When one looks at man, a very astonishing fact is revealed — that man’s entire personality is a strain, a pull, a load, a tension. What weight lies upon the mind of man? Under which rock is he crushed? Look toward the sun’s rays, or toward the green leaves of trees, or lift your eyes to the sky — nowhere is there any burden; everywhere there is weightlessness, nowhere any tension. Only upon the human mind there is tension.
I have heard: inside a fast moving train a man was sitting. Whoever passed by him looked at him with surprise and stared. He had done something of that sort. He had placed his bedding and his trunk upon his own head. If anyone asked him, 'Friend, what are you doing?'
He was a bit of a do-it-yourself type, a volunteer. Some people are like that — they feel that everything must be done by oneself.
He said: 'I carry my load on my own head. Why should I burden the train?'
He himself was riding on the train, with his load on his head. The load too was riding upon the train. Yet the load which he could have placed down and sat at ease, he kept on his head, thinking, 'One should serve oneself.' The train was running, it was carrying him and his load as well — and still he kept his load on his head.
All of life is moving, all of life has been moving, all of life will continue to move — yet we all sit carrying our loads upon our heads. That which we could put down, we have kept on our head. And in all of us there is the same idea as in that man in the racing train — 'If I do not carry my load, who will?' But his load was visible, so everyone could see it. The loads we carry are not visible.
There are burdens that can be seen — and those visible burdens are not very dangerous; they can easily be put down. But there are also burdens that cannot be seen — and we carry them too. And because they are not visible to others or even to ourselves, we go on increasing them throughout life; they never diminish.
If there is any difference between a child and an old man, it is only this — the child bears no burden yet, and the old man has gathered the burdens of a lifetime. Old age means to be so crushed under so much weight that living becomes impossible. The body will grow old, but if the mind is unburdened, the soul never becomes old. And if the soul is unburdened, then even at the moment of death a person remains a child — just as simple, just as guileless, just as innocent as on the day he came to the earth.
In a marketplace there was a great crowd, and Jesus stood in the midst. Someone asked him: 'You speak of the kingdom of heaven — who shall be worthy to attain it?' Jesus lifted a small child onto his shoulders and said: 'Those who shall be like this child!'
But what does it mean to be like a child? Jesus did not say, 'Those who will be children.' He said, 'Those who will be childlike.'
Childlike means: those who have advanced in age, yet have not taken on burdens; who remain childlike within.
Yet there are very unknown burdens that we carry. With those burdens upon you, if you think you will become peaceful — it is impossible. With those burdens upon you, if you think you will enter the doorway of meditation — impossible. No one has placed those burdens upon you. You do not even know that you yourself have been placing them upon yourself. Even today you are adding to them, and every day you will go on adding. They will become so many that you will be crushed — you will only be a heap of burdens. By the time death arrives, the man has long since died; only the burdens remain.
It is necessary to understand these burdens a little.
Because if the man in the train, sitting with his trunk and bedding on his head, comes to know that he is being foolish, will there be any difficulty in removing the trunk and bedding from his head? Will he ask how to put it down? If he simply sees that this is sheer madness, there will be no delay — he will put it down.
If the burdens of the mind are understood, there is not the least difficulty in putting them down. But we do not even know what kinds of burdens we are carrying! A glimpse of these burdens should come into our awareness this morning.
First: that which has passed, we keep collecting. It has passed; now it exists nowhere except in our memory. All that has flowed away — you will not find it anywhere. But in our memory it is stored. The entire past sits upon us like a stone.
Something happened yesterday — it is finished. Just as lines drawn upon water do not even form and are erased, so too the lines on the surface of this life do not even form and are erased. These trees know nothing of what happened yesterday, the sky knows nothing, the sun’s rays know nothing; only man knows!
And man sits clasping what happened yesterday; he has gripped it. Yesterday someone abused you and someone loved you. Yesterday someone respected you and someone insulted you. And all the yesterdays that have passed are endless!
And we remember only this life, but those who know will say: the stories of endless lives are sitting in the memory within — their burden too! Each person bears the load of infinite births — the burden of the past. The past has become a stone upon our chest, upon our head; we are crushed beneath it, hence we cannot be weightless. It must be understood that what is gone is gone — it is nowhere now; why am I carrying it?
One morning a man came to Buddha, very angry — he abused him profusely. Then in his rage he spat on Buddha. Buddha wiped the spit off with his robe and said to the man: 'Do you have anything more to say?'
Consider that morning a little. You go to Buddha and spit on him. Many people feel like spitting on people like Buddha. Because a Buddha becomes an insult, an offence, to many.
Buddha insults no one, but his very presence becomes a cause of pain and humiliation for many — because the standing of a Buddha becomes proof of our smallness. The radiance of a Buddha begins to reveal our darkness. The compassion flowing from a Buddha makes our anger and our ego tremble. The presence of a Buddha begins to expose the lowness of our personality. We become angry, and the urge to spit arises — very natural.
You go and spit upon him… imagine you went — and Buddha wipes it as if nothing has happened. What has happened! And he asks, 'Anything more to say?'
The monk Ananda, sitting nearby, became very angry and said: 'What are you saying — anything more to say! The man is spitting! We are silent only because of you; otherwise our very life is on fire at what this man has done! He spits on you, and you say, anything more to say?'
Buddha said: 'As I understand, the anger in this man is so great that words are unable to carry it, so he is speaking by spitting. Spitting too is a language, a method, a way.
'And sometimes when we cannot say something, when words fail, then we speak in such ways. When someone’s love grows immense he embraces. The embrace in itself means nothing, but words are not found for love. When someone is filled with rage he strikes the head — words are not found. When someone is filled with reverence he places his head at the feet — words are not found.
'He could find no words. Language is weak, therefore he says something in this manner. I have understood. Anything more to say, friend?' If you were there — what would be left to say?
The man returned home. His eyes filled with tears; he could not sleep that night. The next day he came to ask forgiveness; he fell at Buddha’s feet, tears flowing: 'Forgive me!'
Buddha said: 'Do you see, Ananda, even now this man wants to say something but cannot find words, so tears flow and he catches hold of feet. Man’s language, Ananda, is very weak.'
And to the man Buddha said: 'Friend, for what are you asking forgiveness? For yesterday which has gone! From whom do you seek forgiveness — from me? I am another man now — the Ganga has flowed, much water has gone by.
'The Ganga by which you stood yesterday morning — that is not the same Ganga now. And if today you go to ask forgiveness the Ganga will say: From whom do you seek forgiveness? The water with which you met yesterday has flowed away. Where am I now that I was yesterday? Neither are the leaves on the trees the same, nor the clouds in the sky, nor the sun’s rays the same — nothing is the same; all has flowed, all has changed. From whom do you ask forgiveness?
'But you are foolish — you could not flow. You have remained stuck where you spat in the morning. How shall I forgive? I was not there yesterday. The one who was, I am not that now.'
Only dead things remain the same as yesterday. The living change every day. Life means: to be in continual change. To be dead means: not to change.
In the morning a flower blooms; beneath it lies a stone — perhaps the stone laughs inside at those who praise the flower. For it might say: 'You have gone mad — it has not yet fully opened, by noon it will wither, by evening it will fall. Look at me — I am the same in the morning, the same at noon, the same in the evening.'
Only that which is dead remains the same as it was. In truth, the dead are in the past; the dead have no present. Past means: dead. Dead means: the past, gone. Only the past does not change; the present changes every moment.
That which changes is called the present. That which does not stand still but goes on changing is called life.
But memory does not change; it becomes fixed. We are life, and upon our head is the burden of memory which does not change. We are like a flower and memory is like a stone. As if a flower is pressed beneath a stone — this deforms man.
Man is a flower, life is a flower. Memory presses that flower like a stone. Think — if a flower is trapped under a stone, how will it breathe? Likewise, the stone of memory burdens consciousness — troubled, afflicted, filled with tension.
Those who remove the stone of memory enter meditation.
But we preserve it. We say, 'Do you know who I was yesterday?' A man who has once been an MLA even then writes on his pad: 'Former MLA', 'Ex-Minister'! That 'ex' does not leave one alone. Once it was — all right, the water of the Ganga has flowed. What was is no more. You came here in the morning — the same person will not return. Within an hour all will have flowed away.
As if someone lights a lamp at dusk and in the morning says, 'Now I will extinguish the very lamp I lit at dusk.' Is he right or wrong? It will seem right — he extinguishes the same lamp he lit at dusk. But where is that lamp now, the one lit at dusk? The flame has been changing every moment; the flame has been becoming smoke, a new flame has been arising continuously. All night the lamp has changed; all night the stream of flame has kept flowing — new flame, new flame, new flame. The change was so swift that the old did not go before the new arrived — the gap was not visible. We took it that the same flame was burning. Can one extinguish in the morning the same lamp lit at dusk? The dusk lamp went out at dusk; the next flames kept coming in a series of change. The lamp you extinguish in the morning is entirely other — a lamp that was never lit you now extinguish. The sequence is rapid, the stream is swift, hence it is not noticed.
Is the one who is born the one who dies? Are you who were born the same? Will the same die?
The flame keeps changing, all keeps changing. Life is a flow — yet whatever that flow meets, whatever impressions are made upon it, whatever the flow sees, memory keeps collecting all that. The stream of life moves forward; memory grasps backward. Memory stops at the past. Life runs ahead — into the unknown. And memory? Memory stops at the known. Memory is the known; life is the unknown.
And the tug between the known and the unknown — that is man’s tension. Until that tension is released, we cannot enter the doorway of life. Do not ask how to release it; understanding is needed. Once clearly understood, it drops. It is not a visible load to be lifted off the head. It is a matter of understanding, of seeing plainly. If there is understanding, if it is seen, the matter is finished. Look within yourself — how many memories are you hoarding? What use are they? What meaning have they?
I am not saying you should forget in which hotel, in which room you are staying, nor am I saying you should forget which village you must return to. This is practical memory; it carries no burden.
The burdens are other — psychological, mental. If yesterday I abused you, can you meet me today without carrying that abuse in between? Is it possible that you meet me and the image of how I looked to you yesterday does not come in between? If this is possible, you are a living man upon whose mind no burden rests. If not, then there is great difficulty.
A friend met me and said, 'Listening to your talk last night and earlier talks, I sensed a slight contradiction.' But why hold to earlier talks? They have flowed away. And if you clutch the earlier, then what I am saying now you will neither hear nor understand. Then contradiction will appear — because you did not hear, you did not understand. I say: If what I am saying now is rightly understood, contradiction will never appear. But the mind keeps gripping the back — 'once it was said…'. Perhaps that too was never heard, because even then the mind must have been clutching something else behind — if not mine then Krishna’s, Buddha’s, Mahavira’s; the Gita, the Koran.
Memory runs backward and life runs forward. The two do not meet. As if we have yoked oxen to a single cart in opposite directions — and they are pulling both ways! The oxen of memory toward the back, the oxen of life’s current toward the front. The cart is in trouble, always in difficulty.
And the rear oxen are strong, because the strength of a lifetime has fed them. Those oxen of the past, of memory, are strong — they have the weight of the dead; stones are heavy.
And the current of life ahead is very delicate. It is just to be — like a tender sprout emerging from the seed; soft, delicate. Place a small stone upon it and it will die.
The current of the future is very delicate, very tender, very fragile. And the oxen of the past are strong; they keep pulling the cart backward. The cart cannot go backward — only you can be pulled. Then life stops, stagnates — no longer a stream but a dam, a pool. Then we rot; we die under burdens. That is why in a man’s eyes you do not see what you can see in a lake. In a man’s eye you do not see even what you may see in the eye of a cow. In man’s movement you do not see what is seen in a deer’s leap. In man’s life the flowering is not visible as it is in a plant. And man too is as much a part of this nature as animals, plants, birds, the moon and stars.
What is it that breaks man? The burden of the past stands like a heavy wall, cutting him off from life. Understand: what has happened has happened. Why carry it? Bid it farewell.
A fakir set out seeking truth. He stayed in an ashram of a sannyasin. He asked the sannyasin: 'I have come in search of truth. I wish to know what the truth of life is.' The sannyasin said: 'These things will come later. Where do you come from?'
The seeker said: 'I come from Peking.'
The sannyasin asked: 'What is the price of rice in Peking these days?'
The seeker replied: 'Sir, in Peking surely there must be some price for rice, but I have left Peking. And once I leave a place, I do not look back. The roads I pass, I forget, because I have other roads yet to pass. If the eyes remain filled with the roads behind, the road ahead becomes blurred. The eyes can see one thing at a time — either the road behind, or the road ahead. There may be some price in Peking, but I am not in Peking.'
The sannyasin laughed: 'I asked deliberately. If you had told me the price of rice in Peking, I would not have spoken to you of truth. Good — now we can speak a little. Truth can be experienced only by those who become free of the past.'
But we remember very well the price of rice in Peking! Men keep talking of childhood — 'Milk was sold at so much a seer, ghee at so much…' They do not merely say it — such things sit upon their mind as a load. Then the life that is today becomes obscured, because the life that was yesterday has gripped the mind so tightly.
Have you ever noticed — the mind can function in two ways. One, like a photo-plate. We insert a very sensitive plate in the camera. But it becomes useless after capturing a single picture. It took one snapshot, the plate is spoiled; no more can be taken upon it. It is dead. No longer living.
There is also a mirror. Upon the mirror an image appears. When something stands before it, the mirror makes a full image. When that goes, the image goes. The mirror is again empty. Another comes — again the mirror makes a picture. The mirror never says, 'I have already made one, I will not make another.' The mirror does not cling to images. The mirror does not die by clinging. The mirror remains living — images come and go, pass by.
Those who begin to live in memory use their mind like a photo-plate. On it pictures keep piling one over another. Pictures do not depart. The mind is not empty. More and more images keep crowding and the burden grows.
But those who want to move in the world of meditation use the mind mirror-like. Things appear upon the mind and pass. If you are before me — fine. If you are not, you are gone; then you are nowhere. At the station where I board, I say my greetings to those there; then they are gone, that station too is gone. They are no more in the world — it does not matter. Ahead there is a new world, new people. To make their image, the previous images must depart; otherwise there can be no justice to the new.
Where there is strong clinging to the old, there can be no justice to the new. Where there is tight grip on the past, how can there be justice to the present? He who is bound to yesterday — how will he live today? How now? How in this moment? This moment has never been — it has come for the first time. And our minds are filled with pictures. The burden of the past dims the mirror of the mind.
A person took initiation in an ashram. For years he practised, yet he did not find that which he sought. He said to his master: 'Years have passed; I have not attained what I came seeking. Where shall I go now?'
The master said: 'There is an inn outside the town — go live there a few days. Observe the innkeeper. Perhaps what you could not find here, you will find there.'
The young monk went. He had little hope — 'If I found nothing with a great master, what will I find with an innkeeper?' But he went because his master had sent him.
He arrived in the evening; the innkeeper was washing utensils. Travellers had eaten through the day and gone. He cleaned the pots. He swept the rooms. He dusted the doorway. The monk kept watching. He said: 'My master has sent me to learn from you.'
The innkeeper said: 'What is there to learn from me! But since you have come, stay. I cannot teach anything. If you can learn, that is another matter. In this world, no one can teach anyone anything. If someone can learn, that is another matter.'
The monk thought, 'What can one learn from one who says he cannot teach?' Yet he stayed the night to see what the man does.
The next day he watched from morning. The innkeeper served people all day long. One guest came, another left, a third arrived. Someone’s horses were tied, someone’s camels halted, someone’s cart was parked. He worked throughout — serving meals, washing pots again at dusk.
Then the monk said: 'Shall I go now? For I do not see anything to learn. All day people came and went — I saw that. You served them — I saw that. You washed dishes, cleaned the house — I saw that. I have seen all this. Only I do not know when you rose in the morning — tell me that. What did you do then?'
He said: 'Nothing at all. The pots I had cleaned at night had gathered a little dust during the night, so in the morning I cleaned them again.'
The monk said, 'My master is crazy! Where has he sent me — where there is nothing to learn! One who knows only to wash dishes, clean the house and serve — nothing else!'
He returned to his master: 'Where did you send me? I found nothing.'
The master said: 'Now you will not find anything anywhere — for the mind that could have found is not with you. I sent you there knowingly, because I had found it there. Once I too had stayed in that inn.
'I saw that he behaved the same with one guest as with another. I saw that when one came, it was as if that one alone became the whole world for him — as if the world vanished and only that one remained. He served him as if he had served him his whole life. Then the man departed — and the innkeeper did not even look back down the road to see that the man had gone. The next had come — he began serving him.
'I saw that man is like a mirror. No picture forms upon his mind. Thousands of guests came and left — an inn is such a place — yet the owner is wondrous. He does not hold onto anyone, does not cling to anyone. When someone stands before him it seems he has great love — as if he will hold him for life. But when someone goes, he does not even look back. Those who left keep looking back — did the innkeeper look? Did you not see that he is mirror-like? Did you not ask him anything?'
The monk said: 'I asked what he did on waking in the morning, for the rest I had seen. He said only that the pots he had cleaned at night had gathered a little dust in the night, so he cleaned them again in the morning.'
The master laughed: 'Fool, he spoke rightly. At night too dust of dreams settles upon the mind. Even if you go to sleep cleansed at dusk, dreams run all night — their dust settles. In the morning he cleans that too — this is what he said.'
The mind is a mirror. And when the mind becomes a mirror — that is all, everything is attained.
But upon the mind we collect dust. It is necessary to understand this dust. And it can be removed. The burden of the past — let the past go. What is the use of binding it? What meaning, what sense is there in remaining tied to it? But we do not see it!
I stayed at a friend’s home. Seven years earlier he had fallen in love with a young woman and brought her home as his wife. I was talking with him. I suddenly asked: 'Can you tell me which sari your wife is wearing today?'
He said: 'Which sari? No, I did not notice.' All day his wife was in the house, he had seen her throughout the day. But which sari she wore — he had no idea!
The neighbour’s wife — which sari she wears — that may be remembered. There is no longer any need to look at one’s own wife. He had looked once — seven years ago. Since then that picture suffices. In seven years that woman has changed every day, become new each day — but she was not seen. The mind has been functioning like a photo-plate.
I asked him: 'Can you tell me what sari she wore the first time you saw her?'
He said: 'That picture is utterly alive. I can tell you what she was wearing the first time I saw her.' And when I reminded him, the light on his face changed. He fell into thought and said: 'She wore this and that…' He could even tell the sandals. He could tell what she wore in her ears. But what she wore today — he had no idea!
You too will not know, for you have not seen today at all. You saw once, the picture settled — you make do with that daily.
Hence, daily quarrels. The daily quarrel is because the wife has changed, the husband has changed — yet the wife thinks the man she met seven years ago should still be the same. The husband feels the same — the ancient demand continues.
Daily strife — because nobody is seeing that change has happened.
All has changed — the stream has flowed — much water has flowed in the Ganga. The demand continues. The wife says: 'Why do you not love me today as you loved me the very first day?' The first day’s picture is alive; she measures by that. That man is gone; this is an entirely other man. He is not the same. But both remain fixed in their old memory. We all remain fixed there.
We all remain fixed there! The son becomes a youth; the father never recognises that the son has grown up. He remains stuck where the son was small. He keeps doing with him what he did with the little boy. He is still ready to beat him. This is beyond the son’s understanding — he feels he is a youth. The father feels: 'What youth! He is my boy.'
Things have grown, changed — but the father is stuck upon the old picture. We all are stuck behind. Everything changes — yet everything seems stuck behind to us.
There is a mother; her son brings home his new bride. She does not understand that the boy has grown, that he will now fall in love with one woman. She continues her old demand. She expects the son still come and place his head in her lap, still embrace her. It is beyond her comprehension that he might place his head in another woman’s lap, embrace another. This she cannot comprehend.
Hence mother-in-law and daughter-in-law cannot get along. The mother is stuck with her son as when he was little. She still wants to command and he should do it — sit where she says, go where she says, stop where she stops him. She does not know the son has grown. So much water has flowed in the Ganga. Now there stands another man there — not the same who lay in her lap, not the same who was in her womb. Yet she keeps saying: 'I carried you nine months in my womb!'
Ask mothers — even now they say to sons: 'I carried you nine months. I bore such pains, and you do this to me!' She does not know that the one she carried in her womb was someone else; this man is someone else. He never was then. He is utterly new, entirely other. The stream of life, the flame of life, has moved elsewhere. This is not the lamp she lit in her womb. That flame has gone on changing. This is entirely another man. But we cannot see the new; the old grips our mind.
The whole world has one suffering, the humanity of man has one entanglement — whether of husband or wife, mother or son, two friends — the one entanglement of life is: we all stop behind. We do not go forward. One stops at one point, another at another. We are not where we are — we stopped long ago somewhere else. And where we stopped, there difficulty began. We should be where we are. Then meditation is not obstructed.
We should be like a mirror — asang — things arise and vanish. Asang. Do not mistake asang for non-attachment. Asang does not mean 'unattached'. Asang is something very wondrous.
Asang means: totally connected and yet not connected.
When you love someone, love fully — in that moment let only the beloved remain. Love as totally as possible — total — for the more total, the more you will be free. That which remains incomplete will keep you stuck; it will haunt you. You will look back again and again: 'If only I had loved more, given more love, received more love.' Be complete in the moment of love — and then move on, for life stops nowhere. All things pass. When you meet again, love will arise again; when you part, the mind will again be empty, the mirror will be clear.
If the mind becomes empty each day and mirror-like, then one has found the secret of life — the secret of the divine.
God is not stuck. That is why he can create new things every day. Otherwise he would keep producing only Rama, only Krishna daily, and would never produce you. For you are utterly new. He would only produce old images — 'Look, we produced one Rama — now this only…' Like Ford cars — each day the same model rolls out. A hundred thousand identical cars come out!
But God seems something unique. Life seems unique — all is new there. Nothing is old. The plant that came once will not come again. Two identical leaves cannot be found. Two identical stones cannot be found. Two identical men cannot be found.
You are unique. Some day if you come to know, 'I am unique' — how much grace, how much gratitude will be felt! I am unique in this endless universe. Infinite beings have been born, but never I. And infinite beings will be born, but never again I.
Each person is unique. What compassion! You are not a repetition. You are not a copy. You are simply you.
God has given such honor to each person that it cannot be measured. There is no way to repay it. To each leaf, each flower, he has given uniqueness. Uniqueness pervades everywhere.
But we — we are bent upon making ourselves old. We do not allow ourselves to be new. We say, 'I am the same as yesterday.' We say, 'I am the same as the day before yesterday.' We say, 'I am what I have always been. I am the same, absolutely consistent. I am what I was yesterday, I was the day before, I have always been the same.'
We are busy making ourselves old, and God is busy making us new. Hence arises the conflict. From this conflict come tension, burden, trouble. No — one cannot be old; one can only be new.
Then why do we remain turned toward the back? Why not become new? Why not open to that which is? And become closed to that which is not, which has not happened?
Die to the past. He who dies to the past alone lives in the present.
He who cannot die to the past, cannot live in the present.
And life is only now — life is in the present, here and now.
To die to the past is the wondrous process of meditation. We have come here for three days — at least for three days make one experiment: die to the past. Forget what you were, and know what you are. And these two are entirely different. What you were is not you. And what you are, you never were. Die to the past — dying to the past is the secret. Moment to moment keep dying to the past. What is gone is gone; what is, is. Be fully awake in the 'is'. Live wholly in the 'is' — then the burden will drop.
Do not keep burdens on the head — you are sitting in the train and the train is carrying all. Why keep it on the head? Put it down. So much vastness is moving — why worry thinking, 'If I do not carry this load, who knows what will happen to the world?' I have heard — the lizards that hang upside down upon walls believe that the house is held up by their support. If they move, the house will fall. Ask any lizard — you will find it says: if we move, the house will collapse.
I have heard of roosters — they think that because they crow at dawn, the sun rises.
In a village there was a man who had the only rooster in that village. He quarrelled with the villagers and said, 'Die if you like; I will take my rooster to another village. Remember, the sun will not rise in this village.'
He went away with his rooster to another village. His rooster crowed there; the sun rose. He said, 'Now they must be beating their heads — the sun has risen here. Now they will regret quarrelling with me. Wherever my rooster crows, there the sun rises!'
We too are of the same notion. We carry the entire world upon our head. Everyone feels: 'If I am not, who knows what will happen.' Nothing happens. Nothing will happen. Not even a leaf will stir. How many have lived upon the earth? Today they are not. What has happened? Everyone keeps this illusion — we carry a heavy burden of our being. He who carries the burden of his being will never know 'being'. To know being, it is necessary to be unburdened.
Therefore the first burden is the past — let it go.
The second burden is: the feeling that somehow I am running the whole world. Everyone thinks, 'I run the world.' Each one takes himself to be the center — the whole world is turning upon his nail.
There is no center. No one is running the world. The world is running — and within it we run. The train runs — we sit in it. But the notion 'I am running it' does not leave us.
I have heard an old story. A man used to pray daily in the temple: 'Give me liberation, give me moksha.' One day God got worried. The god of that temple must have gotten worried — even gods in temples become worried sometimes. God appeared and said: 'If you want liberation, take it now.'
The man said: 'Now — at once? How can I take it now? My child is small. Let him grow a bit, let me get him married.'
God said: 'You have been troubling me for so many days — you want moksha!'
He said: 'I certainly want it — but not just now! Later. Give me an assurance. Let the boy grow up a bit; let me get him married. Who will get him married if not I?'
God went back. Then the boy was married. He returned home and slept in his room. God appeared again: 'Now your boy is married.'
The man said: 'You are in such a hurry! At least let him have a child. Let me bring up the child a little — who will nurture him? My son is naive; the daughter-in-law is naive. There is no experienced person in the house. How will the child grow without me? Let the child grow a little — then I am absolutely ready.'
God went back. He did not lose hope, he kept his hopes alive. Then the son’s son was born and grew up. He began to go to school. God came again.
The old man said: 'Are you hounding me? Now he has started going to school. Let him study, let me get him married — then everything will be settled. I will come then.'
God said: 'But this is very difficult — for the circle will start again. After his marriage, his son will be born.'
The old man said: 'Then forgive me — let moksha be for now. When I come, there will be no need for you to come. I will tell you myself that now I want liberation.'
We all carry the notion that we are running things! Why? Not because we run them — because in thinking so there is great joy. It feels as if we are something. This nourishes our ego: 'I am running things.' The ego feels gratified by this. The truth is not that I am running anything. The truth is only this — thinking 'I am running' strengthens the 'I'. And the stronger the 'I', the more impossible is entry into meditation. The 'I' is a burden.
So understand the second thing: you are not running anything. You are only a tiny part of a vast ongoing world — of a vast cosmos, a vast universe, a vast movement.
If this hand of mine could know, perhaps it would feel, 'I am rising.' Surely it would think so — but it does not know it is only a part of a larger body. If these eyes knew, they might think, 'We are seeing.' But the eyes are not seeing; they are part of a larger body. If my stomach knew, it might think, 'I am digesting food; I am making blood.' But the stomach digests nothing; it is part of a larger body.
Life is integrated. The entire universe is integrated. Within this whole we function as parts. But we harbor the notion: 'I am doing.' And this has created trouble. All is happening — we are a part of it. If the sun — a hundred million miles away — goes cold, we will become cold here at once. We will not even know when the sun grew cold, for to know we must first be. The sun grows cold and we grow cold — then we may know that the sun too was running us. The sun was moving — with it we were moving. Our heartbeat is tied to the heartbeat of the sun. And who knows — some other distant star may be moving our sun.
Because life is an interrelationship — all is connected. In this totality, to allow the notion to arise, 'I am doing, I am running' — is to take on a useless burden. Why sit with your trunk and bedding on your head in a moving train? Put it down. Life is moving, and we move within it. We do not run it. The movement is vast — we are just an atom in it. In such understanding there is surrender. And surrender is not something you do — it happens. If this understanding dawns, surrender happens.
Surrender itself is meditation.
Some say: 'I will go and surrender to God.' The language of 'I will do' can never surrender, because if you say 'I will surrender,' you have made surrender into an act, a doing. An act can never be surrender. If a man says, 'I went and surrendered everything at the feet of God' — nothing has happened. For he says, 'I did it!' Tomorrow he may say, 'I have taken it back.' Surrender can never be taken back — therefore surrender can never be done. Surrender happens — it is the result of understanding.
If we understand the arrangement of life, surrender will happen. You will not have to do it. And when it happens, meditation begins.
Three things I have said. First, understand the burden of the past — do not carry it uselessly. Second, the 'I am the doer' — understand this burden. Things are happening; we are not doing.
And how vast is the net of all that is happening — we know not the ends of it. We never can. In that immense, happening order, leave yourself — let-go. Forget doing, forget doership, forget the doer; let only that which is remain.
And then, then something will happen — that happening takes us 'there' where we in truth are, from where we have never moved, never wavered, never gone anywhere. But to reach it, one must be free of the whole burden-state of 'doing' and 'being someone'.
Now we will experiment with meditation.
Having understood all this, there is nothing to do. For a little while, for ten minutes, we will simply remain.
I will not speak for those ten minutes. Let me say a few things beforehand. Just as there are trees, the songs of birds, the sky, the sun’s rays — in the same way we too will just be. We will simply remain — here, present — doing nothing. Thoughts may go on — let them go on; if they do not, they do not. We will go on silently seeing, silently hearing. The sounds will be heard.
Sit a little apart from one another. Anywhere — under the shade of trees if you like. It is not necessary that you be in front here. Sit anywhere. Do not speak at all. Quietly move away. No talking. Quietly move away and sit anywhere, wherever you feel good — under the shade of trees, anywhere. Do not worry about clothes and such — just sit.
Sit. Understand two or three things. Once seated, leave the body completely loose, as if there were no life in it. For when we are to become part of the vast, all stiffness must be dropped. Stiffness in the body is a fragment of the stiffness of the mind within. Drop stiffness. Surrender — as if we are not. Become a part of this great nature, of these trees, this earth, this sky, this wind, these rays. We too are a part — not separate.
Let yourself go. Leave yourself utterly loose, as if no life is there. It may happen that in ten minutes the body falls — do not worry. If it falls, let it fall. If it bends, let it bend. On your part, let it be. We are not to do anything. Whatever happens, happens. The body may begin to tremble — let it tremble. Tears may begin to flow — let them flow. We are not to do anything. Whatever happens, we will go on watching, go on knowing, and remain sitting silently. If we fall, we fall. If the body wants to fall, do not prevent it. Do nothing on your part. Let whatever happens, happen. And for ten minutes…
All around the birds will go on calling, the winds will go on flowing — their sound will be heard, the winds will touch the body, there will be sounds in the leaves — silently, go on listening. All is happening — we too have become a part of it. We are not. We are not separate. We are a part, a fragment of this earth, this sky, these rays. We are not separate. Then let whatever happens, happen — if crying comes, let tears flow; if the body trembles, let it fall. We are not.
Now gently close the eyes. Not tightly — do not strain. Gently let the eyes go loose, let the lids fall — let them close.
The eyes are closed. Leave the body loose, completely loose — if it falls, let it fall; if it remains, it remains; if it does not remain, it does not remain. Leave it utterly loose, as if there were no life in it — so that we may become a part. Our stiffness must go. We are not separate. And then do not make any effort. Whatever happens, happens. We will silently see — only see.
Good! Eyes are closed. The body is left loose — utterly loose. No resistance at all, no obstruction. If in ten minutes it falls, let it fall. Loose… loose… loose… totally relaxed, utterly loose — as if we are not.
Now there is nothing to do. Nothing to do at all. Now only remain aware — whatever happens, happens; we too are. See — that bird is calling, the sound of leaves, the wind, the sun’s rays — we too are. Nothing to do — just to be. Just to be.
Good. For ten minutes I will be silent. Let whatever happens, happen. For ten minutes, become silent. Disappear in surrender — let go of everything.
Let go… let go… utterly let go — you are not. All is; you are not. Disappear… let go… let go… be carried utterly — all is; you are not. Disappear completely — you are not. The winds are, the sun is, the trees are. Breath is moving, thoughts are moving. All is; you are not. Let go… let go… utterly let go — as if you are not. Disappear — and find. The door opens.
Let go… surrender… total surrender — you are not. Let whatever happens, happen. Do nothing. Go on knowing, go on knowing whatever is happening — the birds’ voices, the sound of leaves, the sound of winds. The heartbeat is going on, the breath is going on. Whatever is happening is happening — we are just knowing, only knowing, doing nothing.
Utterly let go… disappear… you are not. Only go on knowing, filled with awareness. The birds’ voices will be heard; your own breath will be felt, the heartbeat will be felt… the mind will slowly become silent… the mind will slowly become utterly silent… the mind will become still…
Let go… let go… utterly let go… utterly let go — as if you are not. The body will become completely slack… the mind will become quiet… the breath will grow gentle… the body will be limp… the mind quiet…
The mind is becoming quiet… becoming quiet… the mind is utterly quiet, weightless — as if no burden remains. The mind goes on becoming quiet… let go… let go… see — do not miss the door. Let go… utterly let go…
The mind is becoming quiet… the mind is becoming quiet… the mind is becoming still… the mind has become like a mirror. A bird’s call will echo, will fade, then there will be silence. The mind has become quiet… the mind has become quiet…
Now very slowly take two or four deep breaths… slowly take two or four deep breaths… with each breath the mind will become even more quiet. Slowly take two or four deep breaths… with each breath the mind will become even more quiet. Slowly take two or four deep breaths… slowly take two or four deep breaths… with each breath the mind will become even more quiet.
Then very slowly open the eyes… very slowly open the eyes… eyes are like a mirror — what is outside will be seen. Slowly open the eyes… slowly open the eyes… keep the eyes open for a minute or two and sit silently… see what is here and now. Silently see whatever appears — do not think, just see… slowly open the eyes… slowly open… see like a mirror… sit silently seeing for a minute or two…
At three-thirty in the afternoon we will gather here for one hour of silence. At that time there will be no talk. Neither will I speak, nor will you come speaking. So understand two or three things for that time.
First: from three-thirty to four-thirty we will sit here in silence. Prepare for that silence beforehand. If possible, bathe. Change clothes. Come fresh and light. And if we are to be here at three-thirty for silence, then stop talking from half an hour before, so that by the time you reach here the mind is fully ready for silence. Then for one hour sit quietly near the trees, wherever you like. We will remain in silence for one hour.
In both gatherings I will speak — in silence too I will speak. Those who become perfectly silent, something may be understood by them. One can speak even in silence. But for one hour simply be silent and wait to see what happens. And for that hour there is no talk, no announcement. Sit quietly for the hour, and when the hour ends, get up and go.
During that silent hour, if anyone feels that he must come and sit by me for two minutes — if it arises on its own — then quietly come and sit near me for two minutes, then get up and go. But come only if it arises — do not come by your own thinking. Three-thirty.
Osho's Commentary
When one looks at man, a very astonishing fact is revealed — that man’s entire personality is a strain, a pull, a load, a tension. What weight lies upon the mind of man? Under which rock is he crushed? Look toward the sun’s rays, or toward the green leaves of trees, or lift your eyes to the sky — nowhere is there any burden; everywhere there is weightlessness, nowhere any tension. Only upon the human mind there is tension.
I have heard: inside a fast moving train a man was sitting. Whoever passed by him looked at him with surprise and stared. He had done something of that sort. He had placed his bedding and his trunk upon his own head. If anyone asked him, 'Friend, what are you doing?'
He was a bit of a do-it-yourself type, a volunteer. Some people are like that — they feel that everything must be done by oneself.
He said: 'I carry my load on my own head. Why should I burden the train?'
He himself was riding on the train, with his load on his head. The load too was riding upon the train. Yet the load which he could have placed down and sat at ease, he kept on his head, thinking, 'One should serve oneself.' The train was running, it was carrying him and his load as well — and still he kept his load on his head.
All of life is moving, all of life has been moving, all of life will continue to move — yet we all sit carrying our loads upon our heads. That which we could put down, we have kept on our head. And in all of us there is the same idea as in that man in the racing train — 'If I do not carry my load, who will?' But his load was visible, so everyone could see it. The loads we carry are not visible.
There are burdens that can be seen — and those visible burdens are not very dangerous; they can easily be put down. But there are also burdens that cannot be seen — and we carry them too. And because they are not visible to others or even to ourselves, we go on increasing them throughout life; they never diminish.
If there is any difference between a child and an old man, it is only this — the child bears no burden yet, and the old man has gathered the burdens of a lifetime. Old age means to be so crushed under so much weight that living becomes impossible. The body will grow old, but if the mind is unburdened, the soul never becomes old. And if the soul is unburdened, then even at the moment of death a person remains a child — just as simple, just as guileless, just as innocent as on the day he came to the earth.
In a marketplace there was a great crowd, and Jesus stood in the midst. Someone asked him: 'You speak of the kingdom of heaven — who shall be worthy to attain it?' Jesus lifted a small child onto his shoulders and said: 'Those who shall be like this child!'
But what does it mean to be like a child? Jesus did not say, 'Those who will be children.' He said, 'Those who will be childlike.'
Childlike means: those who have advanced in age, yet have not taken on burdens; who remain childlike within.
Yet there are very unknown burdens that we carry. With those burdens upon you, if you think you will become peaceful — it is impossible. With those burdens upon you, if you think you will enter the doorway of meditation — impossible. No one has placed those burdens upon you. You do not even know that you yourself have been placing them upon yourself. Even today you are adding to them, and every day you will go on adding. They will become so many that you will be crushed — you will only be a heap of burdens. By the time death arrives, the man has long since died; only the burdens remain.
It is necessary to understand these burdens a little.
Because if the man in the train, sitting with his trunk and bedding on his head, comes to know that he is being foolish, will there be any difficulty in removing the trunk and bedding from his head? Will he ask how to put it down? If he simply sees that this is sheer madness, there will be no delay — he will put it down.
If the burdens of the mind are understood, there is not the least difficulty in putting them down. But we do not even know what kinds of burdens we are carrying! A glimpse of these burdens should come into our awareness this morning.
First: that which has passed, we keep collecting. It has passed; now it exists nowhere except in our memory. All that has flowed away — you will not find it anywhere. But in our memory it is stored. The entire past sits upon us like a stone.
Something happened yesterday — it is finished. Just as lines drawn upon water do not even form and are erased, so too the lines on the surface of this life do not even form and are erased. These trees know nothing of what happened yesterday, the sky knows nothing, the sun’s rays know nothing; only man knows!
And man sits clasping what happened yesterday; he has gripped it. Yesterday someone abused you and someone loved you. Yesterday someone respected you and someone insulted you. And all the yesterdays that have passed are endless!
And we remember only this life, but those who know will say: the stories of endless lives are sitting in the memory within — their burden too! Each person bears the load of infinite births — the burden of the past. The past has become a stone upon our chest, upon our head; we are crushed beneath it, hence we cannot be weightless. It must be understood that what is gone is gone — it is nowhere now; why am I carrying it?
One morning a man came to Buddha, very angry — he abused him profusely. Then in his rage he spat on Buddha. Buddha wiped the spit off with his robe and said to the man: 'Do you have anything more to say?'
Consider that morning a little. You go to Buddha and spit on him. Many people feel like spitting on people like Buddha. Because a Buddha becomes an insult, an offence, to many.
Buddha insults no one, but his very presence becomes a cause of pain and humiliation for many — because the standing of a Buddha becomes proof of our smallness. The radiance of a Buddha begins to reveal our darkness. The compassion flowing from a Buddha makes our anger and our ego tremble. The presence of a Buddha begins to expose the lowness of our personality. We become angry, and the urge to spit arises — very natural.
You go and spit upon him… imagine you went — and Buddha wipes it as if nothing has happened. What has happened! And he asks, 'Anything more to say?'
The monk Ananda, sitting nearby, became very angry and said: 'What are you saying — anything more to say! The man is spitting! We are silent only because of you; otherwise our very life is on fire at what this man has done! He spits on you, and you say, anything more to say?'
Buddha said: 'As I understand, the anger in this man is so great that words are unable to carry it, so he is speaking by spitting. Spitting too is a language, a method, a way.
'And sometimes when we cannot say something, when words fail, then we speak in such ways. When someone’s love grows immense he embraces. The embrace in itself means nothing, but words are not found for love. When someone is filled with rage he strikes the head — words are not found. When someone is filled with reverence he places his head at the feet — words are not found.
'He could find no words. Language is weak, therefore he says something in this manner. I have understood. Anything more to say, friend?' If you were there — what would be left to say?
The man returned home. His eyes filled with tears; he could not sleep that night. The next day he came to ask forgiveness; he fell at Buddha’s feet, tears flowing: 'Forgive me!'
Buddha said: 'Do you see, Ananda, even now this man wants to say something but cannot find words, so tears flow and he catches hold of feet. Man’s language, Ananda, is very weak.'
And to the man Buddha said: 'Friend, for what are you asking forgiveness? For yesterday which has gone! From whom do you seek forgiveness — from me? I am another man now — the Ganga has flowed, much water has gone by.
'The Ganga by which you stood yesterday morning — that is not the same Ganga now. And if today you go to ask forgiveness the Ganga will say: From whom do you seek forgiveness? The water with which you met yesterday has flowed away. Where am I now that I was yesterday? Neither are the leaves on the trees the same, nor the clouds in the sky, nor the sun’s rays the same — nothing is the same; all has flowed, all has changed. From whom do you ask forgiveness?
'But you are foolish — you could not flow. You have remained stuck where you spat in the morning. How shall I forgive? I was not there yesterday. The one who was, I am not that now.'
Only dead things remain the same as yesterday. The living change every day. Life means: to be in continual change. To be dead means: not to change.
In the morning a flower blooms; beneath it lies a stone — perhaps the stone laughs inside at those who praise the flower. For it might say: 'You have gone mad — it has not yet fully opened, by noon it will wither, by evening it will fall. Look at me — I am the same in the morning, the same at noon, the same in the evening.'
Only that which is dead remains the same as it was. In truth, the dead are in the past; the dead have no present. Past means: dead. Dead means: the past, gone. Only the past does not change; the present changes every moment.
That which changes is called the present. That which does not stand still but goes on changing is called life.
But memory does not change; it becomes fixed. We are life, and upon our head is the burden of memory which does not change. We are like a flower and memory is like a stone. As if a flower is pressed beneath a stone — this deforms man.
Man is a flower, life is a flower. Memory presses that flower like a stone. Think — if a flower is trapped under a stone, how will it breathe? Likewise, the stone of memory burdens consciousness — troubled, afflicted, filled with tension.
Those who remove the stone of memory enter meditation.
But we preserve it. We say, 'Do you know who I was yesterday?' A man who has once been an MLA even then writes on his pad: 'Former MLA', 'Ex-Minister'! That 'ex' does not leave one alone. Once it was — all right, the water of the Ganga has flowed. What was is no more. You came here in the morning — the same person will not return. Within an hour all will have flowed away.
As if someone lights a lamp at dusk and in the morning says, 'Now I will extinguish the very lamp I lit at dusk.' Is he right or wrong? It will seem right — he extinguishes the same lamp he lit at dusk. But where is that lamp now, the one lit at dusk? The flame has been changing every moment; the flame has been becoming smoke, a new flame has been arising continuously. All night the lamp has changed; all night the stream of flame has kept flowing — new flame, new flame, new flame. The change was so swift that the old did not go before the new arrived — the gap was not visible. We took it that the same flame was burning. Can one extinguish in the morning the same lamp lit at dusk? The dusk lamp went out at dusk; the next flames kept coming in a series of change. The lamp you extinguish in the morning is entirely other — a lamp that was never lit you now extinguish. The sequence is rapid, the stream is swift, hence it is not noticed.
Is the one who is born the one who dies? Are you who were born the same? Will the same die?
The flame keeps changing, all keeps changing. Life is a flow — yet whatever that flow meets, whatever impressions are made upon it, whatever the flow sees, memory keeps collecting all that. The stream of life moves forward; memory grasps backward. Memory stops at the past. Life runs ahead — into the unknown. And memory? Memory stops at the known. Memory is the known; life is the unknown.
And the tug between the known and the unknown — that is man’s tension. Until that tension is released, we cannot enter the doorway of life. Do not ask how to release it; understanding is needed. Once clearly understood, it drops. It is not a visible load to be lifted off the head. It is a matter of understanding, of seeing plainly. If there is understanding, if it is seen, the matter is finished. Look within yourself — how many memories are you hoarding? What use are they? What meaning have they?
I am not saying you should forget in which hotel, in which room you are staying, nor am I saying you should forget which village you must return to. This is practical memory; it carries no burden.
The burdens are other — psychological, mental. If yesterday I abused you, can you meet me today without carrying that abuse in between? Is it possible that you meet me and the image of how I looked to you yesterday does not come in between? If this is possible, you are a living man upon whose mind no burden rests. If not, then there is great difficulty.
A friend met me and said, 'Listening to your talk last night and earlier talks, I sensed a slight contradiction.' But why hold to earlier talks? They have flowed away. And if you clutch the earlier, then what I am saying now you will neither hear nor understand. Then contradiction will appear — because you did not hear, you did not understand. I say: If what I am saying now is rightly understood, contradiction will never appear. But the mind keeps gripping the back — 'once it was said…'. Perhaps that too was never heard, because even then the mind must have been clutching something else behind — if not mine then Krishna’s, Buddha’s, Mahavira’s; the Gita, the Koran.
Memory runs backward and life runs forward. The two do not meet. As if we have yoked oxen to a single cart in opposite directions — and they are pulling both ways! The oxen of memory toward the back, the oxen of life’s current toward the front. The cart is in trouble, always in difficulty.
And the rear oxen are strong, because the strength of a lifetime has fed them. Those oxen of the past, of memory, are strong — they have the weight of the dead; stones are heavy.
And the current of life ahead is very delicate. It is just to be — like a tender sprout emerging from the seed; soft, delicate. Place a small stone upon it and it will die.
The current of the future is very delicate, very tender, very fragile. And the oxen of the past are strong; they keep pulling the cart backward. The cart cannot go backward — only you can be pulled. Then life stops, stagnates — no longer a stream but a dam, a pool. Then we rot; we die under burdens. That is why in a man’s eyes you do not see what you can see in a lake. In a man’s eye you do not see even what you may see in the eye of a cow. In man’s movement you do not see what is seen in a deer’s leap. In man’s life the flowering is not visible as it is in a plant. And man too is as much a part of this nature as animals, plants, birds, the moon and stars.
What is it that breaks man? The burden of the past stands like a heavy wall, cutting him off from life. Understand: what has happened has happened. Why carry it? Bid it farewell.
A fakir set out seeking truth. He stayed in an ashram of a sannyasin. He asked the sannyasin: 'I have come in search of truth. I wish to know what the truth of life is.' The sannyasin said: 'These things will come later. Where do you come from?'
The seeker said: 'I come from Peking.'
The sannyasin asked: 'What is the price of rice in Peking these days?'
The seeker replied: 'Sir, in Peking surely there must be some price for rice, but I have left Peking. And once I leave a place, I do not look back. The roads I pass, I forget, because I have other roads yet to pass. If the eyes remain filled with the roads behind, the road ahead becomes blurred. The eyes can see one thing at a time — either the road behind, or the road ahead. There may be some price in Peking, but I am not in Peking.'
The sannyasin laughed: 'I asked deliberately. If you had told me the price of rice in Peking, I would not have spoken to you of truth. Good — now we can speak a little. Truth can be experienced only by those who become free of the past.'
But we remember very well the price of rice in Peking! Men keep talking of childhood — 'Milk was sold at so much a seer, ghee at so much…' They do not merely say it — such things sit upon their mind as a load. Then the life that is today becomes obscured, because the life that was yesterday has gripped the mind so tightly.
Have you ever noticed — the mind can function in two ways. One, like a photo-plate. We insert a very sensitive plate in the camera. But it becomes useless after capturing a single picture. It took one snapshot, the plate is spoiled; no more can be taken upon it. It is dead. No longer living.
There is also a mirror. Upon the mirror an image appears. When something stands before it, the mirror makes a full image. When that goes, the image goes. The mirror is again empty. Another comes — again the mirror makes a picture. The mirror never says, 'I have already made one, I will not make another.' The mirror does not cling to images. The mirror does not die by clinging. The mirror remains living — images come and go, pass by.
Those who begin to live in memory use their mind like a photo-plate. On it pictures keep piling one over another. Pictures do not depart. The mind is not empty. More and more images keep crowding and the burden grows.
But those who want to move in the world of meditation use the mind mirror-like. Things appear upon the mind and pass. If you are before me — fine. If you are not, you are gone; then you are nowhere. At the station where I board, I say my greetings to those there; then they are gone, that station too is gone. They are no more in the world — it does not matter. Ahead there is a new world, new people. To make their image, the previous images must depart; otherwise there can be no justice to the new.
Where there is strong clinging to the old, there can be no justice to the new. Where there is tight grip on the past, how can there be justice to the present? He who is bound to yesterday — how will he live today? How now? How in this moment? This moment has never been — it has come for the first time. And our minds are filled with pictures. The burden of the past dims the mirror of the mind.
A person took initiation in an ashram. For years he practised, yet he did not find that which he sought. He said to his master: 'Years have passed; I have not attained what I came seeking. Where shall I go now?'
The master said: 'There is an inn outside the town — go live there a few days. Observe the innkeeper. Perhaps what you could not find here, you will find there.'
The young monk went. He had little hope — 'If I found nothing with a great master, what will I find with an innkeeper?' But he went because his master had sent him.
He arrived in the evening; the innkeeper was washing utensils. Travellers had eaten through the day and gone. He cleaned the pots. He swept the rooms. He dusted the doorway. The monk kept watching. He said: 'My master has sent me to learn from you.'
The innkeeper said: 'What is there to learn from me! But since you have come, stay. I cannot teach anything. If you can learn, that is another matter. In this world, no one can teach anyone anything. If someone can learn, that is another matter.'
The monk thought, 'What can one learn from one who says he cannot teach?' Yet he stayed the night to see what the man does.
The next day he watched from morning. The innkeeper served people all day long. One guest came, another left, a third arrived. Someone’s horses were tied, someone’s camels halted, someone’s cart was parked. He worked throughout — serving meals, washing pots again at dusk.
Then the monk said: 'Shall I go now? For I do not see anything to learn. All day people came and went — I saw that. You served them — I saw that. You washed dishes, cleaned the house — I saw that. I have seen all this. Only I do not know when you rose in the morning — tell me that. What did you do then?'
He said: 'Nothing at all. The pots I had cleaned at night had gathered a little dust during the night, so in the morning I cleaned them again.'
The monk said, 'My master is crazy! Where has he sent me — where there is nothing to learn! One who knows only to wash dishes, clean the house and serve — nothing else!'
He returned to his master: 'Where did you send me? I found nothing.'
The master said: 'Now you will not find anything anywhere — for the mind that could have found is not with you. I sent you there knowingly, because I had found it there. Once I too had stayed in that inn.
'I saw that he behaved the same with one guest as with another. I saw that when one came, it was as if that one alone became the whole world for him — as if the world vanished and only that one remained. He served him as if he had served him his whole life. Then the man departed — and the innkeeper did not even look back down the road to see that the man had gone. The next had come — he began serving him.
'I saw that man is like a mirror. No picture forms upon his mind. Thousands of guests came and left — an inn is such a place — yet the owner is wondrous. He does not hold onto anyone, does not cling to anyone. When someone stands before him it seems he has great love — as if he will hold him for life. But when someone goes, he does not even look back. Those who left keep looking back — did the innkeeper look? Did you not see that he is mirror-like? Did you not ask him anything?'
The monk said: 'I asked what he did on waking in the morning, for the rest I had seen. He said only that the pots he had cleaned at night had gathered a little dust in the night, so he cleaned them again in the morning.'
The master laughed: 'Fool, he spoke rightly. At night too dust of dreams settles upon the mind. Even if you go to sleep cleansed at dusk, dreams run all night — their dust settles. In the morning he cleans that too — this is what he said.'
The mind is a mirror. And when the mind becomes a mirror — that is all, everything is attained.
But upon the mind we collect dust. It is necessary to understand this dust. And it can be removed. The burden of the past — let the past go. What is the use of binding it? What meaning, what sense is there in remaining tied to it? But we do not see it!
I stayed at a friend’s home. Seven years earlier he had fallen in love with a young woman and brought her home as his wife. I was talking with him. I suddenly asked: 'Can you tell me which sari your wife is wearing today?'
He said: 'Which sari? No, I did not notice.' All day his wife was in the house, he had seen her throughout the day. But which sari she wore — he had no idea!
The neighbour’s wife — which sari she wears — that may be remembered. There is no longer any need to look at one’s own wife. He had looked once — seven years ago. Since then that picture suffices. In seven years that woman has changed every day, become new each day — but she was not seen. The mind has been functioning like a photo-plate.
I asked him: 'Can you tell me what sari she wore the first time you saw her?'
He said: 'That picture is utterly alive. I can tell you what she was wearing the first time I saw her.' And when I reminded him, the light on his face changed. He fell into thought and said: 'She wore this and that…' He could even tell the sandals. He could tell what she wore in her ears. But what she wore today — he had no idea!
You too will not know, for you have not seen today at all. You saw once, the picture settled — you make do with that daily.
Hence, daily quarrels. The daily quarrel is because the wife has changed, the husband has changed — yet the wife thinks the man she met seven years ago should still be the same. The husband feels the same — the ancient demand continues.
Daily strife — because nobody is seeing that change has happened.
All has changed — the stream has flowed — much water has flowed in the Ganga. The demand continues. The wife says: 'Why do you not love me today as you loved me the very first day?' The first day’s picture is alive; she measures by that. That man is gone; this is an entirely other man. He is not the same. But both remain fixed in their old memory. We all remain fixed there.
We all remain fixed there! The son becomes a youth; the father never recognises that the son has grown up. He remains stuck where the son was small. He keeps doing with him what he did with the little boy. He is still ready to beat him. This is beyond the son’s understanding — he feels he is a youth. The father feels: 'What youth! He is my boy.'
Things have grown, changed — but the father is stuck upon the old picture. We all are stuck behind. Everything changes — yet everything seems stuck behind to us.
There is a mother; her son brings home his new bride. She does not understand that the boy has grown, that he will now fall in love with one woman. She continues her old demand. She expects the son still come and place his head in her lap, still embrace her. It is beyond her comprehension that he might place his head in another woman’s lap, embrace another. This she cannot comprehend.
Hence mother-in-law and daughter-in-law cannot get along. The mother is stuck with her son as when he was little. She still wants to command and he should do it — sit where she says, go where she says, stop where she stops him. She does not know the son has grown. So much water has flowed in the Ganga. Now there stands another man there — not the same who lay in her lap, not the same who was in her womb. Yet she keeps saying: 'I carried you nine months in my womb!'
Ask mothers — even now they say to sons: 'I carried you nine months. I bore such pains, and you do this to me!' She does not know that the one she carried in her womb was someone else; this man is someone else. He never was then. He is utterly new, entirely other. The stream of life, the flame of life, has moved elsewhere. This is not the lamp she lit in her womb. That flame has gone on changing. This is entirely another man. But we cannot see the new; the old grips our mind.
The whole world has one suffering, the humanity of man has one entanglement — whether of husband or wife, mother or son, two friends — the one entanglement of life is: we all stop behind. We do not go forward. One stops at one point, another at another. We are not where we are — we stopped long ago somewhere else. And where we stopped, there difficulty began. We should be where we are. Then meditation is not obstructed.
We should be like a mirror — asang — things arise and vanish. Asang. Do not mistake asang for non-attachment. Asang does not mean 'unattached'. Asang is something very wondrous.
Asang means: totally connected and yet not connected.
When you love someone, love fully — in that moment let only the beloved remain. Love as totally as possible — total — for the more total, the more you will be free. That which remains incomplete will keep you stuck; it will haunt you. You will look back again and again: 'If only I had loved more, given more love, received more love.' Be complete in the moment of love — and then move on, for life stops nowhere. All things pass. When you meet again, love will arise again; when you part, the mind will again be empty, the mirror will be clear.
If the mind becomes empty each day and mirror-like, then one has found the secret of life — the secret of the divine.
God is not stuck. That is why he can create new things every day. Otherwise he would keep producing only Rama, only Krishna daily, and would never produce you. For you are utterly new. He would only produce old images — 'Look, we produced one Rama — now this only…' Like Ford cars — each day the same model rolls out. A hundred thousand identical cars come out!
But God seems something unique. Life seems unique — all is new there. Nothing is old. The plant that came once will not come again. Two identical leaves cannot be found. Two identical stones cannot be found. Two identical men cannot be found.
You are unique. Some day if you come to know, 'I am unique' — how much grace, how much gratitude will be felt! I am unique in this endless universe. Infinite beings have been born, but never I. And infinite beings will be born, but never again I.
Each person is unique. What compassion! You are not a repetition. You are not a copy. You are simply you.
God has given such honor to each person that it cannot be measured. There is no way to repay it. To each leaf, each flower, he has given uniqueness. Uniqueness pervades everywhere.
But we — we are bent upon making ourselves old. We do not allow ourselves to be new. We say, 'I am the same as yesterday.' We say, 'I am the same as the day before yesterday.' We say, 'I am what I have always been. I am the same, absolutely consistent. I am what I was yesterday, I was the day before, I have always been the same.'
We are busy making ourselves old, and God is busy making us new. Hence arises the conflict. From this conflict come tension, burden, trouble. No — one cannot be old; one can only be new.
Then why do we remain turned toward the back? Why not become new? Why not open to that which is? And become closed to that which is not, which has not happened?
Die to the past. He who dies to the past alone lives in the present.
He who cannot die to the past, cannot live in the present.
And life is only now — life is in the present, here and now.
To die to the past is the wondrous process of meditation. We have come here for three days — at least for three days make one experiment: die to the past. Forget what you were, and know what you are. And these two are entirely different. What you were is not you. And what you are, you never were. Die to the past — dying to the past is the secret. Moment to moment keep dying to the past. What is gone is gone; what is, is. Be fully awake in the 'is'. Live wholly in the 'is' — then the burden will drop.
Do not keep burdens on the head — you are sitting in the train and the train is carrying all. Why keep it on the head? Put it down. So much vastness is moving — why worry thinking, 'If I do not carry this load, who knows what will happen to the world?' I have heard — the lizards that hang upside down upon walls believe that the house is held up by their support. If they move, the house will fall. Ask any lizard — you will find it says: if we move, the house will collapse.
I have heard of roosters — they think that because they crow at dawn, the sun rises.
In a village there was a man who had the only rooster in that village. He quarrelled with the villagers and said, 'Die if you like; I will take my rooster to another village. Remember, the sun will not rise in this village.'
He went away with his rooster to another village. His rooster crowed there; the sun rose. He said, 'Now they must be beating their heads — the sun has risen here. Now they will regret quarrelling with me. Wherever my rooster crows, there the sun rises!'
We too are of the same notion. We carry the entire world upon our head. Everyone feels: 'If I am not, who knows what will happen.' Nothing happens. Nothing will happen. Not even a leaf will stir. How many have lived upon the earth? Today they are not. What has happened? Everyone keeps this illusion — we carry a heavy burden of our being. He who carries the burden of his being will never know 'being'. To know being, it is necessary to be unburdened.
Therefore the first burden is the past — let it go.
The second burden is: the feeling that somehow I am running the whole world. Everyone thinks, 'I run the world.' Each one takes himself to be the center — the whole world is turning upon his nail.
There is no center. No one is running the world. The world is running — and within it we run. The train runs — we sit in it. But the notion 'I am running it' does not leave us.
I have heard an old story. A man used to pray daily in the temple: 'Give me liberation, give me moksha.' One day God got worried. The god of that temple must have gotten worried — even gods in temples become worried sometimes. God appeared and said: 'If you want liberation, take it now.'
The man said: 'Now — at once? How can I take it now? My child is small. Let him grow a bit, let me get him married.'
God said: 'You have been troubling me for so many days — you want moksha!'
He said: 'I certainly want it — but not just now! Later. Give me an assurance. Let the boy grow up a bit; let me get him married. Who will get him married if not I?'
God went back. Then the boy was married. He returned home and slept in his room. God appeared again: 'Now your boy is married.'
The man said: 'You are in such a hurry! At least let him have a child. Let me bring up the child a little — who will nurture him? My son is naive; the daughter-in-law is naive. There is no experienced person in the house. How will the child grow without me? Let the child grow a little — then I am absolutely ready.'
God went back. He did not lose hope, he kept his hopes alive. Then the son’s son was born and grew up. He began to go to school. God came again.
The old man said: 'Are you hounding me? Now he has started going to school. Let him study, let me get him married — then everything will be settled. I will come then.'
God said: 'But this is very difficult — for the circle will start again. After his marriage, his son will be born.'
The old man said: 'Then forgive me — let moksha be for now. When I come, there will be no need for you to come. I will tell you myself that now I want liberation.'
We all carry the notion that we are running things! Why? Not because we run them — because in thinking so there is great joy. It feels as if we are something. This nourishes our ego: 'I am running things.' The ego feels gratified by this. The truth is not that I am running anything. The truth is only this — thinking 'I am running' strengthens the 'I'. And the stronger the 'I', the more impossible is entry into meditation. The 'I' is a burden.
So understand the second thing: you are not running anything. You are only a tiny part of a vast ongoing world — of a vast cosmos, a vast universe, a vast movement.
If this hand of mine could know, perhaps it would feel, 'I am rising.' Surely it would think so — but it does not know it is only a part of a larger body. If these eyes knew, they might think, 'We are seeing.' But the eyes are not seeing; they are part of a larger body. If my stomach knew, it might think, 'I am digesting food; I am making blood.' But the stomach digests nothing; it is part of a larger body.
Life is integrated. The entire universe is integrated. Within this whole we function as parts. But we harbor the notion: 'I am doing.' And this has created trouble. All is happening — we are a part of it. If the sun — a hundred million miles away — goes cold, we will become cold here at once. We will not even know when the sun grew cold, for to know we must first be. The sun grows cold and we grow cold — then we may know that the sun too was running us. The sun was moving — with it we were moving. Our heartbeat is tied to the heartbeat of the sun. And who knows — some other distant star may be moving our sun.
Because life is an interrelationship — all is connected. In this totality, to allow the notion to arise, 'I am doing, I am running' — is to take on a useless burden. Why sit with your trunk and bedding on your head in a moving train? Put it down. Life is moving, and we move within it. We do not run it. The movement is vast — we are just an atom in it. In such understanding there is surrender. And surrender is not something you do — it happens. If this understanding dawns, surrender happens.
Surrender itself is meditation.
Some say: 'I will go and surrender to God.' The language of 'I will do' can never surrender, because if you say 'I will surrender,' you have made surrender into an act, a doing. An act can never be surrender. If a man says, 'I went and surrendered everything at the feet of God' — nothing has happened. For he says, 'I did it!' Tomorrow he may say, 'I have taken it back.' Surrender can never be taken back — therefore surrender can never be done. Surrender happens — it is the result of understanding.
If we understand the arrangement of life, surrender will happen. You will not have to do it. And when it happens, meditation begins.
Three things I have said. First, understand the burden of the past — do not carry it uselessly. Second, the 'I am the doer' — understand this burden. Things are happening; we are not doing.
And how vast is the net of all that is happening — we know not the ends of it. We never can. In that immense, happening order, leave yourself — let-go. Forget doing, forget doership, forget the doer; let only that which is remain.
And then, then something will happen — that happening takes us 'there' where we in truth are, from where we have never moved, never wavered, never gone anywhere. But to reach it, one must be free of the whole burden-state of 'doing' and 'being someone'.
Now we will experiment with meditation.
Having understood all this, there is nothing to do. For a little while, for ten minutes, we will simply remain.
I will not speak for those ten minutes. Let me say a few things beforehand. Just as there are trees, the songs of birds, the sky, the sun’s rays — in the same way we too will just be. We will simply remain — here, present — doing nothing. Thoughts may go on — let them go on; if they do not, they do not. We will go on silently seeing, silently hearing. The sounds will be heard.
Sit a little apart from one another. Anywhere — under the shade of trees if you like. It is not necessary that you be in front here. Sit anywhere. Do not speak at all. Quietly move away. No talking. Quietly move away and sit anywhere, wherever you feel good — under the shade of trees, anywhere. Do not worry about clothes and such — just sit.
Sit. Understand two or three things. Once seated, leave the body completely loose, as if there were no life in it. For when we are to become part of the vast, all stiffness must be dropped. Stiffness in the body is a fragment of the stiffness of the mind within. Drop stiffness. Surrender — as if we are not. Become a part of this great nature, of these trees, this earth, this sky, this wind, these rays. We too are a part — not separate.
Let yourself go. Leave yourself utterly loose, as if no life is there. It may happen that in ten minutes the body falls — do not worry. If it falls, let it fall. If it bends, let it bend. On your part, let it be. We are not to do anything. Whatever happens, happens. The body may begin to tremble — let it tremble. Tears may begin to flow — let them flow. We are not to do anything. Whatever happens, we will go on watching, go on knowing, and remain sitting silently. If we fall, we fall. If the body wants to fall, do not prevent it. Do nothing on your part. Let whatever happens, happen. And for ten minutes…
All around the birds will go on calling, the winds will go on flowing — their sound will be heard, the winds will touch the body, there will be sounds in the leaves — silently, go on listening. All is happening — we too have become a part of it. We are not. We are not separate. We are a part, a fragment of this earth, this sky, these rays. We are not separate. Then let whatever happens, happen — if crying comes, let tears flow; if the body trembles, let it fall. We are not.
Now gently close the eyes. Not tightly — do not strain. Gently let the eyes go loose, let the lids fall — let them close.
The eyes are closed. Leave the body loose, completely loose — if it falls, let it fall; if it remains, it remains; if it does not remain, it does not remain. Leave it utterly loose, as if there were no life in it — so that we may become a part. Our stiffness must go. We are not separate. And then do not make any effort. Whatever happens, happens. We will silently see — only see.
Good! Eyes are closed. The body is left loose — utterly loose. No resistance at all, no obstruction. If in ten minutes it falls, let it fall. Loose… loose… loose… totally relaxed, utterly loose — as if we are not.
Now there is nothing to do. Nothing to do at all. Now only remain aware — whatever happens, happens; we too are. See — that bird is calling, the sound of leaves, the wind, the sun’s rays — we too are. Nothing to do — just to be. Just to be.
Good. For ten minutes I will be silent. Let whatever happens, happen. For ten minutes, become silent. Disappear in surrender — let go of everything.
Let go… let go… utterly let go — you are not. All is; you are not. Disappear… let go… let go… be carried utterly — all is; you are not. Disappear completely — you are not. The winds are, the sun is, the trees are. Breath is moving, thoughts are moving. All is; you are not. Let go… let go… utterly let go — as if you are not. Disappear — and find. The door opens.
Let go… surrender… total surrender — you are not. Let whatever happens, happen. Do nothing. Go on knowing, go on knowing whatever is happening — the birds’ voices, the sound of leaves, the sound of winds. The heartbeat is going on, the breath is going on. Whatever is happening is happening — we are just knowing, only knowing, doing nothing.
Utterly let go… disappear… you are not. Only go on knowing, filled with awareness. The birds’ voices will be heard; your own breath will be felt, the heartbeat will be felt… the mind will slowly become silent… the mind will slowly become utterly silent… the mind will become still…
Let go… let go… utterly let go… utterly let go — as if you are not. The body will become completely slack… the mind will become quiet… the breath will grow gentle… the body will be limp… the mind quiet…
The mind is becoming quiet… becoming quiet… the mind is utterly quiet, weightless — as if no burden remains. The mind goes on becoming quiet… let go… let go… see — do not miss the door. Let go… utterly let go…
The mind is becoming quiet… the mind is becoming quiet… the mind is becoming still… the mind has become like a mirror. A bird’s call will echo, will fade, then there will be silence. The mind has become quiet… the mind has become quiet…
Now very slowly take two or four deep breaths… slowly take two or four deep breaths… with each breath the mind will become even more quiet. Slowly take two or four deep breaths… with each breath the mind will become even more quiet. Slowly take two or four deep breaths… slowly take two or four deep breaths… with each breath the mind will become even more quiet.
Then very slowly open the eyes… very slowly open the eyes… eyes are like a mirror — what is outside will be seen. Slowly open the eyes… slowly open the eyes… keep the eyes open for a minute or two and sit silently… see what is here and now. Silently see whatever appears — do not think, just see… slowly open the eyes… slowly open… see like a mirror… sit silently seeing for a minute or two…
At three-thirty in the afternoon we will gather here for one hour of silence. At that time there will be no talk. Neither will I speak, nor will you come speaking. So understand two or three things for that time.
First: from three-thirty to four-thirty we will sit here in silence. Prepare for that silence beforehand. If possible, bathe. Change clothes. Come fresh and light. And if we are to be here at three-thirty for silence, then stop talking from half an hour before, so that by the time you reach here the mind is fully ready for silence. Then for one hour sit quietly near the trees, wherever you like. We will remain in silence for one hour.
In both gatherings I will speak — in silence too I will speak. Those who become perfectly silent, something may be understood by them. One can speak even in silence. But for one hour simply be silent and wait to see what happens. And for that hour there is no talk, no announcement. Sit quietly for the hour, and when the hour ends, get up and go.
During that silent hour, if anyone feels that he must come and sit by me for two minutes — if it arises on its own — then quietly come and sit near me for two minutes, then get up and go. But come only if it arises — do not come by your own thinking. Three-thirty.
Our morning sitting is complete.