Neti Neti Satya Ki Khoj #5

A tree is visible; its roots are not. The roots are hidden in the earth. But that does not reduce the value of the unseen roots. In fact, the visible tree depends entirely on those invisible roots. And whoever wastes time caring only for the tree and ignores the roots, his tree is bound to dry up. That tree will bear neither leaves nor flowers nor fruit. The life of the tree is hidden in its unseen roots.

Whatever is truly important in life is hidden. What appears is only the outer shell. What remains unmanifest is the inner life-breath.

The body is visible because it is the outer shell. What is within the body is not visible. But the value of what is unseen does not diminish for that reason. Rather, precisely because it is not visible, its search becomes all the more necessary.

Let it not happen that we mistake the visible for the truth and end there. Let us not make the error of taking the visible as the whole and stop. What is not visible also exists. Not being visible means only this much: it does not appear to ordinary eyes. But those who cultivate a little inner vision, a little discrimination, a little understanding—things begin to be seen by them too.

Thoughts arise within you. If your head were cut open, if the nerves of your head were severed, nowhere in them would thoughts be found. If a brain were sliced and examined in a laboratory, thoughts would not be found anywhere. And a scientist would say that thoughts cannot be found by searching. Yet all of us know that thoughts exist. Thoughts are not visible, but we experience them. We cannot show them to another either, yet inwardly we know they are.

They cannot be captured in a laboratory. That does not prove they do not exist; it only proves that the instruments being used are too gross to catch what is very subtle. Even so, some experiments are underway, and it seems likely that we may soon develop the capacity to capture thought.

An American university conducted a small experiment that astonished thoughtful people around the world. They seated a man before an extremely sensitive camera and told him to think with great intensity on a single object. The film loaded in that camera was highly sensitive. The hope was that if an idea were sustained with great intensity, perhaps the film might catch the imprint of that thought. The man focused his mind intensely on a knife. And, astonishingly, the camera’s film captured the outline of a knife. The subtle waves of thought in his mind were also caught by the sensitive camera. Until then a thought had never been seen. A first photograph of a thought was obtained.

In Soviet Russia there was a great scientist, Fayadev. And in a country like Russia, which places little faith in the subtlest things, Fayadev conducted an experiment—transmission of thought across a thousand miles. He sat in Moscow and transmitted a stream of thought to Tiflis, a thousand miles away, without any mechanical intermediary. In a park in Tiflis, near bench number ten, a few people were hiding. Friends phoned Fayadev in Moscow to say, “A man is sitting on bench number ten. If you can, make him fall asleep by sending thought from Moscow.”

Fayadev focused his attention in Moscow and sent suggestions of sleep to the man—sleep, sleep... A thousand miles away, by mind alone. Within three minutes the man fell asleep.

But it could also be that the man was tired and fell asleep anyway. The friends hiding nearby phoned again: “The man has fallen asleep, but that may be coincidence. If you can wake him exactly within five minutes, we will consider that he was affected by your thoughts.” Fayadev then sent the suggestion: “Wake up within five minutes—wake up, wake up...” The man sleeping a thousand miles away opened his eyes after five minutes and looked around startled, as if someone had called him.

The friends came to him and asked, “Why did you look around so startled?”

The man said, “I’m very puzzled. I suddenly sat here and first it seemed as if someone were saying to me, ‘Sleep, sleep, sleep.’ I thought perhaps I was tired and my own mind was telling me to sleep, and I fell asleep. But just now I distinctly heard, ‘Wake up, wake up; wake up within five minutes.’ I’m astonished—who is speaking?”

Fayadev conducted further experiments and provided scientific evidence for the transmission of thought, which itself is not visible.

Thought is not visible, but thought exists. The soul is even more invisible, yet it too exists. And those who descend into the depths of meditation begin, in a certain sense, to see the soul as well. It too can be seen. Roots are not visible, but if you dig a pit around the tree, the roots all around can be seen. The soul is not visible, but the person who tries to dig a little within the body—who tries to separate out the consciousness that is distinct from the body—begins to see it. Just as when you dig a trench around a tree, the soil separates and the roots begin to appear distinctly.

There was a Muslim mystic, Sheikh Farid. He was staying in a village. Many came to have darshan of his feet. One man asked Farid, “I have heard that when Jesus was crucified, he kept smiling. How is it possible for a man to smile while being crucified? And I have heard that when Mansoor’s hands and feet were cut off, he was laughing. This seems impossible! Mansoor’s eyes were gouged out and not a trace of sorrow came to his face—how can this be?”

Farid picked up a coconut lying nearby, an offering at his feet, handed it to the man and said, “Go and break this and bring back the kernel intact.”

The man said, “What about the answer to my question?”

Farid said, “This is the answer I’m giving you. Look at this coconut—what is it like? Is it raw?”

The man said, “It is raw.”

Farid said, “Can you break it and bring back the inner kernel intact?”

The man replied, “A bit difficult. It’s raw; the shell and the kernel are stuck together. If I break the shell, the kernel will also break.”

Farid said, “Leave this coconut.” He picked up another, a dried coconut, and gave it to him. “Do you see this?”

The man said, “The kernel can be brought back intact. This coconut is mature; it’s dry.”

Farid said, “But why can the kernel of a dry coconut be saved intact?”

The man said, “It’s obvious. The shell and the kernel have separated. There is space between them. The outer shell can be broken; the inner kernel will remain whole.”

“So,” Farid said, “that is the answer to your question. Some people remain stuck to the shell of the body. If the body is hurt, they too are hurt. Some separate the body’s shell from themselves a little. When such a person’s body is cut, within there is no pain, no sorrow. That Jesus, that Mansoor, they were like a dry coconut. And you are a wet coconut—this is what I want to tell you.”

Only the body is visible—because what is within is so joined, so completely fused, that we do not know. If we could put a little distance between the two and look, that which is unseen could also be seen.

And as for why such value is given to it: value belongs to it alone; that is why. The body has no intrinsic value. What value can garments have? The lasting has value; the temporary does not. Garments have no value apart from the wearer’s. The body likewise has no value apart from the indweller within. Who knows how many bodies that inner resident has assumed, and how many it has already discarded! His journey is very long.

But we do not recognize him. We recognize only the garments and take them to be the whole. Those who know will say that value belongs only to what is hidden within; that alone is the real truth. What is visible outside is a shell; it will change—and it changes every day.

Perhaps you do not know: is the body with which you were born the same body you now have? Are you the same as the tiny embryo that arose in your mother’s womb? That little piece, that small cluster of cells—could even a microscope show that it is you? Where is the body that was yours in your mother’s womb? And when you were born—are you the same now?

The body changes every moment, as the Ganges flows every moment. Scientists say that within seven years the whole body is replaced; everything becomes new. A man lives seventy years; the body changes ten times. The body is in constant flow; it is a river.

But within, there is something that does not flow. Within, there is something that remains the same—what was yesterday, what was the day before, what will be tomorrow and the day after. You were a child and became young. But did you change? If you yourself had changed, even the thought “I was once a child” could not arise. The memory “I was a child” is proof and testimony that I was the same “I.” When I was a child, I knew the body to be a child’s; when I became young, I knew; when I grow old, I will know. Those who know more deeply will know even at the moment of death: I am the same; the body is dying.

Alexander returned from India. When he had set out for India, his friends in Greece had said, “You will bring many things from India—bring back a sannyasin too. True renunciates are found in India since ancient times. Outside India all are exported—from India—monks who have gone out, or winds that have blown from here, or seeds of thought that have spread.” His friends had said, “Bring a sannyasin back as well. We want to see what a sannyasin is.”

When Alexander, having plundered much, was returning, he halted in a village in Punjab. He remembered and sent word into the village: “Find a sannyasin, if there is one. I want to take him with me with royal honor.”

The villagers said, “There is a sannyasin, but taking him will be very difficult.”

Alexander said, “Do not worry about that. What difficulty could I have in taking a mere sannyasin, a fakir? I will take him. What strength could a poor ascetic have?”

The villagers laughed. They said, “Perhaps you do not know what strength a sannyasin has. You will not be able to take him. It is easy to kill a sannyasin, but hard to move him an inch.”

Alexander could not understand. A believer in the sword, how could he comprehend such talk? To believers in the sword, a sannyasin never makes sense—and never will. Alexander, sword bared, went to find the sannyasin by the river. Two soldiers went ahead and told the ascetic, “The great Alexander is coming to see you.”

The sannyasin said, “The great Alexander—does he himself think he is great?”

They said, “Certainly. He has set out into the world to prove his greatness.”

The sannyasin laughed. “Tell that madman: the truly great never set out to prove they are great. Whoever goes to prove his greatness knows he is small; that is why he tries to prove he is great.”

Hearing this, Alexander was filled with rage. He drew his sword and said, “You must come with me; I command it.”

The sannyasin said, “Are you mad? We stopped obeying anyone long ago; that is why we are sannyasins. We do not obey anyone. Those who obey are other people. We live by our own delight, as the winds blow by their own delight. We move in our own way. Commands do not apply to us. You do not know how to talk to sannyasins.”

Alexander said, “I am not prepared to hear this. I have never heard my command defied. There is only one meaning to a broken command: this sword will sever your neck.”

The sannyasin said, “Madman, you do not know that the neck you speak of severing—we have long since known ourselves as separate from it. And so now, whether you separate it from us or not, it is all the same. If you cut off the neck, just as you will see the head fall to the ground, so will we see the head fall to the ground. We will see it, and you will see it. But do not imagine you will cut me. What you can cut, that is not me. And this—this is precisely the experience for which I set out in life. That experience is complete.”

Alexander said, on his return to Greece, “I met a man whom people call a sannyasin. But I could not have my way with him, because he did not fear death.”

And over the one who does not fear death, no one can have any sway. We are cowed because we fear death. And why do we fear death? Because we take what appears—what is mortal—as the whole. Therefore death frightens us.

But those who discover that which is unseen, that which is immortal, rise above death.

You ask why it has such value? Because that alone is life, that alone is nectar, that alone is truth. This body has no real value. The body has as much value as a house has to its owner. But the owner of the house? The value of the owner is of another order. Many fools sell the owner and save the house. Many fools take the house to be everything and forget themselves.

Swami Ram had gone to Japan. In Tokyo, a very large mansion caught fire. Swami Ram happened to be passing that way and stood among the crowd. A priceless palace was burning in flames. Hundreds of people were running in and out, carrying things out. The owner stood outside, unconscious; people were supporting him. Safes were being dragged out. Costly garments were brought out. Expensive furniture was carried out. Priceless paintings were removed. When all the goods were out, people came to the owner and asked, “If anything precious remains, tell us. We can go inside once more. Soon the flames will take over completely. It will then be impossible to enter. If anything valuable is left, tell us.”

The owner said, “My only son—the one who owned all this—where is he?”

They said, “We made a mistake. We got busy saving the goods, and the owner’s only son—the owner of all the goods—remained inside and burned. Now we have brought out his body. Now we weep that we saved your goods in vain, because the one for whom the goods were meant is gone.”

Swami Ram wrote in his diary: “Today I witnessed a most astonishing, but very true, event. I saw a house in which the owner burned and the goods were saved. And seeing this, I concluded that the same is happening throughout the world. Everyone lets the owner burn and saves the goods. Because the goods are visible, and the owner is not.”

But what is not seen also exists. And what is seen rests upon it. The unseen is the foundation. The seen is not the foundation. The visible edifice stands on the invisible base. It seems very strange that what is not visible should be the foundation. We think the visible is the foundation. But life is a great riddle; here things are very upside down. From these reversals everything is made.

Pick up a stone and look at it—have you ever thought it is made of things that are invisible? Ask a scientist now: the atom is not visible. Ask him, “What is a stone made of?” He will say, “Of atoms; of aggregates of atoms.”

What a mad fellow, you might say! If atoms are not visible, how can their aggregate be visible? No atom is seen—yet this stone is only a heap of atoms. What is visible is nothing but a collection of unseen particles. Not a single particle is visible, and yet the pile of invisible particles is visible.

Have you noticed at the time of Holi? It is approaching. Children light a fire and whirl a torch swiftly. Have you seen someone whirl a flaming stick? If you spin it fast, a circle of fire appears. Take a torch in your hand and whirl it quickly—a ring appears. Is that ring really there? No, it only appears. There is only the torch, spinning fast, and a circle appears. The circle is not there, but it seems to be. It seems because the torch is moving so fast that we do not see the empty spaces between. Because it whirls so quickly, it becomes a ring.

Scientists say atoms revolve so fast that they are not seen. But because of their rapid motion, the stone appears to us. The whole world appears. And the things it is composed of are not visible things.

Not only the soul—everything in the world is made of unseen elements, yet appears visible. This is the wonder.

We call “matter” that which is visible. Perhaps you do not know—those who know now say matter is not; there is nothing like “matter.”

Nietzsche said sixty or seventy, perhaps eighty years ago: “God is dead.” But God did not die. Now all of science says: “Matter is dead”—matter has died; there is no such thing as matter in the world. What appears is an illusion. But we will say, “What we see—how can that be an illusion?”

Look at the sky: you see stars; perhaps you do not know that where a star appears to you, there may be no star at all. It only appears. You will ask, “If it is not there, how does it appear?” It appears because once there was a star there. Where you see the star, it may have been sixty years ago. In sixty years it has moved far ahead. The ray of light that left sixty years ago has only now reached our earth; thus we see it there. It may have perished in the meantime, or not; but it appears. It will keep appearing for sixty years more.

The whole sky is false in that sense. Where stars appear, there may be none. And where they are, you do not see them. And where they are, they will never be seen there. They will always appear where they are not—because their light takes years to reach us.

Life is very astonishing. What we call matter, which appears to us, is also not. This body that seems so solid is also a heap of unseen particles.

And within it, the most important and most mysterious thing hidden is consciousness—that upon which the whole play rests; it is utterly invisible.

The more you search for it, the more it recedes—because who will search for it? You yourself are that.

With a pair of tongs you can grasp anything. But try to grasp those same tongs with the same tongs—then it becomes very difficult. They cannot be grasped, because how can the tongs grasp themselves? And when someone goes in search of the soul, a great difficulty arises. The soul can see everything else; how can it see itself? Thus the difficulty begins.

But the soul can be experienced. It has been experienced; it can be experienced even today. But only by those who do not stop at seeing, who do not stop at the seen, who engage in the search for the unseen.

In these three days we have spoken of a few hints, a few pointers, a few sutras concerning the search for that truth. Value lies in what is unseen—therefore we speak of it. On the day this body falls, only that remains which is unseen. Therefore it is very necessary, very useful, to speak of it. It is very necessary, very useful, to seek it. Blessed are those who engage in its search. And unfortunate are those who stop at what is visible and end there.

I am certainly opposed to that restraint which a person forces upon himself. I am very much in favor of restraint, but of the kind that comes naturally as a result of understanding.

It is helpful to understand these two things clearly.
First, there is a kind of restraint that a person imposes upon himself. Inside, something is happening; on the surface, the opposite appears. Most “self-restrained” people are of this kind. Inside there is violence; outwardly the person becomes nonviolent—he strains his drinking water, avoids eating at night, makes all sorts of arrangements, and thinks, “Now I am nonviolent.” Inside, flames of violence burn; inside, lust smolders—yet he sits reciting lessons on celibacy and restraint. Inside, anger burns; outside, he learns to smile. One thing is within; on the surface, the very opposite shows. Such restraint is very dangerous. It is like seating yourself on a volcano.

I have heard of a man in a village who was extremely hot-tempered. So enraged did he become one day that he shoved his wife into a well. She fell in and died. Then he was filled with remorse.
All angry people feel remorse. But remorse makes no difference to them. They decide they will not do this again—and the very next day they do exactly what they had decided not to do.

In his remorse he became very miserable. A monk had come to the village. Friends advised him, “You won’t change like this. Go to the monk. Perhaps he can show you a way.” In a moment of repentance the angry man went to the monk, folded his hands and said, “I am burning with anger. I pushed my wife into a well. Now I am terrified. How can I conquer my anger?”
The monk said, “While living an ordinary householder’s life, it is difficult to overcome anger. You will have to practice restraint, take sannyas. If you take initiation, something may be possible.” The monk was nude.

Without a second thought the man threw off his clothes and stood there naked. “Give me initiation—right now,” he said.
The monk was astonished. “I have seen many people, but I have never seen such a resolute man, a man of such willpower,” he said.
But there was no resolve. The man was angry. Just as in a fit of rage he had pushed his wife into a well, with the same shove he thrust himself into initiation. It was the same anger in both acts; there was no difference. But the monk thought him very resolute.

Angry people often become ascetics, because anger can drive one into severe austerities. Anger is a dangerous force. It can torment others; it can torment oneself. Anger enjoys tormenting. Ninety-eight out of a hundred ascetics and monks are angry people. And the anger that once gave pain to others, they turn upon themselves and begin inflicting pain on their own bodies.

There are two kinds of tormentors in the world, two kinds of violence. One is violence toward the other, which in English is called sadism—inflicting pain on others. The other is called masochism—inflicting pain on oneself. To torment oneself begins to seem just as enjoyable.

The man threw off his clothes and said, “I am ready for initiation.”
The monk said, “You are greatly blessed. In a single moment you have taken such a great vow!”
And from the very next day the “great vow” began to show many proofs. He plunged into such difficult austerities that all the monk’s other disciples were left behind. He surged ahead of all, though he was the last to arrive. His master gave him the name Muni Shantinath, because he had begun the practice of conquering anger.

Within a year he became famous throughout the land. People everywhere started worshiping him. When other monks sat in the shade, he would stand in the sun. When others walked on smooth paths, he would tread on thorny trails. When others ate once a day, he would eat once in three days. He dried out his body till it was like a stick. The more honor he received, the more he became his own enemy. He invented a thousand ways to torture himself. His fame grew and grew.

He reached the capital. His reputation had preceded him. An old friend living there was amazed to hear that his hot-tempered companion had become a monk—Muni Shantinath! He could not believe it and went to see him.

The monk was seated on a high platform. Thousands had come for his darshan.
Those who sit upon high platforms do not recognize the ones below. Whether the platform is a minister’s or a monk’s makes no difference—the platform should be high; then no one below counts. For the pleasure of not having to recognize anyone, people climb to high platforms. The world should recognize them, and they should not have to recognize anyone—that is the ego’s delight.

The monk saw his friend, but did not acknowledge him. The friend understood that he had been recognized, yet the monk was pretending otherwise. He thought, “It is unlikely this man has conquered anger, because anger and ego are brothers. If one comes, the other follows.”

The friend sat nearby and said, “Maharaj, I have heard your great name, your renown, but I do not know your exact name. May I ask what it is?” The monk became angry, because he knew full well that the man had known him since childhood and now was asking his name.
He said, “Don’t you read the newspapers? Don’t you listen to the radio? My name is on everyone’s lips. My name is Muni Shantinath! Listen carefully!”
The friend said, “Thank you, your grace, for telling me.” Then the monk turned to other matters.

Two minutes later the friend said, “Wait, wait—I forgot. What is your name?”
Anger flared within the monk. “Are you a man or a madman? I just told you—Muni Shantinath!”
“Thank you,” the friend said. “Please forgive me; I forgot.” Two minutes later, after some other talk, the friend again touched his feet and said, “Muni-ji, I forgot again—what is your name?”
The monk raised his staff. “I’ll break your head! My name is Muni Shantinath! Do you have any brains?”

The friend said, “Everything is in its place, Maharaj. My brains are in their place—and your anger is in its place. I only came to see whether that anger had gone or is still present.”

All that restraint was sitting there suppressing the anger within. The violent become outwardly nonviolent; the angry appear forgiving; they adopt ideas of celibacy. All this is possible. The greedy can pretend to renounce. But inside, nothing changes. What is imposed from outside does not transform the inner being.

No revolution ever proceeds from outside to inside. All revolutions flow from inside to outside. When the soul changes, conduct changes. But by changing conduct alone, the soul does not change.

I oppose that restraint which emphasizes only behavior. I favor that restraint which is born from the soul and spreads outward. Their processes are different. The restraint imposed from outside is always the fruit of suppression. If there is violence within, you suppress it; if there is anger within, you suppress it—and then paste its opposite on top. But real restraint, the restraint I call restraint, does not arise from suppression.

Ahimsa, nonviolence, does not come from suppressing violence. It comes from understanding violence, from recognizing it, from inquiring into it, from becoming aware of it. Then, gradually, violence dissolves. What remains is called nonviolence.

So there are two kinds of nonviolence. One is: suppress violence inside and become nonviolent outside. The other is: violence withers within, and nonviolence is born.

For thousands of years people have been taught restraint that is imposed from without. Therefore there is much talk of restraint, but in life there is far more unrestrainedness. For millennia restraint has been discussed, yet man has not become restrained. The more the talk, the more unrestrained man has become. How so? In any country where there is much talk of brahmacharya (celibacy), the people will be correspondingly more sex-obsessed. Strange, isn’t it? So much talk of celibacy—and people become more sexual! There must be a connection. The connection is: whatever we suppress penetrates deeper into our life-energy and sits there.

Suppression does not liberate; suppression binds.
Try suppressing anything—and whatever you suppress, you will be bound to it.

I recall a fakir named Nasruddin. One evening he was leaving home to meet some friends. As he stepped out, a friend arrived and hugged him. He was seeing him after twenty years.
Nasruddin said, “After so many years—how happy I am! But alas, you will have to wait a bit. I am just on my way to meet someone. I’ll be quick and come back, and then we will talk for hours. Twenty years! There is so much to say.”
The friend said, “I can’t bear to waste even a moment. I would like to come along. But my clothes are dirty. If you have a decent coat and shirt, I’ll put them on and go with you.”

Nasruddin had set aside a coat that some emperor had gifted him. There was a turban and shoes too—fresh, expensive clothes he had never worn. They were so fine he could not bring himself to wear them; he kept waiting for the right occasion, which never came. He was happy that at least they would be of use to his friend. He brought them out.

But when the friend put them on, envy arose in Nasruddin’s heart. The clothes were so beautiful—and the friend looked very handsome in them. Standing next to him, Nasruddin seemed like a servant. Even another’s clothes can make you feel that way. Here they were his own clothes, and next to them he looked like a servant.

He tried hard to counsel his mind: “What is there in such things? Whether the clothes are mine or his—he’s my friend; what’s in clothes?” He lectured his mind the way “self-restrained” people do. He tried his best to convince himself that it was all meaningless. Outwardly he chatted with his friend, but inwardly he kept telling himself: “What does it matter if someone puts on your clothes?” Yet all along the way, whoever looked, looked at the friend’s clothes.
The world looks at clothes; it hardly looks at the person. No one noticed Nasruddin. The whole way was painful.

They reached the host’s house. Nasruddin introduced his friend: “An old friend, meeting me after twenty years, a very good man.” And then—out it came: “As for the clothes—well, the clothes are mine.” The words slipped out in a moment. He felt terrible. The friend was stunned. The hosts too were surprised: what was the need to mention the clothes?

Outside, the friend said, “Forgive me. I can’t go on with you. What an insult! Had I known, I would have come in my own clothes—even if they were dirty, at least they were mine. Why was it necessary to say the clothes were yours?” Nasruddin said, “My tongue betrayed me.”
But remember: the tongue never betrays you. Whatever is within will slip out through the tongue. The kettle does not betray you—if steam is forced inside, the kettle will explode. What is suppressed within bursts out.

The friend said, “If you say so, I accept it. But keep this in mind next time.”
Nasruddin said, “Not only will I keep it in mind—these clothes are now yours forever. I give them to you. They are yours; they are no longer mine.”
They went to a second friend’s home. As soon as the friend and his wife came out, their eyes stuck to the clothes! Again Nasruddin thought, “What madness was this? I gave the clothes away. I’ll never get a chance to wear them; I have missed it.” When asked who the guest was, Nasruddin said, “An old friend, a dear man, met me after twenty years. And as for the clothes—the clothes are his, not mine.”
But what was the need to say so? When clothes belong to someone, no one says, “They are his.” It aroused suspicion.

Outside, the friend said, “Forgive me! I can’t accompany you any further. This is madness.”
Nasruddin said, “Give me one more chance, or I will be sad for life. It was a mistake. Perhaps because of the first mistake this second one happened. Since I said before that they were mine, sorrow arose within me, and I felt like telling him they were his. Maybe that is why I slipped again.”
But the cause was different: suppression. He kept suppressing within himself, “Clothes are nothing! Clothes are nothing!”—and the very thing he suppressed kept trying to come out.

At the third house he entered with the utmost self-control. Inside, his mind was nothing but clothes! Eyes open—clothes; eyes shut—clothes. He held himself together. No one knew what was going on within this poor man.

Who knows what goes on inside a “self-restrained” person? They can be very dangerous. What does not show outside rages on within.

He was anxious and disturbed. Outwardly he seemed fine, but inside he was almost deranged. He could see only clothes. He felt remorse and sorrow: “What have I done! I must not talk about the clothes. I must not talk about the clothes.”
Then the host asked, “Who is your friend?”
And again the clothes came to the fore! “He is my friend, and as for the clothes—well, I have sworn not to talk about clothes, whoever they belong to!”
Such is the working of a suppressed mind. Whatever you suppress is what you get entangled with. Suppress anything, and you will be obsessed with it. The mind becomes sick; obsessions arise.

What is the meaning of restraint?
Restraint does not mean suppression. Yet restraint has commonly been taken to mean suppression. Even today, when someone sets out to practice restraint, he begins to suppress himself. And whatever he suppresses acquires a sickly fascination, gripping his whole mind.

I was once sitting on the seashore with a nun. She was talking about the soul, the Supreme, about liberation. What we talk about often has nothing to do with us; what truly relates to us we usually do not mention. As she was speaking, a strong gust came from the sea; my shawl blew and brushed against her. She was alarmed. I said, “You were startled by a shawl touching you?”
She said, “A man’s shawl must not touch me. It is forbidden. I will have to fast and do penance.”
I said, “Just now you were saying you are not the body, you are the soul. And yet from your words it seems even shawls can be male and female! If a man wraps a shawl, the shawl itself becomes male!”
These are the signs of suppressed sexuality—suppressed desire, a suppressed mind. It has been pushed so hard that even a shawl becomes a symbol that terrifies.

I stayed with a sadhu who would say two or three times a day, “I kicked away hundreds of thousands of rupees.” I asked, “When did you kick them away?” He said, “Oh, thirty-five years ago.” I said, “Then perhaps your kick didn’t land properly. Otherwise, why keep remembering it for thirty-five years? If the kick had truly landed, the matter would be finished. Why are those lakhs of rupees still pursuing you?”
He kicked money away, but money did not leave him. Suppression happened, not renunciation. He practiced “restraint,” but restraint did not arrive. When he had the money, he strutted: “I have lakhs.” After kicking it away, he still strutted: “I have kicked away lakhs!” And the second strut is more dangerous than the first—the first was gross; the second is subtle, harder to detect. But this is not restraint; it is suppression. We mistake suppression for restraint and say, “What a great renunciate!”

I was once in Jaipur. A friend said, “A very great saint is here. You will be delighted to meet him.”
I asked, “By what measure did you determine his greatness? What is the metric? How did you weigh him? What is the footrule?”
He said, “No need to measure. The Maharaja of Jaipur himself touches his feet!”
I said, “Then the Maharaja must be great. How does that prove the saint’s greatness? If the Maharaja touches a monk’s feet, the monk becomes great; if he doesn’t, the monk becomes small? What is the standard? The standard is wealth—wealth becomes the measure even of renunciation!”

Have you ever noticed? The twenty-four Tirthankaras of the Jains are all princes’ sons. Not one is the son of a poor man. Buddha is a prince; Rama, Krishna—princes. In India, all avatars, Tirthankaras, enlightened ones—sons of kings. Is it necessary to be rich to be a Tirthankara?
It is not necessary. Many sons of the poor have been Tirthankaras—but we have no way to measure them. We measure only when someone abandons wealth; the renunciate is known by how much he has left. Then this is not renunciation; it is simply another face of wealth—an investment of wealth for moksha. It is another form of greed.

In Ahmedabad, two years ago, a sannyasi spoke before me. He said, “If you want liberation, you must first abandon greed.” I spoke after him and said, “He has said something amazing. He says: if you want liberation, first leave greed. But before that he offers you the greed for liberation! And any greedy man will be ready to abandon greed if tempted by the greater greed of liberation. But the greed for liberation is still greed.”

Life is very tangled. In the name of restraint, renunciation, liberation, reverse processes go on. I am opposed to those reversals. Life should be clear, simple, integral—not in fragments. Not one thing inside and the opposite outside. Life should be integrated—a single whole. What is within should be without.

But we cannot change the inner by tinkering with the outer. We can change the outer by transforming the inner. If wealth becomes meaningless in someone’s life, he will never say he “renounced” it—because what is meaningless cannot be “renounced”; it is simply discarded. You take out the trash daily, but you don’t announce to the village, “I renounced the trash today.” Trash isn’t renounced; it is just thrown away.

If someone says, “I renounced wealth,” then for him wealth has not become trash. It was still wealth, and so he “renounced” it. Even after renouncing, he still feels it is wealth!

I have heard of a fakir in a village, a poor man, a beggar in one sense—though he never asked anyone for alms. He had nothing. He and his wife used to cut wood in the forest, sell it, and eat from what remained. In the evening whatever was left they would give away. In the morning they would go again.

Once unseasonal rains fell; for five days they could not go to the forest and remained hungry. On the sixth day the sun came out; they went to cut wood. The old man walked ahead with his bundle; the old woman followed. On the path he saw hoofprints of a horse and, near the path, a bag of gold coins. Some had spilled out.

A thought arose in the old man’s mind. The “self-restrained” are full of such thoughts. He thought, “My old woman walking behind might get tempted on seeing the gold.” It was his own mind that was tempted; otherwise the thought about his wife would not have arisen. But we never admit our own minds are tempted. He thought, “Let her not be tempted.” Quickly he dug a pit and covered the coins with earth. The old woman arrived as he was covering them.

She asked, “What are you doing? Why did you stop?”
The old man had taken a vow never to lie—he was a “self-restrained” man, had taken a vow to speak truth.
People of restraint move by vows. And whoever moves by vows, remember, harbors the opposite within; otherwise there is no need for vows. You never vow to exit through the door; it is obvious. But a blind man may even vow, “I swear I will go through the door, not through the wall.”
The blind may swear; one who sees needs no oath. Vows are taken against one’s own tendencies. The old man had sworn not to lie. Now he was trapped—he had to tell the truth.

He said, “Better not to ask. But since you ask, I must tell you. Here were gold coins. I am burying them, lest your mind be tempted.”
The old woman stood there and began to laugh. Her laughter echoed through the forest. If only you had been there to hear it! The old man asked, “Why are you laughing?”
She said, “Oh God! I thought you were free of wealth, but you still see gold! How did these coins appear before your eyes? How did you notice them on your path? How did it occur to you they were gold? Do you still distinguish between gold and dirt? I was mistaken to believe you were free. Today, seeing you cover dirt with dirt, I am ashamed. These trees must be laughing that this man is covering earth with earth!”

Both are “restrained.” The old man is restrained in the way from which you should beware. The old woman is restrained in the sense by which life is truly transformed. If it is seen that gold is dust, there is no need to cover this dust with dust. No need to run from it or announce to the world that you have renounced it. The matter is finished—like a dry leaf falling from a tree. Neither the tree notices nor the leaf nor the wind. It just falls silently.

But if you pluck a green leaf, the tree feels it, life trembles in the leaf, and a wound remains. Forcing restraint is like plucking green leaves—wounds remain, and they hurt.

I favor that restraint which comes like the falling of dry leaves. Certain things just drop from life—become meaningless, shed by themselves—and life is transformed.

But how will they fall? You ask, “Until we make them fall, how will they fall?” If you force them, you will pluck green leaves.

So what am I saying? Do not force—understand. Whatever is bad in life, do not start fighting it; know it, recognize it. If there is anger, for example, do not fight anger; understand it. And when anger grabs you, go to a corner, close the door, and meditate on the anger. Watch it. Where is it? Recognize it—what is anger? Where is it encircling your life-energy? Where in the mind is its fire burning? Watch it.

You will be amazed: the more you understand anger, the more it dissolves. The more aware you become of it, the more it is destroyed. A moment will come when anger, like a dry leaf, drops away. What remains behind is peace.

By suppressing anger, peace is not attained. When anger is gone, what remains is called peace.

Remember this: nonviolence is not the opposite of violence; nonviolence is the absence of violence.
Love is not the opposite of hate, such that you suppress hate and produce love. Love is the absence of hate. When hate is absent, what remains is love.

It is like this dark night. If we light a lamp, the darkness vanishes—because where can darkness stay in the presence of light? It simply goes.
But if someone will not light a lamp and tries to remove the darkness—pushes it, fights with swords, wrestles it—even then darkness will not lose; the fighter will. Darkness cannot be pushed away. Violence cannot be pushed away. Anger cannot be pushed away. Hate cannot be pushed away.

But lamps can be lit. The lamp of awareness can be lit. And when the lamp of knowing burns, the darkness disappears. You cannot even find where it went.

One small incident more, and I will finish.
I have heard that once Darkness fell at God’s feet, banging its head, tears streaming down. God asked, “What happened to you? You never came before; what’s wrong today?”
Darkness said, “I am in great trouble. For ages your Sun has been after me. At dawn he rises and starts chasing me. By evening I am exhausted, my limbs broken. Somehow he leaves me then. I barely get a night’s rest before he is at my door again in the morning. Why is your Sun persecuting me? What wrong have I done him?”
God said, “This is too much. But why didn’t you tell me earlier? I’ll call the Sun and speak to him.” God summoned the Sun. “Why are you harassing Darkness? What harm has it done to you?”
The Sun said, “Darkness? I have never even met it. Where is it? I have never encountered it on the road, never exchanged greetings. Why would I persecute someone I don’t even know? One must be friends before making enemies! Where is it? Call it—I’ll apologize and learn to recognize it so I never make a mistake again.”

They say eons have passed since, and the case lies buried in God’s files. He has never been able to bring Darkness before the Sun. He never will—because darkness is not the opposite of the Sun. Darkness is the absence of the Sun. You must understand the difference between an opposite and an absence.

If darkness were the opposite of light, we could bring a sackful of darkness and dump it on a lamp and the lamp would go out. But you cannot dump darkness on a lamp. Darkness is an absence—the non-presence of light. It has no existence of its own. Light has existence; when it is absent, what remains is darkness. You cannot do anything directly to darkness. If you want darkness, you must do something to the light.

Similarly, whatever is bad in life, I call it darkness—anger, lust, greed. To fight darkness directly is what passes for restraint. I do not call that restraint. I call it a recipe for madness or for hypocrisy. Whether you become a hypocrite or a madman—both are bad.

Do not fight darkness; light the lamp. When the light burns, there is no darkness.

In life, only what is sublime is true.
Its absence is not its opposite; it is only absence.

Therefore, if a violent person “practices” nonviolence, he can do so—but violence will continue within. Anyone can “practice” celibacy—but lust will continue within. Such restraint is a cover for deception. I am opposed to that restraint.

I favor that restraint in which we do not suppress the bad but awaken the good, the true. In which we do not push away darkness but ignite the light. Such knowing, such awakening, transforms the personality and leads one to the temples of truth.
One who awakens in the good arrives at the temple of truth.

In these three days I have said a few things about the journey to truth. But your journey will not happen merely from my words. No one’s journey happens through another’s words. So, finally: this journey can happen only if you undertake it. If hearing me could complete your journey, it would be easy—then everyone’s journey would have been completed long ago.

We have listened to Buddha, to Mahavira. But no one’s journey ever happens by listening. Some think it does; they wander in delusion. The journey must be made by oneself.

No one else can breathe for you, love for you, walk for you, live or die for you. How then can someone realize truth for you? No person can attain anything on behalf of another.

Listening to another can often create the illusion of journey. It can feel as if, by hearing, we have arrived where we heard about. This illusion is dangerous.

May none of my words give anyone the illusion that he has arrived. Some write to me, “We listened to you and found great peace.” Peace cannot come by listening; only entertainment can. Truth cannot come by listening; only words can. Truth and peace will come when you walk.

So I have spoken not for hearing, but for walking. If anything I have said seems right, use your own discernment and take a step.

A thousand scriptures are not worth as much as a single step you take yourself.
Do not worry that the road is long. The longest roads are completed step by step.

Gandhi liked a song very much. It is wonderful. In his ashram they sang it daily: “One step is enough for me; I do not long for the distant scene.”
But the one who takes one step arrives at the distant scene. No one can take more than one step at a time. Have you ever seen anyone take two steps at once? The greatest and the smallest—both can take only one at a time. In this we are all equal.

Outside a village, a young man sat with a small lantern. He had to travel to the mountain, but it was far, the night was dark, and his lantern lit only a circle of two or three feet. He did his math—some people are good at arithmetic. “Ten miles of darkness,” he thought. “Divide that by a three-foot circle of light! This tiny lantern can never dispel such vast darkness.” He sat down. “It’s useless to go,” he said. “So much darkness—so little light. How will I ever cross ten miles?”

Behind him an old man came hurrying, also with a small lamp. “Son, why are you sitting?”
“How can I not sit?” the youth said. “Ten miles of darkness—and only two or three feet of light. How will I cross ten miles with such a tiny lamp?”
“Fool,” said the old man, “who has to cross ten miles all at once? Cross the three feet you can see, and the light will move three feet ahead. Then cross those three feet. Then the next. The light always goes ahead. Then not just ten miles—even a thousand miles of darkness will be cut. Darkness is cut by walking.”

Take one small step—and life will reach those distant scenes that cannot be seen today. By walking, what now seems a web of words can become tomorrow’s truth of life. What today sounds sweet—who can say how much sweeter it will be when you arrive there?

In these three days you have listened with such love and peace; I am grateful. And in the end, I bow to the Divine seated in each of you. Please accept my pranam.