Neti Neti Sambhavnaon Ki Aahat #5

There are two or three things to understand here.

First: we have been taught so many things against anger that, because of those very teachings, we are never able to look at anger simply and directly. Whatever we are already against becomes hard to see. When we have already decided something is a sin, is bad, is the gate to hell—how will we be able to see it? The moment we look, opposition surges up inside. That opposition builds a wall between us and anger; that wall won’t let us see.

Have you ever carefully looked at the face of an enemy? We don’t even feel like looking at someone we’re hostile toward. And even if we try, we can’t truly see them. We see only what our hostility has already fixed in place. Seeing an enemy is hard because we carry a settled notion: “He is a bad man.” We end up seeing our notion, not the person as they actually are.

About anger, sex, greed, fear—we’ve been taught so much that our entire consciousness is packed with preconceptions. We do not know anger; we only know our idea about anger—the concept we hold. We have never encountered anger face-to-face. We have never seen it as it is. We’ve been told about it—and we see what we’ve been told.

So the first thing is: if you want to see anger, greed, sex, you must drop all the learned notions about them in one stroke. You will have to go in with an impartial mind. That is hard. How to be impartial about anger, about sex—when they are obviously “sins”? All the saints, sages, and great men have said they are sinful and bad. How to be neutral about them? The whole education of saints prevents neutrality. And without neutrality there is no seeing; without seeing there is no freedom.

The first point: with an impartial mind—what is anger? You will say, “We already know what anger is. All the books say it, all teachings say it: anger is fire, anger is poison, anger is hell—don’t be angry.” We accept this. But we have accepted it without knowing anger! Is that not unjust? It is like forming a firm opinion about a person we have never met; and then, even if that person appears before us, we cannot really see him. Our opinion stands between us and him like a tinted lens; we only see the color of our belief.

This is a subtle game. That is why we say many things against anger yet cannot be free of it. We cannot be free because we do not know it. How can you be free of what you do not know?

So I say to you: you think you know anger; you don’t. You only know what you’ve heard about anger, what you’ve been told to recognize. You have not known anger in its direct, naked state—free of notions. That knowing is essential.

First, drop all preconceived ideas about the mind’s tendencies. Enter your own mind as if you were going into an unknown world—where you know nothing, where everything is unfamiliar, unknown. We do not know a single thing—what is inside the mind, what is not. We are only going to look, to become acquainted. Then anger will be seen like a flower blooming on a roadside tree—or thorns on another. As you enter the mind’s path, anger will appear, hatred will appear, greed will appear.

And now you will meet them directly. This time there will be no ideas in between. What scripture says is of no use. What saints say is of no use. Anger is in me; why should I not see it myself? Why borrow from saints? Yet our heads are full of borrowings. We have nothing of our own; even the knowledge of what is within us is not our own—we go and ask someone else.

Ramakrishna once said—he suddenly burst into laughter in front of a gathering—“I had such fun today. A man came to see me. The house next to his had caught fire in the night. I asked him, ‘I hear your neighbor’s house burned?’ He said, ‘No. I read the newspaper; there was no such news.’” Even a neighbor’s house on fire he wouldn’t see himself—he would borrow the sight from the newspaper!

A neighbor’s house is still at some distance; but what is within us—our anger, love, hatred—even for that we go and ask others, “What is anger like? What is love like? What is hatred like?” We ask the scriptures! They are old newspapers, thousands of years old. That man at least looked at a fresh newspaper. We look into something even older—and the older the scripture, the more “reliable” we call it. We try to examine what is inside us by reading the oldest possible news! Are we all second-hand people? Nothing original? Do we need to ask another even about what is within us? That is what has happened. Humanity has become second-hand; no one is original. Only when one becomes original does revolution happen in life—because then one knows things as they are.

We have learned words. We say, “Anger is bad.” We don’t know anger; we don’t even know what “bad” means. We have memorized words, like parrots, and we live on those words. If someone gave pleasant words to anger, we might stop calling it bad. People say, “Some angers are good.” Then anger ceases to be bad. “Righteous anger” is also praised. But how can anger be righteous? Can poison be righteous? Can hell be righteous? Yet there are “holy wars,” “righteous angers,” “holy violence.” We just change the label and then proceed.

In 1952, in the Himalayan foothills, the nilgai—a wild antelope whose name literally means “blue cow”—was damaging crops. The matter reached Parliament: what to do? People said, “It’s a ‘cow’; we cannot shoot it.” It isn’t a cow at all, but the word gai—cow—is in its name, so there would be religious riots. A clever member suggested, “First rename it neelghoda—‘blue horse.’” Parliament did so. Then they shot the “blue horse,” and no Shankaracharya raised a protest that “our cow” had been killed. The poor animal remained what it was; only the label changed. But shooting a “blue horse” does no harm to Hinduism! Shoot a “blue cow,” and there’s trouble.

Do you see? We live by words and labels. Change the name, and the whole matter is settled.

“Anger”—just a name we learned. “Violence”—a name. “Greed”—a name. And with each name there are millennia of propaganda. Our minds live only by propaganda. And perhaps you don’t know: with propaganda, anything begins to feel like truth. Whatever is repeated starts to look true—and when it looks true, seeing what is truly there becomes difficult. To see anger, to know it, to recognize it, one must be free of propaganda.

Because of conditioning—“it is sin, it is bad”—we keep repeating the slogans. Then, as soon as anger arises, we do not know anger; it seizes us. It rides us. We suffer; we make others suffer. When the anger passes, the parroted lines return and say, “Anger is bad; one should not be angry. I have sinned.” We take vows and repent: “Never again!” But we do not realize we have no acquaintance with what we are vowing against. When it returns, we are defeated—how can you win against what you don’t even recognize? So every day a man decides, “No more anger,” and every day he gets angry. He vows harder, swears oaths before God, takes pledges before monks—and still the same thing happens.

No—these vows and pledges are worthless. They achieve nothing. The real question is: do you know that which you want to change?

First: drop all notions. Who says anger is bad? Who says greed is bad? Who says sex is bad? We don’t know. They exist within us—we will know for ourselves. Why ask another? Enter within with an impartial mind. But don’t think…

People come to me and say, “We tried your method, yet we haven’t been freed!” I ask, “Why do you want to be freed?” In the wish to be free, the old belief is already sitting there that anger is bad. I say: know, and freedom will happen. If you go to know in order to be free, then the decision is already present that it is bad and must be dropped; then freedom will not happen.

They say, “We accept what you say—but when will we be free?” Then you haven’t understood. Your talk of freedom is borrowed: “Anger is bad, therefore I must be free.” If you understood me, you would say, “Fine. If this way leads to freedom, I’ll try it—but will I be free?” You say, “We are willing to drop our notions, but will we be free?” What kind of dropping is that? If you drop the notion, the question of freedom is finished. We go to know what is—and what comes out of knowing, comes. Knowing brings freedom. But you cannot know for the sake of being free. If “freedom” is the aim, you will not be able to know—because how will you have the patience and simplicity to be with that which you are in a hurry to get rid of?

If a man comes to your home and you want him to leave quickly, do you ever notice? You pretend to listen, “Yes, yes, of course,” but inside something keeps saying, “When will he go?” Outwardly you nod; inwardly, a wall stands because you can’t bear him. How will you know him then?

You must know anger, sex, violence. Where does “freedom” come in? If they turn out to be good, why would you be free of them? We do not yet know—so do not decide in advance what is good or bad. One who decides what is good and bad based on someone else’s experience can never be free of “bad,” because his criterion is borrowed—and bias prevents self-knowledge. He enters a vicious circle that can waste a lifetime and lead nowhere.

Know—and freedom comes. That is secondary; it needs no worrying.

So drop all notions. About anger, do not say “It is bad,” do not say “It is good,” do not say “I know.” Say only, “I do not know; I want to know.” With that simplicity—“I don’t know, and I want to know.” If your mind is ready, you will know anger. And the moment you truly know it, you are free of it. After knowing, not a single moment of bondage remains.

It is like sitting inside a house and saying, “I want to get out the door.” I say, “Open your eyes and look carefully. Find the door; you will see it—then step out.” If he says, “All right, even if I see the door, how will I get out? I see the door but still keep bumping into the wall!” Then I say, “That door must be something you heard about, not something you see—otherwise why are you colliding with the wall? You must have only heard there is a door; you have grabbed a second-hand fact, so you keep crashing. One who sees the door doesn’t ask how to get out. Seeing and stepping through happen together.”

So first: direct knowledge of the inner facts—not borrowed knowledge.

Therefore when anger arises—what do you do now? If I get angry at you, what will you do? If I insult you and abuse you, anger will arise in you. What do you do then? What have you done until now? In your anger you will forget yourself and think about me: “Why did he say that? He is bad. How do I take revenge?” When you are full of anger, all your attention goes to me. Anger is inside you, but attention is on me. You remain deprived of knowing anger because your attention rests on the provoker while the fire burns in you.

Next time anger arises, drop all concern with the person who provoked it. Go inside, shut the door, and look within. Sit down and take attention exactly where the anger is. Our attention is on the one who provoked anger; it is not on the one in whom anger has arisen. Hence we never come to know anger. The fire burns here inside, and our eyes are fixed out there on the person. We’re planning what to do, how to retaliate. All the mind is there, while here the house burns. How will you know in such a state?

A young man is playing hockey. He injures his foot; blood is flowing. He doesn’t know it while he’s playing; his attention is on the game. When the game stops, he notices: “Oh! My foot is injured—how long has it been bleeding?” We become aware only where there is attention. Awareness means: attention is there.

When you get angry, where is your attention? On anger? If it is on anger, you will know it. But it is not on anger; it is on the cause—on the person who triggered it. Our eyes are stuck on that person. He may not even be here—he might be sitting in London—but our anger clings to him.

A man in London writes you an abusive letter. You tear it up and throw it away; your attention flies to that man. And the one sitting inside who is burning with anger, roasting in the flames—there is no attention there. Where attention is, there is knowing. Where there is no attention, how can there be knowing?

You will say, “I’ve been angry many times; do I not know anger?” You only know the memory of anger—the anger that has passed. You have never known anger in the present. You have memories of past anger and resolutions for future anger, but no acquaintance with anger in the present. The memory of past anger—that it happened. Plans for the future—“I will not be angry.” But no direct experience of present anger. If you witness anger in the present, you need neither memory of the past nor plans for the future. The one who knows anger in the present is like a man in a burning house who instantly leaps outside—he sees, “I’m the one setting fire to my own house.”

Buddha said, “When I understood, I found people astonishing: the one who gets angry at another’s mistake is a wonder!” Why? “Because the other makes the mistake, and he punishes himself. I abuse you, and you get angry—who suffers the punishment? You do. I hurled the insult.”

We burn in anger, we become ashes—but our attention is not there. Gradually the whole life turns to ash. And we remain under the illusion we “know.” We do not know—there is only memory of anger and scriptural quotations; there is no personal experience.

So when I say, “Know!”—then when anger arises, thank the person who sparked it. He has given you a chance for self-observation—an opportunity to know the fire within. Thank him: “Friend, thank you. Now I will go, pay attention to this, and then return to talk.” Close the door and look: Who has arisen within? What is arising? How are the hands and feet tensing? Let them tense; they will. In anger, fists may strike the air in the dark—let them. Close the door and see what happens. Witness your entire madness and let it reveal itself in front of you. Then for the first time you will experience what anger is. Had you done this in public, you would have strangled someone’s neck, thrown a stone, shouted nonsense, your eyes would rain blood—let all this happen now, behind a closed door—but watch. When the whole fire and the whole madness possesses you, you will tremble inside: “So this is anger. I have done this so many times—what must others have thought!”

Psychologists say anger is madness in brief—temporary insanity. For a moment, you are in the same condition that some are in permanently. There is no fundamental difference between a man burning with anger and a madman—only a difference of duration. The madman is permanently mad; the angry man is temporarily mad.

Have you ever seen yourself like this? Others have seen you in anger—that’s why they say, “Poor fellow—how mad he becomes!” Have you ever seen yourself? Then do it: close the door and watch your whole state. Don’t restrain it; let the whole thing show itself. Observe it completely. Only then, for the first time, will you become acquainted: this is anger.

Don’t worry about what others will say—“What if my wife hears?” She has seen your madness many times. You know hers, too. Your children know you, and you know them. Don’t bother about anyone. Tell them plainly, “I am observing my anger. Sometimes I go mad—I want to know it. There may be loud sounds, abuses, fists pounding walls.” Let it be. Once—just once—see the full naked state of anger. After that, it will not happen again. When you become fully familiar—“This is its state!”—set up a mirror as well and watch what your face does. “What is happening?”

If once you see the entire nakedness of the inner cyclone, the whole vortex of anger, then for the first time you will know what it is. After that, there will be no need to swear, “I won’t be angry.” Then someone could come and say, “I’ll transfer my whole property to your name—just go mad for one minute.” Or offer you the whole world—you will say, “Forgive me. I have known what anger is.”

The one who has known is free. And what I say for anger is true for everything—whether greed, sex, anything at all.

Whatever holds us in life must be known; its transformation comes only through knowing. Once truly known, it does not recur.

But we have never known in this way. From childhood we have only suppressed. If a little child gets angry, we say, “Shhh!” Parents signal with their eyes—“Not now! Guests are here.” The child swallows it. From childhood we swallow anger; it enters our nerves, spreads everywhere. Then the whole life is spent swallowing it, never letting it manifest.

If I had my way, I would tell you: don’t stop children. When a child is filled with anger, bring a mirror in front of him and say, “Shout loudly—and watch what state you’re in. See what has happened to you.” We will all sit and observe, too—because your observation may benefit us as well. Don’t stop him!

All our education is wrong. The whole science of making a human being is wrong—and so the wrong kind of human emerges. If from childhood the child got a full glimpse of his anger, by youth he would be beyond it. He would be beyond anger just as he is beyond filth. He doesn’t wear dirty clothes—but he wears a dirty soul! How is that possible? It is possible only because we never let him recognize what the soul’s ugliness is. It never came before him; he never saw it. Only suppression happened. Suppressed, it went within. A painted smile sits on top; inside, anger burns. It keeps burning; it grows and grows—until it engulfs his very life.

Today, everyone is a volcano barely held together. Inside, countless things are burning and pressuring: “Do this! Do that!” Notice your mind as you walk down the street—how many acts do you feel like doing! Sitting at home—how many impulses! How many times have you not killed someone in your imagination! How many times, at the slightest thing, you have cut off someone’s head—outwardly you didn’t, else you wouldn’t be here. Inwardly, you did. How many times have you thought of poisoning someone! Whether you did it or thought it—the difference is only weakness. You didn’t act because you are weak, timid, afraid of the law. When you could act, you did—fully. How many times have you committed suicide within!

Psychologists say it is hard to find a person who has not contemplated ending his life two or four times. Hard to find one who hasn’t thought ten or twenty times: “Finish it all.” Hard to find a son who hasn’t imagined doing away with his father; a husband who hasn’t strangled his wife many times in his mind. All this is going on inside. No one tells it outside—that is how society holds together.

If everyone revealed their inner secrets, we would see what the world really looks like. If five people decided, “We will tell the exact truth of what is within us,” you would know the real condition of the world. Twenty-five times a day they would come and say, “Just now I stabbed you in the neck.” We are all doing it inside!

I have heard this: near Niagara Falls there is a rock reputed for this legend—whatever wish you make standing on it, it comes true. Many go there to wish. A husband and wife stood there with closed eyes, making their experiments. Suddenly the wife felt dizzy and fell from the rock into Niagara! The husband said, “Oh God! Wishes do come true, it seems.” He had been standing there wishing that his wife might grow dizzy and fall into the falls.

This is all in us; we sit hiding it, perched atop a volcano. Then we go asking, “How to meditate? How to realize God?” We do not look beneath to see that we are sitting on a volcano whose crust is trembling. Steam is pushing up from below—and we ask, “How to meditate? How to find peace? What is the path to liberation?”

First settle accounts with this volcano. First know and understand what we are. That is our reality. We have nothing to do with God or truth. This burning fire—this personality of ours—is the real issue. We have never seen it, and so the volcano has grown. Without seeing, we kept suppressing. It has piled up. There is only one way to be free—through knowing, through truth. See what is, in its completeness.

A very learned man came to me—“learned” through books, as learned people usually are. He has great fame; thousands revere him. Nothing harms a person as much as fame and followers—because thousands of the unwise can convince anyone that he is wise. Now in old age he has come a little closer—and fear arises, because all his wisdom is from books and talk. He asked me, “What should I do? How can I be peaceful? How to meditate?”

I told him, “First do one thing. Go into solitude for a month and undergo catharsis. For a month, if you feel like shouting, shout; if you feel like dancing, dance; if you feel like abusing, abuse; if you feel like throwing stones, throw stones. For a month, drop all control. Let whatever happens, happen. Then come back.”

He said, “Then I won’t return.” “Why?” “I will go mad. Because all that you speak of is within me. If I release it, how will it stop? It will not stop. I am afraid. Tell me a trick to become peaceful!”

There is no trick to become peaceful. There are only tricks to be unpeaceful. If you understand the tricks of unpeace, you become peaceful. Nothing else needs to be done to be peaceful. We are experts in the methods of unrest; their weight has accumulated. And we are “knowledgeable” too—we know anger is bad, sex is bad, greed is bad. We know many good things—and that very “knowing” builds the road to hell.

No—we do not truly know. So I say: experiment and see. If anger arises, move in the direction of anger consciously; if greed, then toward greed; if sex, then toward sex—make a full experiment with total awareness. Expose the whole situation; lay bare its nakedness and see. And the day you have seen, from head to toe—from body to mind to the very fibers of your being—everything that is hidden, in its complete nakedness, from that day it will not recur. It will not be found again.

The one who has known is free. If you are not free, know that you have not known.

There are two or three reasons. One is simply this: every morning Lakshmana touched Sita’s feet. It’s straightforward; there’s no great complication in it. If he touched her feet day after day, those foot ornaments would have been what he saw day after day. He would recognize them. His eyes never went to her other jewelry. The reason is not that he was a celibate. The real reason is only this: when a woman is beautiful, one’s eyes do not go to her ornaments. Only when a woman is plain do the eyes go to her ornaments. And it is the plain woman who has a taste for jewelry; a beautiful woman usually does not. Jewelry compensates for a lack of beauty.

A woman as beautiful as Sita hardly ever appears in the world. In that age the two most astonishing men, Rama and Ravana, loved her. To find a woman more glorified, more beautiful than that would be very difficult. And if, beholding Sita’s face, someone should notice the necklace around her neck—he must be a jeweler, not Lakshmana. Looking at a woman as wondrous as Sita, could anyone be seeing her ornaments?

They would not have been seen. And the reason is not that someone is a celibate—or is not. Lakshmana was a celibate. But celibacy is not so frightened, so craven, so emasculated that it would be afraid to look at a face. Such celibacy would be utterly false. He must have looked at Sita’s face many times; but noticing the ornaments—this is like walking on the road: apart from a cobbler, no one looks at your shoes. If you imagine others are deeply impressed by your shoes, you are mistaken. No one but cobblers will be impressed.

Shoes are what a cobbler sees. In truth a cobbler doesn’t look at faces at all; he looks only at shoes. He looks at shoes day and night out on the roads and even recognizes people by their shoes. Everyone has his own measure. A cobbler, by looking at a shoe, recognizes whether the man is a minister, whether he has lost or won! The shoe tells it all! The condition of the shoe tells whether there’s anything in the man’s pocket or not. The shoe tells whether he walks the road or flies in an airplane. The shoe tells whose shoe it is and what the man must be like! A cobbler looks at shoes and recognizes the man! But apart from cobblers no one looks at shoes—so don’t imagine cobblers are great celibates who, being so virtuous, look only at shoes and not at faces.

Lakshmana remembered the foot ornament only because he must have placed his head at those feet every day. Day after day, continually, those ornaments came before his eyes; they were in his mind. And with a woman as beautiful as Sita, no one would remember her jewelry—not only Lakshmana, no one at all. For that very reason, even Rama did not remember them. Rama was not a celibate. Why did he not remember? He must have looked at Sita’s face—but he too did not remember the ornaments.

The truth is, where there is the beauty of the face, who goes to look at the beauty of ornaments? As the world becomes more beautiful, ornaments will be discarded. Jewelry is a sign of ugliness. One adorns oneself only when one knows, senses, that something is lacking somewhere; otherwise one does not adorn oneself, one simply stands as one is.

People like Mahavira were supremely beautiful; therefore they stood naked. Then even clothes were not needed. Do not think it was merely because they were renouncers and ascetics. A body as beautiful as Mahavira’s has scarcely existed in the world. To put clothes on so beautiful a form is foolishness. To cover so beautiful a body with cloth is a mistake.

We cover a body with clothes so that its ugliness may be hidden, and only those parts remain visible that are not ugly; then an illusion of beauty is created.

Mahavira must have been an astonishingly beautiful man. He removed his clothes and stood naked. Even in that nakedness he would have been incomparable. He was so beautiful that his nakedness would not even be noticed; before such beauty, who would look at nakedness?

So I do not accept that this has anything to do with celibacy. But Vinoba-ji and people of that kind may see celibacy in it, because they think closing the eyes is celibacy; running away is celibacy; creating a distance between man and woman is celibacy. That is not celibacy. Celibacy is very alive—never so nerveless.

Celibacy is vibrant: vigorous, powerful, full of energy. Where there is celibacy there is no furtiveness, no flight.

A “celibate” who runs from a woman is very weak—no celibate at all. Lust is weak; celibacy is potent. He will not run, he will not be afraid. There is simply no question of fear there! So I do not see it that way. And there is nothing much to interpret. What I feel is just what I have said; there is nothing more to it, nothing different.

We do not understand that there is no greater welfare for others than one’s own elevation. And a person who is not elevated himself—how can he bring about another’s welfare? Yes, in the name of welfare he can certainly cause harm. Very often social workers, social reformers, so‑called revolutionaries, reformists—all of them end up doing harm, not good. For when there is no height within oneself, how can you raise another?

The truth is: when your own height develops, with that height all the surrounding winds begin to rise. When your own height develops, its rays spread in all directions and start lifting others.

If your own height matures, you need do nothing else; simply continue to cultivate your own height and you will have done so much good to the world that it is impossible to reckon it. So do not think that the sadhana I speak of will only increase your own height—then what of others’ welfare?

What is this urge in you to do others’ welfare? Hidden in the very talk of doing another’s welfare lies a very deep ego that we do not notice. What is this that you must do another’s welfare? Can you do even your own welfare? Even that is so difficult. Yet, to avoid the labor of their own welfare, many people plunge into others’ welfare! For one’s own welfare seems troublesome; it appears a hard, harsh path. Doing good to others looks very simple.

And the biggest convenience in doing others’ welfare is this: if no result comes, the other will be responsible! We were doing welfare all along. In the meantime we have become recipients of titles and honors. If the other was not benefited, the fault is his. But to do one’s own welfare is difficult; if you do not succeed, the failure is yours. Nor are honors given to those who are doing their own inner welfare. And the greater difficulty is that if you fail, the failure falls squarely upon you. Doing others’ welfare is very convenient. And note this: in doing others’ welfare, the mind’s violence gets great enjoyment. In fact, in changing others, in molding others, the mind’s violence tastes a great relish.

The mind’s violence has very strange forms. When a father says to his son, “Do exactly as I say, because this is right; in this lies your welfare,” he does not even think that what he is saying is not out of concern for welfare, nor is it out of concern for what is right. His concern is whether what he says is obeyed or not. Fundamentally his gratification lies in whether his boy obeys him or not! He will try every device to make him obey, to arrange everything so that he yields—because the pleasure that comes from fitting another into your mold is the pleasure of violence, the pleasure of erasing the other.

The pleasure gurus get in effacing their disciples has no other meaning. It means only this: we have proved another human being to be a lump of clay. We are engaged in making him. Whatever we shape, that is what he will become. So gurus put everyone in the same clothes. They line up a queue of imitation men, teach the same pretenses, and make a show of how many people they have “made.”

Who is there to make, who can make whom? Those who agree to be made are weak, frightened people. And those who set out to make others are aggressive, domineering, and dangerous people. These dangerous ones say, “We will make you!” And the frightened ones agree: “All right—we cannot make ourselves. This person says he will make us. Let him do it! We will hold his feet!”

Gurus and disciples have done more harm to the world than anyone else. For the man who agrees to be made by another has lost his soul. He has declared that he renounces the right to be a person! He is ready to become a puppet in someone else’s hands. The Divine had given him the chance to be a “you,” and instead, clutching at some guru’s feet, he sets out to become something “else,” and he has dropped the effort to be himself.

A religious person is one who is striving to be himself. All those who strive to be like someone else are irreligious. The irreligious man will create gurus, the irreligious man will become a disciple. The religious man becomes neither guru nor disciple. For the religious man says: “God has given me the chance to be myself—let me be that. Be kind, revered ones; stay a little away. I want to be exactly what God has given me the chance to be.”

No worry if I am a small flower! You say I will become a lotus—your kindness. Those who can be lotuses, let them be. I am a grass flower; I want to be a grass flower. But greed seizes us—“let me too become a lotus.” And in that greed a man loses even what he could have been. Disciples follow out of greed; gurus go ahead out of ego; beyond that there is no relationship between them.

Disciples are in greed, in the hope that the guru will shape them into this or that. The guru claims, “I will make you so.” And the guru enjoys the making, the doing of welfare!

Never make the mistake of doing anyone’s welfare—for it does not become welfare, it becomes torture. The person whose welfare you pursue is in trouble. And the great difficulty is, he cannot even protest, because you are acting in his “interest.”

If you want to torment someone thoroughly, it is no great fun to use a gun, for with a gun the person just dies; there is no full savor of torment. The full enjoyment is in making and remaking that person—keep him alive and yet do not let him live! Turn him into a dead thing yet do not let him die; just keep changing him!

No one can do anyone’s welfare—not a mother for her son, not a father for his son. Let each person do his own welfare—that is enough.

And when a person does his own welfare, when he raises his life to heights, then the lives around him suddenly, spontaneously become filled with the inspiration of those heights. This inspiration is not given; it is distributed of itself. It is like a flower blooming by the roadside; it does not shout, “Come and look at me.” Whoever passes by is touched by its fragrance. Eyes rest on the flower for a moment; for a moment a flower blooms in that person’s heart too. The passerby who stops for a while finds a flower blossoming within as well.

There is a great tree; its deep shade—one walking the road stops beneath it. The shade does not call out, “Come.” It does not say, “I will do your welfare.” The shade simply is. Someone passes and stops. As the inner tree of the soul grows, an unknown shade begins to spread around it; wayfarers stop beneath it and move on. The wayfarer does not thank the shade or the tree—“thank you.” Nor does the tree say, “Look, as you go, pay the fee.” The matter is finished. The tree rejoices that someone rested beneath it. That too is a great good fortune.

As the inner tree grows—the soul’s tree—its branches and blossoms appear, and many people rest beneath it. But he does not become a guru; he expects no thanks that someone will come and bow. He is the one who feels grateful.

Understand this well: that person feels grateful that you were kind enough to rest near him for a few moments. Who stops by whom, and when? You gave him the chance to know that his shade served; so, thank you.

When the soul of a person rises high, he does not demand thanks from those who paused under him. Rather, he thanks them, because they gave him the occasion. They gave him joy; they blessed him by lingering near.

The higher one’s own height grows, the more its unintended consequences begin to appear—but they are not planned; they happen of themselves.

If you happen upon someone along the way in whose being the veena of love is playing, even if he says nothing, something within you will begin to stir and shift.

In America there was an unusual man. He experimented with how feelings are communicated without words. An actor came to meet him. He said to the actor, “Feelings are conveyed even without speech.” The actor said, “Without speaking it’s very difficult. How? If I must express anger, I will have to clench my fist, tighten my eyes, hurl an abuse. Some words will have to be spoken, something done!”

But he said, “No—keep your eyes closed, do not clench your hands, do not speak; only fill yourself within with anger, and still the rays of anger will reach next door.”

The actor said, “I cannot believe it.”

Just then the phone rang and the man went into his office. The actor was left alone. For half an hour he was on an important call. After half an hour he returned—and suddenly stopped, startled!

He said to the actor, “It seems you have become angry with me—what is the matter? I did not say anything to you.”

The actor said, “No, I did not become angry, but for half an hour I was experimenting—being angry at you. And what you say seems true. The whole room felt filled with anger. Waves of anger—as if a stone were thrown into water, ripples rise and spread far and wide! Here we hurl a stone and for miles the ripples will travel!”

Such is the sky of the mind. There is also such a world of our minds. And that world of the mind is connected; it is collective. It is spread out. When one person throws a heavy stone of anger into it, its rays, its winds spread in all directions. And then, all who are receptive to anger, sensitive to it—the rays of anger reach their minds too. Their inner anger begins to stir and tremble.

If there is someone filled with love, love‑events begin to happen around him. If someone becomes perfectly peaceful, rays of peace begin to spread around him.

But this happens incidentally. It is happening even now, all the time. When you are restless, it is happening then too. Try this as an experiment: if you are very restless, take twenty‑four hours and grow more and more restless within—yet say nothing to anyone; do not outwardly express it. And in twenty‑four hours you will experience that whoever comes near you becomes restless.

Try the opposite too. For twenty‑four hours become so peaceful that it is as if there is no disturbance in life; let all tensions drop. Live those twenty‑four hours as if there is no worry, no sorrow, no pain; no unrest. Remain filled with peace; say nothing; become a heap of peace. And you will be amazed to learn that whoever came to you in those twenty‑four hours expressed peace!

But we have no clear awareness of this, because we have no experience of any dimension of the inner world. We do not know that everything we think, everything we do, every feeling we entertain within, has effects spreading all around.

When someone rises to an inner height, he begins to generate such waves as become causes for lifting others.

So if you rise through sadhana, do not worry about what will become of others’ welfare from it. Beyond this, we can never produce any other breeze for welfare.

Do not do another’s welfare; realize your own benediction.

With that ripened benediction, the opportunity for others’ well‑being arises.

Even that you do not do—it arises. It is not in your control; it arises of itself. If in this world everyone sets out to do others’ welfare—as they are doing nowadays—the whole world is running welfare programs. Each person is doing another’s welfare. One nation is doing another nation’s welfare. One race is doing another race’s welfare. The “civilized” are doing the welfare of tribals. The upper castes are doing the welfare of the lower castes. Men are doing women’s welfare. All are engaged in welfare. And look at the state of the world! Welfare increases, yet there is no sign of welfare! No—this way nothing will happen. The path is exactly the opposite.

Each person must engage in his own welfare; and as a result of engaging in that, in his personality, in his mind, in his consciousness, in his body, in his actions, all that will begin to manifest which creates the occasion for welfare. It happens spontaneously; one does not even notice it.

If someone goes out to do another’s welfare, understand that he is a dangerous person. He is looking for some way to torment someone. Welfare comes from those who do not even know it.

There was a fakir; wondrous happenings occurred in his consciousness. He reached that realm where a fortunate few arrive—where there is nectar, where there is light. When he arrived there, the story says, the gods told him, “We are delighted; we want to grant you a boon.”

The fakir said, “But what should I ask for now? My asking itself has vanished. That has been found on attaining which no asking remains. Thank you! But I ask for nothing—your kindness that you offer me to ask.” Yet the gods persisted.

The gods chase only those who say, “We do not want!” Those who say, “We want,” are not pursued even by ghosts and goblins!

He said, “I do not need anything, for what I needed is now given.”

But the gods said, “No, it would be an insult to us. People come to ask of us and we do not give; now we ourselves have come to give.”

The fakir said, “If it will be an insult, then give whatever you wish. I will accept it.”

The gods said, “Shall we grant you the power to do others’ welfare?”

The fakir said, “Forgive me! I know very well the people who set out to do others’ welfare. They have done much harm in the world. This work will not be possible for me.”

The gods said, “No, this will be possible for you, because you have come to that place where others’ welfare can happen.”

The fakir said, “That may be so, but I do not see any ‘other’ at all—whose welfare shall I go to do? No, this task is very arduous, difficult. Do not make me do it.”

So the gods said, “Then we will arrange it thus: wherever you pass, upon whomever your shadow falls, their welfare will be done.”

He said, “That is all right—but be careful that since the shadow follows behind me, I should not come to know whose welfare has happened. If I come to know, it could harm me; ego might arise—‘Look what I have done!’ So let the shadow do it, but let it remain unknown to me. Let it happen.”

Then wherever that fakir passed, the story says, if there were withered flowers his shadow fell upon them and they bloomed. Plants drooping by the road turned green. If his shadow fell on the sick, they became healthy. The blind received sight, the deaf received hearing—wherever his shadow fell. But the fakir never knew, because nothing ever “happened” from him. It was done by the shadow behind. It was happening from the shadow behind.

Whether the story is literal, I do not know. But in this world, whatever welfare has happened through anyone has always happened through their shadow; it does not happen from them. And all those who proclaim, “We do welfare,” these are the people who cause harm. No good comes from them.

Therefore rise high—go into those depths, those heights where the light of the Lord is. Journey to those peaks where that sun is—unseen by us who dwell in valleys and darkness. And the day that light fills you within, you too will become a small lamp.

And rays will begin to spread from that lamp, inspiring many extinguished lamps to be lit. They will strew flowers upon many people’s paths. Many who had wandered off the way will begin to turn toward the temple. Many people’s souls will grow thirsty for God. In many lives, sorrow and pain will thin away; in many lives the gate of the kingdom of peace will open. But it will happen through your shadow; you will not even know.

Since the day “conscious service” began in the world, much ill has been done. It has become necessary to restore that unconscious service which happens naturally, of which no one takes any notice.

A few questions remain; we will speak of them tomorrow night.

For now, we will sit for the night’s meditation.

So sit a little apart from one another. Quickly take your place. Sit in your place—anywhere.

Let the body be loose. Close your eyes. Then the lights will be put out; there will be dense darkness. In that darkness become utterly absorbed—as if we too have become one, one with the night.

For a little while I will suggest; as your body becomes relaxed, keep letting it relax. Then as the breath relaxes, let the breath become slow. Then the mind becomes quiet—let the mind be quiet. For ten minutes we will remain one with the night.

Crickets will keep calling, some bird may sound, winds will move, leaves will rustle—just silently know them. Only the knower will remain. And as the sense of knowing deepens, the mind becomes more and more quiet. Ultimately, in pure knowing the mind becomes empty. That very emptiness is the door. That is the open door—through which one enters those heights of which we have spoken.

Let the body be loose. Close your eyes. Close your eyes; let the body be loose.

Now I will suggest—experience with me. The body is becoming relaxed… the body is becoming relaxed… keep letting the body go. As I say, “The body is becoming relaxed,” feel that the entire body is relaxing. The body is becoming relaxed… the body is becoming relaxed… let go completely, as if there were no life left in the body. If the body bends, let it bend; if it falls, let it fall. Let go utterly, as if we have no power over the body; the body is a part of nature, it is not ours. Let go… the body is becoming relaxed… the body is becoming relaxed… the body is becoming relaxed… let go… let go… the body is becoming relaxed… the body is becoming relaxed… the body has become relaxed…

Let the breath go too; the breath is relaxing. The breath is relaxing… the breath is slowly, slowly relaxing… the breath is relaxing… the breath is relaxing… let go… the breath too has relaxed…

The mind is becoming quiet… the mind is becoming quiet… the mind is becoming quiet… the mind is becoming quiet… the mind is becoming quiet… the mind is becoming utterly quiet… the mind is becoming quiet… let go… let the mind go too… now become one with this dark night. Become one with the trees, with the darkness, with the sky.

Let yourself go, as a drop dissolves into the ocean. For ten minutes now, disappear completely—as if you are not.

The breath will go on, the heartbeat will go on; some bird will call, some sound will be—keep listening silently. As sounds echo in emptiness, we are only listening, only knowing—just the seer, the witness. For ten minutes become a witness. As witnessing deepens, the mind keeps becoming more quiet. And slowly that door will open which leads upward from the mind—beyond mind.

Now for ten minutes I will be silent. You let go completely.

Let go… let go completely… let go completely… disappear… let go of the body… let go of yourself… become one with the night… let go… let go… let go… let go completely, as if you are not.

Let go… let go completely… disappear, as if you are not.

Let go completely, as if you are not. Disappear… let go completely… let go… let go… become one with the darkness, one with the night; disappear… let go completely… let go, as if you are not.

Let go… let go… disappear completely, as if you are not. Become one with the night. These crickets are speaking within us. These sounds are also within us. We are not separate. Become utterly one; disappear… let go… the outside and the inside are not two. The outside is also inside; the inside is also outside. All is one. Let go… disappear… let go completely, as if you are not.

Now slowly take two or four deep breaths… with each breath you will feel a deep peace. Slowly take two or four deep breaths… with each breath you will feel great peace. Everything has become quiet. Outside all is quiet. Inside all is quiet. All is silence, all emptiness.

Slowly take two or four deep breaths… then, just as slowly, open your eyes… see, all is quiet—outside and inside. Slowly open your eyes and sit looking into the darkness for two minutes… see how peaceful everything is outside! Open your eyes, look outside—outside and inside are one.

(Turn on the lights.)