Neti Neti Sambhavnaon Ki Aahat #3
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Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Questions in this Discourse
A friend has asked: If, as you say, everyone were to enter passive meditation, wouldn’t the work of the world come to a halt? Wouldn’t all activity stop and create great inconvenience?
First, understand this: action becomes successful and skillful in exact proportion to how deeply a person is rooted in inaction. Going into inaction does not stop actions; only the doer disappears. Actions continue, but the feeling “I am the one doing” dissolves. And from this dissolution the world will not suffer inconvenience; it will find great ease. It is precisely this sense of “I am doing” that creates most of the inconvenience in the world.
Everyone imagines, “I am doing!” In fact, we do very little, but we inflate a huge doer within. Those doers, those egos, clash—and the discomfort of the world is born of the conflict of egos.
Second, the more there is inner peace, a passive mind, a silent soul, the more that silent soul becomes a source of power.
The more restless, ego-ridden, conflicted, disturbed, and tense the soul, the more powerless it becomes.
We are not bundles of power because our energy is dissipated in inner conflict, anxiety, restlessness, and ego. If someone becomes utterly inactive and quiet within, he becomes a burning ember of energy, a reservoir of power—so much power that it defies measure. And because the ego of the doer has dissolved, all the power of the divine becomes his. The wall is gone; now the power of God, of the universe, flows through him. With this power and with total surrender, such a person becomes a source of action in the hands of the divine.
But then he does not feel, “I am doing.” He feels, “The divine is doing; the divine is having it done.” It feels as if it is happening; I am not the doer.
We have seen a bullock cart move. The wheel turns, but in the middle there is a peg, an axle pin, that stands still. The turning wheel revolves around that motionless pin. Because the pin stands firm, the wheel can turn. If the pin itself were to turn with the wheel, the wheel would collapse. The wheel turns as efficiently as the pin stands steady. They seem like opposites—a standing pin and a spinning wheel!
The more a person is inactive within, the more skillfully the wheel of his outer activity turns. Inside, the soul’s peg stands firm, and the wheel of the personality’s action turns. But the peg does not feel, “I am turning.” The peg knows: the wheel turns; I stand.
The meditative person knows: I am still. I—the innermost—am unmoving. The whole flow of movement is outside—the wheel, the periphery, the circumference. The center is silent and quiet.
The greatest art in life is inner inaction with outer action. And the greatest key is that life is made of mutually opposing elements.
One breath goes in; the very next breath goes out. As soon as it goes out, it returns in. We never say, “Since we have inhaled, we will not exhale. If we exhale, how will we inhale again?” Nor do we say, “The breath has gone out; why bring it back in?” Breath goes out and comes in, and our life moves in these two opposing dimensions—inside and outside, out and in.
All day we are awake; at night we sleep. We do not say, “If we sleep, sleeping is the opposite of waking; how will we wake again?” Nor do we say, “Since we are awake, how will we sleep? Waking is the opposite of sleep.”
Waking is action; sleep is inaction.
But the wonder is: if you have not slept well through the night, you cannot be fully awake the next day. Whoever sleeps well wakes well. Which means: the one who becomes properly inactive at night becomes proportionately active the next morning. And the more active one is in the day, the deeper one goes into inaction at night.
Life stands upon opposites; the whole play of life is based on opposition. Life’s entire movement is born of the meeting of two opposites.
So when I say, “Enter the inaction of meditation,” it does not mean you will die or lose your capacity for action. No—the ego of the doer will be lost. And the deeper you go into meditation, the deeper will be your action in the world. As deeply as the breath goes in, that deeply it goes out. Inner depth and outer depth always remain in proportion.
One who can go into inaction can be equally active.
Look at trees. As high as they rise above the ground, that deep their roots descend below. The tree that reaches up to the sky has had to reach down into the depths of the earth. You may say, “Below and above are opposite dimensions—if you go down, how will you go up?” Were the tree to say, “If I send my roots downward, how will I rise upward? I want to go up, so I will not go down,” then remember: that tree will never be able to rise. The deeper a tree goes below, the higher it can rise above. The tree that wishes to touch the sky must also touch the underworld.
To be that active, it is necessary to be that inactive. Only one thing will change: the doer will be lost. The more inaction grows, the more meditation grows, the more silence grows, the more the doer dissolves. Action remains; the doer does not.
And when the doer is not, there is no reason left to say, “I am doing.” Then it seems, “It is happening.” As water falls, as lightning flashes, as a river flows—so everything is happening. When such a perception arises in someone, know that this person has surrendered to the divine.
Surrender to the divine simply means that the sense of doership is lost. Now, in the vast world of action, in the vast ongoing creation, in the vast movement, we have become a part, a limb of it; we are no longer separate.
Therefore do not think, “If, obeying what I say, everyone becomes inactive, what will happen?” If, obeying what I say, one truly becomes inactive, a kind of action will be born in the world that we have not known yet. Even so far, those who have been truly active in the world—people like Krishna—how immense their action! And yet within, all is silence. When inner silence wavers, skill in action does not increase; action becomes unskillful.
There was a caliph, Umar. For years he had been at war with an enemy—seven years, many battles, no victory, no decision. In the last battle, it seemed that something decisive would happen. In the blazing noon, Umar’s move succeeded. The enemy’s horse fell, the enemy crashed to the ground. Umar leapt from his horse and sat on his chest. He drew his spear to pierce the enemy’s heart. The dying enemy—one can do anything in one’s last moment—spat on Umar’s face!
In that instant, the raised spear stopped! The moment he spat, it froze. Then Umar put the spear back in its place, stood up, and said to his enemy, “Please get up. We will fight again tomorrow morning.”
The enemy said, “Have you gone mad? For seven years you were seeking just such a moment, as was I. Today you have your chance and you let me go! Drive the spear home. Why did you leave me?”
Umar said, “I left you because I had resolved, I had a principle: I would fight only so long as I remained inwardly calm; if I became disturbed, I would not fight. You spat—and I became disturbed. Inside, I wavered a little, and a desire arose to stab you. Then I knew the fight had become personal. Now the ‘I’ had appeared. The doer had come in. Until now it was a battle of principle; we fought for truth, for what is right. Until now I was not fighting; I was a part of a vast plan. But you spat, and the ‘I’ entered; that ends it. Now I cannot fight. Tomorrow morning, again.”
What does this mean? Who fights such a person? The enemy became a friend. He fell at Umar’s feet and said, “I did not even know that for seven years you were fighting in peace—that within you there was no anger, no hostility, no jealousy!”
We cannot even imagine that such a person could exist—one without anger, jealousy, enmity. We cannot conceive that someone could be active who is inwardly inactive. Our ways of thinking move along the straight line of arithmetic. But life does not move along arithmetic’s straight line. Life’s arithmetic is very paradoxical; nothing there is simply straight. Very contrary things happen there.
In fact, the whole alchemy—the entire chemistry—of life stands upon opposition. You must have seen an arch over a large doorway. Have you ever thought how it holds? The opposing bricks on both sides press against each other, and the arch stands. There is no pillar from below; the bricks press from both sides. The architect has created opposition, and upon that opposition the entire building stands.
The entire edifice of life stands upon opposition: sleep and waking; night and day; action and inaction; birth and death. Birth and death are the two opposing ends of life’s arch, whose mutual pressure holds life up. There is birth on one side, death on the other—two contrary things. We never ask, “How can one who is born also die?” Because birth and death are opposites. Yet we say, “Whoever is born will die,” because if there is one end, there must be the other; otherwise life’s arch would not hold.
Light stands upon darkness. Without darkness there is no light. Night stands upon day. Without day there is no night. Health stands upon disease. Everything stands on its opposites. Life is an arch shaped by opposing pressures. Therefore I say: one who becomes inactive within becomes available to great activity without.
But we have seen renunciates who became inactive and ran away from life! Then I say: remember, they did not become inactive; they merely draped themselves in inaction. Had they truly become inactive, they would not have fled from action. Only those run from action who are afraid of action. Only those run whose inaction is false. For those whose inaction is genuine, the fear of action ends. The storm of action may rage and nothing within them is affected. But those who fear that if action starts their inaction will break—their inaction is hollow, managed, imposed, cultivated. Such renunciates have created a wrong notion in the world that people who become quiet run away from life.
Remember: the quiet person does not run anywhere; only the unquiet run.
The unquiet are afraid; therefore they run. The quiet person has no reason to run. The quiet one remains where he stands, because nothing remains that can disturb him. Let the storms of unrest blow; outside the whirlwind, inside the peace stands unmoved.
Indeed, the quiet person will invite such storms, will call them, will send word: come! Because when there is inner peace and outer storms rage, the thrill—the taste—born of that opposition cannot be had at any other time. As in a dark night when lightning flashes: that flash is very different from lightning in full daylight. Just so, when the mind is quiet and outer turmoil surges all around, it makes no difference. In fact, within that turmoil the peace becomes denser, deeper, more profound.
So do not even think such thoughts—do not be frightened by them.
Everyone imagines, “I am doing!” In fact, we do very little, but we inflate a huge doer within. Those doers, those egos, clash—and the discomfort of the world is born of the conflict of egos.
Second, the more there is inner peace, a passive mind, a silent soul, the more that silent soul becomes a source of power.
The more restless, ego-ridden, conflicted, disturbed, and tense the soul, the more powerless it becomes.
We are not bundles of power because our energy is dissipated in inner conflict, anxiety, restlessness, and ego. If someone becomes utterly inactive and quiet within, he becomes a burning ember of energy, a reservoir of power—so much power that it defies measure. And because the ego of the doer has dissolved, all the power of the divine becomes his. The wall is gone; now the power of God, of the universe, flows through him. With this power and with total surrender, such a person becomes a source of action in the hands of the divine.
But then he does not feel, “I am doing.” He feels, “The divine is doing; the divine is having it done.” It feels as if it is happening; I am not the doer.
We have seen a bullock cart move. The wheel turns, but in the middle there is a peg, an axle pin, that stands still. The turning wheel revolves around that motionless pin. Because the pin stands firm, the wheel can turn. If the pin itself were to turn with the wheel, the wheel would collapse. The wheel turns as efficiently as the pin stands steady. They seem like opposites—a standing pin and a spinning wheel!
The more a person is inactive within, the more skillfully the wheel of his outer activity turns. Inside, the soul’s peg stands firm, and the wheel of the personality’s action turns. But the peg does not feel, “I am turning.” The peg knows: the wheel turns; I stand.
The meditative person knows: I am still. I—the innermost—am unmoving. The whole flow of movement is outside—the wheel, the periphery, the circumference. The center is silent and quiet.
The greatest art in life is inner inaction with outer action. And the greatest key is that life is made of mutually opposing elements.
One breath goes in; the very next breath goes out. As soon as it goes out, it returns in. We never say, “Since we have inhaled, we will not exhale. If we exhale, how will we inhale again?” Nor do we say, “The breath has gone out; why bring it back in?” Breath goes out and comes in, and our life moves in these two opposing dimensions—inside and outside, out and in.
All day we are awake; at night we sleep. We do not say, “If we sleep, sleeping is the opposite of waking; how will we wake again?” Nor do we say, “Since we are awake, how will we sleep? Waking is the opposite of sleep.”
Waking is action; sleep is inaction.
But the wonder is: if you have not slept well through the night, you cannot be fully awake the next day. Whoever sleeps well wakes well. Which means: the one who becomes properly inactive at night becomes proportionately active the next morning. And the more active one is in the day, the deeper one goes into inaction at night.
Life stands upon opposites; the whole play of life is based on opposition. Life’s entire movement is born of the meeting of two opposites.
So when I say, “Enter the inaction of meditation,” it does not mean you will die or lose your capacity for action. No—the ego of the doer will be lost. And the deeper you go into meditation, the deeper will be your action in the world. As deeply as the breath goes in, that deeply it goes out. Inner depth and outer depth always remain in proportion.
One who can go into inaction can be equally active.
Look at trees. As high as they rise above the ground, that deep their roots descend below. The tree that reaches up to the sky has had to reach down into the depths of the earth. You may say, “Below and above are opposite dimensions—if you go down, how will you go up?” Were the tree to say, “If I send my roots downward, how will I rise upward? I want to go up, so I will not go down,” then remember: that tree will never be able to rise. The deeper a tree goes below, the higher it can rise above. The tree that wishes to touch the sky must also touch the underworld.
To be that active, it is necessary to be that inactive. Only one thing will change: the doer will be lost. The more inaction grows, the more meditation grows, the more silence grows, the more the doer dissolves. Action remains; the doer does not.
And when the doer is not, there is no reason left to say, “I am doing.” Then it seems, “It is happening.” As water falls, as lightning flashes, as a river flows—so everything is happening. When such a perception arises in someone, know that this person has surrendered to the divine.
Surrender to the divine simply means that the sense of doership is lost. Now, in the vast world of action, in the vast ongoing creation, in the vast movement, we have become a part, a limb of it; we are no longer separate.
Therefore do not think, “If, obeying what I say, everyone becomes inactive, what will happen?” If, obeying what I say, one truly becomes inactive, a kind of action will be born in the world that we have not known yet. Even so far, those who have been truly active in the world—people like Krishna—how immense their action! And yet within, all is silence. When inner silence wavers, skill in action does not increase; action becomes unskillful.
There was a caliph, Umar. For years he had been at war with an enemy—seven years, many battles, no victory, no decision. In the last battle, it seemed that something decisive would happen. In the blazing noon, Umar’s move succeeded. The enemy’s horse fell, the enemy crashed to the ground. Umar leapt from his horse and sat on his chest. He drew his spear to pierce the enemy’s heart. The dying enemy—one can do anything in one’s last moment—spat on Umar’s face!
In that instant, the raised spear stopped! The moment he spat, it froze. Then Umar put the spear back in its place, stood up, and said to his enemy, “Please get up. We will fight again tomorrow morning.”
The enemy said, “Have you gone mad? For seven years you were seeking just such a moment, as was I. Today you have your chance and you let me go! Drive the spear home. Why did you leave me?”
Umar said, “I left you because I had resolved, I had a principle: I would fight only so long as I remained inwardly calm; if I became disturbed, I would not fight. You spat—and I became disturbed. Inside, I wavered a little, and a desire arose to stab you. Then I knew the fight had become personal. Now the ‘I’ had appeared. The doer had come in. Until now it was a battle of principle; we fought for truth, for what is right. Until now I was not fighting; I was a part of a vast plan. But you spat, and the ‘I’ entered; that ends it. Now I cannot fight. Tomorrow morning, again.”
What does this mean? Who fights such a person? The enemy became a friend. He fell at Umar’s feet and said, “I did not even know that for seven years you were fighting in peace—that within you there was no anger, no hostility, no jealousy!”
We cannot even imagine that such a person could exist—one without anger, jealousy, enmity. We cannot conceive that someone could be active who is inwardly inactive. Our ways of thinking move along the straight line of arithmetic. But life does not move along arithmetic’s straight line. Life’s arithmetic is very paradoxical; nothing there is simply straight. Very contrary things happen there.
In fact, the whole alchemy—the entire chemistry—of life stands upon opposition. You must have seen an arch over a large doorway. Have you ever thought how it holds? The opposing bricks on both sides press against each other, and the arch stands. There is no pillar from below; the bricks press from both sides. The architect has created opposition, and upon that opposition the entire building stands.
The entire edifice of life stands upon opposition: sleep and waking; night and day; action and inaction; birth and death. Birth and death are the two opposing ends of life’s arch, whose mutual pressure holds life up. There is birth on one side, death on the other—two contrary things. We never ask, “How can one who is born also die?” Because birth and death are opposites. Yet we say, “Whoever is born will die,” because if there is one end, there must be the other; otherwise life’s arch would not hold.
Light stands upon darkness. Without darkness there is no light. Night stands upon day. Without day there is no night. Health stands upon disease. Everything stands on its opposites. Life is an arch shaped by opposing pressures. Therefore I say: one who becomes inactive within becomes available to great activity without.
But we have seen renunciates who became inactive and ran away from life! Then I say: remember, they did not become inactive; they merely draped themselves in inaction. Had they truly become inactive, they would not have fled from action. Only those run from action who are afraid of action. Only those run whose inaction is false. For those whose inaction is genuine, the fear of action ends. The storm of action may rage and nothing within them is affected. But those who fear that if action starts their inaction will break—their inaction is hollow, managed, imposed, cultivated. Such renunciates have created a wrong notion in the world that people who become quiet run away from life.
Remember: the quiet person does not run anywhere; only the unquiet run.
The unquiet are afraid; therefore they run. The quiet person has no reason to run. The quiet one remains where he stands, because nothing remains that can disturb him. Let the storms of unrest blow; outside the whirlwind, inside the peace stands unmoved.
Indeed, the quiet person will invite such storms, will call them, will send word: come! Because when there is inner peace and outer storms rage, the thrill—the taste—born of that opposition cannot be had at any other time. As in a dark night when lightning flashes: that flash is very different from lightning in full daylight. Just so, when the mind is quiet and outer turmoil surges all around, it makes no difference. In fact, within that turmoil the peace becomes denser, deeper, more profound.
So do not even think such thoughts—do not be frightened by them.
Another friend has also asked the same question in this regard.
They have asked: Osho, if people go deep into meditation and become quiet, what will happen to the household, the family, the shop, the business—what will become of all that?
They have asked: Osho, if people go deep into meditation and become quiet, what will happen to the household, the family, the shop, the business—what will become of all that?
What is their condition right now? The household, the wife, the children, the shop, the business—what is their state as they are? Is it really all in such great shape? Could it get any worse than this? Yet we are terribly frightened. The hell we ourselves have created—one person calls it “family,” another “business,” another something else—about this very hell we panic that we might end up with nothing but hell!
The business will not vanish. Nor will the wife, nor the family. Sons and daughters won’t disappear. But this hellish arrangement we have erected—that will certainly dissolve.
New forms will appear. To love a woman is one thing; to tie her down in the house as a “wife” is quite another. The urge to bind happens precisely because there is no love. If there is love, the urge to bind cannot function. There is fear: “If I don’t bind, there is no inner glue to keep us together, so we must create outer bonds.” So we take seven rounds before society and register the relationship in a court of law—because inside there is nothing that truly unites, we manufacture external bonds and then live off them.
The day there is love in the world, there will be no husbands and no wives. “Husband” and “wife” are consequences of the absence of love.
If there is love, then “husband” and “wife” are crude, intolerable words. They have not made the world better; they have made it coarser, uglier. There will be friends—what need is there for husbands and wives? There will be companions, fellow travelers, partners—what need is there for law? If I love someone, what need is there for law between us? The very need for law shows that love is suspect. One tries to restrain it with legal props. Because love cannot be trusted, law must be invoked. Where love is suspect, law is needed; where love is not suspect, what use is law?
We get very scared. In a way the fear is understandable: if we become silent, it feels as if the web of hell we have woven will break. It should break. But it can become a heaven. Husbands and wives should go; friends should remain. Right now we do business, run shops, hold jobs—all are burdens, compulsion. A man is forced to sit in an office from morning till evening for forty years. If his brain does not turn to stone, that would be the surprise! One task—against his inclination—done day after day for forty years. Not for a single moment does he feel like doing it, yet he does it—because he must.
If for forty years such foolishness and violence is inflicted upon a mind, the man will have died long before he actually dies. The delicate fibers of his brain will have snapped. His heart’s petals will have closed long ago. His life-breath will have become mechanical. He goes to the office like a machine, returns like a machine—back and forth for forty years! Like a train shunting on a track between two points, he shunts between office and home, office and home. And he calls this “doing business”! If he were to become quiet, might all this collapse?
With quietness, life will indeed be different. Work will no longer be “work”; it will be joy. And when work becomes joy, new kinds of flowers begin to bloom in life. But we don’t know any work that is joy. We only know work. For us, work and joy have no connection. Joy is one thing, work another.
In the world we have built, work has no relation to joy. Hence humanity is being ruined. The whole soul of man has deteriorated; it has fallen, and will keep falling. Little by little we have reduced man to a machine.
No—if the mind is quiet, work will not remain a burden; it will become delight.
Kabir wove cloth. After awakening to silence, he didn’t stop weaving; he continued. But the weave changed, the way of weaving changed. The weaver changed; his attitude to weaving changed; the feeling in those hours changed. Now as Kabir weaves, he also dances; he sings.
His friends said, “Now stop this—at this point it doesn’t befit you to do a weaver’s work.”
Kabir said, “Only now am I fit to work, and you ask me to stop! Until now I never worked—I only carried a load. Now work has become joy. And what I’m weaving—you don’t know for whom I’m weaving. I’m weaving for Ram.”
People said, “Will Ram come to the market to buy? It’s been a long time since he was around.”
Kabir said, “Now I see none but Ram! Whoever comes is Ram. Whoever wears my cloth, I am blessed. How else shall I serve the Divine?”
So Kabir weaves cloth and runs to the marketplace. People ask, “Where are you going?” He says, “I’m going in search of Ram. I have made beautiful cloth—if Ram wears it, he will be pleased.” And in the market he calls out, “Ram, I’ve brought cloth. If Ram needs cloth, please take it—made it very well!”
Now this is a different matter altogether. This is a different kind of work. It has nothing to do with the kind of work we have been doing.
Work will not stop because one becomes quiet—work will be transformed. Work will turn into happiness, into bliss.
Right now work is a hell. We worry only how to get rid of it, how to escape it. Yet at the same time we are anxious: “What if this work stops?”
Why that anxiety?
Because we actually want to stop the work we are doing. It is stoppable, for it is compulsion. Bread is needed, clothing is needed—there is a wife, there are children. These too are compulsions. They must be fed, a house must be built for them. Life is compulsion from end to end. It is not a thrill, not a dance.
A quiet person’s life will certainly have a different flavor. He will live here too—but he will be another kind of person. He will work too—but in that working, everything will change. His work will become love. His work will become service. His work will become worship and prayer.
I don’t feel that if quiet people increase in the world, shops will become fewer; rather, shops will cease to be “shops” in the old sense. One thing is sure: shops won’t necessarily close—but if quiet people increase, temples, mosques, gurus, sannyasis, sadhus will become fewer. Because only the unquiet go to them. Why would a quiet person go? “Gurudom” will disappear. One shop will certainly shut—the shop of gurus. No other shop has any reason to close. Temples and mosques will indeed shut. No one will go to them. When your whole life itself feels like a temple, who will go to temples? We go now because life feels like hell, so in the village we build a temple.
That village temple is proof that the village as a whole could not become a temple. We have failed to create a society where the entire village is a temple. To console ourselves we build one temple. The village is hell, and in it stands one temple. Can a temple be built in hell? Can those who live in hell build a temple? Can residents of hell, by donating money, build a holy place?
In the end, whatever residents of hell build will be hell. The signboard alone may read “temple.” Whatever we, who live in hell, build becomes hell. Whatever we touch turns into hell. When we cannot make our own home into heaven, cannot make the relationship with our wife and children a heaven, will we, the makers of hell, together build a temple in the village? Who will build it? We will. Our dark shadow will envelop that too.
No—one day it may happen that as people grow quiet, the whole village becomes a temple. Then if a visitor asks, “Where is the temple?” we will be at a loss—where to point? The whole village is a temple.
The whole village can be a temple; therefore I am against temples.
But we have been taught so far that once a person becomes quiet—he will drop business, wife, children, and run away. And then what will he do? He’ll set up an ashram, gather female disciples, gather male disciples, collect sons and daughters again—build a new shop, a new house. The whole thing will continue.
After all, where can he run? Given the kind of person he is, what will he do? He will drop one shop and set up another. It is this very person who will do it—where will he go? He’ll go to the forest and start a shop there.
It is the person who must change. Up to now we have tried to change places and circumstances. The person does not change. And then the same person, wherever he goes, recreates the same situation.
I have heard of a man in America who married eight times. Six months after the first marriage he got jittery. Six months is a long time—many start getting jittery in six days. He got anxious and said, “What a wrong woman I’ve ended up with!” The woman must have thought, “What a wrong man I’ve gotten!”
He divorced. The second time he searched hard, investigated thoroughly. Now he did not fall in love at first sight. The first time had been a mistake. A seasoned man now, he thought and deliberated and examined, and then married.
Two months later he found that this woman turned out just like the first. He was distressed and divorced again.
He married eight times, and after the eighth it dawned on him: every time it is I who marry; every time I choose the woman; every time I do the searching. And the kind of person I am—I end up finding the same kind of woman as the first!
This person, this mind—he is the one who goes to choose in the market. What will he bring back? His understanding, his taste, his grasp are the same. They don’t change. He brings back the same woman again.
Wherever divorce has become easy, an astonishing observation has been made: people recreate the same kind of relationships they had before. So don’t worry too much that here you do not have easy divorce—you aren’t missing much. It amounts to the same. The faces change, but you find the same kind of person. The real issue is the transformation of the one who is doing the choosing.
It has always been like this. Those who divorce do this; sannyasis do the same. They leave one house and run away, but never ask, “I remain the same—where am I going? Wherever I arrive, I will become the nucleus and recreate the same thing I left.” The names will change, but the same will recur. The mind with which he ran away will weave a new world around itself. He will build the same again. It is hard to escape—from oneself. Where will you run?
So my point is: the religions that developed in the world taught escapism—running away, fleeing—not transformation. The real issue is that the person must change. That change comes through meditation, through silence, through inner emptiness and stillness. If that change happens, the house you live in will become a different kind of house, because the person who makes it has changed; it must become different.
There is a remarkable account in Mahavira’s life. When he came of age, he told his mother and father, “I want to become a sannyasi.” His mother said, “As long as I live, never speak of this again in my presence. This is beyond what I can bear. I cannot imagine my son becoming a sannyasi. When I die, you may consider such a thing—not before.”
Mahavira must have been an extraordinary man. Ask other sannyasis and they will be astonished: “He must have been a weak sannyasi.” Mahavira agreed. He said to his mother, “All right.”
We too might think, “What kind of man is this? Does one give up sannyas just because one’s mother says so?” People will say so! The mother will say it, the wife will say it, the sons and father will say, “Don’t go!” Can anyone become a sannyasi like that? First, sannyasis shouldn’t ask at all—just run away quietly; if you ask, there will be trouble. And if you accept their wish, then where is sannyas?
But Mahavira agreed. He said, “All right.” By fate, two years later both mother and father died. Returning from the cremation ground, on the way home, Mahavira said to his elder brother, “Now may I become a sannyasi? Since our parents asked me not to speak of it while they lived, I did not.”
The brother beat his chest: “Are you mad? We are already under such grief—our parents have died—and today of all days you think of sannyas! As long as I live, don’t speak of it!” And Mahavira agreed: “All right.”
What kind of sannyasi could this be? Ask sannyasis—they will say, “This is a muddled fellow, not a sannyasi.” But Mahavira was extraordinary; he agreed. A year passed, two years passed. Mahavira did not speak of sannyas again. The matter was dropped. The brother had said, “As long as I live,” and that was that.
But within two years the family began to feel that while Mahavira was in the house, he was as good as not there. He was and he was not. His presence could no longer be felt. Months would pass without any sense that he was at home. He did not interfere in anything, made no demands, had no insistences. He was like a quiet shadow—no one knew when he slipped out or came back, when he slept or woke—his being or not being made no difference.
The family told the elder brother, “Mahavira is already a sannyasi.” The brother said, “I too am amazed. It doesn’t feel like he is in the house or not. What is the point of stopping him now? There is no meaning in it. We thought we had stopped him, but he has gone already.” The whole household approached Mahavira and said, “You have already gone. There is no point in our holding you. Do as you wish.” And Mahavira walked out.
It would have made no difference if Mahavira had stayed all his life. Going or not going was a minor matter, meaningless. The real thing was the inner transformation—that had happened. Now house and outside were equal.
Mahavira’s followers say he “left the house.” They are speaking falsehood. Mahavira never “left” the house. Before leaving, for him house and outside had already become the same. If the family said, “Stay,” he stayed. If they said, “Go,” he went. That is how it was.
Mahavira had no insistence to go, no insistence to stay. Such non-insistence is what ahimsa—nonviolence—means. It is also violence to insist, “I will go.” It is also violence to insist, “I will stay.” That insistence is pressure; Mahavira gave up all pressure. He became like the breeze. The family felt, “Why pointlessly restrain him? He isn’t really here. He went long ago—only the body remains. The soul has left. Why be an obstacle?” They said, “All right, you may go.” And he went.
This is sannyas; this is the transformation of the person.
Now wherever such a man goes—even if you put him up in a courtesan’s house—there is no problem, because nothing is difficult for him anymore. The person has changed. He is not changing places; the person himself has changed.
What I am speaking of—silence, stillness, meditation—is the alchemy and process of personal transformation; through it, everything changes.
Everything around a transformed person will change, because his way of seeing has changed. He will work; he will walk, sit, stand. But he is a different man now. The world the old man created—he will not live in that world; he will create a new one. His very presence will begin to build a new world. Such a man can even sit at a shop—what difficulty is there?
In fact, until such people sit in shops, the world cannot become a heaven. Such a person can be a father, a brother, a son; such a person can be a wife, a mother. Until such people become mothers, sons, wives, and fathers, the world cannot be a heaven.
We have created enough chaos. We are unquiet; naturally we create disturbance. Unquiet people are running the world! Unquiet people are marrying! Unquiet people are running the courts! Unquiet people are the rulers of nations!
At home there aren’t husbands, there are presidents! The disease is everywhere. No woman objects, “We will not tolerate a president at home.” No woman says a word. Though if a woman someday becomes head of state, she would not agree to be called “the nation’s wife.” She would have to be called “president.” No woman will accept being called “the nation’s wife.” But no woman gets upset that a man is “president.” Men’s privilege rules the world, so it all goes on—somehow it goes on.
This world built by diseased, unquiet people—let it change; the sooner the better. But it will change only when the diseased person changes, otherwise we will build the same world again. That is how it has always been.
Russia attempted change, and nothing essential changed. The outer changed; the inner did not—because the same sick people effected the change. The same sick people sat on top again. The old sequence resumed. The former condition was altered, the gap between rich and poor shrank, but new gaps arose—the gap between the powerful and the powerless became as large as that between poor and rich. The “owner” of yesterday became today’s “manager.” The names changed; the reality remained.
We mistake name-changing for great work! Someone leaves his household and sets up an ashram, and we say, “Transformation!” Only the label changes; nothing else. He writes “ashram” instead of “home,” and we think change has happened.
Our intelligence gets stuck on such things. This is how we “change things.” A man wears white and we say, “He’s a householder.” He dons saffron tomorrow and we say, “Swamiji, a sannyasi.” We are crazy—without the slightest insight—playing these games. A man puts on saffron and becomes a sannyasi!
First of all, a person who takes clothing change to be sannyas is an idiot, stupid, insensate. He has no thing called intelligence. If he had to change, what occurred to him was to change his clothes! Nothing more meaningless could be imagined. That is what struck him—so he is dull-witted. And we are dull-witted that we salute his “insight”: “What a great deed—you put on saffron!” We keep changing things, changing names, changing places. But the person within—no concern with changing him. The doorway to that change is meditation.
One or two more questions on meditation—briefly. Then we will sit for the evening meditation.
The business will not vanish. Nor will the wife, nor the family. Sons and daughters won’t disappear. But this hellish arrangement we have erected—that will certainly dissolve.
New forms will appear. To love a woman is one thing; to tie her down in the house as a “wife” is quite another. The urge to bind happens precisely because there is no love. If there is love, the urge to bind cannot function. There is fear: “If I don’t bind, there is no inner glue to keep us together, so we must create outer bonds.” So we take seven rounds before society and register the relationship in a court of law—because inside there is nothing that truly unites, we manufacture external bonds and then live off them.
The day there is love in the world, there will be no husbands and no wives. “Husband” and “wife” are consequences of the absence of love.
If there is love, then “husband” and “wife” are crude, intolerable words. They have not made the world better; they have made it coarser, uglier. There will be friends—what need is there for husbands and wives? There will be companions, fellow travelers, partners—what need is there for law? If I love someone, what need is there for law between us? The very need for law shows that love is suspect. One tries to restrain it with legal props. Because love cannot be trusted, law must be invoked. Where love is suspect, law is needed; where love is not suspect, what use is law?
We get very scared. In a way the fear is understandable: if we become silent, it feels as if the web of hell we have woven will break. It should break. But it can become a heaven. Husbands and wives should go; friends should remain. Right now we do business, run shops, hold jobs—all are burdens, compulsion. A man is forced to sit in an office from morning till evening for forty years. If his brain does not turn to stone, that would be the surprise! One task—against his inclination—done day after day for forty years. Not for a single moment does he feel like doing it, yet he does it—because he must.
If for forty years such foolishness and violence is inflicted upon a mind, the man will have died long before he actually dies. The delicate fibers of his brain will have snapped. His heart’s petals will have closed long ago. His life-breath will have become mechanical. He goes to the office like a machine, returns like a machine—back and forth for forty years! Like a train shunting on a track between two points, he shunts between office and home, office and home. And he calls this “doing business”! If he were to become quiet, might all this collapse?
With quietness, life will indeed be different. Work will no longer be “work”; it will be joy. And when work becomes joy, new kinds of flowers begin to bloom in life. But we don’t know any work that is joy. We only know work. For us, work and joy have no connection. Joy is one thing, work another.
In the world we have built, work has no relation to joy. Hence humanity is being ruined. The whole soul of man has deteriorated; it has fallen, and will keep falling. Little by little we have reduced man to a machine.
No—if the mind is quiet, work will not remain a burden; it will become delight.
Kabir wove cloth. After awakening to silence, he didn’t stop weaving; he continued. But the weave changed, the way of weaving changed. The weaver changed; his attitude to weaving changed; the feeling in those hours changed. Now as Kabir weaves, he also dances; he sings.
His friends said, “Now stop this—at this point it doesn’t befit you to do a weaver’s work.”
Kabir said, “Only now am I fit to work, and you ask me to stop! Until now I never worked—I only carried a load. Now work has become joy. And what I’m weaving—you don’t know for whom I’m weaving. I’m weaving for Ram.”
People said, “Will Ram come to the market to buy? It’s been a long time since he was around.”
Kabir said, “Now I see none but Ram! Whoever comes is Ram. Whoever wears my cloth, I am blessed. How else shall I serve the Divine?”
So Kabir weaves cloth and runs to the marketplace. People ask, “Where are you going?” He says, “I’m going in search of Ram. I have made beautiful cloth—if Ram wears it, he will be pleased.” And in the market he calls out, “Ram, I’ve brought cloth. If Ram needs cloth, please take it—made it very well!”
Now this is a different matter altogether. This is a different kind of work. It has nothing to do with the kind of work we have been doing.
Work will not stop because one becomes quiet—work will be transformed. Work will turn into happiness, into bliss.
Right now work is a hell. We worry only how to get rid of it, how to escape it. Yet at the same time we are anxious: “What if this work stops?”
Why that anxiety?
Because we actually want to stop the work we are doing. It is stoppable, for it is compulsion. Bread is needed, clothing is needed—there is a wife, there are children. These too are compulsions. They must be fed, a house must be built for them. Life is compulsion from end to end. It is not a thrill, not a dance.
A quiet person’s life will certainly have a different flavor. He will live here too—but he will be another kind of person. He will work too—but in that working, everything will change. His work will become love. His work will become service. His work will become worship and prayer.
I don’t feel that if quiet people increase in the world, shops will become fewer; rather, shops will cease to be “shops” in the old sense. One thing is sure: shops won’t necessarily close—but if quiet people increase, temples, mosques, gurus, sannyasis, sadhus will become fewer. Because only the unquiet go to them. Why would a quiet person go? “Gurudom” will disappear. One shop will certainly shut—the shop of gurus. No other shop has any reason to close. Temples and mosques will indeed shut. No one will go to them. When your whole life itself feels like a temple, who will go to temples? We go now because life feels like hell, so in the village we build a temple.
That village temple is proof that the village as a whole could not become a temple. We have failed to create a society where the entire village is a temple. To console ourselves we build one temple. The village is hell, and in it stands one temple. Can a temple be built in hell? Can those who live in hell build a temple? Can residents of hell, by donating money, build a holy place?
In the end, whatever residents of hell build will be hell. The signboard alone may read “temple.” Whatever we, who live in hell, build becomes hell. Whatever we touch turns into hell. When we cannot make our own home into heaven, cannot make the relationship with our wife and children a heaven, will we, the makers of hell, together build a temple in the village? Who will build it? We will. Our dark shadow will envelop that too.
No—one day it may happen that as people grow quiet, the whole village becomes a temple. Then if a visitor asks, “Where is the temple?” we will be at a loss—where to point? The whole village is a temple.
The whole village can be a temple; therefore I am against temples.
But we have been taught so far that once a person becomes quiet—he will drop business, wife, children, and run away. And then what will he do? He’ll set up an ashram, gather female disciples, gather male disciples, collect sons and daughters again—build a new shop, a new house. The whole thing will continue.
After all, where can he run? Given the kind of person he is, what will he do? He will drop one shop and set up another. It is this very person who will do it—where will he go? He’ll go to the forest and start a shop there.
It is the person who must change. Up to now we have tried to change places and circumstances. The person does not change. And then the same person, wherever he goes, recreates the same situation.
I have heard of a man in America who married eight times. Six months after the first marriage he got jittery. Six months is a long time—many start getting jittery in six days. He got anxious and said, “What a wrong woman I’ve ended up with!” The woman must have thought, “What a wrong man I’ve gotten!”
He divorced. The second time he searched hard, investigated thoroughly. Now he did not fall in love at first sight. The first time had been a mistake. A seasoned man now, he thought and deliberated and examined, and then married.
Two months later he found that this woman turned out just like the first. He was distressed and divorced again.
He married eight times, and after the eighth it dawned on him: every time it is I who marry; every time I choose the woman; every time I do the searching. And the kind of person I am—I end up finding the same kind of woman as the first!
This person, this mind—he is the one who goes to choose in the market. What will he bring back? His understanding, his taste, his grasp are the same. They don’t change. He brings back the same woman again.
Wherever divorce has become easy, an astonishing observation has been made: people recreate the same kind of relationships they had before. So don’t worry too much that here you do not have easy divorce—you aren’t missing much. It amounts to the same. The faces change, but you find the same kind of person. The real issue is the transformation of the one who is doing the choosing.
It has always been like this. Those who divorce do this; sannyasis do the same. They leave one house and run away, but never ask, “I remain the same—where am I going? Wherever I arrive, I will become the nucleus and recreate the same thing I left.” The names will change, but the same will recur. The mind with which he ran away will weave a new world around itself. He will build the same again. It is hard to escape—from oneself. Where will you run?
So my point is: the religions that developed in the world taught escapism—running away, fleeing—not transformation. The real issue is that the person must change. That change comes through meditation, through silence, through inner emptiness and stillness. If that change happens, the house you live in will become a different kind of house, because the person who makes it has changed; it must become different.
There is a remarkable account in Mahavira’s life. When he came of age, he told his mother and father, “I want to become a sannyasi.” His mother said, “As long as I live, never speak of this again in my presence. This is beyond what I can bear. I cannot imagine my son becoming a sannyasi. When I die, you may consider such a thing—not before.”
Mahavira must have been an extraordinary man. Ask other sannyasis and they will be astonished: “He must have been a weak sannyasi.” Mahavira agreed. He said to his mother, “All right.”
We too might think, “What kind of man is this? Does one give up sannyas just because one’s mother says so?” People will say so! The mother will say it, the wife will say it, the sons and father will say, “Don’t go!” Can anyone become a sannyasi like that? First, sannyasis shouldn’t ask at all—just run away quietly; if you ask, there will be trouble. And if you accept their wish, then where is sannyas?
But Mahavira agreed. He said, “All right.” By fate, two years later both mother and father died. Returning from the cremation ground, on the way home, Mahavira said to his elder brother, “Now may I become a sannyasi? Since our parents asked me not to speak of it while they lived, I did not.”
The brother beat his chest: “Are you mad? We are already under such grief—our parents have died—and today of all days you think of sannyas! As long as I live, don’t speak of it!” And Mahavira agreed: “All right.”
What kind of sannyasi could this be? Ask sannyasis—they will say, “This is a muddled fellow, not a sannyasi.” But Mahavira was extraordinary; he agreed. A year passed, two years passed. Mahavira did not speak of sannyas again. The matter was dropped. The brother had said, “As long as I live,” and that was that.
But within two years the family began to feel that while Mahavira was in the house, he was as good as not there. He was and he was not. His presence could no longer be felt. Months would pass without any sense that he was at home. He did not interfere in anything, made no demands, had no insistences. He was like a quiet shadow—no one knew when he slipped out or came back, when he slept or woke—his being or not being made no difference.
The family told the elder brother, “Mahavira is already a sannyasi.” The brother said, “I too am amazed. It doesn’t feel like he is in the house or not. What is the point of stopping him now? There is no meaning in it. We thought we had stopped him, but he has gone already.” The whole household approached Mahavira and said, “You have already gone. There is no point in our holding you. Do as you wish.” And Mahavira walked out.
It would have made no difference if Mahavira had stayed all his life. Going or not going was a minor matter, meaningless. The real thing was the inner transformation—that had happened. Now house and outside were equal.
Mahavira’s followers say he “left the house.” They are speaking falsehood. Mahavira never “left” the house. Before leaving, for him house and outside had already become the same. If the family said, “Stay,” he stayed. If they said, “Go,” he went. That is how it was.
Mahavira had no insistence to go, no insistence to stay. Such non-insistence is what ahimsa—nonviolence—means. It is also violence to insist, “I will go.” It is also violence to insist, “I will stay.” That insistence is pressure; Mahavira gave up all pressure. He became like the breeze. The family felt, “Why pointlessly restrain him? He isn’t really here. He went long ago—only the body remains. The soul has left. Why be an obstacle?” They said, “All right, you may go.” And he went.
This is sannyas; this is the transformation of the person.
Now wherever such a man goes—even if you put him up in a courtesan’s house—there is no problem, because nothing is difficult for him anymore. The person has changed. He is not changing places; the person himself has changed.
What I am speaking of—silence, stillness, meditation—is the alchemy and process of personal transformation; through it, everything changes.
Everything around a transformed person will change, because his way of seeing has changed. He will work; he will walk, sit, stand. But he is a different man now. The world the old man created—he will not live in that world; he will create a new one. His very presence will begin to build a new world. Such a man can even sit at a shop—what difficulty is there?
In fact, until such people sit in shops, the world cannot become a heaven. Such a person can be a father, a brother, a son; such a person can be a wife, a mother. Until such people become mothers, sons, wives, and fathers, the world cannot be a heaven.
We have created enough chaos. We are unquiet; naturally we create disturbance. Unquiet people are running the world! Unquiet people are marrying! Unquiet people are running the courts! Unquiet people are the rulers of nations!
At home there aren’t husbands, there are presidents! The disease is everywhere. No woman objects, “We will not tolerate a president at home.” No woman says a word. Though if a woman someday becomes head of state, she would not agree to be called “the nation’s wife.” She would have to be called “president.” No woman will accept being called “the nation’s wife.” But no woman gets upset that a man is “president.” Men’s privilege rules the world, so it all goes on—somehow it goes on.
This world built by diseased, unquiet people—let it change; the sooner the better. But it will change only when the diseased person changes, otherwise we will build the same world again. That is how it has always been.
Russia attempted change, and nothing essential changed. The outer changed; the inner did not—because the same sick people effected the change. The same sick people sat on top again. The old sequence resumed. The former condition was altered, the gap between rich and poor shrank, but new gaps arose—the gap between the powerful and the powerless became as large as that between poor and rich. The “owner” of yesterday became today’s “manager.” The names changed; the reality remained.
We mistake name-changing for great work! Someone leaves his household and sets up an ashram, and we say, “Transformation!” Only the label changes; nothing else. He writes “ashram” instead of “home,” and we think change has happened.
Our intelligence gets stuck on such things. This is how we “change things.” A man wears white and we say, “He’s a householder.” He dons saffron tomorrow and we say, “Swamiji, a sannyasi.” We are crazy—without the slightest insight—playing these games. A man puts on saffron and becomes a sannyasi!
First of all, a person who takes clothing change to be sannyas is an idiot, stupid, insensate. He has no thing called intelligence. If he had to change, what occurred to him was to change his clothes! Nothing more meaningless could be imagined. That is what struck him—so he is dull-witted. And we are dull-witted that we salute his “insight”: “What a great deed—you put on saffron!” We keep changing things, changing names, changing places. But the person within—no concern with changing him. The doorway to that change is meditation.
One or two more questions on meditation—briefly. Then we will sit for the evening meditation.
A friend has asked: Is meditation a method? Any method?
This needs a little understanding.
Meditation is not a method. The trouble is largely with our language. The language we have developed is for utilitarian matters; it is not made for things like meditation.
So it appears as if meditation too were a method. Meditation is not a method. A method is always for action. If there is something to do, there is a method for it. But how can there be a method for non-action? Letting go of all methods—non-action cannot have a method. Actions can have methods—do this, do that, do this. But where the point is not-doing, how can there be a method? Therefore, meditation is not a method. And so do not ask how many methods of meditation there are. Do not ask how many types of meditation there are. Do not ask that one guru teaches one kind of method and another guru teaches another kind. If gurus are to remain, they will have to teach methods. That does not give momentum to meditation; it only strengthens gurudom.
Meditation has no method. Meditation is methodlessness.
As I said yesterday too—meditation is non-action, no-action. There is nothing to do there; all doing has to be dropped.
Dropping doing! Suppose I am clenching my fist, and someone asks me, “What is the method to open the fist?” The question is fine, but I would say to him: there was a method to clench it; there is no method to open it. If I simply stop doing the method of clenching, the fist will open. There is no method to opening; there is a method to clenching. Clenching is an action; opening is not an action. An open hand is the natural state; the hand is open by itself. We do the clenching—that is our doing. Openness is the hand’s natural condition. If we do not clench, the hand opens.
If we pull down a branch of this tree and then someone asks me, “Is there any method to bring it back to its place?” I would say, there is no method. Kindly stop the method you are employing to hold it down. Let go, and it will return to its place.
The branch is restless to return to where it belongs. It is crying, “Let me go; I will reach my place.” And you are holding it, pulling it. Holding by pulling is a method; letting go is no method. Though in language even “letting go” seems like an action, it is not. Letting go means that the action of holding you were doing, you are no longer doing. That is letting go. Letting go is negative; it is not positive. Holding is positive; it requires you to do something. In letting go you have nothing to do; rather, even what you were doing, stop that—and the branch will return to its place. Everything is eager to arrive in its own nature. Everything longs to be in its nature.
If you understand carefully, the thirst for religion in the world has no other cause. The thirst for religion means: each person is eager to enter his own nature. And until the world reaches its nature, the need for religion will remain. The day people arrive in their nature, religion will become meaningless. There will be no need for it.
We are estranged from our nature; we wander here and there away from it, and hence there is a restlessness. This unrest is precisely because we are not in our nature. We are not that which we are meant to be. We have been pulled and stretched somewhere. We are stretched. We are not where, by being there, we would be at ease, simple.
Look at this branch: in its place, how quiet it is. Pull it a little and restlessness will run through all its fibers; every sinew will be stretched. The life of the whole tree will begin to tremble. Other branches will start shaking too; pull this one from its place and the very life of the tree will be in difficulty. News will reach down to the roots that something has gone wrong—there is some pull, some tension somewhere. But let go, and the branch will return to its place; the tree will become carefree, silent, still. It has come back to itself.
We are all like stretched branches, being pulled in different directions. Everyone is pulling everyone else. Those whom we call “relations”—we have only this relation with them: pull each other’s branches. Relationship, our “relationship,” has become: pull one another from all sides. The father pulls the son; the sons pull the father; everyone is pulling everyone. This whole stretched-out society—within it we are all dislodging each other from our place. We ourselves are dislodged; hence so much restlessness, so much strain, so much tension, so much anxiety, so much worry.
Meditation means: to be in one’s nature, to be in oneself, to come back home. This is a very difficult matter.
I have heard: one day a man went to the marketplace and drank. Drunk, he returned home. Somehow, groping, he reached his house, but he was intoxicated. The house did not look familiar, so he sat on the steps and began shouting loudly, “Someone take me to my home!” The neighbors gathered, shook him, and said, “What has happened? Have you gone mad? You are sitting in your own house!” But the man kept shouting, “Don’t explain to me in vain—take me to my home; my mother must be waiting for me.” At midnight his mother woke, opened the door, came out, placed her hand on his head, and said, “Son, come inside the house; what has happened to you?”
He said, “Old woman, someone please take me to my home. My mother must be waiting for me. Where is my home? Take me to my home.”
Now, in a village there are always service-minded people; some were there, and they brought a cart. They said, “Sit in this; we will take you there.”
Other neighbors said, “Fool, if you get into the cart you will go far from home—because you are already at home. Wherever you go now, you will go farther away. Do not go anywhere at all; do not get into the circles of some leader, some guru; do not fall for the cart driver’s talk that you should sit in his cart, otherwise you will go even farther. You are already at your home; you do not have to go anywhere—you just have to come to your senses. You do not have to go anywhere; you just have to become conscious! If you come to your senses, you will find you are in your home.”
In truth we are not even pulled; only in our unconsciousness does the idea of being pulled exist. If awareness comes, we will find we are in our place. We are exactly where we are. And as soon as it is known that we are in our home, a peace descends over the whole of life.
Meditation is not a method. The trouble is largely with our language. The language we have developed is for utilitarian matters; it is not made for things like meditation.
So it appears as if meditation too were a method. Meditation is not a method. A method is always for action. If there is something to do, there is a method for it. But how can there be a method for non-action? Letting go of all methods—non-action cannot have a method. Actions can have methods—do this, do that, do this. But where the point is not-doing, how can there be a method? Therefore, meditation is not a method. And so do not ask how many methods of meditation there are. Do not ask how many types of meditation there are. Do not ask that one guru teaches one kind of method and another guru teaches another kind. If gurus are to remain, they will have to teach methods. That does not give momentum to meditation; it only strengthens gurudom.
Meditation has no method. Meditation is methodlessness.
As I said yesterday too—meditation is non-action, no-action. There is nothing to do there; all doing has to be dropped.
Dropping doing! Suppose I am clenching my fist, and someone asks me, “What is the method to open the fist?” The question is fine, but I would say to him: there was a method to clench it; there is no method to open it. If I simply stop doing the method of clenching, the fist will open. There is no method to opening; there is a method to clenching. Clenching is an action; opening is not an action. An open hand is the natural state; the hand is open by itself. We do the clenching—that is our doing. Openness is the hand’s natural condition. If we do not clench, the hand opens.
If we pull down a branch of this tree and then someone asks me, “Is there any method to bring it back to its place?” I would say, there is no method. Kindly stop the method you are employing to hold it down. Let go, and it will return to its place.
The branch is restless to return to where it belongs. It is crying, “Let me go; I will reach my place.” And you are holding it, pulling it. Holding by pulling is a method; letting go is no method. Though in language even “letting go” seems like an action, it is not. Letting go means that the action of holding you were doing, you are no longer doing. That is letting go. Letting go is negative; it is not positive. Holding is positive; it requires you to do something. In letting go you have nothing to do; rather, even what you were doing, stop that—and the branch will return to its place. Everything is eager to arrive in its own nature. Everything longs to be in its nature.
If you understand carefully, the thirst for religion in the world has no other cause. The thirst for religion means: each person is eager to enter his own nature. And until the world reaches its nature, the need for religion will remain. The day people arrive in their nature, religion will become meaningless. There will be no need for it.
We are estranged from our nature; we wander here and there away from it, and hence there is a restlessness. This unrest is precisely because we are not in our nature. We are not that which we are meant to be. We have been pulled and stretched somewhere. We are stretched. We are not where, by being there, we would be at ease, simple.
Look at this branch: in its place, how quiet it is. Pull it a little and restlessness will run through all its fibers; every sinew will be stretched. The life of the whole tree will begin to tremble. Other branches will start shaking too; pull this one from its place and the very life of the tree will be in difficulty. News will reach down to the roots that something has gone wrong—there is some pull, some tension somewhere. But let go, and the branch will return to its place; the tree will become carefree, silent, still. It has come back to itself.
We are all like stretched branches, being pulled in different directions. Everyone is pulling everyone else. Those whom we call “relations”—we have only this relation with them: pull each other’s branches. Relationship, our “relationship,” has become: pull one another from all sides. The father pulls the son; the sons pull the father; everyone is pulling everyone. This whole stretched-out society—within it we are all dislodging each other from our place. We ourselves are dislodged; hence so much restlessness, so much strain, so much tension, so much anxiety, so much worry.
Meditation means: to be in one’s nature, to be in oneself, to come back home. This is a very difficult matter.
I have heard: one day a man went to the marketplace and drank. Drunk, he returned home. Somehow, groping, he reached his house, but he was intoxicated. The house did not look familiar, so he sat on the steps and began shouting loudly, “Someone take me to my home!” The neighbors gathered, shook him, and said, “What has happened? Have you gone mad? You are sitting in your own house!” But the man kept shouting, “Don’t explain to me in vain—take me to my home; my mother must be waiting for me.” At midnight his mother woke, opened the door, came out, placed her hand on his head, and said, “Son, come inside the house; what has happened to you?”
He said, “Old woman, someone please take me to my home. My mother must be waiting for me. Where is my home? Take me to my home.”
Now, in a village there are always service-minded people; some were there, and they brought a cart. They said, “Sit in this; we will take you there.”
Other neighbors said, “Fool, if you get into the cart you will go far from home—because you are already at home. Wherever you go now, you will go farther away. Do not go anywhere at all; do not get into the circles of some leader, some guru; do not fall for the cart driver’s talk that you should sit in his cart, otherwise you will go even farther. You are already at your home; you do not have to go anywhere—you just have to come to your senses. You do not have to go anywhere; you just have to become conscious! If you come to your senses, you will find you are in your home.”
In truth we are not even pulled; only in our unconsciousness does the idea of being pulled exist. If awareness comes, we will find we are in our place. We are exactly where we are. And as soon as it is known that we are in our home, a peace descends over the whole of life.
A friend has asked in this regard: you say everyone should act according to their nature—then a thief will steal, a murderer will kill, a dishonest person will be dishonest! If we follow what you say, won’t all morality, religion, and discipline in the world be thrown into disorder?
You don’t yet know that a thief’s nature is not to steal. Have you ever thought of that? The thief steals because he is not in his nature. The murderer murders because he is not in his nature. In one’s nature no one has ever stolen, and no one has ever murdered. Only in one’s nature does a person live in dharma. If a thief were to enter his nature, he would not be able to steal, because to steal one must step outside one’s nature. And nature keeps calling from within—don’t do it, don’t do it.
But he says, “No, I will!” Stealing has to be done. Stealing is a doing. He commits the theft. It is the sense of doership: I am doing it.
But the moment this sense disappears—that I am not the doer—can you still steal? The moment it is seen that the doer is God, can you still steal? And if even then a theft happened, I say that theft too would be dharma, because in that state theft simply cannot be done.
We do not understand that whatever is called bad… the meaning of “bad” is only this: that which is contrary to nature. It has no other meaning. “Bad” means: what is contrary to my nature. And what is contrary to nature brings suffering. That is why the bad brings suffering. There is no other connection between bad and suffering. Because it is contrary to my nature, it brings pain. I have to drag myself.
A man steals. Theft drags him. He is pulled for twenty‑four hours. Can anyone be at ease after stealing? Can anyone be peaceful after stealing? After committing murder can anyone rest? The mind will be stretched—before and after. The whole psyche will be taut. One has to go outside nature.
In my view, the definition of sin is simply this: whatever is outside of, opposite to, or contrary to nature—that is sin.
And virtue means only this: what happens while remaining in one’s nature—that is virtue.
Whatever has to be done by going outside nature is sin. So even if you perform some so‑called virtue that requires you to go outside your nature, that is sin. If building a temple brings anxiety upon the mind, it is sin. If in serving someone you have to repress yourself, to force yourself, that is sin. What happens effortlessly, from nature—only that is virtue.
The friend who has asked has asked rightly, because there is a thief sitting inside all of us. And we are afraid that if we relax, if we let go, he may start stealing at once!
They have asked that if everyone is left to live according to their own nature, then the one who desires the other woman will run after her. They have not understood the meaning of nature. Where nature is, then far from the other woman—there it becomes difficult even to chase one’s own wife. It becomes difficult to run after anyone. There, even one’s own wife stands on the same footing as the other woman. And remember, so long as one’s own wife feels “mine,” the pursuit of the other woman will continue. It is that distinction which says, “This is mine and that is not mine!”
And remember, what is not mine will always evoke the desire to possess it. It cannot be that we know “this is not mine,” and no thought of owning it arises in the mind. What is mine—its ownership is forgotten because it has been attained. What is not mine—its very not-possessed-ness cries out, “Take possession of this too! Occupy this as well!” The other woman is “other” precisely because on this side there is “my” woman. She is other because this one is “mine.” This one is mine because possession has been achieved; that one is other because possession has not been achieved.
And whatever has not been possessed, the mind will say, “Possess this too.” Another’s car appears—possess it; another’s house appears—possess it; another’s honor, position, knowledge, renunciation appears—possess all of it. Whatever belongs to another should also become mine. Let nothing remain that is not mine.
But that other woman belongs to someone else; he too stands there guarding. And then there is the fear: if I look toward another’s wife, someone will look toward my wife—what will I do then? These are the fears, and bound by them man stands tied, and he shouts that to look at another’s woman is a sin. And why is he shouting? And why do saints and sages keep preaching that it is a sin to look at another’s wife? Because everyone knows that everyone is looking at another’s wife.
Mark this: so long as the idea of “my wife” persists, the other woman will keep pursuing you. So long as someone says, “This is my wealth,” that person remains a thief, because hidden inside the claim “my wealth” is the seed of theft.
The transformation of life is a very different matter. There, as soon as one comes to one’s own nature, the division of mine and not-mine dissolves.
I have heard a very wondrous incident. Vachaspati Mishra was a remarkable man. He was married. To say “he got married” is difficult, because he did nothing; his family arranged it. Some people are like that. The family asked, “Will you go and get married?” He said, “As you wish.”
Something like this happened with Ramakrishna too. Ramakrishna’s family thought perhaps he would refuse to marry. His mother, very hesitantly, asked, “Ramakrishna, will you marry?” Ramakrishna said, “Certainly! The wedding procession will go! I will ride the horse!” The mother was startled, for she had expected this boy to refuse!
Parents even enjoy it when sons refuse—“I will not marry!” They enjoy it a lot. They advise and persuade, but deep inside there is a relish: “What a fine son we have! Virtuous!” They keep counseling and trying, and inside they enjoy it—“He is virtuous; he says he will not marry!”
Ramakrishna said, “If I get to ride the horse, I will marry!” Simple, utterly simple. He had nothing to do with marriage. Riding the horse would be fun…!
Likewise, Vachaspati’s family asked—afraid, because he was such a man, who knew what he would do? Day and night he was lost in some other realm. They asked, “Will you marry?” He said, “As you wish. If it pleases everyone, let it be done.”
The wedding happened. The bride was brought home. Twelve years passed, and Vachaspati dove into his work. He forgot altogether that the wife had come home.
He thought the task was done: the family had their fun; the procession went and returned—finished. Then he quite forgot there was a wife in the house!
Perhaps such an event has never happened in the world. And the wife too must have been extraordinary—no less than Vachaspati in worth. Not once did she prod him, saying, “I sit in the house; why have you brought me?” She understood that one who is lost in some far, unknown realm—if I obstruct him, then my love is very immature. She waited, sitting in the shadows, for twelve years! She kept vigil nights on end; Vachaspati kept writing! He was writing some books—commentaries on the Upanishads, a commentary on the Brahmasutras. He was doing great work, lost in a distant world. The wife served him like a shadow.
After twelve years—Vachaspati had decided: the day the commentary he was writing—the commentary on the Brahmasutras—was completed, that very day he would leave home. The commentary was nearing completion. He was writing the last page when the lamp went out. His wife, who served like a shadow, came and lit the lamp. For the first time, in that newly lit lamp, Vachaspati saw her hand and said, “Who are you? It is the middle of the night—who are you here?”
His wife said, “Blessed am I that you have asked today! I have been waiting for twelve years, that someday you would ask, then I would submit who I am! Twelve years ago—you may have forgotten—you brought me home as your wife. Since then I have been waiting.”
Vachaspati began to weep. He said, “This is very late. Foolish one, why did you not speak in between? I had decided that when this book is completed—this book is completed—and when the sun rises tomorrow I am to leave. Why did you not tell me earlier?”
His wife said, “But nothing is late. You have shown such concern for me—‘you delayed; by morning I must depart; why didn’t you say earlier’—I have received everything I could want. What more was there?”
In her memory, he named the book “Bhamati.” Bhamati was the wife’s name. And “Bhamati” has no relation with the content of the Brahmasutra commentary, yet he named the book “Bhamati” in remembrance of the one who for twelve years, silently behind him…!
Now can such a man even see the other woman? For twelve years he did not even see his own wife! If there is no “own wife,” where is the “other woman”? Can a woman be seen at all by such a man?
Yes, people will be seen; images will form in the eyes. That is not the seeing I speak of. What does such a man see! Such a man lives in his nature.
So it was with Ramakrishna. Ramakrishna went—wearing brand-new clothes—to see the girl. He dressed up, adorned himself. Again and again he came out to ask, “When shall we go? How long?” He was very happy: new clothes today, and his mother had slipped three rupees into his pocket; he kept taking them out and counting them, then putting them back! It had never happened before. He was very happy.
Then he went to see the girl. He sat for the meal on the plate. The girl came to serve. He took out the three rupees, placed them at her feet, and bowed to touch her feet!
All the family cried, “Madman, what have you done?”
He said, “Just like my mother—just as innocent, just as simple! She has become my mother!”
They said, “She is your wife; she cannot be your mother.”
He said, “I do not know what a wife is like, but I do know what a mother is like. And she has become my mother. Now let come what may!” And that woman remained “mother” all her life.
Now if even one’s own wife is not “one’s own,” can someone else’s wife appear? And if in one’s own wife one sees the mother, then in which woman will one not see the mother? Such people live in nature.
And the friend asks, “If one goes into nature and the desire for the other woman is in the mind, then it will be a great problem; one will run after her.” Go into nature fully, and then you will not run after anyone. To go into nature means to go after oneself. And the one who goes after himself goes after no one else.
Only so long as we have not gone after ourselves do we wander after others—after shadows. We feel that by going after this one something will be gained, by going after that one something will be gained. Hence we wander after others.
And when, going after himself, one finds oneself, then why go after anyone? That wandering remains only until we have not met ourselves. When one is found—oneself to oneself—then who is to go after whom? All that going and coming, that whole running about—that theft, sin, murder, the other woman—all those are vibhavas, derivative states, happenings that take place outside our nature.
Therefore do not say that if we come into our nature a great disorder will spread. Disorder is already spread. If we come into our nature, order will arise. But it will not be that kind of order which has to be organized from above. It will not be a discipline imposed from outside. It will come from within. Now, Ramakrishna did not have to understand that “she is my mother”; it appeared so.
We too teach our children, “Consider another’s mother and sister as your own mother and sister.” Now can something that must be “considered” ever be the truth? When we say “consider,” it clearly means that what is not to be considered we have already considered, and now this new consideration must be added!
You never instruct anyone to “consider another’s wife as your own wife”—that you do not say! Because that we understand of our own accord. What requires instruction is “consider her your mother,” because that we do not see; it must be taught to us. Truths are what we see; the lies we impose from above with “consider it so.”
And the discipline of such instruction—what discipline is that! Sheer falsehood. And society stands upon that very falsehood. And we go on singing its praises: what a great culture, what a great civilization! And it all stands upon such lies.
We say our civilization is very elevated. We… consider another’s mother and sister as our own mother and sister! Whatever must be “considered” is always false. It should be seen. It should not be a matter of someone’s teaching. It should be seen. And when it is seen, then a discipline arises from within. An inner discipline is born. It wells up from within; it does not have to be manufactured.
A person living in nature has a discipline that is inward. We often fail to recognize it, because we recognize only that discipline which is imposed from above. We have become so accustomed to the false that we cannot even see or recognize the true.
Many times a person absorbed in his nature may appear senseless to us. Because what we take as understanding—he does not understand in that way. He sees something else. And according to what he sees, he lives.
A few more questions remain; we will speak of them tomorrow night.
Now we are to sit for the night’s meditation.
Understand two or three points. First: Surrender can be only as deep as we allow the body, the breath, the mind to drop into total relaxation. Only then can that floating, that flow, arise. If we sit stiff, tense, rigid, then this stiffness, this strain in the body will block us.
So in this night’s experiment, sit at sufficient distance from one another so that if the body relaxes and falls, let it fall. Then we shall also extinguish the lights so that you need not be anxious that someone is watching. Sit at ample distance so you can leave the body so loose that if it falls, there is room to fall. Look around your place so that if the body falls, there is space around.
And do not talk at all. Move silently. If you do not find space, don’t wait for someone else—quietly get up and go outside. And no talking at all. Quickly! If someone sitting near you falls onto you, do not be bothered—let them fall.
Move away; make a little space. Yes, sit a little apart, because if anyone falls upon you, you will be troubled. So move away. Yes, sit quickly, so I can explain two or three things and then we will begin meditation. Yes, those who want to do it properly and deeply—quietly step outside. (He means those who don’t have space should go out; maintain the sense.)
First point: before meditation begins we will put out the lights so that it becomes pitch-dark. The surrender possible in darkness has no comparison. Night is the time of surrender. Night is the time to be lost, to sleep, to dissolve. Night is the time of rest. There will be darkness all around. In that dense, pitch-black darkness, we are to let ourselves go completely—as if we have let ourselves float in an ocean of darkness.
Close your eyes, then leave the body relaxed. For a little while I will give suggestions: that your body is relaxing, relaxing, relaxing. With me, you are to feel that the body is becoming utterly relaxed. The more you feel it, the more the body will relax. The body may begin to fall, it may lean forward, lean backward; wherever it leans, do not stop it—let it fall where it will. Do not be afraid that if it falls it will get hurt. Injury happens when the body is stiff. If the body is completely relaxed, it never gets hurt. No injury will occur.
After two or three minutes I will suggest that the breath is slowing. You are not to slow it by effort; simply feel that the breath is becoming slower and slower. It will slow down.
Then I will say, the mind is becoming quiet—and the mind will become quiet.
Then for ten minutes I will say: now be lost. Whatever happens, let it happen. Whatever happens, let it be. Winds may blow, birds may call, sounds may arise, breath may move, thoughts may pass within—silently keep watching. Whatever happens, happens. Become completely absorbed in that deep darkness.
Now sit. Close your eyes.
(Extinguish the lights; turn the lights completely off.)
Yes, close your eyes; as it is dark outside, let it be dark within as well. Close your eyes. Let the body go limp; leave it utterly loose. Now I give the suggestions; feel along with me. The body is relaxing… and with each suggestion, leave the body more and more loose… if it bends, let it bend; if it falls, let it fall. From your side, no resistance, no holding. Suggest: the body is relaxing… let go… let go… the body is relaxing… the body is relaxing… the body is relaxing… the body is relaxing… let go, let it go into the darkness, be lost… the body is relaxing… the body is relaxing… the body is relaxing… the body is relaxing… the body is relaxing… the body is relaxing… the body is becoming completely relaxed… let go, in this darkness let yourself go entirely… let go… the body has relaxed… the body has relaxed… the body has relaxed…
The breath is becoming calm… the breath is becoming calm… the breath is becoming calm… the breath is becoming calmer and calmer… the breath is becoming calm… utterly lost in the darkness… the breath is becoming calm… the breath is becoming calm… let go, leave the breath utterly at ease. The breath has become calm… the breath has become calm…
The mind too is becoming quiet… the mind is becoming quiet… let go, drop all grip upon the mind within. The mind is becoming quiet… the mind is becoming quiet… in this dark and silent night be completely dissolved. For ten minutes become one—with the night, with the trees, with the stars, with the winds, with the sky—become utterly one with the earth; dissolve. You are not. You simply are not. All has become silent and void. For ten minutes everything becomes a vast emptiness. Just go on knowing, whatever is happening—keep knowing. If a sound is heard, keep hearing… keep knowing… only the knowing remains, everything else is lost.
Now for ten minutes be utterly silent and still.
What a wondrous night! The mind has become quiet… the sound of crickets is heard… the mind has become quiet, completely quiet… the mind has become quiet… let go, let go completely… we are erased, utterly erased.
The mind is becoming quiet… the mind is becoming utterly quiet… the mind is becoming empty… look within, see within—the mind is becoming quiet… the mind is becoming quiet… become one with this night… the mind has become quiet…
The mind has become quiet… become utterly one with the night… one… one… become utterly one with the night.
How quiet the mind has become—one with the night, one with the trees, one with the darkness. We are completely dissolved, like a drop lost in the ocean.
The mind has become quiet… look within—how much stillness, how much silence, how much emptiness! Deeper, and deeper… utterly, utterly let go… drop everything… dissolve…
Everything has come to a halt; within, all has stopped; only a vast void—everything has become emptiness…
Slowly take two or four deep breaths… with each breath, depth will increase, peace will increase, the void will deepen. Slowly take two or four deep breaths… then slowly open your eyes… look outside—there is much peace outside as well. Peace within, peace without. Slowly open your eyes and see: the trees, the night, the stars—how much peace there is. Let the peace within and without mingle. Open your eyes and see… keep your eyes open for a minute or two and watch silently…
(Turn the lights on.)
Our night’s sitting is complete.
But he says, “No, I will!” Stealing has to be done. Stealing is a doing. He commits the theft. It is the sense of doership: I am doing it.
But the moment this sense disappears—that I am not the doer—can you still steal? The moment it is seen that the doer is God, can you still steal? And if even then a theft happened, I say that theft too would be dharma, because in that state theft simply cannot be done.
We do not understand that whatever is called bad… the meaning of “bad” is only this: that which is contrary to nature. It has no other meaning. “Bad” means: what is contrary to my nature. And what is contrary to nature brings suffering. That is why the bad brings suffering. There is no other connection between bad and suffering. Because it is contrary to my nature, it brings pain. I have to drag myself.
A man steals. Theft drags him. He is pulled for twenty‑four hours. Can anyone be at ease after stealing? Can anyone be peaceful after stealing? After committing murder can anyone rest? The mind will be stretched—before and after. The whole psyche will be taut. One has to go outside nature.
In my view, the definition of sin is simply this: whatever is outside of, opposite to, or contrary to nature—that is sin.
And virtue means only this: what happens while remaining in one’s nature—that is virtue.
Whatever has to be done by going outside nature is sin. So even if you perform some so‑called virtue that requires you to go outside your nature, that is sin. If building a temple brings anxiety upon the mind, it is sin. If in serving someone you have to repress yourself, to force yourself, that is sin. What happens effortlessly, from nature—only that is virtue.
The friend who has asked has asked rightly, because there is a thief sitting inside all of us. And we are afraid that if we relax, if we let go, he may start stealing at once!
They have asked that if everyone is left to live according to their own nature, then the one who desires the other woman will run after her. They have not understood the meaning of nature. Where nature is, then far from the other woman—there it becomes difficult even to chase one’s own wife. It becomes difficult to run after anyone. There, even one’s own wife stands on the same footing as the other woman. And remember, so long as one’s own wife feels “mine,” the pursuit of the other woman will continue. It is that distinction which says, “This is mine and that is not mine!”
And remember, what is not mine will always evoke the desire to possess it. It cannot be that we know “this is not mine,” and no thought of owning it arises in the mind. What is mine—its ownership is forgotten because it has been attained. What is not mine—its very not-possessed-ness cries out, “Take possession of this too! Occupy this as well!” The other woman is “other” precisely because on this side there is “my” woman. She is other because this one is “mine.” This one is mine because possession has been achieved; that one is other because possession has not been achieved.
And whatever has not been possessed, the mind will say, “Possess this too.” Another’s car appears—possess it; another’s house appears—possess it; another’s honor, position, knowledge, renunciation appears—possess all of it. Whatever belongs to another should also become mine. Let nothing remain that is not mine.
But that other woman belongs to someone else; he too stands there guarding. And then there is the fear: if I look toward another’s wife, someone will look toward my wife—what will I do then? These are the fears, and bound by them man stands tied, and he shouts that to look at another’s woman is a sin. And why is he shouting? And why do saints and sages keep preaching that it is a sin to look at another’s wife? Because everyone knows that everyone is looking at another’s wife.
Mark this: so long as the idea of “my wife” persists, the other woman will keep pursuing you. So long as someone says, “This is my wealth,” that person remains a thief, because hidden inside the claim “my wealth” is the seed of theft.
The transformation of life is a very different matter. There, as soon as one comes to one’s own nature, the division of mine and not-mine dissolves.
I have heard a very wondrous incident. Vachaspati Mishra was a remarkable man. He was married. To say “he got married” is difficult, because he did nothing; his family arranged it. Some people are like that. The family asked, “Will you go and get married?” He said, “As you wish.”
Something like this happened with Ramakrishna too. Ramakrishna’s family thought perhaps he would refuse to marry. His mother, very hesitantly, asked, “Ramakrishna, will you marry?” Ramakrishna said, “Certainly! The wedding procession will go! I will ride the horse!” The mother was startled, for she had expected this boy to refuse!
Parents even enjoy it when sons refuse—“I will not marry!” They enjoy it a lot. They advise and persuade, but deep inside there is a relish: “What a fine son we have! Virtuous!” They keep counseling and trying, and inside they enjoy it—“He is virtuous; he says he will not marry!”
Ramakrishna said, “If I get to ride the horse, I will marry!” Simple, utterly simple. He had nothing to do with marriage. Riding the horse would be fun…!
Likewise, Vachaspati’s family asked—afraid, because he was such a man, who knew what he would do? Day and night he was lost in some other realm. They asked, “Will you marry?” He said, “As you wish. If it pleases everyone, let it be done.”
The wedding happened. The bride was brought home. Twelve years passed, and Vachaspati dove into his work. He forgot altogether that the wife had come home.
He thought the task was done: the family had their fun; the procession went and returned—finished. Then he quite forgot there was a wife in the house!
Perhaps such an event has never happened in the world. And the wife too must have been extraordinary—no less than Vachaspati in worth. Not once did she prod him, saying, “I sit in the house; why have you brought me?” She understood that one who is lost in some far, unknown realm—if I obstruct him, then my love is very immature. She waited, sitting in the shadows, for twelve years! She kept vigil nights on end; Vachaspati kept writing! He was writing some books—commentaries on the Upanishads, a commentary on the Brahmasutras. He was doing great work, lost in a distant world. The wife served him like a shadow.
After twelve years—Vachaspati had decided: the day the commentary he was writing—the commentary on the Brahmasutras—was completed, that very day he would leave home. The commentary was nearing completion. He was writing the last page when the lamp went out. His wife, who served like a shadow, came and lit the lamp. For the first time, in that newly lit lamp, Vachaspati saw her hand and said, “Who are you? It is the middle of the night—who are you here?”
His wife said, “Blessed am I that you have asked today! I have been waiting for twelve years, that someday you would ask, then I would submit who I am! Twelve years ago—you may have forgotten—you brought me home as your wife. Since then I have been waiting.”
Vachaspati began to weep. He said, “This is very late. Foolish one, why did you not speak in between? I had decided that when this book is completed—this book is completed—and when the sun rises tomorrow I am to leave. Why did you not tell me earlier?”
His wife said, “But nothing is late. You have shown such concern for me—‘you delayed; by morning I must depart; why didn’t you say earlier’—I have received everything I could want. What more was there?”
In her memory, he named the book “Bhamati.” Bhamati was the wife’s name. And “Bhamati” has no relation with the content of the Brahmasutra commentary, yet he named the book “Bhamati” in remembrance of the one who for twelve years, silently behind him…!
Now can such a man even see the other woman? For twelve years he did not even see his own wife! If there is no “own wife,” where is the “other woman”? Can a woman be seen at all by such a man?
Yes, people will be seen; images will form in the eyes. That is not the seeing I speak of. What does such a man see! Such a man lives in his nature.
So it was with Ramakrishna. Ramakrishna went—wearing brand-new clothes—to see the girl. He dressed up, adorned himself. Again and again he came out to ask, “When shall we go? How long?” He was very happy: new clothes today, and his mother had slipped three rupees into his pocket; he kept taking them out and counting them, then putting them back! It had never happened before. He was very happy.
Then he went to see the girl. He sat for the meal on the plate. The girl came to serve. He took out the three rupees, placed them at her feet, and bowed to touch her feet!
All the family cried, “Madman, what have you done?”
He said, “Just like my mother—just as innocent, just as simple! She has become my mother!”
They said, “She is your wife; she cannot be your mother.”
He said, “I do not know what a wife is like, but I do know what a mother is like. And she has become my mother. Now let come what may!” And that woman remained “mother” all her life.
Now if even one’s own wife is not “one’s own,” can someone else’s wife appear? And if in one’s own wife one sees the mother, then in which woman will one not see the mother? Such people live in nature.
And the friend asks, “If one goes into nature and the desire for the other woman is in the mind, then it will be a great problem; one will run after her.” Go into nature fully, and then you will not run after anyone. To go into nature means to go after oneself. And the one who goes after himself goes after no one else.
Only so long as we have not gone after ourselves do we wander after others—after shadows. We feel that by going after this one something will be gained, by going after that one something will be gained. Hence we wander after others.
And when, going after himself, one finds oneself, then why go after anyone? That wandering remains only until we have not met ourselves. When one is found—oneself to oneself—then who is to go after whom? All that going and coming, that whole running about—that theft, sin, murder, the other woman—all those are vibhavas, derivative states, happenings that take place outside our nature.
Therefore do not say that if we come into our nature a great disorder will spread. Disorder is already spread. If we come into our nature, order will arise. But it will not be that kind of order which has to be organized from above. It will not be a discipline imposed from outside. It will come from within. Now, Ramakrishna did not have to understand that “she is my mother”; it appeared so.
We too teach our children, “Consider another’s mother and sister as your own mother and sister.” Now can something that must be “considered” ever be the truth? When we say “consider,” it clearly means that what is not to be considered we have already considered, and now this new consideration must be added!
You never instruct anyone to “consider another’s wife as your own wife”—that you do not say! Because that we understand of our own accord. What requires instruction is “consider her your mother,” because that we do not see; it must be taught to us. Truths are what we see; the lies we impose from above with “consider it so.”
And the discipline of such instruction—what discipline is that! Sheer falsehood. And society stands upon that very falsehood. And we go on singing its praises: what a great culture, what a great civilization! And it all stands upon such lies.
We say our civilization is very elevated. We… consider another’s mother and sister as our own mother and sister! Whatever must be “considered” is always false. It should be seen. It should not be a matter of someone’s teaching. It should be seen. And when it is seen, then a discipline arises from within. An inner discipline is born. It wells up from within; it does not have to be manufactured.
A person living in nature has a discipline that is inward. We often fail to recognize it, because we recognize only that discipline which is imposed from above. We have become so accustomed to the false that we cannot even see or recognize the true.
Many times a person absorbed in his nature may appear senseless to us. Because what we take as understanding—he does not understand in that way. He sees something else. And according to what he sees, he lives.
A few more questions remain; we will speak of them tomorrow night.
Now we are to sit for the night’s meditation.
Understand two or three points. First: Surrender can be only as deep as we allow the body, the breath, the mind to drop into total relaxation. Only then can that floating, that flow, arise. If we sit stiff, tense, rigid, then this stiffness, this strain in the body will block us.
So in this night’s experiment, sit at sufficient distance from one another so that if the body relaxes and falls, let it fall. Then we shall also extinguish the lights so that you need not be anxious that someone is watching. Sit at ample distance so you can leave the body so loose that if it falls, there is room to fall. Look around your place so that if the body falls, there is space around.
And do not talk at all. Move silently. If you do not find space, don’t wait for someone else—quietly get up and go outside. And no talking at all. Quickly! If someone sitting near you falls onto you, do not be bothered—let them fall.
Move away; make a little space. Yes, sit a little apart, because if anyone falls upon you, you will be troubled. So move away. Yes, sit quickly, so I can explain two or three things and then we will begin meditation. Yes, those who want to do it properly and deeply—quietly step outside. (He means those who don’t have space should go out; maintain the sense.)
First point: before meditation begins we will put out the lights so that it becomes pitch-dark. The surrender possible in darkness has no comparison. Night is the time of surrender. Night is the time to be lost, to sleep, to dissolve. Night is the time of rest. There will be darkness all around. In that dense, pitch-black darkness, we are to let ourselves go completely—as if we have let ourselves float in an ocean of darkness.
Close your eyes, then leave the body relaxed. For a little while I will give suggestions: that your body is relaxing, relaxing, relaxing. With me, you are to feel that the body is becoming utterly relaxed. The more you feel it, the more the body will relax. The body may begin to fall, it may lean forward, lean backward; wherever it leans, do not stop it—let it fall where it will. Do not be afraid that if it falls it will get hurt. Injury happens when the body is stiff. If the body is completely relaxed, it never gets hurt. No injury will occur.
After two or three minutes I will suggest that the breath is slowing. You are not to slow it by effort; simply feel that the breath is becoming slower and slower. It will slow down.
Then I will say, the mind is becoming quiet—and the mind will become quiet.
Then for ten minutes I will say: now be lost. Whatever happens, let it happen. Whatever happens, let it be. Winds may blow, birds may call, sounds may arise, breath may move, thoughts may pass within—silently keep watching. Whatever happens, happens. Become completely absorbed in that deep darkness.
Now sit. Close your eyes.
(Extinguish the lights; turn the lights completely off.)
Yes, close your eyes; as it is dark outside, let it be dark within as well. Close your eyes. Let the body go limp; leave it utterly loose. Now I give the suggestions; feel along with me. The body is relaxing… and with each suggestion, leave the body more and more loose… if it bends, let it bend; if it falls, let it fall. From your side, no resistance, no holding. Suggest: the body is relaxing… let go… let go… the body is relaxing… the body is relaxing… the body is relaxing… the body is relaxing… let go, let it go into the darkness, be lost… the body is relaxing… the body is relaxing… the body is relaxing… the body is relaxing… the body is relaxing… the body is relaxing… the body is becoming completely relaxed… let go, in this darkness let yourself go entirely… let go… the body has relaxed… the body has relaxed… the body has relaxed…
The breath is becoming calm… the breath is becoming calm… the breath is becoming calm… the breath is becoming calmer and calmer… the breath is becoming calm… utterly lost in the darkness… the breath is becoming calm… the breath is becoming calm… let go, leave the breath utterly at ease. The breath has become calm… the breath has become calm…
The mind too is becoming quiet… the mind is becoming quiet… let go, drop all grip upon the mind within. The mind is becoming quiet… the mind is becoming quiet… in this dark and silent night be completely dissolved. For ten minutes become one—with the night, with the trees, with the stars, with the winds, with the sky—become utterly one with the earth; dissolve. You are not. You simply are not. All has become silent and void. For ten minutes everything becomes a vast emptiness. Just go on knowing, whatever is happening—keep knowing. If a sound is heard, keep hearing… keep knowing… only the knowing remains, everything else is lost.
Now for ten minutes be utterly silent and still.
What a wondrous night! The mind has become quiet… the sound of crickets is heard… the mind has become quiet, completely quiet… the mind has become quiet… let go, let go completely… we are erased, utterly erased.
The mind is becoming quiet… the mind is becoming utterly quiet… the mind is becoming empty… look within, see within—the mind is becoming quiet… the mind is becoming quiet… become one with this night… the mind has become quiet…
The mind has become quiet… become utterly one with the night… one… one… become utterly one with the night.
How quiet the mind has become—one with the night, one with the trees, one with the darkness. We are completely dissolved, like a drop lost in the ocean.
The mind has become quiet… look within—how much stillness, how much silence, how much emptiness! Deeper, and deeper… utterly, utterly let go… drop everything… dissolve…
Everything has come to a halt; within, all has stopped; only a vast void—everything has become emptiness…
Slowly take two or four deep breaths… with each breath, depth will increase, peace will increase, the void will deepen. Slowly take two or four deep breaths… then slowly open your eyes… look outside—there is much peace outside as well. Peace within, peace without. Slowly open your eyes and see: the trees, the night, the stars—how much peace there is. Let the peace within and without mingle. Open your eyes and see… keep your eyes open for a minute or two and watch silently…
(Turn the lights on.)
Our night’s sitting is complete.
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