I have just returned after seeing the gleaming temples of Girnar bathed in the sun. Seeing those temples, it occurred to me that the soul too has Girnar-like summits. Upon those inner peaks stand temples more lustrous still. Upon those temples shines an even more intense light of the Paramatman.
Yet we wander among outer temples and never find any trace of the inner ones. We spend life traveling the stone peaks, and never have any taste of the peaks of consciousness.
Just as there are footpaths that climb this mountain of Girnar, so too there are paths that ascend the summits of awareness. But there is a difference between those paths and these. In the realm of consciousness, no footprints remain. As birds fly across the sky, they leave no marks behind. Those who follow cannot track the path of those who have flown before. Each bird must fly by its own route.
So it is with the path of truth. No royal roads are laid there, no pre-made tracks. Each person must create his own way. There, the path appears only by walking. Before you walk, no path exists. If paths were ready-made, we could follow someone and arrive at those peaks. But there no way is ever constructed. One walks, and the footprints fade, are erased, and vanish into the sky.
Each person must discover his own way. Each person must hew his own path.
And yet, even about those ways, a few hints can be given. A few signals can be offered. In this final talk, I wish to speak only of such signals.
In the first sutra I said a few things; in the second sutra a few more; and today I will speak with you on the third sutra.
This third sutra is a little Indicative, symbolic. It needs a little understanding.
The first thing toward this indication: Whoever would journey toward truth must grasp the first signal. And that signal is: ordinarily, the life we take to be true is not true. And so long as we keep taking this life as truth, our eyes will never rise toward the direction of that which is true. Those who would travel toward truth must begin to regard this life as dreamlike — this is the first hint.
This outer expanse of ours, this long journey from birth to death — is it truth, or is it a dream? It is necessary to reflect a little on this.
Ordinarily we live taking it as truth. Rarely have we really considered. At night, when we dream, the dream too appears true while it is seen. Never in the dream do you realize that what you are seeing is false. The dream feels true. We dream again and again, day after day, throughout a lifetime. Yet while dreaming, it looks true. The thought never occurs that what we are seeing could be false.
Those who awaken to a greater truth say: the world we see with open eyes is also a dream.
A young prince, the only son of an emperor, fell ill and lay on his deathbed. Physicians said there was no hope. That very night, the lamp of his life would likely be extinguished.
The emperor kept vigil all night. Toward dawn, around five, he dozed off on his chair. As he slept, he forgot the son who lay ill before him, forgot the palace he sat in, forgot the kingdom he owned.
A dream began. In it he saw: I am lord of the entire earth. Twelve sons are mine — beautiful, bodies like gold, healthy, intelligent. A realm spread over the whole earth. Palaces of gold, stairways of diamonds. He is in supreme bliss.
Just then, in the outer world, the bedridden son drew his last breath. The wife began to beat her breast and cry. Her wailing broke the emperor’s sleep. He opened his eyes and rose. The golden palaces of the dream vanished, the twelve sons vanished, the vast imperial realm vanished. He saw that the son outside had died and his wife was weeping. But no tears came to his eyes; a smile came to his lips.
The wife said: Has your mind become deranged? Have you gone mad? Your son has died and you are laughing?
The emperor said: I am laughing for another reason. I am puzzled — for which sons should I weep? Just now I had twelve sons, golden palaces, a great empire. You cried, and all of that was snatched away — my kingdom, my sons. I opened my eyes and all was lost.
And this son — so long as my eyes were closed — was lost to me. I did not even remember I had a son, that he lay ill. While there were twelve sons, I had no memory of this one. And now that this son is visible, those twelve are lost. Now I am wondering: for whom shall I cry? For those twelve sons, those golden palaces, that great empire, or for this single child?
And I laughed because perhaps both are dreams — one dream of closed eyes, and one dream of open eyes. For when the eyes were closed, this was forgotten; and when the eyes opened, that which appeared behind closed eyes was forgotten.
There is a dream we see with eyes closed, and a dream we see with eyes open. Both are dreams.
Chuang Tzu was a sage in China. People always saw him laughing; never sad. One morning he rose and sat melancholy outside his hut. His friends and loved ones came and asked: We have never seen you sad. However dense the darkness in the sky, however many sorrowful clouds over life, we have always seen a smile upon your lips. Why are you sad today? Why anxious?
Chuang Tzu said: Today, truly, I have fallen into a puzzle for which no solution appears.
They said: We come to you with our problems, and every problem is resolved. You too have a problem! What is it?
Chuang Tzu said: I will tell you — but you too will not be able to solve it. And I think perhaps it will never be solved in this entire life.
Last night I dreamed. In the dream I saw that I had become a butterfly, and was fluttering from flower to flower in a garden.
People said: What problem is there in that? In dreams a man can be anything.
Chuang Tzu said: If that were all, it would be fine. But when I awoke, a question arose: If a man named Chuang Tzu can become a butterfly in a dream, is it not possible that now a butterfly has fallen asleep and is dreaming that she has become Chuang Tzu? Since morning I am troubled. If a man can be a butterfly in a dream, then a butterfly can be a man in a dream. And now I cannot decide: am I a butterfly dreaming that I am a man, or was I a man who dreamed he was a butterfly? And who will decide this? I am in great difficulty. Perhaps it will never be decided.
Chuang Tzu is right. What we see outside — might this too be a dream of open eyes? For when eyes close, it all dissolves, disappears, is gone. With closed eyes we enter another world. And what we see with open eyes seems of no more worth than a dream.
You have lived life — some for fifteen years, some forty, some fifty. If today you look back, did what happened in those fifty years truly happen, or did it happen in a dream? What difference would you discern? Looking back, what difference appears? Whatever happened — honor and insult — was it received in a dream, or in reality?
At the moment of death, what does it matter whether the life one lived was a story seen in a dream, or a life that truly occurred?
Before us, how many have lived upon this earth! In every particle of the ground where we sit, who knows how many people’s dust is mixed, how much ash there is. The whole earth is a vast cremation ground, where billions upon billions have lived and vanished. Today what difference does it make whether they existed or not? While they lived, life surely felt very true to them. Neither their lives remain, nor do they — all are lost in dust.
Today we sit alive; tomorrow we too shall vanish. A thousand years from today, people will walk upon our ashes. If a life ultimately becomes ash, how much meaning is there in its being true? A life that ends in loss — what worth does it have?
The same Chuang Tzu I spoke of once left a village at night. Outside the village, at a cremation ground, a human skull lay; his foot struck it. Another man would have kicked it away hard, considered it ill omen that a skull crossed his path. But Chuang Tzu was an extraordinary man. He lifted the skull, placed it upon his head, and begged forgiveness again and again: Forgive me — my foot touched you by mistake; it is dark, it is night, I could not see that you too were here.
It was a human skull — who knows when the man had died.
His friends said: What madness is this? Of whom are you asking forgiveness?
Chuang Tzu said: It is only a matter of time. If this man were alive today, I would be in trouble.
They said: But this man is not alive now.
Chuang Tzu said: You do not know — this is not the commoners’ cremation ground; this is where the great of the village are brought. Cremation grounds too are separate: the poor to one, the rich to another. Differences persist in life, and even after death they maintain them!
Chuang Tzu said: This is the skull of a great man, not of an ordinary one. If he were here today, I would be in trouble.
They said: But he is not — where is the question of trouble?
Chuang Tzu said: No, I must ask forgiveness. For many reasons I will ask forgiveness of this skull; I will keep it with me.
He took the skull with him and each morning, upon rising, asked its pardon. Friends urged him: You will go mad keeping this skull near you. What need is there to beg forgiveness?
Chuang Tzu said: There are many reasons. The greatest is that this is the skull of a great man.
Friends said: All skulls turn to dust — of the small and of the great. The earth makes no distinction as to who was big and who small. And when the great and the small all merge into dust, is not being big or small perhaps a dream that the earth erases, making everything alike? Being big or small does not seem real; it seems like some fancy of a dream.
Chuang Tzu said: I keep it near me so I remember my own skull — today or tomorrow it too will lie upon some cremation ground. Passersby will strike it with their feet, and I will be able to do nothing. If this is to be the end, why be angry today if someone’s foot touches my head? If it is going to be, then it has already been.
Those who know will say: What is to be has already happened. If this life is to end in dust, then it is already fallen into dust. It is but a brief reverie, a fleeting dream, in which all seems fine.
If we look closely at life, we will see that all is lost, all returns to earth. Where everything becomes dust, how much reason is there to take it as true?
But we say: A dream lasts but a moment at night; life lasts seventy, eighty, a hundred years. Yet if we open our eyes a little wider, even a hundred years seem no longer than a moment in this vast universe. This earth has existed for some four billion years. This sun for around six billion — and even this sun is a newcomer. Those other stars are far more ancient; their number is impossible to estimate. This sun is the latest guest — six billion years, a very new arrival. The stars beyond are immeasurably older.
What meaning has a hundred years in this immense flow of time? None at all. The moon and stars have no notion of when a hundred years have passed. They pass as quickly as the ticking of a clock, as our seconds pass. In this vast current of life, how long is a hundred years? Perhaps no length at all.
I have heard: A man died — a great miser. All his life he hoarded money. At death he had read a book that said: in heaven, every single coin is worth billions upon billions. The man had collected rupees all his life. Even while dying he thought: If I can find even a single coin in heaven, it will be marvelous; it is worth billions upon billions! As soon as he opened his eyes in heaven, he began to search for a coin. The gods asked: What are you doing?
He said: I want a coin, only one. I have heard that a single coin in heaven is worth billions upon billions.
The gods said: Wait a moment, we will give it to you.
Instead of a moment, hours passed, days passed. He said: Sirs, when will that one moment be over?
They said: You do not realize, in that heaven where one coin is worth billions upon billions, a single moment too is worth billions upon billions of years. Wait a moment — we will give it to you.
There the measures — the measures of life — are vast. In such endless scales, what meaning is there in a hundred years? How endless is that measure! To reckon it is extremely difficult. Since when has time been flowing? How long will it flow?
Bertrand Russell wrote a small story. A priest of a church slept one night and dreamed he reached the gate of heaven. The gate was so immense there was no trace of its beginning or end. He raised his head and kept looking, but there was no end to be seen. He knocked loudly upon the gate. But what sound can the knock of a tiny man make upon such a vast door? In that infinite stillness, no sound arose. He beat his head in despair and was deeply upset. He had always thought: I pray day and night — when I go, God will be waiting with arms outstretched to embrace me. But here the door is closed. He bangs with all his might, and no sound is heard — the door is too great.
After much shouting and clamor, a small window in the gate opened and someone peered out. The priest panicked and slipped into the crack of the doorway. For those eyes were too intense, and not one or two — thousands upon thousands of eyes. Each eye so piercing that he trembled. He cried: Please withdraw within and speak from there — do not look at me. Each eye seems a sun. He said: O God, I have had your darshan — great grace!
But the one peering out said: I am not God, I am the doorkeeper here. And where have you hidden? I cannot see you at all. How tiny you are — where have you come from? Even that thousand-eyed one cannot find him; he is that small. Deep humility arises in the priest: I thought God would meet me at the door; this is only the gate’s porter.
The priest asked: Did you not know I was coming?
The doorkeeper said: A creature like you is seen here for the first time in eternity. Where have you come from?
He said: From Earth.
The doorkeeper said: I have never heard this name — where is this Earth?
Then his breath caught, his heart began to stop. If the very name of Earth is unknown, how will they have heard of Christianity upon the Earth? And of Christianity, the Catholic sect? And of that sect, a church in such-and-such village — how will he know? And the priest of that church — how will there be any account, when he says he has heard the name Earth for the first time? Where is this Earth?
So the priest said: There is a solar family, the family of a sun; in it, Earth is a planet.
The doorkeeper said: You have no idea how many suns there are. Which sun? What number? What is the index number of your sun? Perhaps if you can tell the number of your sun, some search can be done to find which solar family you come from.
He said: A number! We know only one sun.
Still he said: We will try. We will investigate. Perhaps something can be found. But it is very difficult.
In panic the priest awoke, drenched in sweat. For the first time he felt: In this vast universe, where is any standing for Earth at all?
How tiny the Earth is — yet it appears so large to us. The Sun is sixty thousand times bigger than the Earth, and even the Sun is a small star. Those stars we see in the sky are far larger than the Sun, but appear small because of distance. A ray from the Sun takes ten minutes to reach the Earth — and the ray’s journey is very swift. The Sun’s ray moves at 186,000 miles in one second. At that speed, it still takes ten minutes to arrive. The Sun is far — and yet not very far. The nearest star beyond the Sun sends a ray that takes four years to reach Earth at 186,000 miles per second. And that is the nearest.
There are stars whose rays take a hundred years, two hundred years, a thousand, millions, billions. There are stars from which rays set out when the Earth was forming, four billion years ago, and have still not reached us. Beyond them are stars, say the scientists, whose rays will never arrive.
In such an immensity, what value has the Earth? And upon this Earth, what value have we? Yet we live assuming our own value. The more we assume it, the more restless we become. The more we assume it, the more troubled, the more tormented we are. And the more we become agitated by our presumed importance, the more slender grows the possibility of the vision of truth.
Truth can be seen only by those who are quiet.
And the first sutra of quietude is: Do not take the life you consider true as truth; do not grant it more value than a dream.
The day life appears dreamlike, that day the mind becomes quiet.
So long as life appears true, the mind cannot be at rest. Then petty things have immense value. We take dreams to be real and are upset. At night a man sees a ghost in a dream; his eyes open, yet the chest keeps pounding. The eyes have opened, sleep is gone — but the dream felt so true that the breath still trembles with fear.
We even take a play to be real. Go to a cinema hall and watch people — how many are wiping tears with their handkerchiefs. On the screen nothing is happening except the flow of electricity, the dance of light. We know well that behind it is a blank screen. Upon that white cloth, electrical beams run and images form. Someone weeps, someone laughs, someone is afraid. We even take the play to be true.
And the first sutra of the search for truth is: what we call true we must know as play — only then can one arrive at truth.
Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar, a great thinker of Bengal, once went to a play. An actor in the play is hounding a woman. He torments her in every way. One night he leaps into her house in secret and catches her. Vidyasagar could not bear it. He forgot it was a play. He took off his shoe, leapt upon the stage, and began to thrash the man with it. The audience was stunned — what is happening?
And what did the actor do? He took Vidyasagar’s shoe in his hands, saluted it, and said to the audience: Never in my life have I received such a great award! That my acting would be taken as reality by such an intelligent man as Vidyasagar — I had never imagined! If my acting can be so true, I am blessed. I will preserve this shoe with care. I have received many prizes, but never such a great one!
Vidyasagar must have been deeply embarrassed, returned quietly to his seat, and later said to people: Strange indeed — the play seemed true to me; I completely forgot that what I was seeing was only a play!
If even a play seems true, we become disturbed. And if life begins to seem a play, we become calm. The more life appears dreamlike, the more peaceful one becomes — for what cause is there for unrest in a dream? Then if poverty comes — it is a dream; if wealth comes — it is a dream. If illness comes — a dream; if health — a dream. If honor — a dream; if insult — a dream. Then what cause remains for turmoil, suffering, tension?
All tension arises because life appears terribly true, terribly factual. Life is utterly unfactual. Life is a play. The clearer this becomes, the more the mind begins to be at peace. The very causes of disturbance fade away.
In a village of Japan a fakir was staying — a very handsome youth, widely revered there. Everyone honored him. But one day the situation changed. The whole village turned against him. They stormed his hut, threw stones, set it on fire.
The fakir asked: What is the matter? What is going on?
They hurled a small child into his lap and said: You ask what the matter is? A girl of this village has given birth. This child is yours. She has said you are the father. We were gravely mistaken to honor you. We erred in building you a hut, arranging for you to live here. We never imagined you would prove so characterless. This boy is yours.
The child began to cry. The fakir soothed him. He said to the people: Is it so? Is the case such that the child is mine? Now that you say so, it must be right.
They cursed him, burned his hut, scattered his things, and left.
At noon the fakir went begging in the village with the child. Perhaps in no village of the world has a fakir begged in this way. The little child wept. The fakir stood at each door, begging. People shut their doors. Who would give him alms?
He wandered the whole village — people surrounded him, abusing, hurling insults, throwing stones. Protecting the child, he came to the house whose daughter had given birth. He cried out before that door: It is understandable if I do not receive food, but at least let this small child have milk. My fault may be mine, but what fault is there of this little child?
A crowd stood at the door. The girl’s heart melted; she took hold of her father’s feet and said: I made a mistake. I falsely named the fakir. I do not even know him. The child’s father is another. To save him I took the fakir’s name. I thought you would scold and return; I did not think it would go so far. Forgive me.
The father was astonished. He came and fell at the fakir’s feet, and tried to snatch the child from his hands.
The fakir asked: What is this? Why are you seizing my son?
The father said: He is not your son. We made a mistake. This child is not yours — he belongs to someone else.
The fakir said: Is it so? The child is not mine? What do you say! In the morning you yourself said he was mine.
The people said: Are you mad? Why did you not say in the morning that the child was not yours?
The fakir said: What difference does it make, in this dream, whose child it is? What difference does it make? He must be someone’s. And when you so many say so, you must be right. And what would have been the difference? You had already burned one hut, already abused a man. If I had said he was not mine, you would have burned another hut, cursed another man. What difference would it make?
They said: Do you care nothing for your honor?
The fakir said: From the day it became clear that the outer is a dream, there has been no difference between honor and insult. From that day, all is equal. In a dream, what difference can there be between honor and insult? If it were reality, there could be. If not, what difference?
Napoleon had been defeated, and was confined like an ordinary prisoner upon a small island named St Helena. He had been emperor, conqueror — then defeated, and caged on a tiny isle.
The next morning he went out walking. His physician was with him. They went along a narrow path through a field. A grass-cutting woman with a bundle upon her head approached along the path. The doctor shouted: Hey grass-woman, move off the path! Do you not know who is coming? Napoleon is coming!
Napoleon grasped his friend’s hand and pulled him down: Fool, the dream has changed. Those days are gone when we told people, Move — Napoleon is coming. Now we should step aside. The dream has changed, dear — stand aside. Those times are gone when we told mountains, Move — and mountains had to move. Now we must step aside even for a woman bearing grass.
Napoleon spoke with great understanding. He said: The dream has changed. That scene is over; another is running.
The doctor was grieved to see Napoleon yield the way. Napoleon laughed. For one to whom all appears as dream, what remains to cry over?
Napoleon, defeated or victorious, remains the same. And saying that all is a dream, he bore witness to a rare truth.
When outer life begins to appear dreamlike, inwardly one begins to be at peace.
Then what difference is there between defeat and victory? Then honor and insult are one. Life and death one. What unrest then? What tension? A profound peace descends within. That peace is the footpath to those summits where the temples of truth stand.
By the path of peace one reaches the peaks of truth. And on the path of peace only those can walk who see life as dream. Those to whom life appears a solid truth can never walk the ways of peace — that is the first thing.
Connected to this is the second: When life begins to appear dreamlike to a person, what will his conduct be? If life becomes unfactual to him, how will he live? What will be his formula? What do we do with a dream? We look at it; nothing more can be done.
One to whom the whole of life appears as a dream becomes a seer — a Sakshi. He will watch, and do nothing. He will see life as it is, and simply watch it unfold.
The dream is the base; witnessing is the fruition. The dream is the ground; Sakshi is the edifice raised upon it.
When someone knows life as a dream, he remains a witness, a seer. Beyond being a watcher, life has for him no other meaning. He lives as a spectator. And when someone begins to live as a spectator, a revolution takes place within. That revolution is the religious revolution. It does not happen by studying scriptures; it happens by becoming a witness. It does not happen by memorizing worn-out formulae; it happens when witnessing is born in life. One who lives as a Sakshi ascends those peaks where the vision of truth is certain.
So the second sutra is Sakshi-bhava — the state of witnessing. Live as a spectator. As though upon a great screen a story is running, and we are watching.
Try it for a single day, and life will be different. Resolve for one day: From six in the morning to six in the evening we will live as spectators, and we will watch life as though a story is unfolding upon a screen. On the very first day, something new will begin to happen.
Try it today — a small experiment: We will see life as if upon a vast canvas, a great screen, a story is running, and we will only be spectators. Try for just one day. After that, you will never again be the same person you were. After that experiment, you will be another man.
Try a small experiment in witnessing. Go home today, and when the wife begins to scold, or the husband grabs your neck, watch as if a witness were watching. When, walking the road, you see people, shops, the office world — remember: as though you have entered a play and all around a drama is going on. Keep this remembrance for one day, and tomorrow you will be another person.
The day is long. Even if someone tries for an hour, a turn will come in his life. The man will never again be what he was an hour earlier. For in that one hour what he sees will be astonishing; in that one hour a transformation will happen within — an alchemy will change — and new points of consciousness will be born.
For one hour, watch thus. If the wife abuses you, if the boss insults you, watch as if you are seeing only a play. Then see what happens. Nothing will happen except laughter. Only laughter will arise! A smile will spread within, and the mind will become light.
Yesterday that same insult would have weighed upon you like a stone upon the chest, would have generated poison within, would have churned your life and created unrest. Life would have become a reaction, a storm, a gale.
That same insult today will fall — and if the witness is present within, it will fizzle out like an ember dropped into water and turn to ash. You will go on looking. And you will be amazed: Yesterday this very thing pained me, and today — what has happened? Yesterday it hurt so much, and today — what has changed? Today you have changed.
The world remains the same — it always remains the same. Only the person changes. And when the person changes, the world changes.
The first sutra: Life is a dream.
The second: In that dream, live as a witness.
These two sutras are the essence of sadhana. Life is a dream, and in the dream live as a Sakshi. And what happens in the life of one who begins to live as a witness in the dream is difficult to say in words. It can only be known by doing. It can be grasped only by experiment, by experience — what happens then? Try a little and see.
Drop the worry of going to temples. Life itself becomes the temple if you stand as witness. Drop the concern of going to mountains and the Himalayas. Life becomes a tirtha here and now, if you become a witness.
Wherever one becomes a witness, there a pilgrimage begins, there a new event starts.
Socrates was near death; the hemlock was being prepared outside. He lay down. His friends were weeping. Socrates asked them: Why do you weep?
They said: If we do not weep now, then when? You are near death.
Socrates said: Fools — you should have wept the day I was born. When birth began, death began. Now you weep so late? When the story begins, its end arrives with it. When a film starts upon the screen, know that the ending will soon come; the end is hidden in the beginning.
Fools, said Socrates: The day I was born, we understood that I had died — the matter was finished. Why weep now? And if you must weep, weep for yourselves. Why weep for me when I myself am not weeping?
He said: Go quickly, see whether the poison is ready. Socrates himself rose and went out. He said to the one grinding the hemlock: Time is slipping away; it is to be given at six — is it not ready yet?
The man said: I have given poison to many, never have I seen one so mad. We want to delay a little, so you may live a little longer. What hurry is there to die?
Socrates said: There is no hurry. But I have seen much of life; now I intend to see death as well. I have seen the dream of life — now I wish to watch the new story of death. That is why there is eagerness — let this film end and the new one begin. So I ask, Hurry up.
They gave him the poison. He drank it as if it were being given to someone else. Drinking, he kept talking; then lay down and said: My feet are becoming cold. It seems they are growing numb.
Friends said: Your feet are growing numb — you are growing numb.
Socrates said: How can I grow numb? I am knowing that the feet are growing numb. I am still the same. Then he said: The poison has reached my knees, now to my waist. My limbs feel as if they are not there. I cannot feel them.
People said: What are you saying? You are growing cold.
Socrates said: I am entirely the same as I was before the poison. Only this much is known — the limbs are growing cold, the limbs are going. The limb-story is ending. Perhaps another story will begin now. I am the same — I am still seeing.
One who has seen all his life can also see death. And one who can see death — how can he die?
He who attains the state of witness attains Amrit — the deathless.
Swami Ram went to America — a very strange man. Once in a while a few such strange ones are born; they give some color to the world. If someone abused him, he would stand and laugh, then say to friends: Today in the market, Ram was thoroughly abused.
People would say: Ram? Not you?
Swami Ram would say: Me? People do not know me — how will they abuse me? They know Ram; they abuse Ram. And while Ram was being abused, we sat within and laughed silently: Good, son — heap the abuses!
Swami Ram said: In one village, Ram fell into a pit. We laughed heartily — well fallen! If you walk without looking, you will fall. People asked: Of whom do you speak? He said: Of this Ram.
And who are you?
He said: I am only the one who sees. This story runs upon Ram; I am seeing. It is Ram’s life; I am watching.
This art of seeing — this technique of witnessing — this knack of becoming a Sakshi toward life — is the essential secret of religion.
See life as a witness, and then a new life begins. That new beginning leads to that Truth which is never born, never dies; to that Truth which is not a story; to that Truth which is not a dream. But if we remain lost in the dream and the story, we may never come to know it.
Very few fortunate ones know the Truth of life. Most live within life’s dream and are finished.
We must awaken from the dream, so that Truth may be attained.
Awaken from the story, from the play, from the acting — so that That may be known which is not acting, not play, not story. Its name is Atman; its name is Paramatman. Call it Truth or give it another name — to know it is to be free. For all bondage is dream-bondage.
No bondage is true bondage. All are false. Once this is seen, we realize: I was always free. I have always been free. And this recognition fills one with infinite bliss, with such light that no measure can be made of it. It is immeasurable — no way to gauge it, no way to say it in words, no way to express it. It can only be known and lived.
For living in that direction, remember these two sutras well: Life is a dream, and we are a witness. Only by a little experiment can its results be seen. See — experiment and understand. Until you do, whatever else you do, no clue to Truth will ever be found.
No clue to Truth ever comes by anything else — not by turning the rosary, not by chanting Ram-Ram, not by reading the Gita, not by reading the Koran, not by temple worship. No — by no other means has Truth ever been known, nor can it be. Only those know That who awaken — who become a Sakshi. And the very moment one becomes a witness, everything changes; all is new.
But this is a matter of experiment. No one else can do it for you; you must do it for yourself. This path no one can walk for you. On Girnar’s mountain you can ride up in a palanquin; but upon these summits of Truth there is no palanquin. There are no bearers to carry you. There you must trust your own feet. No one else’s feet can help. And there is no paved road either. There, the path is formed by walking.
The more we walk toward witnessing, the more the way is made. And once a small door of witnessing opens, little else remains to be done. That tiny doorway itself calls and draws, and one is pulled onward.
As if a man were to jump from a roof, and then ask: What shall I now do to reach the ground? We would say: Nothing at all. You have jumped; the rest the earth will do. It will pull you — its attraction, its gravitation. Your work is finished — the earth will do the rest.
Once a man jumps into witnessing, he no longer needs to do anything himself. That pull of the Paramatman — that gravitation — completes the work. So long as we stand inside the dream, it does not act. The moment we break the dream and leap, the pull of the Divine begins.
A man walks one step toward the Paramatman, and the Paramatman walks a thousand toward him. We take a little step, and That comes by a thousand.
But we do not move even a little away from our dream; instead we strengthen it. Lest it break, we build stone walls around it to keep it safe. The small dreamer wants a bigger dream. A small minister wants to be a great minister — a larger dream. The man in a hut wants the dream of a palace. The hut is a painful dream; the palace a pleasant dream.
All who dream painful dreams want pleasant ones. Those with small dreams want bigger dreams. One who dreams in Junagadh wants to sleep in Delhi and dream. He wants to go on dreaming, and to fortify the dream.
The stronger the dream, the farther we go from Truth. The dream must be broken, not strengthened. Yet we do all that strengthens it. And if someone tries to break our dream, we become angry.
An eminent English physician, Kenneth Walker, wrote a book and dedicated it to a fakir — to Gurdjieff. The words of dedication are dear to me: To George Gurdjieff, the disturber of my sleep. There are a few who break sleep — but the one who breaks our sleep never appears pleasant. He seems an enemy. We are lost in our dreams; someone comes to shake and awaken us. We feel like resisting, forbidding him: We are dreaming — why break our sleep, why shatter our dreams?
Therefore, in this world, those who break dreams have never been agreeable — neither Buddha, nor Socrates, nor Jesus. We are lost in our dreams, and these foolish souls come, awaken us, and break our sleep!
But those who have seen the world outside the dream feel in their being: Ah, if only you too would step outside your sleep and know That which is true. For those who have not known Truth have not known life. They have only squandered the opportunity in sleep, lost everything in unconsciousness.
Those who sleep lose. Those who awaken alone attain life’s treasure, life’s beauty, life’s auspiciousness.
Remember these two small sutras: Life is a dream, and man must become a witness. For the moment one becomes a witness, the dream breaks. And when the dream breaks, what remains is Truth.
These few things I have said for the search of Truth.
Now we will sit for the morning meditation for ten minutes, and then we shall part.
Osho's Commentary
I have just returned after seeing the gleaming temples of Girnar bathed in the sun. Seeing those temples, it occurred to me that the soul too has Girnar-like summits. Upon those inner peaks stand temples more lustrous still. Upon those temples shines an even more intense light of the Paramatman.
Yet we wander among outer temples and never find any trace of the inner ones. We spend life traveling the stone peaks, and never have any taste of the peaks of consciousness.
Just as there are footpaths that climb this mountain of Girnar, so too there are paths that ascend the summits of awareness. But there is a difference between those paths and these. In the realm of consciousness, no footprints remain. As birds fly across the sky, they leave no marks behind. Those who follow cannot track the path of those who have flown before. Each bird must fly by its own route.
So it is with the path of truth. No royal roads are laid there, no pre-made tracks. Each person must create his own way. There, the path appears only by walking. Before you walk, no path exists. If paths were ready-made, we could follow someone and arrive at those peaks. But there no way is ever constructed. One walks, and the footprints fade, are erased, and vanish into the sky.
Each person must discover his own way. Each person must hew his own path.
And yet, even about those ways, a few hints can be given. A few signals can be offered. In this final talk, I wish to speak only of such signals.
In the first sutra I said a few things; in the second sutra a few more; and today I will speak with you on the third sutra.
This third sutra is a little Indicative, symbolic. It needs a little understanding.
The first thing toward this indication: Whoever would journey toward truth must grasp the first signal. And that signal is: ordinarily, the life we take to be true is not true. And so long as we keep taking this life as truth, our eyes will never rise toward the direction of that which is true. Those who would travel toward truth must begin to regard this life as dreamlike — this is the first hint.
This outer expanse of ours, this long journey from birth to death — is it truth, or is it a dream? It is necessary to reflect a little on this.
Ordinarily we live taking it as truth. Rarely have we really considered. At night, when we dream, the dream too appears true while it is seen. Never in the dream do you realize that what you are seeing is false. The dream feels true. We dream again and again, day after day, throughout a lifetime. Yet while dreaming, it looks true. The thought never occurs that what we are seeing could be false.
Those who awaken to a greater truth say: the world we see with open eyes is also a dream.
A young prince, the only son of an emperor, fell ill and lay on his deathbed. Physicians said there was no hope. That very night, the lamp of his life would likely be extinguished.
The emperor kept vigil all night. Toward dawn, around five, he dozed off on his chair. As he slept, he forgot the son who lay ill before him, forgot the palace he sat in, forgot the kingdom he owned.
A dream began. In it he saw: I am lord of the entire earth. Twelve sons are mine — beautiful, bodies like gold, healthy, intelligent. A realm spread over the whole earth. Palaces of gold, stairways of diamonds. He is in supreme bliss.
Just then, in the outer world, the bedridden son drew his last breath. The wife began to beat her breast and cry. Her wailing broke the emperor’s sleep. He opened his eyes and rose. The golden palaces of the dream vanished, the twelve sons vanished, the vast imperial realm vanished. He saw that the son outside had died and his wife was weeping. But no tears came to his eyes; a smile came to his lips.
The wife said: Has your mind become deranged? Have you gone mad? Your son has died and you are laughing?
The emperor said: I am laughing for another reason. I am puzzled — for which sons should I weep? Just now I had twelve sons, golden palaces, a great empire. You cried, and all of that was snatched away — my kingdom, my sons. I opened my eyes and all was lost.
And this son — so long as my eyes were closed — was lost to me. I did not even remember I had a son, that he lay ill. While there were twelve sons, I had no memory of this one. And now that this son is visible, those twelve are lost. Now I am wondering: for whom shall I cry? For those twelve sons, those golden palaces, that great empire, or for this single child?
And I laughed because perhaps both are dreams — one dream of closed eyes, and one dream of open eyes. For when the eyes were closed, this was forgotten; and when the eyes opened, that which appeared behind closed eyes was forgotten.
There is a dream we see with eyes closed, and a dream we see with eyes open. Both are dreams.
Chuang Tzu was a sage in China. People always saw him laughing; never sad. One morning he rose and sat melancholy outside his hut. His friends and loved ones came and asked: We have never seen you sad. However dense the darkness in the sky, however many sorrowful clouds over life, we have always seen a smile upon your lips. Why are you sad today? Why anxious?
Chuang Tzu said: Today, truly, I have fallen into a puzzle for which no solution appears.
They said: We come to you with our problems, and every problem is resolved. You too have a problem! What is it?
Chuang Tzu said: I will tell you — but you too will not be able to solve it. And I think perhaps it will never be solved in this entire life.
Last night I dreamed. In the dream I saw that I had become a butterfly, and was fluttering from flower to flower in a garden.
People said: What problem is there in that? In dreams a man can be anything.
Chuang Tzu said: If that were all, it would be fine. But when I awoke, a question arose: If a man named Chuang Tzu can become a butterfly in a dream, is it not possible that now a butterfly has fallen asleep and is dreaming that she has become Chuang Tzu? Since morning I am troubled. If a man can be a butterfly in a dream, then a butterfly can be a man in a dream. And now I cannot decide: am I a butterfly dreaming that I am a man, or was I a man who dreamed he was a butterfly? And who will decide this? I am in great difficulty. Perhaps it will never be decided.
Chuang Tzu is right. What we see outside — might this too be a dream of open eyes? For when eyes close, it all dissolves, disappears, is gone. With closed eyes we enter another world. And what we see with open eyes seems of no more worth than a dream.
You have lived life — some for fifteen years, some forty, some fifty. If today you look back, did what happened in those fifty years truly happen, or did it happen in a dream? What difference would you discern? Looking back, what difference appears? Whatever happened — honor and insult — was it received in a dream, or in reality?
At the moment of death, what does it matter whether the life one lived was a story seen in a dream, or a life that truly occurred?
Before us, how many have lived upon this earth! In every particle of the ground where we sit, who knows how many people’s dust is mixed, how much ash there is. The whole earth is a vast cremation ground, where billions upon billions have lived and vanished. Today what difference does it make whether they existed or not? While they lived, life surely felt very true to them. Neither their lives remain, nor do they — all are lost in dust.
Today we sit alive; tomorrow we too shall vanish. A thousand years from today, people will walk upon our ashes. If a life ultimately becomes ash, how much meaning is there in its being true? A life that ends in loss — what worth does it have?
The same Chuang Tzu I spoke of once left a village at night. Outside the village, at a cremation ground, a human skull lay; his foot struck it. Another man would have kicked it away hard, considered it ill omen that a skull crossed his path. But Chuang Tzu was an extraordinary man. He lifted the skull, placed it upon his head, and begged forgiveness again and again: Forgive me — my foot touched you by mistake; it is dark, it is night, I could not see that you too were here.
It was a human skull — who knows when the man had died.
His friends said: What madness is this? Of whom are you asking forgiveness?
Chuang Tzu said: It is only a matter of time. If this man were alive today, I would be in trouble.
They said: But this man is not alive now.
Chuang Tzu said: You do not know — this is not the commoners’ cremation ground; this is where the great of the village are brought. Cremation grounds too are separate: the poor to one, the rich to another. Differences persist in life, and even after death they maintain them!
Chuang Tzu said: This is the skull of a great man, not of an ordinary one. If he were here today, I would be in trouble.
They said: But he is not — where is the question of trouble?
Chuang Tzu said: No, I must ask forgiveness. For many reasons I will ask forgiveness of this skull; I will keep it with me.
He took the skull with him and each morning, upon rising, asked its pardon. Friends urged him: You will go mad keeping this skull near you. What need is there to beg forgiveness?
Chuang Tzu said: There are many reasons. The greatest is that this is the skull of a great man.
Friends said: All skulls turn to dust — of the small and of the great. The earth makes no distinction as to who was big and who small. And when the great and the small all merge into dust, is not being big or small perhaps a dream that the earth erases, making everything alike? Being big or small does not seem real; it seems like some fancy of a dream.
Chuang Tzu said: I keep it near me so I remember my own skull — today or tomorrow it too will lie upon some cremation ground. Passersby will strike it with their feet, and I will be able to do nothing. If this is to be the end, why be angry today if someone’s foot touches my head? If it is going to be, then it has already been.
Those who know will say: What is to be has already happened. If this life is to end in dust, then it is already fallen into dust. It is but a brief reverie, a fleeting dream, in which all seems fine.
If we look closely at life, we will see that all is lost, all returns to earth. Where everything becomes dust, how much reason is there to take it as true?
But we say: A dream lasts but a moment at night; life lasts seventy, eighty, a hundred years. Yet if we open our eyes a little wider, even a hundred years seem no longer than a moment in this vast universe. This earth has existed for some four billion years. This sun for around six billion — and even this sun is a newcomer. Those other stars are far more ancient; their number is impossible to estimate. This sun is the latest guest — six billion years, a very new arrival. The stars beyond are immeasurably older.
What meaning has a hundred years in this immense flow of time? None at all. The moon and stars have no notion of when a hundred years have passed. They pass as quickly as the ticking of a clock, as our seconds pass. In this vast current of life, how long is a hundred years? Perhaps no length at all.
I have heard: A man died — a great miser. All his life he hoarded money. At death he had read a book that said: in heaven, every single coin is worth billions upon billions. The man had collected rupees all his life. Even while dying he thought: If I can find even a single coin in heaven, it will be marvelous; it is worth billions upon billions! As soon as he opened his eyes in heaven, he began to search for a coin. The gods asked: What are you doing?
He said: I want a coin, only one. I have heard that a single coin in heaven is worth billions upon billions.
The gods said: Wait a moment, we will give it to you.
Instead of a moment, hours passed, days passed. He said: Sirs, when will that one moment be over?
They said: You do not realize, in that heaven where one coin is worth billions upon billions, a single moment too is worth billions upon billions of years. Wait a moment — we will give it to you.
There the measures — the measures of life — are vast. In such endless scales, what meaning is there in a hundred years? How endless is that measure! To reckon it is extremely difficult. Since when has time been flowing? How long will it flow?
Bertrand Russell wrote a small story. A priest of a church slept one night and dreamed he reached the gate of heaven. The gate was so immense there was no trace of its beginning or end. He raised his head and kept looking, but there was no end to be seen. He knocked loudly upon the gate. But what sound can the knock of a tiny man make upon such a vast door? In that infinite stillness, no sound arose. He beat his head in despair and was deeply upset. He had always thought: I pray day and night — when I go, God will be waiting with arms outstretched to embrace me. But here the door is closed. He bangs with all his might, and no sound is heard — the door is too great.
After much shouting and clamor, a small window in the gate opened and someone peered out. The priest panicked and slipped into the crack of the doorway. For those eyes were too intense, and not one or two — thousands upon thousands of eyes. Each eye so piercing that he trembled. He cried: Please withdraw within and speak from there — do not look at me. Each eye seems a sun. He said: O God, I have had your darshan — great grace!
But the one peering out said: I am not God, I am the doorkeeper here. And where have you hidden? I cannot see you at all. How tiny you are — where have you come from? Even that thousand-eyed one cannot find him; he is that small. Deep humility arises in the priest: I thought God would meet me at the door; this is only the gate’s porter.
The priest asked: Did you not know I was coming?
The doorkeeper said: A creature like you is seen here for the first time in eternity. Where have you come from?
He said: From Earth.
The doorkeeper said: I have never heard this name — where is this Earth?
Then his breath caught, his heart began to stop. If the very name of Earth is unknown, how will they have heard of Christianity upon the Earth? And of Christianity, the Catholic sect? And of that sect, a church in such-and-such village — how will he know? And the priest of that church — how will there be any account, when he says he has heard the name Earth for the first time? Where is this Earth?
So the priest said: There is a solar family, the family of a sun; in it, Earth is a planet.
The doorkeeper said: You have no idea how many suns there are. Which sun? What number? What is the index number of your sun? Perhaps if you can tell the number of your sun, some search can be done to find which solar family you come from.
He said: A number! We know only one sun.
Still he said: We will try. We will investigate. Perhaps something can be found. But it is very difficult.
In panic the priest awoke, drenched in sweat. For the first time he felt: In this vast universe, where is any standing for Earth at all?
How tiny the Earth is — yet it appears so large to us. The Sun is sixty thousand times bigger than the Earth, and even the Sun is a small star. Those stars we see in the sky are far larger than the Sun, but appear small because of distance. A ray from the Sun takes ten minutes to reach the Earth — and the ray’s journey is very swift. The Sun’s ray moves at 186,000 miles in one second. At that speed, it still takes ten minutes to arrive. The Sun is far — and yet not very far. The nearest star beyond the Sun sends a ray that takes four years to reach Earth at 186,000 miles per second. And that is the nearest.
There are stars whose rays take a hundred years, two hundred years, a thousand, millions, billions. There are stars from which rays set out when the Earth was forming, four billion years ago, and have still not reached us. Beyond them are stars, say the scientists, whose rays will never arrive.
In such an immensity, what value has the Earth? And upon this Earth, what value have we? Yet we live assuming our own value. The more we assume it, the more restless we become. The more we assume it, the more troubled, the more tormented we are. And the more we become agitated by our presumed importance, the more slender grows the possibility of the vision of truth.
Truth can be seen only by those who are quiet.
And the first sutra of quietude is: Do not take the life you consider true as truth; do not grant it more value than a dream.
The day life appears dreamlike, that day the mind becomes quiet.
So long as life appears true, the mind cannot be at rest. Then petty things have immense value. We take dreams to be real and are upset. At night a man sees a ghost in a dream; his eyes open, yet the chest keeps pounding. The eyes have opened, sleep is gone — but the dream felt so true that the breath still trembles with fear.
We even take a play to be real. Go to a cinema hall and watch people — how many are wiping tears with their handkerchiefs. On the screen nothing is happening except the flow of electricity, the dance of light. We know well that behind it is a blank screen. Upon that white cloth, electrical beams run and images form. Someone weeps, someone laughs, someone is afraid. We even take the play to be true.
And the first sutra of the search for truth is: what we call true we must know as play — only then can one arrive at truth.
Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar, a great thinker of Bengal, once went to a play. An actor in the play is hounding a woman. He torments her in every way. One night he leaps into her house in secret and catches her. Vidyasagar could not bear it. He forgot it was a play. He took off his shoe, leapt upon the stage, and began to thrash the man with it. The audience was stunned — what is happening?
And what did the actor do? He took Vidyasagar’s shoe in his hands, saluted it, and said to the audience: Never in my life have I received such a great award! That my acting would be taken as reality by such an intelligent man as Vidyasagar — I had never imagined! If my acting can be so true, I am blessed. I will preserve this shoe with care. I have received many prizes, but never such a great one!
Vidyasagar must have been deeply embarrassed, returned quietly to his seat, and later said to people: Strange indeed — the play seemed true to me; I completely forgot that what I was seeing was only a play!
If even a play seems true, we become disturbed. And if life begins to seem a play, we become calm. The more life appears dreamlike, the more peaceful one becomes — for what cause is there for unrest in a dream? Then if poverty comes — it is a dream; if wealth comes — it is a dream. If illness comes — a dream; if health — a dream. If honor — a dream; if insult — a dream. Then what cause remains for turmoil, suffering, tension?
All tension arises because life appears terribly true, terribly factual. Life is utterly unfactual. Life is a play. The clearer this becomes, the more the mind begins to be at peace. The very causes of disturbance fade away.
In a village of Japan a fakir was staying — a very handsome youth, widely revered there. Everyone honored him. But one day the situation changed. The whole village turned against him. They stormed his hut, threw stones, set it on fire.
The fakir asked: What is the matter? What is going on?
They hurled a small child into his lap and said: You ask what the matter is? A girl of this village has given birth. This child is yours. She has said you are the father. We were gravely mistaken to honor you. We erred in building you a hut, arranging for you to live here. We never imagined you would prove so characterless. This boy is yours.
The child began to cry. The fakir soothed him. He said to the people: Is it so? Is the case such that the child is mine? Now that you say so, it must be right.
They cursed him, burned his hut, scattered his things, and left.
At noon the fakir went begging in the village with the child. Perhaps in no village of the world has a fakir begged in this way. The little child wept. The fakir stood at each door, begging. People shut their doors. Who would give him alms?
He wandered the whole village — people surrounded him, abusing, hurling insults, throwing stones. Protecting the child, he came to the house whose daughter had given birth. He cried out before that door: It is understandable if I do not receive food, but at least let this small child have milk. My fault may be mine, but what fault is there of this little child?
A crowd stood at the door. The girl’s heart melted; she took hold of her father’s feet and said: I made a mistake. I falsely named the fakir. I do not even know him. The child’s father is another. To save him I took the fakir’s name. I thought you would scold and return; I did not think it would go so far. Forgive me.
The father was astonished. He came and fell at the fakir’s feet, and tried to snatch the child from his hands.
The fakir asked: What is this? Why are you seizing my son?
The father said: He is not your son. We made a mistake. This child is not yours — he belongs to someone else.
The fakir said: Is it so? The child is not mine? What do you say! In the morning you yourself said he was mine.
The people said: Are you mad? Why did you not say in the morning that the child was not yours?
The fakir said: What difference does it make, in this dream, whose child it is? What difference does it make? He must be someone’s. And when you so many say so, you must be right. And what would have been the difference? You had already burned one hut, already abused a man. If I had said he was not mine, you would have burned another hut, cursed another man. What difference would it make?
They said: Do you care nothing for your honor?
The fakir said: From the day it became clear that the outer is a dream, there has been no difference between honor and insult. From that day, all is equal. In a dream, what difference can there be between honor and insult? If it were reality, there could be. If not, what difference?
Napoleon had been defeated, and was confined like an ordinary prisoner upon a small island named St Helena. He had been emperor, conqueror — then defeated, and caged on a tiny isle.
The next morning he went out walking. His physician was with him. They went along a narrow path through a field. A grass-cutting woman with a bundle upon her head approached along the path. The doctor shouted: Hey grass-woman, move off the path! Do you not know who is coming? Napoleon is coming!
Napoleon grasped his friend’s hand and pulled him down: Fool, the dream has changed. Those days are gone when we told people, Move — Napoleon is coming. Now we should step aside. The dream has changed, dear — stand aside. Those times are gone when we told mountains, Move — and mountains had to move. Now we must step aside even for a woman bearing grass.
Napoleon spoke with great understanding. He said: The dream has changed. That scene is over; another is running.
The doctor was grieved to see Napoleon yield the way. Napoleon laughed. For one to whom all appears as dream, what remains to cry over?
Napoleon, defeated or victorious, remains the same. And saying that all is a dream, he bore witness to a rare truth.
When outer life begins to appear dreamlike, inwardly one begins to be at peace.
Then what difference is there between defeat and victory? Then honor and insult are one. Life and death one. What unrest then? What tension? A profound peace descends within. That peace is the footpath to those summits where the temples of truth stand.
By the path of peace one reaches the peaks of truth. And on the path of peace only those can walk who see life as dream. Those to whom life appears a solid truth can never walk the ways of peace — that is the first thing.
Connected to this is the second: When life begins to appear dreamlike to a person, what will his conduct be? If life becomes unfactual to him, how will he live? What will be his formula? What do we do with a dream? We look at it; nothing more can be done.
One to whom the whole of life appears as a dream becomes a seer — a Sakshi. He will watch, and do nothing. He will see life as it is, and simply watch it unfold.
The dream is the base; witnessing is the fruition. The dream is the ground; Sakshi is the edifice raised upon it.
When someone knows life as a dream, he remains a witness, a seer. Beyond being a watcher, life has for him no other meaning. He lives as a spectator. And when someone begins to live as a spectator, a revolution takes place within. That revolution is the religious revolution. It does not happen by studying scriptures; it happens by becoming a witness. It does not happen by memorizing worn-out formulae; it happens when witnessing is born in life. One who lives as a Sakshi ascends those peaks where the vision of truth is certain.
So the second sutra is Sakshi-bhava — the state of witnessing. Live as a spectator. As though upon a great screen a story is running, and we are watching.
Try it for a single day, and life will be different. Resolve for one day: From six in the morning to six in the evening we will live as spectators, and we will watch life as though a story is unfolding upon a screen. On the very first day, something new will begin to happen.
Try it today — a small experiment: We will see life as if upon a vast canvas, a great screen, a story is running, and we will only be spectators. Try for just one day. After that, you will never again be the same person you were. After that experiment, you will be another man.
Try a small experiment in witnessing. Go home today, and when the wife begins to scold, or the husband grabs your neck, watch as if a witness were watching. When, walking the road, you see people, shops, the office world — remember: as though you have entered a play and all around a drama is going on. Keep this remembrance for one day, and tomorrow you will be another person.
The day is long. Even if someone tries for an hour, a turn will come in his life. The man will never again be what he was an hour earlier. For in that one hour what he sees will be astonishing; in that one hour a transformation will happen within — an alchemy will change — and new points of consciousness will be born.
For one hour, watch thus. If the wife abuses you, if the boss insults you, watch as if you are seeing only a play. Then see what happens. Nothing will happen except laughter. Only laughter will arise! A smile will spread within, and the mind will become light.
Yesterday that same insult would have weighed upon you like a stone upon the chest, would have generated poison within, would have churned your life and created unrest. Life would have become a reaction, a storm, a gale.
That same insult today will fall — and if the witness is present within, it will fizzle out like an ember dropped into water and turn to ash. You will go on looking. And you will be amazed: Yesterday this very thing pained me, and today — what has happened? Yesterday it hurt so much, and today — what has changed? Today you have changed.
The world remains the same — it always remains the same. Only the person changes. And when the person changes, the world changes.
The first sutra: Life is a dream.
The second: In that dream, live as a witness.
These two sutras are the essence of sadhana. Life is a dream, and in the dream live as a Sakshi. And what happens in the life of one who begins to live as a witness in the dream is difficult to say in words. It can only be known by doing. It can be grasped only by experiment, by experience — what happens then? Try a little and see.
Drop the worry of going to temples. Life itself becomes the temple if you stand as witness. Drop the concern of going to mountains and the Himalayas. Life becomes a tirtha here and now, if you become a witness.
Wherever one becomes a witness, there a pilgrimage begins, there a new event starts.
Socrates was near death; the hemlock was being prepared outside. He lay down. His friends were weeping. Socrates asked them: Why do you weep?
They said: If we do not weep now, then when? You are near death.
Socrates said: Fools — you should have wept the day I was born. When birth began, death began. Now you weep so late? When the story begins, its end arrives with it. When a film starts upon the screen, know that the ending will soon come; the end is hidden in the beginning.
Fools, said Socrates: The day I was born, we understood that I had died — the matter was finished. Why weep now? And if you must weep, weep for yourselves. Why weep for me when I myself am not weeping?
He said: Go quickly, see whether the poison is ready. Socrates himself rose and went out. He said to the one grinding the hemlock: Time is slipping away; it is to be given at six — is it not ready yet?
The man said: I have given poison to many, never have I seen one so mad. We want to delay a little, so you may live a little longer. What hurry is there to die?
Socrates said: There is no hurry. But I have seen much of life; now I intend to see death as well. I have seen the dream of life — now I wish to watch the new story of death. That is why there is eagerness — let this film end and the new one begin. So I ask, Hurry up.
They gave him the poison. He drank it as if it were being given to someone else. Drinking, he kept talking; then lay down and said: My feet are becoming cold. It seems they are growing numb.
Friends said: Your feet are growing numb — you are growing numb.
Socrates said: How can I grow numb? I am knowing that the feet are growing numb. I am still the same. Then he said: The poison has reached my knees, now to my waist. My limbs feel as if they are not there. I cannot feel them.
People said: What are you saying? You are growing cold.
Socrates said: I am entirely the same as I was before the poison. Only this much is known — the limbs are growing cold, the limbs are going. The limb-story is ending. Perhaps another story will begin now. I am the same — I am still seeing.
One who has seen all his life can also see death. And one who can see death — how can he die?
He who attains the state of witness attains Amrit — the deathless.
Swami Ram went to America — a very strange man. Once in a while a few such strange ones are born; they give some color to the world. If someone abused him, he would stand and laugh, then say to friends: Today in the market, Ram was thoroughly abused.
People would say: Ram? Not you?
Swami Ram would say: Me? People do not know me — how will they abuse me? They know Ram; they abuse Ram. And while Ram was being abused, we sat within and laughed silently: Good, son — heap the abuses!
Swami Ram said: In one village, Ram fell into a pit. We laughed heartily — well fallen! If you walk without looking, you will fall. People asked: Of whom do you speak? He said: Of this Ram.
And who are you?
He said: I am only the one who sees. This story runs upon Ram; I am seeing. It is Ram’s life; I am watching.
This art of seeing — this technique of witnessing — this knack of becoming a Sakshi toward life — is the essential secret of religion.
See life as a witness, and then a new life begins. That new beginning leads to that Truth which is never born, never dies; to that Truth which is not a story; to that Truth which is not a dream. But if we remain lost in the dream and the story, we may never come to know it.
Very few fortunate ones know the Truth of life. Most live within life’s dream and are finished.
We must awaken from the dream, so that Truth may be attained.
Awaken from the story, from the play, from the acting — so that That may be known which is not acting, not play, not story. Its name is Atman; its name is Paramatman. Call it Truth or give it another name — to know it is to be free. For all bondage is dream-bondage.
No bondage is true bondage. All are false. Once this is seen, we realize: I was always free. I have always been free. And this recognition fills one with infinite bliss, with such light that no measure can be made of it. It is immeasurable — no way to gauge it, no way to say it in words, no way to express it. It can only be known and lived.
For living in that direction, remember these two sutras well: Life is a dream, and we are a witness. Only by a little experiment can its results be seen. See — experiment and understand. Until you do, whatever else you do, no clue to Truth will ever be found.
No clue to Truth ever comes by anything else — not by turning the rosary, not by chanting Ram-Ram, not by reading the Gita, not by reading the Koran, not by temple worship. No — by no other means has Truth ever been known, nor can it be. Only those know That who awaken — who become a Sakshi. And the very moment one becomes a witness, everything changes; all is new.
But this is a matter of experiment. No one else can do it for you; you must do it for yourself. This path no one can walk for you. On Girnar’s mountain you can ride up in a palanquin; but upon these summits of Truth there is no palanquin. There are no bearers to carry you. There you must trust your own feet. No one else’s feet can help. And there is no paved road either. There, the path is formed by walking.
The more we walk toward witnessing, the more the way is made. And once a small door of witnessing opens, little else remains to be done. That tiny doorway itself calls and draws, and one is pulled onward.
As if a man were to jump from a roof, and then ask: What shall I now do to reach the ground? We would say: Nothing at all. You have jumped; the rest the earth will do. It will pull you — its attraction, its gravitation. Your work is finished — the earth will do the rest.
Once a man jumps into witnessing, he no longer needs to do anything himself. That pull of the Paramatman — that gravitation — completes the work. So long as we stand inside the dream, it does not act. The moment we break the dream and leap, the pull of the Divine begins.
A man walks one step toward the Paramatman, and the Paramatman walks a thousand toward him. We take a little step, and That comes by a thousand.
But we do not move even a little away from our dream; instead we strengthen it. Lest it break, we build stone walls around it to keep it safe. The small dreamer wants a bigger dream. A small minister wants to be a great minister — a larger dream. The man in a hut wants the dream of a palace. The hut is a painful dream; the palace a pleasant dream.
All who dream painful dreams want pleasant ones. Those with small dreams want bigger dreams. One who dreams in Junagadh wants to sleep in Delhi and dream. He wants to go on dreaming, and to fortify the dream.
The stronger the dream, the farther we go from Truth. The dream must be broken, not strengthened. Yet we do all that strengthens it. And if someone tries to break our dream, we become angry.
An eminent English physician, Kenneth Walker, wrote a book and dedicated it to a fakir — to Gurdjieff. The words of dedication are dear to me: To George Gurdjieff, the disturber of my sleep. There are a few who break sleep — but the one who breaks our sleep never appears pleasant. He seems an enemy. We are lost in our dreams; someone comes to shake and awaken us. We feel like resisting, forbidding him: We are dreaming — why break our sleep, why shatter our dreams?
Therefore, in this world, those who break dreams have never been agreeable — neither Buddha, nor Socrates, nor Jesus. We are lost in our dreams, and these foolish souls come, awaken us, and break our sleep!
But those who have seen the world outside the dream feel in their being: Ah, if only you too would step outside your sleep and know That which is true. For those who have not known Truth have not known life. They have only squandered the opportunity in sleep, lost everything in unconsciousness.
Those who sleep lose. Those who awaken alone attain life’s treasure, life’s beauty, life’s auspiciousness.
Remember these two small sutras: Life is a dream, and man must become a witness. For the moment one becomes a witness, the dream breaks. And when the dream breaks, what remains is Truth.
These few things I have said for the search of Truth.
Now we will sit for the morning meditation for ten minutes, and then we shall part.
Meditation too means the same — Sakshi.