity is happening. If I am breathing—breathing is happening. If hunger comes—it is happening. If thirst comes—it is happening.
For three days, let there be a continuous remembrance that things are happening. I am not doing. You will be amazed—such a state of rest will be available to the mind, everything will become so quiet, something within will become so still, such depth will arise as you never imagined could be. And then, for meditation—when we sit, that glimpse will arise quickly and with momentum.
But for twenty-four hours, whatever happens, take it as happening. And in truth, it is happening. That is the truth. Have you ever once produced hunger? Have you ever brought sleep? All that is happening. Try one night to bring sleep—and that night it will not come, the very night you try to bring it! Those who cannot sleep—the total reason is that they are madly trying to bring sleep. Can sleep ever come through effort? All effort will break sleep, because sleep is relaxation and effort is labor. Can hunger be produced by producing? Can thirst be produced? Can love be produced? Can breath be made to go? Nothing at all.
Everything deep in life is happening in silence, of itself. Flowers are blossoming by themselves—no one is making a rose bloom. And if a rose loses its head and begins to make flowers, then be sure there will be no flowers. Flowers happen.
The whole of life is an effortless stream—except the human mind. There a stubbornness has arisen, a rock stands up. That rock has set up all hindrances. That rock is this: we are doing! Then we “do” meditation, we “do” prayer. We get entangled in all this doing—and nothing opens within us anywhere.
In these three days, we are not doing anything—we just are. Let this feeling go as deep as possible.
Even now as you leave here—as you walk—feel that walking is happening. You are not going toward the hotel; going is happening. Your whole organism is going. It is going to bed to sleep—your whole organism. You are not taking it.
It is as natural as the wind blowing and the leaves moving. In the same way, you have tired through the day, and every fiber of the body is asking: enough, enough—now enough. The whole body asks: sleep. It is not your demand; it is as natural as a bud becoming a flower, as a leaf that has dried falling in the wind. It is just as natural, just as effortless. When hunger rises in the belly, you are not doing anything—it is all happening naturally. It is like water getting hot and becoming steam and rising—one does not say water is “doing” steam. We say: water has become steam.
The rules that apply all around in life apply to us as well. We are not an exception in life. Man is a part of nature. And one who understands that we are a part of nature—he can enter meditation this very moment—this very instant. Because then the idea that we have to do something disappears. Then things will happen.
Meditation will come—you cannot bring it.
And if meditation comes, and you are not to miss that door, keep a few remembrances.
First: let this idea of doership, of being the doer, go entirely. If ever you are to enter the world of meditation, let go the idea that I can do something. For three days, keep this in mind. And there will be very amazing experiences. If while walking you feel: I am not walking; this process of walking is happening just as the moon moves, the earth moves, the stars move—exactly so this process of walking is happening.
This “I” is not walking; just as the whole universe moves, so my movement is a part of that movement. Then suddenly you will be startled—you will have a new experience you never had. For the first time you will find something altogether different has happened—someone else stands here; you are not. While eating, eating is happening; while bathing, bathing is happening.
Things are happening; you are doing nothing.
Spontaneously a deep peace will surround you; a silence will descend within. And in these three days there is no reason why, at that door where we usually pass by, we should not stop. If that door comes into view, we will be out. This can happen. It has happened. It can happen to anyone. And no special qualification is needed. No special qualification is needed! Only one qualification of disappearing is needed.
It is this intense notion of being—“I am”—that creates the obstacle; nothing else. Neither any sin can stop anyone, nor any virtue can carry anyone across. Sin also stops—because the sinner holds: I have done. Virtue also stops—because the virtuous one holds: I have done. If even the sinner drops the notion: I did—and knows: it happened—he too will arrive this very moment—this very instant. And if the virtuous one understands: it happened—he too will arrive this very instant.
Neither sin stops, nor virtue carries. Only “I am doing”—this asmitā, this ego—stops.
It stops the sinner, it stops the virtuous. The very notion of doership obstructs. And we are so full of the notion of doership that we feel if we do nothing for a little while, we will be annihilated, we will die, we will begin to vegetate if we do nothing for a while.
But see, without anyone doing anything, how vast a cosmos is moving; without anyone doing anything, how immense an arrangement goes on! Without any message, without any signal—how many stars are moving! How many earths there must be among the stars—how much life—endless! Who knows! So much is moving without anyone doing anything!
If God were doing, mistakes would occur. In doing, mistakes happen. Sometimes God would doze, two stars would collide; sometimes a wrong signal would be given, there would be a derailment—who knows what! But God is doing nothing; therefore no mistake happens. In non-doing how can error be? Things happen. They happen out of their own effortless nature.
The meaning of dharma is: svabhava—intrinsic nature. And svabhava means: that which happens; which is not done.
Meditation is the door that takes you into svabhava. Therefore meditation does not happen by doing. Wherever people teach: turn the rosary and meditation will happen; chant Ram-Ram and meditation will happen; chant Om and meditation will happen; recite the Gayatri and meditation will happen—they know nothing of what meditation means.
Meditation happens through doing nothing. Do nothing—and meditation happens.
We are doing something—therefore meditation is not happening. We are doing something and are entangled in that doing—therefore meditation is not happening.
There is a wondrous incident from Buddha’s life. For six years Buddha practiced severe austerities. Whatever could be done, he did. He fasted, he suppressed the body. His condition became such that when he stepped into the river to bathe, he did not have the strength to climb the bank. He clung to a root and hung there—he fainted. There was not even that much strength in the body. For six years he did all that could be done. The strange thing is that in six years he gained nothing—nothing at all. Nothing even of a shell’s worth came to Buddha. Then, while bathing in the Niranjana, he fainted from weakness.
The body had become mere bones. In that moment of swooning a thought arose in him: I cannot cross this river—and I am trying to cross the ocean of becoming! How will it be? Even crossing a river has become difficult. So all that was done in six years appeared futile. Nothing of essence was found. That day, tired, he dropped everything. Coming out, he sat beneath a tree on the far bank. A girl, Sujata, brought him milk-rice. She had not brought it for Buddha. She had vowed to the tree-deity. When she came in the evening, seeing Buddha, she thought: the deity is pleased and has emerged from the tree. Had she come the next day, Buddha would have been fasting. That day he had dropped everything. He was hungry.
Hunger is not to be produced. Fasting is to be done. Hunger happens. Remember: fasting is to be done. And in doing, there can never be dharma, for doing is our doing; it strengthens the ego. That is why those who fast publish it in the newspapers that so-and-so Maharaj has done so many fasts. But that so-and-so Maharaj was very hungry—there is no need to publish this, because hunger happens. There is nothing of Maharaj’s doing in it; it comes of itself—it comes from God. Therefore no one keeps a record of hunger; one keeps a record of fasts. That is our earned wealth.
But that day Buddha had dropped doing. He was tired. He said: for six years I have done much. Now I will do nothing. Sitting under the tree, he was hungry. The girl said she brought food. The belly said: take it—and Buddha took the milk-rice.
This was the first occasion when he dealt simply with food. Even with food we do not deal simply; there too is difficulty: Who brought it? Sujata was a shudra; Buddha did not ask who brought it—because hunger does not know whether a shudra cooked it or a brahmin. Only man’s ego knows—who made it! who brought it! Hunger knows nothing. For hunger there is neither brahmin nor shudra. For hunger, food is needed.
Buddha did not ask: who are you? Her name was Sujata. From that we can tell she was a shudra; otherwise she would not be named Sujata. Our names are always inverted. What we are not, we try to declare in the name. She was not born into a good caste, hence the name Sujata. Why would a high-caste person name his daughter Sujata? We are always trying to cover what is within.
Buddha did not ask. He was hungry; he said: fine. He ate. Then sleep came; he slept.
This was also the first proper behavior with sleep. Before this there were rules: one should sleep so long, rise at such a time—regulations.
That day when sleep came, Buddha slept. He did not say: not yet, my time has not come. If I sleep now, I will oversleep.
Sadhus and sannyasins have rules. Therefore sadhus and sannyasins never reach anywhere. A man of rules cannot arrive anywhere, because a man of rules makes habits.
Svabhava has its own laws. We do not need to know them. When sleep comes, the body says, the life-force says: sleep. When the time to wake comes, the body says, the life-force says: get up. Neither sleep on your own, nor wake on your own. Then the sleep that is God’s will be available. When the body says: eat—then eat. When hunger says: eat—then eat; when hunger says: no—then stop. Then the hunger that is God’s will come to you.
Otherwise, we have our artificial hungers too. We look at the clock—ten o’clock—time for food. That is our hunger. If the clock is set an hour back and you do not know, when it shows ten you will become hungry—though it is nine; or if it is ahead, though it is eleven. That hunger runs by the clock. That hunger is ours.
So Buddha slept when sleep came. That day he had dropped everything—everything that had been done. He decided: now I will do nothing—six years are enough. He did not even know that what had not happened by doing could happen by not-doing. That night he slept. Around five in the morning his sleep broke; the last stars were about to set. Lying beneath the tree he watched those sinking stars—one by one they disappeared. The silence of the morning, the deep sleep of the night. All thought of doing had been abandoned; there was nothing left to do.
He had been a king—he had abandoned that six years ago—the race for wealth and fame was left behind. Then a new race had been picked up—for moksha, for nirvana. That too dropped that day. There was nothing left to do—utterly unoccupied, unemployed—absolutely useless, one might say. This uselessness is not useless—for it does something.
That day Buddha was utterly useless—absolute unemployment—no kingdom, no wealth, no fame, no dharma, no moksha, no God, no Atman. Nothing to attain. Nothing. He sat empty.
The last star sank, and Buddha stood up—and that was attained which had not been attained in six years of striving!
When people came to ask: How did it happen? Buddha said: Do not ask how it happened. Because “how” I tried much—and it did not happen. How it happened today is hard to say—because I did nothing. Today I was not even there—today I was not, for I was doing nothing. But it happened. Later Buddha said: It will not be attained by doing; it is attained by not-doing.
Whenever it has happened, it has happened through non-doing.
But those who try to understand Buddha look for what he did. They see what he did for six years—and their monks do the same. But what happened that last night of not-doing does not come into their grasp. Because what does non-doing mean?
So what he did for six years goes on in the whole world—he fasted, he did this, he did that. But the point was missed. The event happened in non-doing. It never happened in doing—whether you do for six years or six million years. It always happens in non-doing—because the one within is already. You are entangled in doing; therefore it is not seen. Doing drops, you are utterly empty—and its vision occurs.
It is just that simple. But very difficult—because our habit is of doing.
So in these three days, take a step toward non-doing; drop even the thought of doing. Do nothing at all; in these three days, let whatever happens happen. When hunger comes, eat. When sleep comes, sleep. Do not speak on your own; do not be silent on your own. When the impulse to speak arises, speak. When the impulse to be silent arises, be silent. When silence arises—even if the whole world tells you to speak—do not speak. When speaking arises—even if no one is speaking—go and speak to the trees. Whatever happens, let it happen. Leave yourself the way a dry leaf leaves itself to the winds. The winds go east—the leaf goes east. The winds go west—the leaf goes west. The winds lift it into the sky—the leaf rises. The winds drop it—the leaf falls.
Someone asked Lao Tzu: How did you attain? He said: I became a dry leaf. Wherever the winds led, I said: let’s go. I dropped my insistence to go here or there. Wherever the winds turned to go, I said: there we go. And the moment I dropped insistence, I attained.
Not by effort—but by effortlessness. Not by striving—but by non-striving. Not by karma—but by akarma. Not by endeavor—but by no-endeavor. Not by running—but by stopping. Not by seeking—but by standing still.
So in these three days... slowly, slowly, the last stars will sink; then the very last star will also sink; and a silent stillness will remain. Here, of course, we will sit by schedule. And method is a very troublesome thing—it has no relation. Here we will sit at the proper time, there will be meetings, we will “do” meditation. That meditation will not be of much use. If you feel like it, tonight when you leave here, do not go to bed. Sit beneath some tree for an hour or two—even the whole night; what can be lost?
One night Socrates was missing. He spent the night under a tree. The whole household was worried: Where is Socrates? They searched everywhere. They searched at the homes of friends. He was not there. They said: He hasn’t been seen all day—we too are concerned—where is he? They searched in the markets; the shops were closing. Socrates was nowhere. They were very frightened; people stayed awake the whole night—where has Socrates gone?
Early in the morning, someone brought news: he is standing under a tree; his eyes have become steady; he does not blink; he is gazing at the sky. We are afraid even to touch him, for he has been standing the whole night in that state.
His people went. They saw him and sat silently. No one dared go near and shake him, he was so quiet.
If a very quiet man is present, even an unquiet man sits down.
Then Socrates stirred. Morning had come, the sun had risen. He started for home. They called out: You do not even look at us—we have been sitting here so long—and what were you doing? What happened to you?
Socrates said: I have done much—all my life. Last night non-doing happened. All my life I did. Last night non-doing happened. I came and stood under the tree—and then I do not know what happened, for after that I did nothing. But what could not happen by doing, happened last night.
If you go and feel like it, sit under a tree. Sit—sleeping we do plenty; every day on time we sleep; everything is done. Let that go for three days. Be like wind and water, like dry leaves. Then perhaps what cannot happen in sitting here—because here you will come by rule, sit by the clock, leave by the clock—perhaps elsewhere it can happen. Sit anywhere—morning, night, noon. And live these three days as if someone were floating in the river—not swimming. Remember—no swimming.
In water one man swims. To swim, he must do something. He says: I must reach that shore, so he tries to reach by swimming. Another man jumps—he floats. He says: wherever the river takes me, I agree. I am not; now the river—wherever it takes me. He floats. In these three days, keep the spirit of floating.
Ordinarily in life we keep the spirit of swimming—we swim. Someone wants to swim towards Delhi—he swims along in his way. Another wants to go elsewhere—he swims along there. We swim in life. Swimming is our habit. Swimming is work.
Floating—not swimming. In these three days, float. Become utterly light—be carried away. And let there be no burden in life; then you will not miss that door—where an itch arises and a man goes past.
These three days we will speak on stray, fragmentary sutras. Whatever your questions are, write them and give them to me—we will speak of them at night. And in the morning I will speak in this manner again. I will not speak of any rule or regulation. I will speak in such a way that perhaps some hint may arise and the floating may happen. It can happen. When the winds are moving, why should we not? When the waters flow, are we so unfortunate that we cannot? When the moon and stars are moving, what have we done to be excluded? When, except man, everything is happening, why should it not happen to us? It will—certainly it will. But you do not do—let it happen, and it becomes certain. This is the first thing.
We will speak again tomorrow morning.
May it be that, having come so far, you also travel in that journey where you yourself cannot go; but if you let yourself go, then going can happen.
From tomorrow morning we will also sit for meditation.
But the preparation must be done all the time—twenty-four hours. Those who prepare will be able. Otherwise, it takes no time to miss. There are many doors, but only one is open. And if you miss there even a little, then there are many doors—then wander among them. Who knows when again you will come to that door? Who knows whether it will even be in this very life? And the ways to miss are so astonishing that there is no counting them. Our devices to miss are so many that it is difficult to reckon. For a tiny thing we may miss. So having come, standing at the very door, it is essential to take care not to miss.
I am deeply obliged by the peace and love with which you have listened to my words. And in the end, I bow to the Paramatma seated within everyone. Please accept my pranam.
Osho's Commentary
I have heard that there was a great royal palace. At midnight the palace caught fire. Those who had eyes found their way out. There was also a blind man inside. He began to grope from door to door, seeking a way out. But all the doors were shut—only one was open. He stretched his hands at each closed door, examined it, found it locked, and moved on. At every closed door he labored, but the doors were closed. The fire kept rising; danger to life kept mounting. At last he arrived at the door that was open. But ill-fortune—at that very door his head began to itch. He scratched his itch and walked past the doorway. Again there were only closed doors, and again he wandered among them.
If you were watching that man, what would pass in your mind? What a wretched fellow—he toils at the locked doors and misses the open one!
But this did not happen only in some royal palace. It happens every day in the palace of life. The whole palace of life is in darkness, and it is on fire. And there is only one door open; all others are closed. And at the closed doors we all labor beyond measure! At the open door a small lapse and we miss it. Then again, only closed doors. And so it goes on, birth after birth, lives upon lives. There is the door of wealth—it is a closed door; it does not lead outside of life. There is the door of fame—it too is closed; it does not take you out of life’s blaze; it draws you deeper within the fire.
There is one door in life’s burning mansion—the name of that door is meditation. It is the one open door that leads beyond the fire of life.
But there, your head begins to itch, an ant bites your foot, something or other happens—and man misses. Then there are only closed doors, and the wandering among closed doors begins again.
I begin these preliminary talks for the coming three days with this story so that you remember: at that open door do not be distracted by something small and miss. And remember also that apart from meditation, no other door ever was, is, or can be open. Whoever has gone beyond life’s fire has gone through that one door. Whoever will ever go beyond, will go through the same door.
All other doors only look like doors, but they are shut. Wealth appears as if it might lead out of life’s fire—otherwise, no one would be mad enough to go on collecting wealth! It looks like a door—only looks. It is not a door; it is closed. If only a wall were visible, it would be better, because we would not try to break our head against a wall. But at a closed door people work harder—perhaps it will open. Yet the door of wealth has never opened, no matter how much one labors. It does not lead out; it leads you further in.
So too, there are many such doors—of fame, of renown, of ego, of position, of prestige. Not one of these doors takes you out. And those who stand at these doors—seeing them, those left behind feel: perhaps now they will get out, now they will get out! Looking at the very rich, the poor man thinks: perhaps the wealthy will now be free of life’s pain, life’s suffering, life’s fire, life’s darkness. Those who stand upon the height of glory—the obscure behind them weep and think: now this person will get out. Those who stand at those closed doors themselves behave as though they are close to escape.
Understand their hope through one more small story.
There is a hospital. Only those patients are admitted there for whom there is no hope of survival. There is a single door; near the door a long corridor. Along the corridor lie the patients’ cots. The patient on cot number one would sometimes rise in the morning and say: Ah! What a sunrise! What flowers have blossomed! How the birds are singing! And none of the patients in the ward could see anything. There was no door there, no window. They burned inwardly: when will this patient die, so that we may gain the first cot?
Then the patient had a heart attack, and all the ward prayed to God that he might die, so that one of them could have his place. From there one could see the sun, the flowers blooming, the birds singing, the moon, the stars. Blessed is he who is near the door. But the man survived, and again in the morning he would say: What fragrance! What sunrays! What joy at this door—open sky!
Again another attack came to the man. Again they all prayed he might die so that one of them might get the place.
Again and again this happened, yet the patient did not die. And again and again, when he recovered, he would peek out and speak of the beauty beyond the door.
The entire ward was filled with rivalry, envy, jealousy. At last the patient died. Then all of them tried to get the first place. By bribes, by service to the doctors, somehow one succeeded and came to the first cot. Peeping out—there was a wall. Outside the door was also a boundary wall! No sun was visible, no flowers blossomed, no moon ever appeared, no rays ever came! The heart sank with a thud. But if he now said there was nothing, the whole ward would call him a fool. He looked at the wall, returned, smiled, and said: Blessed my fate—what a sunrise, what flowers in bloom, what fragrance! And again the whole ward was troubled in the same snare—when will he die so we may get the place!
Those who stand at the places of presidents stand at such closed doors—where ahead there is neither sun nor light nor flowers. Those who stand at the doors of wealth stand at such doors where there is only a wall. Yet turning back they say: so many flowers are in bloom, the sun has risen, the moon has come out, the birds are singing! If they did not say so, they would be thought idiots.
But sometimes, from those doors too, a few people—courageous, daring—return and declare: there is nothing. At times a Mahavira, at times a Buddha returns from that door and says: it was a mistake; it was competition. There is nothing there—nothing at all.
Yet the unintelligent are unwilling to admit their unintelligence, and their vanity keeps thousands mad—hoping when they will get there. But all those doors are closed. There is one door open, and it is the door of meditation. And the strange thing is: all the doors that seem to open outward are shut. The door that seems to open inward is the open one.
The door of meditation opens inward; the door of wealth opens outward.
All doors opening outward have proved deceptive. No door that opens outward ever opens at all—it is closed. In truth, outward there is only a wall; there is nothing there to open. The door that opens is the one that opens inward. But we pass it by: a small thing distracts us and we miss.
These three days I invite you to labor a little at that inner door.
The difficulty begins in the inner journey because for lives we are habituated to going outward. That path we know well; it is familiar, known; there is no fear of mistake there. The other journey is utterly unfamiliar—the one that goes inward. And the door of meditation opens inward. At that door—Swami Ram used to joke—at that door the sign says: Pull. Not Push. On that door it is written: pull inward; do not push outward. By pushing outward the door closes tighter.
That door simply does not open outward. It says: Pull. And we, being habituated to outer doors—even if we reach the inner door—keep on pushing there as well. Our habit is outward.
This journey to the inner door is not difficult in itself. It is difficult only because our habit is outward. And habits can prove so dangerous that we do not even come to know. We go on moving according to habit. We all live in habit, and our whole conditioning is outward. That alone is the difficulty; otherwise, there is no difficulty in going inward.
But we have no experience of going there—our experiences are all outward. We only know how to collide with those doors that never open. Then, tired of one door, we start knocking at another. Tired of the second, we knock at the third. There are thousands of doors in that palace. But we miss the one door. And the sole reason is that our whole personality’s grip is outward. And habits are so dangerous, so strong and mechanical, that we do not even notice.
You walk along the road. You do not know why your two hands are swinging. Scientists say that a million years ago the ancestors of man walked on all fours. Much later man stood on two feet. That four-limbed habit still persists. Now we walk on two feet, yet both hands swing—right hand with left foot, left hand with right foot. They give no help in walking; they have no relation to movement. But the million-year-old habit follows, continues; that dead habit keeps doing its work.
Perhaps you never noticed: when our hands swing, we are giving news of the man of a million years ago who walked on all fours. The habit remained. The body has not yet realized that man walks on two feet. The body does not know; it still lives in a million-year-old habit.
Man ordinarily lives in habit, and breaking habit feels difficult. We too have habits that become obstacles in meditation.
There is no other obstacle in meditation except our habits.
If we understand our habits and make even a small effort to be free of them, meditation begins to flow as simply as when a stone is lifted from a spring and water runs free; as easily as a spark leaps when a flint is struck. Just so easily one enters meditation. But our habits are contrary. Let us understand some of these habits in a preliminary way; from tomorrow we will try to go deeper into them.
One of our habits is to always be doing something. For meditation, no habit is more dangerous or more opposite than this one.
Meditation is non-doing. Meditation is not-doing. Meditation is doing nothing at all.
And our habit is to do something—anything! Even when a man sits idle, he is doing something. If you look into the skull of the one we say “is doing nothing,” you will find he is doing a great deal. Man is never unoccupied, never unengaged, never empty. The man who becomes empty becomes filled by the Paramatma.
The art of becoming empty is meditation.
But we know only the art of being filled—filled somehow. If nothing else, a man will turn on the radio, pick up a newspaper, look around for someone to talk to. If even that is not possible...
I was traveling in a train. There was another gentleman in my compartment. I, as usual, sleep while traveling. As soon as I entered the compartment, I lay down and slept. The gentleman seemed very restless, for he desired that I wake so he could talk. After about eight hours I got up; he was completely ready. Seeing his readiness, I closed my eyes again. He became very agitated. With eyes closed I kept wondering what he was doing. He took yesterday’s newspaper—which he had read several times—and began to read it again. He had read it so much, and again he started. Then he threw it down.
With eyes closed I would glance at him now and then to see what he was up to. His restlessness increased. He opened the window, then shut it; took something out of the suitcase, then put it back; went to the bathroom, came out again.
Then I laughed. He said: Why are you laughing? And you are a strange man—fourteen hours are passing. I thought someone had come, there would be some company. You lie there with eyes closed, and my very life is trembling! Had you not been here, there would at least have been the relief of being alone.
I said: I too am gaining experience and much enjoyment—watching your doings. Why do you open these windows again and again? If you want them open, leave them open; if you want them closed, keep them closed. What are you repeatedly taking out of the suitcase and putting back?
He said: I am doing nothing. You have recognized rightly—I am trying somehow to do something, because without doing, the mind gets very frightened. And how long can one sleep?
If you think about yourself, you will find the same condition—something or other. If everything were arranged for you for three months and you were told: sit empty for three months, you would say: I’ll jump from the roof, hang myself. Three months, you say? Three hours are very difficult!
Those imprisoned do not suffer from the jail itself. The real suffering is from becoming without work. That is why in prison people write commentaries on the Gita, compose The Secret of the Gita—God knows what all they do. Something is needed to do. People in prison read books, write books. Some work—emptiness is very hard.
And one who cannot be empty cannot enter meditation.
Even in the name of meditation people do things. Someone turns a rosary, someone chants Ram-Ram, someone does asanas, someone stands on the head. In the name of meditation, people do something. But meditation has nothing to do with doing, because as long as you do, the mind is filled with tension.
When you do nothing, the lake of the mind becomes utterly silent.
So long as you act, the surface of the mind-lake is stirred with ripples. When you do nothing, the lake goes to sleep, it becomes still. Out of that stillness the door opens. As long as you do, the pushing continues. You are pushing.
Remember: doing is the door that goes outward; non-doing is the door that goes inward.
It is astonishing. If even for a single instant one abides in non-doing, all that is to be attained is attained. Those doors open which alone can truly open. One arrives where life’s treasure is. In a single instant of non-doing, one comes to the place where through lives and lives of doing no one ever arrives.
Through doing you can always reach the other; through doing you cannot reach yourself. If you have to come to me, you must walk—there is distance between you and me. If you do not walk, the distance will not be covered. But if I have to come to myself, where is the need to walk—there is no distance there.
If you are to go to the other, walking is necessary. If you are to come to yourself, stopping is necessary.
If you are to obtain something else, doing is necessary. If you are to attain your own self, doing is not necessary. Because I am; there is no question of attaining me by doing. I already am. That which is already there cannot be attained by doing. That which is not there must be attained by doing. If you want wealth, you have to do something; by not-doing, wealth will not come. If you want fame, you have to do something; by not doing anything, fame will not come.
But if you are to attain yourself, then if you do anything you will go astray—because it is. It already is. Even when you feel you have not found it, it is. There is no question of attaining it by doing; it must be attained by not-doing. Understand this secret well. Everything in the world is attained by doing—except oneself, which is attained by not-doing.
Dharma is attained by non-doing; adharma is attained by doing.
Therefore whatever you do will be adharma. Whatever you do will be adharma. Build a temple—it will be adharma; build a charitable hall—it will be adharma. Whatever you do—because doing connects you to the outside.
But once the state of non-doing is found, that which is dharma is found.
And the more amazing thing: the one who knows non-doing—then even if he acts, he remains a non-doer. Then whatever he does makes no difference.
Mahavira also walks, begs for food, speaks, sleeps, rises—he does everything; but he remains a non-doer. Now doing has no connection.
Now his doing is as when an actor performs in a play. He does everything. And within? Within he does nothing. He plays Ram and beats his chest and weeps when Sita is lost. And within? Within he neither beats his chest nor weeps. He becomes Ravana and fights for Lanka; Lanka burns; at night he returns home and sleeps happily. Within—nothing is touched; only the acting remains outside.
Hence we do not call Krishna’s character a character—we call it Leela. Everyone else’s we call a character. Ram’s we call a character; but Krishna’s we do not call a character. And there is a difference between Leela and character. Leela means: play. Therefore a man as unique as Krishna is hard to find in the world. He can do all kinds of acts because for him it is not a question of character. For him everything is Leela—a part in a play, nothing more. So he can do such acts as we cannot even imagine. Ten women are dancing, and he stands among them and dances. It goes beyond our imagination—what is this man doing!
But Krishna says: this is Leela; there is no character here. We are not doing anything. Within, non-doing remains established; outside, all doing goes on.
When character becomes Leela, from that day dharma begins. So long as there is character, we belong to adharma. And character becomes Leela the day we experience within the non-doer—who is found by doing nothing.
Therefore meditation is not to be done—and our habit is to do. Ask us anything, and we are in the habit of doing. If someone asks, Where are you going? we may even say: I am going to do meditation. Our habit! Even when we speak of meditation, we say: to do meditation. But we do not know that meditation has no relation to doing. Meditation is non-doing.
In Japan there was a fakir with a small ashram. His ashram had great renown. The emperor of Japan himself went to see it. The fakir took him before each hut and explained: here the monks bathe; here the monks eat; here the monks rest. After they had gone around all the huts—there was a large building in the middle—the emperor kept asking: Fine, they bathe in the huts—but what do they do in this building?
The fakir would not speak of that building at all, as if it did not exist! Then the emperor came back to the gate, and the large building in the middle—the fakir did not mention it.
The emperor was filled with anger. Mounting his horse at the gate he said: Either you are mad, or I am. I came to see your ashram; you showed me the huts—here the monks cook, here they bathe—what need was there to show me that? And that big building in the middle—I asked you twenty-five times what they do there, and you became deaf as if you hadn’t heard!
The fakir still laughed and said: Salutations!
The emperor said: Can you not hear that I am asking: what do you do in that building?
The fakir said: Forgive me—you ask a wrong question. How can I answer? For a wrong question any answer will be wrong. Your question is wrong. In that building we do nothing. You ask, What do you do there? so I understood that this man understands only the language of doing. So I showed you where they bathe, where they eat. I understood—you are a man who understands the language of doing; you cannot understand the language of non-doing. There we do nothing, and you ask: what do you do? So I kept silent—what could I say?
The emperor said: Nothing! You must do something. Why was it built then?
He said: Forgive me. Come again some time. Truly, we do nothing there. It was built. And if I tell you, perhaps you will not understand. That is our meditation hall.
The emperor said: Fine—then why don’t you say you do meditation?
The fakir said: That is the difficulty. One can do bathing, one can do eating, one can do exercise—meditation cannot be done.
The name of non-doing is meditation.
We too understand only the language of doing—of bathing. So we think meditation must be some act. Many unintelligent people even explain that it is an inner bath, a spiritual bath. As coolness is obtained by bathing, so is coolness by meditation. But so long as you understand in the language of doing, you cannot understand, because the language of doing is itself the obstacle.
So in these three days, keep clear that what we call “doing meditation” is non-doing. In that time, do nothing. Drop all doing. Simply remain. This does not occur to us. We walk on the road—that is doing; we eat—that is doing; we sleep—that is doing; we sit—that is doing; we get up—that is doing—all acts. Behind all these acts there is someone within who does them.
If we can perform an act, why can we not also be without acting? If I can open my hand, why can I not close it? If I can open my eyes, why can I not shut them? Whatever we can do—the reverse is also possible.
Until now we have known only one direction in life—of doing. We know no direction of non-doing. So we have no idea. Even when we speak of love, we say: I do love! But those who have known love know love is not done. It is not an act.
You cannot do love. Or try—seat someone beside you for half an hour and try to do love. In half an hour your heads will be exhausted—his and yours. You will find: no, it cannot be done.
Love happens. Love is; it cannot be done.
But we think of love also in the language of doing. Our habit of doing has become so strong that whatever we can think of we think in that language. We are even heard saying: I take breath. But you have never taken a breath yet in your life—nor can you. Breath goes on. And if you were taking breath, then death would become difficult: Death would come to the door and you would say: stand there—I am taking breath; I will keep taking breath. But we know—when death comes to the door, you do not take any breath; if it goes, it goes; if it comes, it comes. No man has ever taken breath. But we have made breathing an act; we speak as if inhalation and exhalation are an action. They are not—they are a happening. We are not doing it; it is happening.
That which is seated within, within, needs to do nothing. It is. And it always is. There is no way for it to be destroyed. It always will be. If its being is to be known, without freedom from doing it is very difficult to know. Because as long as we are entangled in doing, being is not noticed. Doing means “doing”; being means “being.” One who is entangled in doing does not come to know what is within, who is within. When all activity drops—even for a single instant—only being remains. The winds are blowing; there is a tree; the leaves are moving. But the tree is not moving the leaves; the winds are blowing and the leaves move. Breath moves—everything is happening.
The state of meditation means: relax into being. Whatever is happening—let it happen. If thoughts are moving, let them move. Who are you to stop them? Let it be. Whatever is happening—the leaves moving, the wind blowing, the stars appearing in the sky; a child crying, a bird calling; within, thoughts moving, heart beating, breath flowing, blood coursing—everything is going on. Let all this go on. You do nothing; you just remain. If even for an instant—even a single pulse of a moment—you taste this remaining, then the movement into meditation has begun. That inner door that opens—opens. If you get even a glimpse of it, then there is no difficulty. Then you have recognized the path, and you can go deeper and deeper and deeper.
So be a little watchful of the habit of doing. Let no one come here even by mistake thinking: we are going to do meditation.
Tomorrow morning we will sit for meditation.
Now, even sitting is an act; we will do—it is an act; we will come, we will go—also acts.
All the language of man is the language of action, and the language of the Paramatma is the language of non-action.
The Paramatma is doing nothing. Those who say: God made the world—are utterly unintelligent. They are thinking in their own language—the language of doing—that God made the world as a potter makes a pot.
A potter makes a pot; God never made the world. From God the world is arising. It is not a conscious act. It is not some activity of God—sitting somewhere and making the world. The world is happening. This becoming is happening. No one sitting somewhere is making it. As you “take” breath—just so the whole flow of life moves. The illusion of doing has arisen only in man. The birds have no such illusion; the plants have no such illusion; the clouds have no such illusion; the moon and stars have no such illusion—no one has it. Man has the illusion that we do—and this illusion of doing sits upon life like a rock.
There is no greater untruth than that we do. Everything happens. And one who would enter meditation must understand well that everything is happening. So do not even try: I will become peaceful. No endeavor disturbs peace more than the effort to be peaceful. Do not even try: I will become pure. Do not even try: I will attain God. None of your endeavors will succeed. In that direction no effort works. No attempt works. There, those arrive who do nothing. Those arrive who do nothing! For whom even the illusion that we can do something has dropped.
In the coming three days, let this understanding be borne with great attentiveness—the deeper this understanding goes, the more result there will be in meditation.
We will sit for meditation in the morning and at night, and for three days we must labor at that same door—there. But you will be here twenty-four hours for three days. So to avoid missing that door, keep watch. For twenty-four hours keep the awareness: I am not doing anything—it is happening. If I am walking, understand that walking is happening, an activity is happening. If I am breathing—breathing is happening. If hunger comes—it is happening. If thirst comes—it is happening.
For three days, let there be a continuous remembrance that things are happening. I am not doing. You will be amazed—such a state of rest will be available to the mind, everything will become so quiet, something within will become so still, such depth will arise as you never imagined could be. And then, for meditation—when we sit, that glimpse will arise quickly and with momentum.
But for twenty-four hours, whatever happens, take it as happening. And in truth, it is happening. That is the truth. Have you ever once produced hunger? Have you ever brought sleep? All that is happening. Try one night to bring sleep—and that night it will not come, the very night you try to bring it! Those who cannot sleep—the total reason is that they are madly trying to bring sleep. Can sleep ever come through effort? All effort will break sleep, because sleep is relaxation and effort is labor. Can hunger be produced by producing? Can thirst be produced? Can love be produced? Can breath be made to go? Nothing at all.
Everything deep in life is happening in silence, of itself. Flowers are blossoming by themselves—no one is making a rose bloom. And if a rose loses its head and begins to make flowers, then be sure there will be no flowers. Flowers happen.
The whole of life is an effortless stream—except the human mind. There a stubbornness has arisen, a rock stands up. That rock has set up all hindrances. That rock is this: we are doing! Then we “do” meditation, we “do” prayer. We get entangled in all this doing—and nothing opens within us anywhere.
In these three days, we are not doing anything—we just are. Let this feeling go as deep as possible.
Even now as you leave here—as you walk—feel that walking is happening. You are not going toward the hotel; going is happening. Your whole organism is going. It is going to bed to sleep—your whole organism. You are not taking it.
It is as natural as the wind blowing and the leaves moving. In the same way, you have tired through the day, and every fiber of the body is asking: enough, enough—now enough. The whole body asks: sleep. It is not your demand; it is as natural as a bud becoming a flower, as a leaf that has dried falling in the wind. It is just as natural, just as effortless. When hunger rises in the belly, you are not doing anything—it is all happening naturally. It is like water getting hot and becoming steam and rising—one does not say water is “doing” steam. We say: water has become steam.
The rules that apply all around in life apply to us as well. We are not an exception in life. Man is a part of nature. And one who understands that we are a part of nature—he can enter meditation this very moment—this very instant. Because then the idea that we have to do something disappears. Then things will happen.
Meditation will come—you cannot bring it.
And if meditation comes, and you are not to miss that door, keep a few remembrances.
First: let this idea of doership, of being the doer, go entirely. If ever you are to enter the world of meditation, let go the idea that I can do something. For three days, keep this in mind. And there will be very amazing experiences. If while walking you feel: I am not walking; this process of walking is happening just as the moon moves, the earth moves, the stars move—exactly so this process of walking is happening.
This “I” is not walking; just as the whole universe moves, so my movement is a part of that movement. Then suddenly you will be startled—you will have a new experience you never had. For the first time you will find something altogether different has happened—someone else stands here; you are not. While eating, eating is happening; while bathing, bathing is happening.
Things are happening; you are doing nothing.
Spontaneously a deep peace will surround you; a silence will descend within. And in these three days there is no reason why, at that door where we usually pass by, we should not stop. If that door comes into view, we will be out. This can happen. It has happened. It can happen to anyone. And no special qualification is needed. No special qualification is needed! Only one qualification of disappearing is needed.
It is this intense notion of being—“I am”—that creates the obstacle; nothing else. Neither any sin can stop anyone, nor any virtue can carry anyone across. Sin also stops—because the sinner holds: I have done. Virtue also stops—because the virtuous one holds: I have done. If even the sinner drops the notion: I did—and knows: it happened—he too will arrive this very moment—this very instant. And if the virtuous one understands: it happened—he too will arrive this very instant.
Neither sin stops, nor virtue carries. Only “I am doing”—this asmitā, this ego—stops.
It stops the sinner, it stops the virtuous. The very notion of doership obstructs. And we are so full of the notion of doership that we feel if we do nothing for a little while, we will be annihilated, we will die, we will begin to vegetate if we do nothing for a while.
But see, without anyone doing anything, how vast a cosmos is moving; without anyone doing anything, how immense an arrangement goes on! Without any message, without any signal—how many stars are moving! How many earths there must be among the stars—how much life—endless! Who knows! So much is moving without anyone doing anything!
If God were doing, mistakes would occur. In doing, mistakes happen. Sometimes God would doze, two stars would collide; sometimes a wrong signal would be given, there would be a derailment—who knows what! But God is doing nothing; therefore no mistake happens. In non-doing how can error be? Things happen. They happen out of their own effortless nature.
The meaning of dharma is: svabhava—intrinsic nature. And svabhava means: that which happens; which is not done.
Meditation is the door that takes you into svabhava. Therefore meditation does not happen by doing. Wherever people teach: turn the rosary and meditation will happen; chant Ram-Ram and meditation will happen; chant Om and meditation will happen; recite the Gayatri and meditation will happen—they know nothing of what meditation means.
Meditation happens through doing nothing. Do nothing—and meditation happens.
We are doing something—therefore meditation is not happening. We are doing something and are entangled in that doing—therefore meditation is not happening.
There is a wondrous incident from Buddha’s life. For six years Buddha practiced severe austerities. Whatever could be done, he did. He fasted, he suppressed the body. His condition became such that when he stepped into the river to bathe, he did not have the strength to climb the bank. He clung to a root and hung there—he fainted. There was not even that much strength in the body. For six years he did all that could be done. The strange thing is that in six years he gained nothing—nothing at all. Nothing even of a shell’s worth came to Buddha. Then, while bathing in the Niranjana, he fainted from weakness.
The body had become mere bones. In that moment of swooning a thought arose in him: I cannot cross this river—and I am trying to cross the ocean of becoming! How will it be? Even crossing a river has become difficult. So all that was done in six years appeared futile. Nothing of essence was found. That day, tired, he dropped everything. Coming out, he sat beneath a tree on the far bank. A girl, Sujata, brought him milk-rice. She had not brought it for Buddha. She had vowed to the tree-deity. When she came in the evening, seeing Buddha, she thought: the deity is pleased and has emerged from the tree. Had she come the next day, Buddha would have been fasting. That day he had dropped everything. He was hungry.
Hunger is not to be produced. Fasting is to be done. Hunger happens. Remember: fasting is to be done. And in doing, there can never be dharma, for doing is our doing; it strengthens the ego. That is why those who fast publish it in the newspapers that so-and-so Maharaj has done so many fasts. But that so-and-so Maharaj was very hungry—there is no need to publish this, because hunger happens. There is nothing of Maharaj’s doing in it; it comes of itself—it comes from God. Therefore no one keeps a record of hunger; one keeps a record of fasts. That is our earned wealth.
But that day Buddha had dropped doing. He was tired. He said: for six years I have done much. Now I will do nothing. Sitting under the tree, he was hungry. The girl said she brought food. The belly said: take it—and Buddha took the milk-rice.
This was the first occasion when he dealt simply with food. Even with food we do not deal simply; there too is difficulty: Who brought it? Sujata was a shudra; Buddha did not ask who brought it—because hunger does not know whether a shudra cooked it or a brahmin. Only man’s ego knows—who made it! who brought it! Hunger knows nothing. For hunger there is neither brahmin nor shudra. For hunger, food is needed.
Buddha did not ask: who are you? Her name was Sujata. From that we can tell she was a shudra; otherwise she would not be named Sujata. Our names are always inverted. What we are not, we try to declare in the name. She was not born into a good caste, hence the name Sujata. Why would a high-caste person name his daughter Sujata? We are always trying to cover what is within.
Buddha did not ask. He was hungry; he said: fine. He ate. Then sleep came; he slept.
This was also the first proper behavior with sleep. Before this there were rules: one should sleep so long, rise at such a time—regulations.
That day when sleep came, Buddha slept. He did not say: not yet, my time has not come. If I sleep now, I will oversleep.
Sadhus and sannyasins have rules. Therefore sadhus and sannyasins never reach anywhere. A man of rules cannot arrive anywhere, because a man of rules makes habits.
Svabhava has its own laws. We do not need to know them. When sleep comes, the body says, the life-force says: sleep. When the time to wake comes, the body says, the life-force says: get up. Neither sleep on your own, nor wake on your own. Then the sleep that is God’s will be available. When the body says: eat—then eat. When hunger says: eat—then eat; when hunger says: no—then stop. Then the hunger that is God’s will come to you.
Otherwise, we have our artificial hungers too. We look at the clock—ten o’clock—time for food. That is our hunger. If the clock is set an hour back and you do not know, when it shows ten you will become hungry—though it is nine; or if it is ahead, though it is eleven. That hunger runs by the clock. That hunger is ours.
So Buddha slept when sleep came. That day he had dropped everything—everything that had been done. He decided: now I will do nothing—six years are enough. He did not even know that what had not happened by doing could happen by not-doing. That night he slept. Around five in the morning his sleep broke; the last stars were about to set. Lying beneath the tree he watched those sinking stars—one by one they disappeared. The silence of the morning, the deep sleep of the night. All thought of doing had been abandoned; there was nothing left to do.
He had been a king—he had abandoned that six years ago—the race for wealth and fame was left behind. Then a new race had been picked up—for moksha, for nirvana. That too dropped that day. There was nothing left to do—utterly unoccupied, unemployed—absolutely useless, one might say. This uselessness is not useless—for it does something.
That day Buddha was utterly useless—absolute unemployment—no kingdom, no wealth, no fame, no dharma, no moksha, no God, no Atman. Nothing to attain. Nothing. He sat empty.
The last star sank, and Buddha stood up—and that was attained which had not been attained in six years of striving!
When people came to ask: How did it happen? Buddha said: Do not ask how it happened. Because “how” I tried much—and it did not happen. How it happened today is hard to say—because I did nothing. Today I was not even there—today I was not, for I was doing nothing. But it happened. Later Buddha said: It will not be attained by doing; it is attained by not-doing.
Whenever it has happened, it has happened through non-doing.
But those who try to understand Buddha look for what he did. They see what he did for six years—and their monks do the same. But what happened that last night of not-doing does not come into their grasp. Because what does non-doing mean?
So what he did for six years goes on in the whole world—he fasted, he did this, he did that. But the point was missed. The event happened in non-doing. It never happened in doing—whether you do for six years or six million years. It always happens in non-doing—because the one within is already. You are entangled in doing; therefore it is not seen. Doing drops, you are utterly empty—and its vision occurs.
It is just that simple. But very difficult—because our habit is of doing.
So in these three days, take a step toward non-doing; drop even the thought of doing. Do nothing at all; in these three days, let whatever happens happen. When hunger comes, eat. When sleep comes, sleep. Do not speak on your own; do not be silent on your own. When the impulse to speak arises, speak. When the impulse to be silent arises, be silent. When silence arises—even if the whole world tells you to speak—do not speak. When speaking arises—even if no one is speaking—go and speak to the trees. Whatever happens, let it happen. Leave yourself the way a dry leaf leaves itself to the winds. The winds go east—the leaf goes east. The winds go west—the leaf goes west. The winds lift it into the sky—the leaf rises. The winds drop it—the leaf falls.
Someone asked Lao Tzu: How did you attain? He said: I became a dry leaf. Wherever the winds led, I said: let’s go. I dropped my insistence to go here or there. Wherever the winds turned to go, I said: there we go. And the moment I dropped insistence, I attained.
Not by effort—but by effortlessness. Not by striving—but by non-striving. Not by karma—but by akarma. Not by endeavor—but by no-endeavor. Not by running—but by stopping. Not by seeking—but by standing still.
So in these three days... slowly, slowly, the last stars will sink; then the very last star will also sink; and a silent stillness will remain. Here, of course, we will sit by schedule. And method is a very troublesome thing—it has no relation. Here we will sit at the proper time, there will be meetings, we will “do” meditation. That meditation will not be of much use. If you feel like it, tonight when you leave here, do not go to bed. Sit beneath some tree for an hour or two—even the whole night; what can be lost?
One night Socrates was missing. He spent the night under a tree. The whole household was worried: Where is Socrates? They searched everywhere. They searched at the homes of friends. He was not there. They said: He hasn’t been seen all day—we too are concerned—where is he? They searched in the markets; the shops were closing. Socrates was nowhere. They were very frightened; people stayed awake the whole night—where has Socrates gone?
Early in the morning, someone brought news: he is standing under a tree; his eyes have become steady; he does not blink; he is gazing at the sky. We are afraid even to touch him, for he has been standing the whole night in that state.
His people went. They saw him and sat silently. No one dared go near and shake him, he was so quiet.
If a very quiet man is present, even an unquiet man sits down.
Then Socrates stirred. Morning had come, the sun had risen. He started for home. They called out: You do not even look at us—we have been sitting here so long—and what were you doing? What happened to you?
Socrates said: I have done much—all my life. Last night non-doing happened. All my life I did. Last night non-doing happened. I came and stood under the tree—and then I do not know what happened, for after that I did nothing. But what could not happen by doing, happened last night.
If you go and feel like it, sit under a tree. Sit—sleeping we do plenty; every day on time we sleep; everything is done. Let that go for three days. Be like wind and water, like dry leaves. Then perhaps what cannot happen in sitting here—because here you will come by rule, sit by the clock, leave by the clock—perhaps elsewhere it can happen. Sit anywhere—morning, night, noon. And live these three days as if someone were floating in the river—not swimming. Remember—no swimming.
In water one man swims. To swim, he must do something. He says: I must reach that shore, so he tries to reach by swimming. Another man jumps—he floats. He says: wherever the river takes me, I agree. I am not; now the river—wherever it takes me. He floats. In these three days, keep the spirit of floating.
Ordinarily in life we keep the spirit of swimming—we swim. Someone wants to swim towards Delhi—he swims along in his way. Another wants to go elsewhere—he swims along there. We swim in life. Swimming is our habit. Swimming is work.
Floating—not swimming. In these three days, float. Become utterly light—be carried away. And let there be no burden in life; then you will not miss that door—where an itch arises and a man goes past.
These three days we will speak on stray, fragmentary sutras. Whatever your questions are, write them and give them to me—we will speak of them at night. And in the morning I will speak in this manner again. I will not speak of any rule or regulation. I will speak in such a way that perhaps some hint may arise and the floating may happen. It can happen. When the winds are moving, why should we not? When the waters flow, are we so unfortunate that we cannot? When the moon and stars are moving, what have we done to be excluded? When, except man, everything is happening, why should it not happen to us? It will—certainly it will. But you do not do—let it happen, and it becomes certain. This is the first thing.
We will speak again tomorrow morning.
May it be that, having come so far, you also travel in that journey where you yourself cannot go; but if you let yourself go, then going can happen.
From tomorrow morning we will also sit for meditation.
But the preparation must be done all the time—twenty-four hours. Those who prepare will be able. Otherwise, it takes no time to miss. There are many doors, but only one is open. And if you miss there even a little, then there are many doors—then wander among them. Who knows when again you will come to that door? Who knows whether it will even be in this very life? And the ways to miss are so astonishing that there is no counting them. Our devices to miss are so many that it is difficult to reckon. For a tiny thing we may miss. So having come, standing at the very door, it is essential to take care not to miss.
I am deeply obliged by the peace and love with which you have listened to my words. And in the end, I bow to the Paramatma seated within everyone. Please accept my pranam.