Neti Neti Satya Ki Khoj #3

Because even through my speaking the truth will not be found. From my speaking the truth will not be obtained—this should be understood well. From anyone’s speaking, truth cannot be found. If a thorn has lodged in your foot, you can remove the embedded thorn with another thorn. But once it is removed, both thorns are equally useless and ready to be thrown away.

What I am saying cannot give you truth. But the other words you have been clutching, which you have taken to be truth—those thorns can be drawn out by the thorn of my speaking. Once they are out, both thorns are equally useless and fit to be thrown away.

You will not get truth from my words, because no one’s words can give truth. But words can rob you of words. And if words fall away, if the mind becomes empty, if words have no more hold on the mind, no more clinging—then the mind, of itself, becomes available to truth.

Truth is nowhere outside. It is with each one, near, within oneself.

Once the mind stops looking outward, attaining truth is not difficult.

And so long as one looks toward gurus, one is looking outward. So long as one looks toward scriptures, one is looking outward. So long as one sits clutching the words of others, that which is found only in the wordless and in silence cannot be attained. Those who have known truth have made many kinds of efforts so that truth might be revealed to you, but till today it has not been possible.

I have heard: a great poet went to the seashore. Early in the morning he arrived at the sea… Sunlight was showering from the sky, cool breezes were playing with the waves. In the light dancing upon the waves, he too began to dance on the sandy shore. It was solitary, a beautiful morning. He remembered his beloved, who lay ill in the hospital. And he thought: if only, on this beautiful morning, she too could be here. He was a poet; tears began to flow from his eyes. Then he thought: why not bring a beautiful box and, filling it with a small fragment of this morning, send it to my beloved?

He went to the market, brought a beautiful box, and returning to the seashore, opened it with great love. He shut inside the sunrays, the breeze, that small lovely form of morning, locked it, wrote a letter, and sent the box, balanced on a man’s head, to his beloved.

In the letter he wrote: I send you a small slice of morning—the sunrays, the breezes dancing upon the sea, a little fragment, a drop of this beautiful morning. If you cannot come to the shore—if you are ill—then I send you a remembrance of the seashore. You will dance when you open this box and see.

The beloved was very surprised: how can pieces of the morning be packed into a box and sent! The letter arrived, the box arrived. She opened it. Inside there was nothing—neither sunrays, nor cool breezes, nor morning; there was pitch darkness. There was nothing in that box.

What appears at the seashore cannot be packed into boxes and sent. And what is experienced at the shore of the Divine, on the ocean of Truth—there is even less a way to pack it into the boxes of words and send it. Words arrive bare and empty. That which was known at the shore remains behind.

Those who reach the shore of truth—this pain, this thirst must seize their hearts: that the loved ones left behind might be told the news; that those limping, wandering on the road might be told the news; that those who could not come this far might at least hear a little news. They pack words into boxes and send them to us. The Gita, the Quran, the Bible—books arrive, words arrive, the boxes arrive; but what they had sent remains there—it does not come. Their compassion is revealed, but words to this day have not been able to say anything.

Words will never be able to. If that beloved were to set the box upon her head and start dancing, we would say, “She is mad.” But if, seeing the box, she understands that an attempt was made to send something which could not reach; if she kicks the box away and runs toward the ocean, then one day she will arrive—at that very shore where sunrays dance, where cool morning breezes blow, where the waves of the sea are in dance. But this can happen only when she kicks the box away and runs toward the place from which someone tried to bring it in a box—but could not. Only then can that beloved reach the seashore.

Those who throw away the scriptures and run in the direction from which the scriptures come—they arrive at the shore where truth’s edge is, where truth’s ocean is.

But we are like those mad ones who continue to dance with the Gita on their heads and never reach the shore from which Krishna sent the news. We sit with the Bible on our heads, on our chests, and never reach the shore from which Christ sent the news.

And Christ and Krishna and Mahavira and Buddha—wherever they may be—must be beating their heads and weeping to see us: to these madmen we had sent word, “Come to the seashore.” They are sitting with our message itself! And if it were in their power, they would return and snatch the books from us. But if even Krishna were to come and start snatching away the Gita, we would seize Krishna by the neck: “You would snatch the Gita from us? If the Gita is taken away, what will remain with us?” Such a thing has happened.

Dostoevsky wrote a book in Russia: The Brothers Karamazov. In that astonishing book he wrote that eighteen hundred years later Jesus Christ thought: Eighteen hundred years ago I went to the earth, but then not a single person believed me; my enemies crucified me. Now I should go to the earth. Now half the earth believes in me. Now in every village there are churches, my priests; my clergy hang the cross around their necks. My preaching is everywhere; everywhere is my name. What place is there where there is no temple to Jesus? And millions of monks go about the earth preaching in Jesus’ name. So Jesus thought: now I should go. Now the time has ripened. Now I will be welcomed.

And one Sunday morning Jesus descended into a village near Jerusalem and stood beneath a shrub. People were returning from church after the morning prayer. Seeing him standing there, they were greatly surprised. They said: Who is this man, dressed up in this getup? Who is this man who has made himself exactly like Jesus Christ? Some actor, some stage player, it seems. They gathered around and began to mock. They said to Jesus: Friend, you are perfect; you look exactly as though you were Jesus Christ.

Jesus said: I haven’t just made myself so—I am that one!

People began to laugh. Someone threw a stone, someone a shoe, and said: You are quite mad! Run away—our priest is coming, and if he sees you, you will get into trouble.

Jesus said: Your priest or my priest? You have not recognized me; I am the very one to whom you pray every morning.

They laughed all the more. They said: Your worship will be done properly—now run away.

But Jesus said: It doesn’t matter if people do not recognize me; my priest will recognize me—the one who sings my songs morning and evening. The priest came. People were mocking Jesus, but they were bowing and touching the priest’s feet.

Such is how it is in this world. God may come and people will mock him, and they will bow down to the priests who do business in God’s worship. People touched the priest’s feet.

Jesus said: How strange! How amazing! You touch the feet of the one who sings my songs, and you do not even look toward me!

People said: Quiet! If you speak like this before the priest, we will feel very insulted.

The priest lifted his head and looked and said: Who is this wicked man standing here? Take him away!

Jesus said: You too do not recognize me? You are wearing my cross around your neck. But how would Jesus know that the cross on which he was hung was of wood, and the priest wears a cross of gold about his neck. Are there gold crosses in this world? A cross is something upon which a man is hung; is it something to hang around the neck?

The priest said: This man seems to be some devil. Our Jesus came once already; there is no need for him to come again. We are doing his work very well.

Jesus was seized and locked in a cell of the church.

Jesus was very astonished. The same thing has begun again that happened eighteen hundred years ago! Will I be crucified again?

At midnight the priest came, opened the door, fell at Jesus’ feet, and said: Great sir, I recognized you. But in the marketplace we can never recognize you. There is no need for you now. The shop is running very well. We have set up the business nicely. You are the old disturber. You are the old troublemaker. If you come, you will upset everything again. We barely manage to set it all up, and you keep returning again and again. There is no need for you to come. In the marketplace we cannot recognize you. In private, we always recognize you. There is no need for you. And if you make trouble, forgive us—we will have to do the same as was done eighteen hundred years ago.

With Krishna it will be the same, with Mahavira the same. And with Mahavira, the Jains will do this; with Krishna, the Hindus; with Mohammed, the Muslims. The ones whose books we clutch have no idea that all of them want to snatch the books away from us. And those whose words we are clutching—each one of them has said: Do not stop by holding onto words. Because I am found where all words are lost.

In the wordless, in silence—where all thoughts are lost—there is the attainment of truth.

Even through my words it will not happen. It never happens through anyone’s words.

Then why am I speaking?

Only to snatch words away from you. I am not speaking to give you words; I am speaking to take words from you—just as with a thorn one removes a thorn, and then both thorns are useless. If I can draw out, with my words, the words lodged in your mind, the matter is finished. You are freed from those words and from my words as well. And that mind which is empty of words—only that empty mind can journey to God, can journey to truth. It is a great sorrow, a misfortune, that those who come to free us—we latch onto them.

Buddha had said to his monks: Do not make any statue of me. Today there are more statues of Buddha on earth than of any other person. In Urdu the word but (idol) is a distorted form of Buddha. Buddha came to mean “idol.” So many statues were made of Buddha that Buddha came to mean a statue itself. In some temples there are ten thousand statues of Buddha. In China there is a temple—the Temple of Ten Thousand Buddhas. And Buddha had said: Do not worship me.

We are very strange people. Whoever says to us, “Do not hold onto me,” we clutch even more tightly: “What a dear person—let him not escape, let him not slip away.” This habit of ours—clutching words, clutching persons—has enslaved us. And if the old figures slip away, we produce new ones. But we do not let go. If Mahavira and Buddha slip a little, if Krishna and Ram drift a little distant, we will bring forth Gandhi and clutch him! But we need someone or other to hold onto. We do not want to stand on our own feet. And I say: only the person who, leaving all, holds onto himself and stands firm, deserves to call himself a man.

Whoever leaves all can hold himself.

And remember: the one who clutches others has no trust in himself. Only the one who lacks reverence for himself clutches others. The weaker he finds himself, the more he wants to clutch others to feel strong. The irreverence toward oneself becomes reverence toward others.

The person who is reverent toward himself clutches no one.

And the amusing thing is: the person who cannot even hold onto himself—can he hold onto anyone else? The one who has no mastery over himself—how will he bring others under his control? The one who has no clue of himself—if he sits clutching the marks made in the dust by the feet of Mahavira and Buddha—what will he gain?

Reverence for oneself is religion; reverence for others is not religion. And whoever reveres others, disrespects himself. Within oneself, God has given everything that he has given to anyone else. But we will seek it only then. Within oneself everything is present in seed form which has ever appeared in anyone—whether in a Ram, a Buddha, a Mahavira, a Gandhi. Whatever becomes manifest is present as a seed in every person.

And when I say, “Leave them,” I have no enmity with them. With those I ask you to leave I have no enmity. What enmity could there be with such loving people? When I say, “Leave them,” it is not because of any fault in them. I say, leave them—because so long as you are clutching them, it is impossible to find yourself. And the one who cannot find himself is never entitled to enter the temple of God.

What purpose would it serve me to speak against Gandhi? A man like Gandhi is born only after the earth has practiced austerities for thousands of years. What concern do I have in being against Gandhi? But because you have entered the race of clinging to Gandhi, I speak against Gandhi too—against Ram as well, against Buddha and Mahavira too. Not against them; even toward them I have to be stern. Because I feel a new idol is being fashioned and people have begun to cling to it. We fail to get free of the old idols and new ones are manufactured, and man’s slavery continues. The masters change; the slavery remains.

Someone frees himself from Ram and then grabs hold of Buddha; if he lets go of Buddha, he clings to Christ; if he gets rid of Christ, he clings to Mohammed. First he grabs another, then he lets one go. But it never happens that he lets go of all and stands on his own feet.

The person who drops everyone and stands on his own feet becomes beloved of God. Because God wants the one who is not holding on to anyone, who stands in his own strength.

I have heard a story. There was a Muslim fakir. He slept at night and dreamt that he had gone to heaven. In dreams people go to heaven. In reality they may go to hell, but why would anyone go to hell in a dream? At least in dreams one should go to heaven. In the dream he reached heaven, and he saw that the heavenly paths were thronged with great crowds—hundreds of thousands of people. He asked, “What’s the matter today?”

Someone in the moving crowd said, “It’s God’s birthday. It’s being celebrated.” He said, “How fortunate! I had long wanted to have God’s darshan—this is the chance. Today is God’s birthday; I have arrived in heaven on a good day.” He too stood by the roadside among the multitude of onlookers.

Then a very splendid person came riding a horse, with hundreds of thousands of people with him. The fakir bent and asked, “Is the one on the horse God?” Someone said, “No, not God—this is the Prophet Mohammed, and those behind him are his followers.” That procession went by.

Then a second procession came, and on a chariot sat a very majestic person. He asked, “Is this God?” Someone said, “No, not God—this is Ram, and those behind him are Ram’s followers.”

In the same way Krishna passed by with his followers; and Christ, and Buddha, and Mahavira, and Zoroaster, and Confucius—and who knows how many majestic ones went by with their followers.

Midnight passed; slowly the road grew quiet. The fakir thought, “God has not yet come out! When will He appear?”

And when almost everyone had gone, when the road was growing deserted and no one was paying attention to it anymore, an old man came riding an old horse, alone. No one was with him. The fakir was astonished: “Who could this gentleman be, with no one at all with him? He is coming along all by himself on a horse.” He asked one of the last passersby, “Who is this person absolutely alone?” The man walking by said, “Most likely, this is God. For there is none more alone in the world than God.” The fakir went up and asked the old man on the horse, “Sir, are you God? I am very puzzled! Many were with Mohammed, many with Christ, many with Ram—everyone had multitudes. You have no one with you!”

Tears fell from God’s eyes. God said, “All the people have been divided among them; no one is left who could be with me. Some are with Ram, some with Krishna—no one is with me. And only the one can be with me who is not with anyone. I am alone.”

Frightened, the fakir’s sleep broke. He found himself on the ground in his hut. He went around to his neighbors saying, “I’ve seen a very sorrowful dream, an absolutely false dream. I saw that God is alone. How can that be?”

That fakir met me too, and I said to him, “You have truly dreamt. No one is more alone than God. For the one who is a Hindu cannot be with God. The one who is a Muslim cannot be with God. The one who is a Jain cannot be with God. Only the one who is nobody, who carries no adjective, who is no one’s follower, no one’s disciple—utterly alone—only that one can be joined to the utterly alone, who is God.”

In aloneness, in solitude, in loneliness—utterly alone—the door opens that joins you to God.

God has no connection with crowds. When we are Hindus we are part of one crowd; when we are Muslims we are part of another crowd. When we walk behind Ram, we are walking behind our own imagination; and when we walk behind Buddha, we are still walking behind our own imagination. This has nothing to do with truth.

So when I say, “Drop them,” I do not mean that Ram is of no use. He is very much of use—that is precisely the danger; that is why the clinging arises. When I say, “Drop them,” I mean: your hands must be empty.

As long as we are holding someone, our hands are full. And hands that are full cannot reach toward the feet of God. There empty hands are needed—hands in which there is no one. And when the hands are utterly empty, then God’s hand becomes available.

Let me try to explain with a small story.

I have heard that one day Krishna sat down to eat, and Rukmini was fanning him at his plate. He had taken only a bite or two when he pushed the plate aside and suddenly ran toward the door.

Rukmini said, “Have you gone mad? Where are you running off to after half a meal?”

But Krishna didn’t answer; he ran straight to the door. Then at the threshold he stopped short, stood there, then silently and sadly returned and sat down to eat again.

Rukmini said, “You’ve put me in such confusion! What urgency came that you ran so fast? What accident occurred? Where was the fire? And then, without putting it out, you returned from the door as well? What was it? What happened to you?”

Krishna said, “An accident truly had happened. One beloved of mine—passing through a capital city—a fakir who has no one but me, no one but me—such a beloved of mine was walking down a road. Some people were stoning him. Streams of blood were flowing from his forehead. A crowd stood around him. Even with the streams of blood, he stood silent, laughing. He needed me, so I ran.”

Rukmini said, “Then why did you return from the door?”

Krishna said, “When I reached the door, he no longer needed me. That fakir had picked up a stone in his own hand. Now he himself was answering. Now I am no longer needed. So long as he was helpless, so long as he had no one, so long as he was utterly alone, he needed me—his whole being was pulling me like a magnet. Now he is no longer helpless; now there is a stone in his hand. He has found the support of a stone; now his hands are full. Now he is not weak; now he has his own strength; now he is fighting. I am not needed.”

Whether this story is true or not, I do not know; it doesn’t matter. But one thing I do know, and that I want to tell you:

As long as your hands are full, as long as your mind is full, as long as you are holding some support, God’s support will not be available. His support becomes available at the very moment a person becomes perfectly helpless—totally helpless. Only when one is completely, utterly helpless does His support come. But we keep grabbing some support or other, and that very support becomes the obstacle.

So when I say, “Leave everyone,” I mean: become utterly without supports—supportless in every way. The day a person becomes supportless in every way, he becomes a magnet, and all of God’s energies begin to be drawn toward him. But to become that supportless, it is necessary to be free of all scriptures, all gurus, all leaders—of all those whom we can hold and make into supports.

Do not misunderstand me, though. I am misunderstood every day. When I say, “Drop Gandhi,” people think I am Gandhi’s enemy.

I am telling you to drop—anyone at all. If you cling even to me, I will say, “Drop it; do not cling to me.” Then I become my own enemy. I am saying: unclinging is needed; the fist must be empty; no holding on.

Wondrous is that moment when a person stands after dropping everything. What happens in his life then—we have no idea. Then, for the first time, God arrives in his life. Then, for the first time, the footfalls of truth are heard. That is why I say: let go.

There is no way to say it—and there is no need to say it. It needs to be known, not said. And more than knowing, one needs to become it. The point is not to speak it; it is to know and experience it. What is the meaning of saying?

There was a fakir, Sheikh Farid. He was on a pilgrimage. Passing near Kashi, close by was Kabir’s place, in Maghar. Farid’s companions said, “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we stopped for two days at Kabir’s ashram? If the two of you converse, we will rejoice, we will be uplifted—our lives will be showered with nectar.”

Farid said, “If you insist, we will stop—but conversation? That is unlikely.”

His friends asked, “Won’t you speak with Kabir?”

Farid said, “There is no need to talk to Kabir. Kabir knows, and I know—what would we talk about?”

Kabir’s disciples also said to Kabir, “We’ve heard Farid is passing close by. Wouldn’t it be good to invite him to stay with us for two days? If you two talk, our good fortune will blossom. We will catch something from that exchange.”

Kabir said, “Conversation will be very difficult. Whoever speaks will be proved a fool. Do invite Farid—let us sit, laugh, embrace; if you insist, we’ll even weep together—but we will not speak. Because whoever speaks will be shown to be uncomprehending.”

People asked, “But why won’t you speak?”

Kabir said, “If you don’t believe me, then invite him.”

Farid was invited. Kabir went outside the village to receive him. They embraced—long. Tears flowed from their eyes. The two sat together under a tree. Their disciples gathered around, hoping perhaps a conversation would happen. But there was none. A day passed, then the second day began to pass, and the time of parting arrived. All the disciples grew restless: “What is this? Why won’t you speak?”

But the two only smiled and remained silent. Then they parted.

Immediately after the farewell, Kabir’s disciples caught hold of Kabir, and Farid’s disciples of Farid: “What is all this? Why didn’t you speak?”

Kabir said, “What was there to say? That which is known cannot be spoken. And in front of another knower—by speaking—would you have me prove myself a fool?”

Farid said, “Whoever spoke would have been shown a fool.”

Why did neither of them speak?

Truth can be known; it cannot be spoken.

Yet Farid did speak among people, and Kabir also spoke. Then what were they speaking, if truth cannot be spoken? Only this much: to tell you that truth cannot be spoken, cannot be given, cannot be taken. To give you this negative indication—that truth can be found, it can be sought, but it cannot be obtained from another.

If even this much penetrates through speech—if it is remembered that there is such a personal journey, an individual search, in which no other can be a helper or companion—if even this much is understood, that there is a pilgrimage one must make alone, then perhaps we will set out. Perhaps that indication will be caught.

But we are like the mad: if I raise a finger to point and say, “Look, there is the moon in the sky,” you catch hold of my finger and say, “This is the moon!” I shout, “Let go of my finger; the moon is there, where the finger is not. I am only pointing—look that way.” And you say, “What a lovely finger… very good, we understand—this is the moon. Come, let us worship your finger!”

In Japan there is a temple where a finger is installed in place of the deity, and beneath is written a saying of Buddha: “I point out the finger so that you may see the moon!”—and you have seized my finger and begun to worship!

We are all worshippers of fingers.

Words, scriptures, all indications point toward that place where neither scriptures remain, nor words remain, nor indications remain. But we are like those people who find a stone by the roadside with an arrow and the words “Junagadh—50 miles.” Many clever ones hug that stone to their chests and sit there: “We have reached Junagadh—it is written here: Junagadh! This stone itself is Junagadh!” On that stone it is written that Junagadh is far from here.

If you clutch that stone and sit, you will never arrive. Leave the stone and move on. And wherever there are such stones, keep leaving them behind. And wherever the stone comes that reads “Junagadh—0,” know that you have arrived, where it says zero—shunya—Junagadh. There will be a stone in Junagadh where it is written “Zero—Junagadh.” That stone of zero is meaningful.

If you find a book in which “zero” is written, that book can be a scripture. As long as there are words—go on, and on, and on—leaving them. Keep discarding, discarding… arrive where there is no farther to go. There you will find shunya—emptiness. All words point toward shunya.

Shunya means: meditation.

Shunya means: samadhi.

Shunya means: becoming utterly nothing, leaving everything. From that nothing, everything is received.

Shunya is the doorway to the Whole.

Words are not the door. Words are walls; shunya is the door. Those who get stuck on words keep banging their heads against the same wall and perish. Those who enter through the door of shunya go in.

Have you noticed? The door of your house is shunya. Have you ever noticed? The wall is filled; the door is empty. A door is an emptiness. Have you noticed that in the doors of a house, there is nothing? What does “door” mean? Where there is nothing: no wall, no stone—just an empty space. You pass through where there is emptiness. You never pass through the wall where everything is filled; if you try, you’ll break your head. You go through the door.

So the door means emptiness. The most valuable thing in a house—do you know what it is? The door—where there is nothing. If a house has no door, the house is useless.

You fill a pot with water; perhaps you think you fill it in the wall of the pot—then you are mistaken. You fill it in the empty space inside. What is a pot? The empty space enclosed by walls. That emptiness inside the pot is the real pot. The wall merely encircles the emptiness. The wall is not the pot. When you buy it in the market, do you buy the wall for a few coins? Without realizing, you are actually buying the empty space inside. You fill water into that emptiness. That empty space in the pot—that is the real thing. In a house, the door is the real thing.

And within the mind too, the shunya—the emptiness—is the real thing.

Where the mind is filled with words, there is a wall; where there is shunya, there is a door.

Yet we fill the mind with words, and the more words a person has, we say, “He is that much more knowledgeable.” In truth, he is that much more impoverished. He has nothing but words. When a mind is crowded with words, we say, “This person knows a lot.”

But those are the knowers in whose interior there is no wall of words, but a door of shunya. One knows by leaving words, not by clutching them. It sounds upside down, but it is the truth.

When Buddha became enlightened, people asked, “What did you gain?” Buddha said, “Nothing at all—only I recognized what had always been.” They asked, “What did you do to get it?” Buddha said, “As long as I kept doing, I did not get it. When I dropped all doing, it happened.” People said, “You speak in reversals.”

Buddha said, “As long as I was trying to do, the mind remained restless, because doing itself creates restlessness. When I dropped all doing, suddenly the mind became still—and that which was within became evident.”

Words too are restlessness. As long as words whirl within, the consciousness will be agitated. When all words fall silent—no word resounds within; no Gita recites itself inside, no Quran arises; no voice of Mahavira, no voice of Buddha is heard—everything is lost, everything becomes silent.

What happens in that moment? In that moment, that which is within, which has always been, which we have never lost and cannot lose even if we try—that is revealed. That is truth: that which can neither be lost nor ever has been lost; which is our real being. But we get no sign of it because we have heaped layer upon layer of words all around.

Have you peeled an onion? You peel layer upon layer—one layer comes off and another appears; peel that and a third appears—keep peeling. So it is with the mind: layers of words within. Thousands of layers, lifetimes of layers. Keep peeling them away, removing them; as long as there are layers, keep uprooting them. Then a time comes when all layers are gone. What remains?

Inside, shunya remains. Nothing remains. And on the day all layers are gone, what remains—the remaining—what remains behind, that is truth. That which you cannot throw away—that alone is truth; that which cannot be removed; that which remains even after everything is removed.

If in a house we start taking things out—remove all the furniture, take down the pictures and calendars from the doors, clear the windows, take out the vessels—when all things are removed, something still remains. What remains then? Emptiness remains. That emptiness is the house itself. Something remains—the empty house remains. That emptiness is the real house.

And if we keep stuffing that emptiness with things until it becomes difficult even to get inside, then the house exists, but so filled that you cannot enter.

The mind is also a house, into which we keep stuffing words. So many words accumulate that entering the mind becomes difficult.

Have you ever gone within? You will find nothing but words. Go inside, and only words will collide—like stepping into a market and meeting person after person, inside you meet word after word. Because of this crowd of words, you cannot enter within.

When someone throws all these words out, still you remain. You are not words—you are something else. Words will go out; still you remain. When all words are thrown away, what remains is called the Self. And one who knows that, knows truth. One who knows it within, knows it in all. And to one who once beholds it, it appears everywhere, at every moment.

Therefore I say: not through words, not through scriptures—through shunya is the door. Enter through shunya. Leave everything. The emphasis on leaving is so that what remains after you have left all—that which cannot be left, for which there is no way of leaving—that is you. And whatever can be left is not you. How can what can be taken from me be me? Whatever can be added to me is not me. That which can neither be added nor separated from me—that alone am I. The name of that being is truth.

That is why I emphasize: leave everything, leave all scriptures. I have no enmity with scriptures—how could one be enemies with poor books? Am I deranged to be hostile to books? With individuals, with books—what enmity could there be? There is enmity with only one thing: that a person fills himself up. Because a filled-up person is deprived of knowing what he is; he remains unfamiliar with his real being.

There was a fakir in Japan, Bokuju. A university professor came to meet him—a great scholar, full of words, well-versed in many scriptures. He came to the fakir’s hut—tired, sweating from the sun. He bowed to Bokuju, wiped his brow, and said, “I have come to know: what is truth?”

Bokuju said, “What need was there to come here to know what truth is? If truth is, it is in your house too; and if it is not, it is nowhere. Why have you come here? Do I hold the franchise on truth? If truth is, it is where you came from; and if it is not visible there, how will it be visible here?

“If a blind man leaves his house and walks a thousand miles to someone else’s home and asks, ‘Where is the light?’ the man will say, ‘Fool! If you had eyes, the light was there where you came from. If you have no eyes, wander the whole world—nowhere will there be light. Light is where eyes are; where there are no eyes, there is no light—no matter where you go.’

“Do you see truth? Had you seen it, you would have seen it there—why come here? You have come this far; that itself shows you are blind—you do not see truth. So what can I do? I can only ask: is it not that your knowledge has made you blind? You know too much—could that be the danger? For those who think they know a lot are very dangerous.

“Those in whom the notion arises ‘I know much’—they are the most dangerous.

“For there is no ignorance greater than thinking one knows. Knowledge arises only in those who say, ‘We do not know,’ who drop the illusion of knowing.”

Bokuju said, “It seems your skull is stuffed with words—that is why you see nothing. Still, wait a while. I’ll make some tea. You look tired—have a little tea, rest a bit; then we’ll talk. It may even be that in drinking tea the talk happens; it may even be that the answer to your question comes in the tea.”

The professor said, “An answer to truth—in drinking tea? What are you saying? What sort of madman have I come to? I have wasted my journey in this sun.”

The fakir said, “Wait! Don’t be so hasty. I’ll just bring the tea.”

Tired, the professor sat, but lost hope that anything could be learned from this man. “The man who says the taste of truth will be found in drinking tea—what can come from him?”

The fakir returned with tea. He placed the saucer and cup in the professor’s hands and poured from the kettle. The cup filled—but the fakir kept pouring. The saucer filled too—but he kept pouring. The tea was about to spill over when the professor shouted, “Now stop! There isn’t even room for a single drop in my cup.”

The fakir said, “You can see there isn’t room for even a drop in your cup. You can also see that to keep pouring into a cup with no space is to make it spill. But have you ever seen whether there is any space in your skull? That too is crammed full of words—there is absolutely no room. And the time of your going mad is near. The words stuffed inside you will begin to spill out.”

Do you know when a person goes mad? When thoughts are so packed into the skull that he can no longer contain them and they begin to spill out. He walks down the road and starts speaking; he grabs even those who don’t want to listen and starts talking. He talks in his sleep. He sits alone and talks. When words are so full that they start shedding outward, we say the person has gone mad.

All of us are a little mad. Sit alone in a corner, close your eyes for ten minutes, lock the door from inside, and write on a paper whatever is going on in your mind—honestly, for ten minutes. After ten minutes you won’t have the courage to show that paper even to your spouse or your closest friend. They will say, “You wrote this? This is what goes on inside you? Then let’s go to a doctor right now! These things run inside your head!”

If you write for ten minutes what is actually going on within, you’ll see the words inside are unhinged—sick words roam all around. Somehow we manage to hold ourselves together. We are all mad—restrained madmen. We are holding ourselves and keeping a grip. But if what is inside bursts out strongly…

Give someone alcohol and see what he begins to say. Before drinking he was chanting God’s name; after drinking he starts spewing abuse. Can alcohol turn hymns into abuse? Is there such alchemy in wine? Does it contain a chemistry that converts prayer into profanity?

Alcohol can do nothing but this: before he drank, the abuses were inside while he recited devotion on the surface—he was holding himself together. The drink dissolved his control; his limbs went loose; the strength to hold dissolved, and his reality began to pour out.

Even a “good man” is not good inside. The hymn he loudly chants is not what he says within; within, something else goes on. Inside, a mad mind runs. This madness of words…

The fakir said, “Your skull is so full of words—is there any space left for truth? Truth too needs a space to enter. You can see your cup has filled up; but have you ever looked within to see that space there filled long ago, many births ago—and now it is overcrowded! Everything is overflowing. The overflow keeps increasing, and as it does, a person becomes pathological, unhealthy; his connection with truth keeps breaking.”

If you are to be related to truth, this inner crowd must be cleared out. This heap of words within must be dropped; you must be free of it. But we call words “knowledge.” Then how will we be free?

As long as we take words to be knowledge, we cannot drop words. The day we see that words are not knowledge, that we are hiding our ignorance behind words; that words are pseudo-knowledge—on that day, we will be able to throw them away. And the day words are thrown out, a revolution occurs within; an explosion happens; a new world opens; a new door opens.

A small story to explain.

In an ancient kingdom, the grand vizier had died. The country had a rule: the wisest person in the land would be made vizier. They held examinations throughout the land and selected three people who proved to be the wisest. They were summoned to the capital for the final test; whoever passed would become the king’s grand vizier.

The three arrived—anxious, as examinees are. They inquired of everyone, “Do you know what the test will be?”

And their trouble increased. Everyone in the capital knew. The entire town said, “The test was decided long ago. The king has built a house and made a chamber in it. He has put a lock on its door. The lock is a mathematical puzzle—there is no key. Numbers are inscribed on the lock; whoever solves the mathematics will open it. You three will be shut in that building. Whoever opens the door and comes out first will be the vizier.” The three must have been frightened.

One of them went straight to his lodging and slept. The other two thought he had given up. They rushed to the market. The test was in the morning. They knew nothing of locks—neither thieves nor locksmiths nor engineers; nor politicians who know everything. They were at a loss: How will we open this lock?

They asked shopkeepers who sold locks; they asked mathematicians; they consulted engineers; they collected big books on puzzles. They memorized and solved all night; it was a matter of life. “We mustn’t sleep tonight,” they said. “What harm is one night without sleep?”

In the morning they learned there was great harm. From studying all night, even what little they knew became muddled. If asked, “What is two plus two?” they would startle and falter to say “four.” The mind was disordered by a night of puzzles. This is what happens with examinees: outside the exam they can solve problems; inside, they cannot.

The third friend, who had slept all night, rose in the morning, washed, and joined the other two. They reached the palace. The rumor was true. The emperor shut them in the building and said, “Open this lock and come out. There is no key. The lock is a mathematical puzzle—numbers are engraved on it; try to solve it. Whoever comes out first will prove wise, and I will make him vizier. I will wait outside.”

They went inside. The one who had slept sat in a corner with eyes closed. The other two said, “What has happened to this madman? Since when are worldly problems solved by closing one’s eyes? Perhaps his brain is out of order.” The two “clever” ones, sure of their wits, had hidden books in their clothes. They quickly pulled them out and began solving.

Let examinees not think that only students today are clever; even in olden days people cheated. Cheating is more ancient than the Vedas. All our books are new; the book of cheating is very old.

They took out their books. The door had closed. They began solving. The third man sat with eyes closed for half an hour. Then he stood up quietly, as if even his feet made no sound—the other two didn’t notice. He went to the door, pushed it. It was only latched, not locked. He stepped out.

The emperor came in and said, “Close your books, both of you. The one who was to come out has already come.” They were shocked. “How could he come out? He did nothing!”

The emperor said, “Nothing was needed here. The door was only latched. We wanted to know which of you was wisest: the wisest would first check whether the door was even locked. Before solving the problem, you must first see if there is a problem. If there is a problem, it can be solved. If there isn’t, how can you solve it? First ascertain whether there is a problem.”

The man said, “I did nothing. I thought whatever I know would be useless, because the question is utterly new to me. Everything I have learned has no relation to it. My knowledge is of no use—so what shall I do?

“I decided it would be best to drop concern for what I know and sit silent and still. Let me see whether an answer can arise from my silence. Because I saw that the more I try to find an answer, the more agitated I become; and the more agitated I become, the harder it will be to solve. The question is new; my answers are all old. The old cannot serve. So I said, ‘Forget the old answers. Pardon me, words—farewell. I want to sit wordless for a while.’

“And I was amazed: when I became totally silent, something within said, ‘Get up and look—the door is open, it is not locked.’ I got up; the door was open; I came out. I did not ‘find’ this answer. I had stopped all searching. This answer came. It was not mine; it must be God’s.”

You were searching for your answers; therefore there was no possibility of God’s answer. I dropped my concern. I simply waited for His answer. I only waited—that if an answer is to come, let it come. And if one is to hear the answer from above, then one must lose one’s own chattering and words. As long as one’s own noise continues within, how can any answer be heard?

Those who have heard the voice of God are those who have lost their own voice. Those who have known God’s truth are those who have silenced their learned words. Those who have opened God’s book are those who have closed their eyes to all the books of men. Those who have lifted their eyes toward God are those who have stopped following men.

In silence, emptiness, and peace is His door. It is near to all of us. Perhaps He calls us every day, every moment knocks at our door.

But where are we to listen? We are so lost in words—how will His quiet voice be heard? So drowned in our own talk—how will we come to know His voice? Therefore I insist again and again: drop all words and become wordless. Try once—be silent and see what happens. You have lived long in words; try the experiment of being wordless just once. This experiment of becoming wordless is what I call meditation.

Let me explain a minute or two about this meditation. Then we will sit for ten minutes in meditation and part.

Because what I have said cannot be understood by my saying. But it may be that something is stirred by my saying—a thirst is born—and you sit for ten minutes, quietly, silently, and see.

Think of that man who went into that room and sat silently. What did he do? He left all words and cared only to fall silent—utterly silent. When he became perfectly silent, an answer came—not his own; it came from above, from depths; it was God’s.

Let us too, for ten minutes in this quiet night, try to be silent. It is possible; there is no difficulty. We have simply never experimented—that is why it has not happened. But what has never happened may happen today; if not today, tomorrow. The possibility is always there. For those who put in a little effort, the possibility becomes a reality.

What will we do here for ten minutes? Look: the night is utterly still—the trees are still, the moon and stars are still, the breezes are still. Can we not, for ten minutes, be still with them and sit quietly?

There will be difficulty, because inside is a web of words. It will keep running; it will think, “When will these ten minutes be over?” It will open the eyes again and again to see what the neighbors are doing. That inner web of words, that petty mind, that shallow mind will fritter away the ten minutes in such things. It will not be quiet.

No—but it can be made quiet if we experiment with a little awareness. What can we do so that it falls silent?

There is only one way in the world to become silent—only one, and there has never been another: the way of witnessing. If a person can sit even for ten minutes as a witness—a witness…

Night is around us; people are around us—some child will make a sound, some bird will cry out, a car will pass on the road, the wind will stir the leaves. Things will happen all around. If for ten minutes you sit within with only one attitude: I am a spectator, a seer. I will just watch quietly. I will experience whatever happens. I will do nothing from my side—only see. Like someone standing on a riverbank watching the river flow. Like someone under the sky watching clouds move and lines of birds fly. Like someone standing in a marketplace—but standing as if in a theater—watching the shops and passersby as if things were moving on a film screen.

If you only watch without doing anything, a wondrous event happens. If you simply watch silently, a peace begins to arise within; words begin to drop.

Witnessing becomes the death of words.

So for ten minutes we will do an experiment in witnessing. It has two or three small cues.

First: when we sit for the experiment, let the body be completely at ease, relaxed—as if there were no energy in it; no tension, no strain.

Second: close the eyes. Even in closing them, do not strain—let the eyelids fall softly. Then the lights will be put out; it will be dark. The moon’s soft light will filter in. In that lunar glow, with eyes closed, for just ten minutes we will remain silently as witnesses.

We will do nothing. We are sitting in a play; we are not participants. We only listen quietly to whatever is heard. Whatever is experienced, we let it be experienced. Thoughts will move within—watch them quietly: they are moving; I am seeing. We are not doing anything. Let whatever moves, move.

After quietly watching for ten minutes, you will be surprised: the stillness outside will arise inside as well. If even for a single instant everything falls silent within, a step is taken into a new world. Here we will do this as an experiment.

If someone finds it agreeable, feels something can happen, then do it for ten minutes every night before sleep. In three months you will be amazed. Ten minutes’ hammering, for three months, will open a door within. A beginning of a new world will be felt. You will become acquainted with a new person within yourself, whom you have never known.