My beloved Atman! I wish to begin the first talk of this camp with a small story. It is from very ancient days. An emperor, counting the last days of his life, was deeply anxious — not about death, but about his three sons to whom he had to entrust the kingdom. He could not decide in whose hands to place the power, because power is auspicious only when it rests in hands that are serene. And it was most difficult to decide which of the three was serene. How to test? How to know who would serve the kingdom’s welfare — and who its ill? There are things that can be measured from the outside; but for all that is truly important in life, there is neither weight nor measure. There are things that can be recognized from the outside; but all that is truly significant in life has no outer sign by which it can be known. How then to recognize? How to know? What path? The emperor asked a fakir. The fakir suggested a way. The next morning the emperor called in his three sons, gave each a hundred rupees, and said: The three palaces bear your names — here are a hundred rupees each. With these hundred, buy such things that the whole palace gets filled, not a corner left empty. The one among you who succeeds the most will be emperor — he will be entitled to the throne. Only a hundred rupees! And the palaces of those princes were vast. The first prince thought, how can a hundred rupees fill a palace? He went to the gambling den and staked all the hundred. Perhaps by winning he could get enough to fill the great palace, for the palace was huge; a hundred rupees could never fill it. But as it commonly happens — those who go to win in gambling usually return having lost what they had — so did that youth. He lost the hundred and returned. His palace remained utterly empty. The second prince thought, a hundred rupees is very little. Such a large palace cannot be filled with diamonds and jewels. There is only one way: buy the refuse and rubbish the village throws out and fill the palace with it. He began to purchase all the garbage that left the village, piled heaps of trash in the palace. The whole palace got filled — and so did stench. Even passing by became difficult. The third prince also filled his palace. With what? How? That will be clear in a moment. The day of decision arrived. The emperor came for the test. The first prince’s palace was empty. He said, Forgive me — a hundred rupees were too few. I thought I would gamble, perhaps win more, and then fill the palace. I lost — the palace is empty. On coming near the second prince’s palace, they were alarmed. Such foul odor! The whole place was filled with garbage and filth. The prince said, There was no other way. Only trash could be bought for a hundred rupees. What else could be had for so little? Then the emperor approached the third prince’s palace. The examiners were astonished. The judges were amazed — such fragrance around that palace! They entered. It was the night of the new moon. Lamps were lit everywhere! The king asked, With what have you filled the palace? The prince said, With light. With illumination. Lamps burned in every corner. The whole palace was filled with light. Fragrances had been sprinkled. On every doorway and window flowers had been hung. The palace was filled with fragrance and light. The third prince became emperor. He became the rightful heir to the kingdom. Among us, it is so difficult for anyone to become the emperor of his own life. For either we have placed our life on a gamble — each stake with the hope that something will be gained and then we will begin to live. And as it goes with gambling, we go on losing — and in the end the palace of life remains empty. Or else, some of us have resolved to fill the palace with trash. Whatever is useless in life, we keep purchasing and bringing into our house. That which has no ultimate value, no ultimate meaning — all that rubbish we are collecting! Our logic is: life is so small, our power so little — how can such a palace be filled with diamonds? With such meager strength it can only be filled with trash, so we fill it with trash. But we do not know that the palace we are stuffing will become unlivable to us because of its own stench. Living will itself turn difficult. And our living has become difficult. So restless, so miserable, so anxious — why? This anxiety and unrest does not descend from the sky or the stars. It arises from the palace we ourselves have filled with stench and refuse. All turmoil, all worry, all pain arises from there. It is the fruit of our own labor, the outcome of our own effort. But within us dwell only these two kinds of princes. The third prince is not within us — the one who could fill his palace with light and fragrance. Here, in this solitude by the shore of the sea, I have invited you for three days to speak a little about how the lamp in the palace may be lit, how flowers may come, how fragrance may arise — and perhaps you too may become heirs of the kingdom of Paramatma. Who knows? Who can say you were not sent for this? Who knows if life is not an examination? Who knows how, and who, will pass in this test of life? Yet one thing is certain: whoever, by life’s end, lights the lamp within his life’s palace — whoever fills himself with fragrance, whoever becomes music — if anywhere there is Paramatma, if anywhere there is bliss, if anywhere there is treasure, then surely he becomes its heir. I begin with this story so that your life-house may neither remain empty, nor be filled with trash — but be filled with light, with music, with fragrance. How is this possible? Tonight I shall speak of a few preliminary sutras upon which we shall try to live for three days. How will this palace be filled with light? In the coming three days I shall offer a few directions — some scientific steps, some ladders — but first the preliminary sutras must be understood: how shall we live during these three days of the camp? Understand this clearly: if a man learns to live rightly even for three moments, his whole life can become right. For one who takes a single step in the right direction even for a moment, who relates for even one moment with the bliss of life — then in this very life it is impossible for him to become separate from that bliss again. One who opens his eyes even once and sees — in this life those eyes cannot close again to stumble in darkness. Three days are much. And that you have carved out three days and come here is worthy of welcome — and of gratitude too. For in today’s world, few are willing to set aside even three days to fill life with light! There was a rich merchant who sailed by boat to distant lands and earned millions. His friends said, You travel by boat — the old kind. There are storms; there is danger; boats capsize. Learn to swim at least. The merchant said, Where do I have time to learn swimming? People said, It won’t take long. A skilled swimmer in the village says he will teach you in three days. He said, He may be right — but where do I get three days? In three days I can do business worth thousands. In three days lakhs move here to there. If I ever get leisure, I will surely learn. Still people warned, It is dangerous. Your life is continually on a boat. Any day there may be danger — and you do not know how to swim! He said, Tell me some cheaper trick — I don’t have that much time. They said, At least keep two barrels near you. If need arises you can cling to them and float. He had two barrels closed and kept by his bed. No one knew the moment would come. A storm rose; the boat began to sink. He shouted, Where are my barrels? The sailors thought he would fetch them from under his bed — and they themselves jumped into the sea; they knew how to swim. He went to his barrels. There were the two empty ones kept for floating — and there were two filled with gold coins. His mind wavered: with which should he jump — the gold-filled or the empty? The boat was sinking. What good would empty barrels do? He took the gold-filled barrels and jumped! You can guess what became of him. He could not spare three days to learn to swim! You have found three days — for that I welcome you. And he still had the chance to jump with empty barrels — but he jumped with full ones. For those who have been addicted to fullness all their lives cannot agree to be empty for a single moment. In these three days I must tell you how empty barrels can be found. To float in a river, an empty barrel helps. And to float in the ocean of life, in the ocean of Paramatma, one must oneself become an empty barrel. There, the more empty and void one becomes, the more capable he is of floating in the ocean of the Lord. But we are all busy filling ourselves! Some fill with gold, some with earth; some fill with pebbles, some with diamonds. Yet whether a barrel is filled with gold, with earth, with pebbles, or with jewels makes no difference — a full barrel sinks, whatever it be filled with. That day the gold-filled barrels did not save him. How he must have pleaded while drowning: O barrels, I filled you with gold — and you won’t save me! I did not fill you with earth — why should I drown? I filled you with gold — yet you drown me! But the barrels would not have heard — for full barrels only know how to sink; they do not know how to float. With what they are filled makes no difference. What we have stuffed within makes no difference; we have only prepared to drown. We have made no preparation to swim. Dharma is the art of swimming. All that we have learned is but preparation for drowning. How shall we empty ourselves? How will we become capable of floating? How can we steer the boat of life across the unknown ocean — to that shore whose name is Paramatma, whose name is Prabhu, whose name is Truth? How? The preliminary sutras must be remembered. First, people ask me, What is a sadhana camp? Yesterday, on the way, someone asked: What is a sadhana camp? And what is satsang? I told him: Satsang is for those who are shravaks — eager to listen. A sadhana camp is for sadhaks — who are not only eager to listen, but eager to do. Those who have come only to listen have come to the wrong place. For listening I myself come to your cities so that you can hear; but here, in this far solitude, I have invited you so that something can be done. In these three days, do not be overly concerned with listening. The clear resolve should be to do something. However many good things we may hear, however many noble truths we may know — by knowing and hearing, no revolution happens in life. In one sense, knowing useless things is even helpful, for after knowing what is useless, no one thinks he has attained. But after knowing what is meaningful, a delusion arises that perhaps we have obtained something. By listening alone, nothing is obtained — this the sadhak must first know. He will have to do something, become something; he will have to alter his way of life, create a difference in his style of living, bring a revolution in the arrangement of his being — only then something can happen; otherwise, nothing happens. To be merely a hearer means nothing. Listening too can be entertainment. One enjoys music and feels delighted; another listens to truths of life and feels delighted — but it is only entertainment, a brief forgetfulness. If we do something, our life can change. Whatever I shall say in these three days is with this vision — that it becomes an active transformation within you. But I cannot bring the change; with your cooperation it can certainly happen. First, a sadhana camp is an opportunity to change oneself actively, creatively, and constructively for a life-revolution. Not for mere listening, understanding, arguing and thinking — but to give a new form, a new life, a new direction to one’s inner state. Keep this very clearly in mind: about what I say, do not engage in mutual discussions. Do not do much thinking, much brooding. Do not engage in analyses, disputes, and debates. What I say — try a few experiments with it. Three days are short. To lose them in discussion is useless. A few experiments are needed. For what I say will become clear only by experimenting — then its meaning will be understood. Even if you take a single step in that direction, all I say will become clear as remembrance. However much you think, discuss, or argue among yourselves — nothing will become clear; and what little clarity might have been will get clouded and tangled. There are things in life that cannot be known by knowing alone — only by doing and seeing. Explain light to a blind man as much as you like — nothing will be understood. But if his eyes can be treated and opened, then without explanation everything about light is known. Our state is also like people whose eyes are closed. We can arrange to open the eyes — but there is no way to understand light. How to open the eyes? What is our preliminary preparation? The first preparation: remember we have gathered here to do something, not to merely listen and think. When it becomes clear that the path opens by doing, you will listen in a different way. If a house is on fire and I go and say, The house is burning — and the people begin to think about the meaning and purpose of what I say, the fire will be very hard to extinguish. But when I say, The house is burning, I am not preaching or philosophizing. I am giving a notice that it is necessary to get out of the house — a call to take a creative, active step. House on fire is neither a doctrine nor a debate — it is simply news. News for those who can run out — who can do. So whatever I say in these three days is with the intent that an active step may arise within you. Remember at the outset: what I say is a call towards taking an active step — not for listening, understanding, and metaphysical thinking, but for tattva-sadhana — a vision for practice. This is the first point. Second: merely gathering together in a secluded place for a sadhana camp solves nothing. What perspective we bring here, what feeling, what inner current — upon this everything depends. Many friends have come together; one can make this opportunity valuable, another can waste it. Our habits are to waste life. For three days step outside those habits. However you are at home, at least in these three days, do not remain the same. Life becomes mechanical — habitual. If you read the newspaper first thing in the morning, you will look for it here too. Then I say to you: you have not come here; you are where you were. For if you seek the newspaper in the morning, it means you are seeking your home, your daily routine. The habitual, the mechanical pattern has begun. It must be broken. In these three days, try to live like a new person — keeping an eye that you are not recreating the same rut, the same pattern you live at home. If you are, then you are at home; coming here was futile. Better to have stayed there; at least it would not be inconvenient. Remember, one who is so bound by patterns of habit that he cannot step outside them even a little — no inner revolution can ever happen in his life. He lives in a shell and does not dare to peep outside. Like a sprout hidden within a seed that cannot break its shell — it will never emerge, never rise to the sky, never flower. We are all tightly enclosed in the circles and shells of our habits. The first thing to remember in a sadhana camp is to crack open our habitual shell. Remember, man has associations of very small habits. Even a tiny habit can imprison the soul. A friend of mine, a renowned lawyer, had the habit that whenever in court he faced a complex point that required thinking, he would hold and twirl a button on his coat. As soon as he twirled it, he felt a door opened in his brain — thoughts began to run. It was hard to defeat him in any case. But an opposing lawyer observed this habit — that whenever he was stuck, he twirled the button. He bribed the chauffeur and had the button broken just before a case. The lawyer came to court, coat on his shoulder. He put it on and began his argument. At the precise place where a knot appeared, his hand went to the button. It was not there. Sweat beaded on his brow. His limbs went limp. He sat down with closed eyes — and lost his first case. He told me later, I was shocked that such a small button could have such a connection! Could I be such a slave — that without a button everything goes wrong? We are all just as enslaved. If we want to change life’s direction, the ring of habits around us — even if small buttons — must be broken. In these three days, make a conscious effort. Keep watch that you are not slipping back into your habitual circle. There is no need for newspapers here, no need for radio, no need for useless chatter. Take rest for three days from all your habits. If husband and wife have come together, there is no need to see each other as husband and wife. Take a holiday from being a wife, from being a husband. Leave at home all those feelings that keep you imprisoned in the household circle — otherwise you can never come from there to here. Traveling on land is easy; the real journey has to be made at the level of the mind. The sadhana camp is not happening in Nargol — if it were merely in Nargol, you would already have arrived. The camp will happen within you — it will happen only if you undertake the journey consciously. Trains can take us anywhere — except to one place: outside ourselves. We are always present to ourselves. It is essential in a sadhana camp that you leave yourself at home a little. Leave your home-self — and if you have not, then leave it now. For three days, live like a new person — without pattern and habit. Whatever your habits are, whatever structure grips your mind — be cautious of it. You may be habituated to arguing — someone says something and you begin to argue. Become alert and see whether you are slipping into your habit of argument. The moment you see it, immediately ask forgiveness and say, I forgot. My habit returned. I am sorry — I leave this habit here. All day long we are accustomed to talk. We are always saying something. We cannot sit in silence. You do not know that those who talk cannot know the truth of life. Only those who know how to be silent sometimes — they arrive. Without mauna, no one has ever reached the truth of oneself — nor can one ever. Yet we are immersed in chatter, twenty-four hours. If we get a chance to be silent for even an hour, we become restless — it feels difficult. How will this hour pass? For three days, practice it. Remain as silent as possible. Speak as little as possible. If very necessary, speak — telegraphically, as if you were paying for every word. When one sends a telegram he does not write long letters. He writes ten words, eight words — cutting out the unnecessary. And eight words of a telegram often do what eight thousand words of a letter cannot. Because words that remain necessary and significant become concentrated — they gather intensity and power. The more scattered they are, the weaker they become. Gather the sun’s rays with a lens and fire is born; let them fall scattered and nothing ignites. Those who learn the art of silence find life in their words. Each word gains the power to kindle fire. But we speak incessantly — much that is needless, that serves no one. In these three days, take care that not a single unnecessary word leaves your lips. You will be surprised — necessary words are so few, necessary talk so little, that you will find hours pass in silence. Perhaps a word now and then… You have heard of Lao Tzu — two and a half thousand years ago in China. He went for a walk each morning. A friend would go with him. The friend would greet him. Half an hour later Lao Tzu would say, Greetings. In an hour or two, that was all — two greetings. They would return from the hills. One day the friend brought a guest along. The three walked. On the way, the guest said only this: What a beautiful morning, what lovely weather. Seeing the two silent, he too fell silent. They returned. At home, Lao Tzu whispered to his friend, Do not bring your guest tomorrow. He seems very talkative. We too could see the morning was beautiful — what need was there to say it? Unnecessary. We were present and seeing. Why speak? Do not bring that talkative friend. Such a clear distinction between the necessary and unnecessary should be alive within. If, mid-sentence, you become aware you are saying something unnecessary, leave it half-said. Ask forgiveness: I erred — out of habit I began to talk needlessly. Let these three days become days of silence. This seashore is so wondrous. Go sit near it in your aloneness. These cypress trees are so beautiful — sit by them. Do not talk to your wife, nor to your friend. Speak to the cypress — to the sea. In this camp you are utterly alone — keep this sense alive. The third thing to remember: there are not six hundred people here — here, I am alone. For the direction we wish to go — the direction of meditation and sadhana — no companions exist. There each one goes alone. So we are all alone here. As sadhaks, there is no crowd. Many are here — but each must experience for three days: I am utterly alone. No one is here with me. Live for three days as if you are absolutely alone. Do not seek company. Do not ask to be quartered with friends. There is no one here. You are utterly alone. For three days, experiment with total loneliness. For one who becomes capable of being alone, doors open that remain closed to those who live in crowds. The feeling of aloneness — when you go to sleep tonight, do so as if utterly alone, as if in this vast world there is no one but you. Sink quietly into sleep. In the morning rise with the same sense — absolutely alone. And it is true — man is alone. Birth is alone, death is alone. In between, crowds appear — and we think someone is with us. Bodies touch bodies and we think someone is with us. Words meet words and we think someone is with us. But no one is with anyone. The journey is utterly solitary. Each person is alone. Even amidst a crowd, each is alone. No one is with anyone. At least for three days deepen this remembrance: I am utterly alone. Consequences will follow. With the thought of utter aloneness, a strange silence will begin within. Speech begins where another exists. Relationships form where another is. Quarrels, friendship, enmity — all arise where the other is. Where I am alone, utterly alone — if a blank hush arises within, do not be surprised. Silence is the shadow of aloneness. So in these days, deepen the feeling of being alone. Do not disturb anyone; do not break another’s aloneness. If someone sits alone under the trees, do not go near. If by mistake you approach, move away at once when you realize it. Let everyone be alone, remain alone, live alone, experience alone. If for three days someone experiences aloneness with intensity, with total urgency, the revolution for which we have gathered can happen. So the third sutra: remember, we are utterly alone — completely alone — with none beside us. There was a Greek fakir, Gurdjieff. He conducted an experiment in a small village. Thirty people were shut inside a bungalow. To those thirty it was said: you are not thirty here, but each one alone. Each must experience that I am alone. The experiment would last three months. No one should even think that another is present. Do not speak. Do not even raise your eyes to look at anyone — because the eyes too can speak. Do not remember that anyone is here — you are utterly alone. In those three months they reached where lifetimes of effort would not have taken them. In three months they became perfectly silent. Where the other is absent, speech has no way. Where there is no other, even in the mind there is no talking. We can talk in the mind only after we imagine another, construct the image of another. When there is truly no other, and they sank into the feeling I am utterly alone — all words vanished, all dialogue ceased, thoughts dropped — and in thoughtless silence they came to know that which was hidden within. So long as we are speaking to the other, we will not know who we are. To know the ‘I’, freedom from ‘thou’ is needed. From that ‘other’ we need release, respite. While we remain bound to ‘thou’, the ‘I’ cannot be known. Our gaze, our attention, our energy, flows to the other — around the other. We revolve around the other and never arrive at ourselves. To arrive at oneself is possible — but it requires the feeling of aloneness, of total loneliness. Bodhidharma was a bhikshu. One morning a youth came and asked, Who am I? I want the answer. Bodhidharma was very compassionate; his compassion you will now see. He struck — a loud slap. The youth flared up: What are you doing? I came to ask who I am — and you strike me! He rose and left. He told another monk, I had heard of Bodhidharma; I went to ask — he slapped me. The monk said, Bodhidharma is very compassionate. Have you come to ask me? Then wait — I will bring my staff. The youth was bewildered. On the way home it struck him: Why would Bodhidharma strike me? He got nothing by hurting his hand. There must be some meaning — there must be! He returned next morning. As he sat down Bodhidharma said, So you are back? Will you ask again? If you ask, I will strike again — and even if you don’t ask, I will strike. Now speak — what will you do? The youth was frightened and fell silent. Bodhidharma laughed: Fool! You come to ask me who you are? Ask another, and you will never receive the answer. Whatever answers you get will be false — because how can the other answer who you are? This answer will come only from yourself. Therefore I slapped you — perhaps the shock might turn you away from me and back into yourself. By my slap I tried to turn you back. If we return to ourselves, perhaps we will come upon who we are. To come upon that is to come upon truth; to come upon that is to come upon Prabhu; to come upon that is to light the lamp in the house of life and let fragrance spread. For three days I shall try my best to turn you back to yourselves. I am not so compassionate as to slap you — but I shall do all I can to help you return to yourself. Your cooperation will be this: forget the ‘thou’. There is no other here. The Other — drop it, forget that it exists. This is why it is easier with trees, with the sea, with mountains. Why? Because the idea of saying ‘thou’ to a tree does not arise; to the sea it does not arise. The real difficulty is human relationship — there the ‘thou’ is ever-present. Therefore go to the sea a while — the sea turns you back to yourself, for there is no ‘thou’. Sit by the trees — they return you to yourself. With people it is difficult for now; their presence immediately sets your mind revolving around them. You cannot return to yourself; you reach them. A day will surely come when you can sit with a person just as you sit with a tree or with the sea. On the day you can sit with a person that way, you will see within a person what cannot be seen in trees or seas — the greatest mystery, the secret of life. But preparation is needed. That day comes gradually. For now, we shall prepare. In these three days we shall try to be utterly alone — seek solitude, sit in seclusion — and remember the three sutras I have given. Tonight when you lie down to sleep, do so as if in this vast universe you are utterly alone — on this whole earth you are alone — amidst these stars and moon you are alone. There is no one — you are alone. In that aloneness, quietly sink and sleep. In the morning you will awaken with a rare feeling — the feel of aloneness. The sadhak is alone. He has no companion, no crowd, no sect. The journey to the temple of the Lord must be completed utterly alone. In these three days I shall try to lead you towards that aloneness. Without your cooperation nothing is possible. If you give your cooperation with your whole heart, it is so simple that it defies measure. Without your cooperation it is so difficult — impossible. Not merely difficult — impossible. One small incident — and I will close this talk. Then go silently and sleep. Even as you leave here, do not talk. Say nothing to anyone. Go quietly. For three days I shall keep watch to see you are not chattering uselessly. Be as silent as possible — for three days as if words are lost and you have become dumb; as if speech cannot arise; your lips are sealed. An emperor longed to hear the music of a great musician’s veena. He sent courtiers and viziers to invite him to court: Come — ask whatever you wish; I want to hear your veena. The musician said, Perhaps they do not know that music is not something born of command. If they have sent an order, I can come and I can play — but it will not be the veena I play, nor will I be the musician they wish to hear. If they pray, then I will come — some day — but that day will have to be awaited. Not today. When a tide rises in me and my feet move of their own towards the court, I will come. The king became even more restless. For the first time he saw the difference between order and prayer. Whatever is significant in life comes by prayer; whatever is trivial comes by order. But prayer asks for waiting. Order can be fulfilled at once. The king also saw that by ordering the musician to come, he would not hear what he longed to hear. He would play — but... He was impatient. He asked the court musician for a way. The musician said, There is a way — not that the musician come to the court, but that we go to the musician’s house. The king said, What difference is there — he coming here, or we going there? The court musician said, Great difference — the difference between order and prayer. For whatever is highest in life, we must go ourselves. Do not summon it sitting at home. We must walk a few steps. The king agreed. The court musician, who was like a fakir, poor and in beggar’s clothes, said, You cannot go in royal robes to the musician’s home — then it will be the same thing. No difference. Wear clothes like mine. The king said, What obstacle will garments create? We go to hear music — what will clothes do? The musician said, Much. If you remain a king there, you will not hear what you wish to hear. Whatever is important in life is not attained as emperors — it is attained as beggars. One must go with outstretched hands. In these robes you cannot stretch your hands. These garments are accustomed to thrones. They will not sit in dust at a poor musician’s door. The king agreed. He donned the poor man’s clothes. It was evening; night was nearing. They reached the musician’s door. The court musician had taken his veena. They sat by the threshold. He began to play — exactly that which was dearest to the musician, in which his mastery lay — but he made a few mistakes deliberately. The musician flung open the door: Who is playing — and who is playing wrong? The court musician said, I don’t know much — I play as I can. If someone teaches me, I am always ready to learn. The musician brought his veena and began to play. The king was spellbound. When the music ended, he said, Perhaps you have not recognized me — I am the emperor who sent for you. And see, I have heard you after all! The musician said, That is another matter. You have come as a supplicant — I was not summoned. You created the situation, the right climate, so that feeling arose in me and I began to play. I was not commanded. At the door of Paramatma it is just so. No orders are to be given. One goes as a petitioner — not in royal attire but with humility, with a poor-in-spirit simplicity, with hands outstretched, not seated on thrones. With such humility — as Christ said, poor in spirit — one stands at that door, and then however he can, with words full of mistakes he begins to pray; however he can, with a veena full of errors he begins to play — and those doors open. The supreme Musician lifts his veena and comes. But we must travel that far. We must be ready for the journey. From tonight begin the preparation — the three sutras I have spoken. From morning, start the experiments. Then we shall talk and experiment further about what else is essential for sadhana, what steps are to be taken. Today’s first sitting is complete. In the end, I bow to the Paramatma seated within all. Please accept my pranam.
Osho's Commentary
I wish to begin the first talk of this camp with a small story.
It is from very ancient days. An emperor, counting the last days of his life, was deeply anxious — not about death, but about his three sons to whom he had to entrust the kingdom. He could not decide in whose hands to place the power, because power is auspicious only when it rests in hands that are serene. And it was most difficult to decide which of the three was serene. How to test? How to know who would serve the kingdom’s welfare — and who its ill?
There are things that can be measured from the outside; but for all that is truly important in life, there is neither weight nor measure.
There are things that can be recognized from the outside; but all that is truly significant in life has no outer sign by which it can be known.
How then to recognize? How to know? What path?
The emperor asked a fakir. The fakir suggested a way. The next morning the emperor called in his three sons, gave each a hundred rupees, and said: The three palaces bear your names — here are a hundred rupees each. With these hundred, buy such things that the whole palace gets filled, not a corner left empty. The one among you who succeeds the most will be emperor — he will be entitled to the throne.
Only a hundred rupees! And the palaces of those princes were vast.
The first prince thought, how can a hundred rupees fill a palace? He went to the gambling den and staked all the hundred. Perhaps by winning he could get enough to fill the great palace, for the palace was huge; a hundred rupees could never fill it.
But as it commonly happens — those who go to win in gambling usually return having lost what they had — so did that youth. He lost the hundred and returned. His palace remained utterly empty.
The second prince thought, a hundred rupees is very little. Such a large palace cannot be filled with diamonds and jewels. There is only one way: buy the refuse and rubbish the village throws out and fill the palace with it. He began to purchase all the garbage that left the village, piled heaps of trash in the palace. The whole palace got filled — and so did stench. Even passing by became difficult.
The third prince also filled his palace. With what? How? That will be clear in a moment.
The day of decision arrived. The emperor came for the test. The first prince’s palace was empty. He said, Forgive me — a hundred rupees were too few. I thought I would gamble, perhaps win more, and then fill the palace. I lost — the palace is empty.
On coming near the second prince’s palace, they were alarmed. Such foul odor! The whole place was filled with garbage and filth. The prince said, There was no other way. Only trash could be bought for a hundred rupees. What else could be had for so little?
Then the emperor approached the third prince’s palace. The examiners were astonished. The judges were amazed — such fragrance around that palace! They entered. It was the night of the new moon. Lamps were lit everywhere! The king asked, With what have you filled the palace?
The prince said, With light. With illumination.
Lamps burned in every corner. The whole palace was filled with light. Fragrances had been sprinkled. On every doorway and window flowers had been hung. The palace was filled with fragrance and light.
The third prince became emperor. He became the rightful heir to the kingdom.
Among us, it is so difficult for anyone to become the emperor of his own life. For either we have placed our life on a gamble — each stake with the hope that something will be gained and then we will begin to live. And as it goes with gambling, we go on losing — and in the end the palace of life remains empty. Or else, some of us have resolved to fill the palace with trash. Whatever is useless in life, we keep purchasing and bringing into our house. That which has no ultimate value, no ultimate meaning — all that rubbish we are collecting! Our logic is: life is so small, our power so little — how can such a palace be filled with diamonds? With such meager strength it can only be filled with trash, so we fill it with trash.
But we do not know that the palace we are stuffing will become unlivable to us because of its own stench. Living will itself turn difficult. And our living has become difficult. So restless, so miserable, so anxious — why? This anxiety and unrest does not descend from the sky or the stars. It arises from the palace we ourselves have filled with stench and refuse. All turmoil, all worry, all pain arises from there. It is the fruit of our own labor, the outcome of our own effort.
But within us dwell only these two kinds of princes. The third prince is not within us — the one who could fill his palace with light and fragrance.
Here, in this solitude by the shore of the sea, I have invited you for three days to speak a little about how the lamp in the palace may be lit, how flowers may come, how fragrance may arise — and perhaps you too may become heirs of the kingdom of Paramatma. Who knows? Who can say you were not sent for this? Who knows if life is not an examination? Who knows how, and who, will pass in this test of life?
Yet one thing is certain: whoever, by life’s end, lights the lamp within his life’s palace — whoever fills himself with fragrance, whoever becomes music — if anywhere there is Paramatma, if anywhere there is bliss, if anywhere there is treasure, then surely he becomes its heir.
I begin with this story so that your life-house may neither remain empty, nor be filled with trash — but be filled with light, with music, with fragrance. How is this possible? Tonight I shall speak of a few preliminary sutras upon which we shall try to live for three days.
How will this palace be filled with light? In the coming three days I shall offer a few directions — some scientific steps, some ladders — but first the preliminary sutras must be understood: how shall we live during these three days of the camp?
Understand this clearly: if a man learns to live rightly even for three moments, his whole life can become right. For one who takes a single step in the right direction even for a moment, who relates for even one moment with the bliss of life — then in this very life it is impossible for him to become separate from that bliss again. One who opens his eyes even once and sees — in this life those eyes cannot close again to stumble in darkness.
Three days are much. And that you have carved out three days and come here is worthy of welcome — and of gratitude too. For in today’s world, few are willing to set aside even three days to fill life with light!
There was a rich merchant who sailed by boat to distant lands and earned millions. His friends said, You travel by boat — the old kind. There are storms; there is danger; boats capsize. Learn to swim at least.
The merchant said, Where do I have time to learn swimming?
People said, It won’t take long. A skilled swimmer in the village says he will teach you in three days.
He said, He may be right — but where do I get three days? In three days I can do business worth thousands. In three days lakhs move here to there. If I ever get leisure, I will surely learn.
Still people warned, It is dangerous. Your life is continually on a boat. Any day there may be danger — and you do not know how to swim!
He said, Tell me some cheaper trick — I don’t have that much time.
They said, At least keep two barrels near you. If need arises you can cling to them and float.
He had two barrels closed and kept by his bed. No one knew the moment would come. A storm rose; the boat began to sink. He shouted, Where are my barrels?
The sailors thought he would fetch them from under his bed — and they themselves jumped into the sea; they knew how to swim. He went to his barrels. There were the two empty ones kept for floating — and there were two filled with gold coins. His mind wavered: with which should he jump — the gold-filled or the empty? The boat was sinking. What good would empty barrels do? He took the gold-filled barrels and jumped!
You can guess what became of him. He could not spare three days to learn to swim! You have found three days — for that I welcome you. And he still had the chance to jump with empty barrels — but he jumped with full ones. For those who have been addicted to fullness all their lives cannot agree to be empty for a single moment.
In these three days I must tell you how empty barrels can be found. To float in a river, an empty barrel helps. And to float in the ocean of life, in the ocean of Paramatma, one must oneself become an empty barrel. There, the more empty and void one becomes, the more capable he is of floating in the ocean of the Lord.
But we are all busy filling ourselves! Some fill with gold, some with earth; some fill with pebbles, some with diamonds. Yet whether a barrel is filled with gold, with earth, with pebbles, or with jewels makes no difference — a full barrel sinks, whatever it be filled with.
That day the gold-filled barrels did not save him. How he must have pleaded while drowning: O barrels, I filled you with gold — and you won’t save me! I did not fill you with earth — why should I drown? I filled you with gold — yet you drown me! But the barrels would not have heard — for full barrels only know how to sink; they do not know how to float. With what they are filled makes no difference.
What we have stuffed within makes no difference; we have only prepared to drown. We have made no preparation to swim.
Dharma is the art of swimming.
All that we have learned is but preparation for drowning. How shall we empty ourselves? How will we become capable of floating? How can we steer the boat of life across the unknown ocean — to that shore whose name is Paramatma, whose name is Prabhu, whose name is Truth? How?
The preliminary sutras must be remembered.
First, people ask me, What is a sadhana camp? Yesterday, on the way, someone asked: What is a sadhana camp? And what is satsang? I told him: Satsang is for those who are shravaks — eager to listen. A sadhana camp is for sadhaks — who are not only eager to listen, but eager to do. Those who have come only to listen have come to the wrong place. For listening I myself come to your cities so that you can hear; but here, in this far solitude, I have invited you so that something can be done.
In these three days, do not be overly concerned with listening. The clear resolve should be to do something. However many good things we may hear, however many noble truths we may know — by knowing and hearing, no revolution happens in life. In one sense, knowing useless things is even helpful, for after knowing what is useless, no one thinks he has attained. But after knowing what is meaningful, a delusion arises that perhaps we have obtained something. By listening alone, nothing is obtained — this the sadhak must first know. He will have to do something, become something; he will have to alter his way of life, create a difference in his style of living, bring a revolution in the arrangement of his being — only then something can happen; otherwise, nothing happens.
To be merely a hearer means nothing. Listening too can be entertainment. One enjoys music and feels delighted; another listens to truths of life and feels delighted — but it is only entertainment, a brief forgetfulness. If we do something, our life can change.
Whatever I shall say in these three days is with this vision — that it becomes an active transformation within you. But I cannot bring the change; with your cooperation it can certainly happen.
First, a sadhana camp is an opportunity to change oneself actively, creatively, and constructively for a life-revolution. Not for mere listening, understanding, arguing and thinking — but to give a new form, a new life, a new direction to one’s inner state.
Keep this very clearly in mind: about what I say, do not engage in mutual discussions. Do not do much thinking, much brooding. Do not engage in analyses, disputes, and debates. What I say — try a few experiments with it.
Three days are short. To lose them in discussion is useless. A few experiments are needed. For what I say will become clear only by experimenting — then its meaning will be understood.
Even if you take a single step in that direction, all I say will become clear as remembrance. However much you think, discuss, or argue among yourselves — nothing will become clear; and what little clarity might have been will get clouded and tangled.
There are things in life that cannot be known by knowing alone — only by doing and seeing.
Explain light to a blind man as much as you like — nothing will be understood. But if his eyes can be treated and opened, then without explanation everything about light is known. Our state is also like people whose eyes are closed. We can arrange to open the eyes — but there is no way to understand light. How to open the eyes? What is our preliminary preparation?
The first preparation: remember we have gathered here to do something, not to merely listen and think. When it becomes clear that the path opens by doing, you will listen in a different way.
If a house is on fire and I go and say, The house is burning — and the people begin to think about the meaning and purpose of what I say, the fire will be very hard to extinguish.
But when I say, The house is burning, I am not preaching or philosophizing. I am giving a notice that it is necessary to get out of the house — a call to take a creative, active step. House on fire is neither a doctrine nor a debate — it is simply news. News for those who can run out — who can do.
So whatever I say in these three days is with the intent that an active step may arise within you. Remember at the outset: what I say is a call towards taking an active step — not for listening, understanding, and metaphysical thinking, but for tattva-sadhana — a vision for practice. This is the first point.
Second: merely gathering together in a secluded place for a sadhana camp solves nothing. What perspective we bring here, what feeling, what inner current — upon this everything depends. Many friends have come together; one can make this opportunity valuable, another can waste it.
Our habits are to waste life.
For three days step outside those habits. However you are at home, at least in these three days, do not remain the same. Life becomes mechanical — habitual. If you read the newspaper first thing in the morning, you will look for it here too. Then I say to you: you have not come here; you are where you were. For if you seek the newspaper in the morning, it means you are seeking your home, your daily routine. The habitual, the mechanical pattern has begun. It must be broken.
In these three days, try to live like a new person — keeping an eye that you are not recreating the same rut, the same pattern you live at home. If you are, then you are at home; coming here was futile. Better to have stayed there; at least it would not be inconvenient.
Remember, one who is so bound by patterns of habit that he cannot step outside them even a little — no inner revolution can ever happen in his life. He lives in a shell and does not dare to peep outside. Like a sprout hidden within a seed that cannot break its shell — it will never emerge, never rise to the sky, never flower.
We are all tightly enclosed in the circles and shells of our habits. The first thing to remember in a sadhana camp is to crack open our habitual shell. Remember, man has associations of very small habits. Even a tiny habit can imprison the soul.
A friend of mine, a renowned lawyer, had the habit that whenever in court he faced a complex point that required thinking, he would hold and twirl a button on his coat. As soon as he twirled it, he felt a door opened in his brain — thoughts began to run. It was hard to defeat him in any case. But an opposing lawyer observed this habit — that whenever he was stuck, he twirled the button. He bribed the chauffeur and had the button broken just before a case. The lawyer came to court, coat on his shoulder. He put it on and began his argument. At the precise place where a knot appeared, his hand went to the button. It was not there. Sweat beaded on his brow. His limbs went limp. He sat down with closed eyes — and lost his first case.
He told me later, I was shocked that such a small button could have such a connection! Could I be such a slave — that without a button everything goes wrong?
We are all just as enslaved. If we want to change life’s direction, the ring of habits around us — even if small buttons — must be broken.
In these three days, make a conscious effort. Keep watch that you are not slipping back into your habitual circle. There is no need for newspapers here, no need for radio, no need for useless chatter. Take rest for three days from all your habits.
If husband and wife have come together, there is no need to see each other as husband and wife. Take a holiday from being a wife, from being a husband. Leave at home all those feelings that keep you imprisoned in the household circle — otherwise you can never come from there to here.
Traveling on land is easy; the real journey has to be made at the level of the mind. The sadhana camp is not happening in Nargol — if it were merely in Nargol, you would already have arrived. The camp will happen within you — it will happen only if you undertake the journey consciously. Trains can take us anywhere — except to one place: outside ourselves. We are always present to ourselves.
It is essential in a sadhana camp that you leave yourself at home a little. Leave your home-self — and if you have not, then leave it now. For three days, live like a new person — without pattern and habit. Whatever your habits are, whatever structure grips your mind — be cautious of it.
You may be habituated to arguing — someone says something and you begin to argue. Become alert and see whether you are slipping into your habit of argument. The moment you see it, immediately ask forgiveness and say, I forgot. My habit returned. I am sorry — I leave this habit here.
All day long we are accustomed to talk. We are always saying something. We cannot sit in silence. You do not know that those who talk cannot know the truth of life. Only those who know how to be silent sometimes — they arrive.
Without mauna, no one has ever reached the truth of oneself — nor can one ever. Yet we are immersed in chatter, twenty-four hours. If we get a chance to be silent for even an hour, we become restless — it feels difficult. How will this hour pass?
For three days, practice it. Remain as silent as possible. Speak as little as possible. If very necessary, speak — telegraphically, as if you were paying for every word. When one sends a telegram he does not write long letters. He writes ten words, eight words — cutting out the unnecessary. And eight words of a telegram often do what eight thousand words of a letter cannot. Because words that remain necessary and significant become concentrated — they gather intensity and power. The more scattered they are, the weaker they become. Gather the sun’s rays with a lens and fire is born; let them fall scattered and nothing ignites.
Those who learn the art of silence find life in their words. Each word gains the power to kindle fire. But we speak incessantly — much that is needless, that serves no one.
In these three days, take care that not a single unnecessary word leaves your lips. You will be surprised — necessary words are so few, necessary talk so little, that you will find hours pass in silence. Perhaps a word now and then…
You have heard of Lao Tzu — two and a half thousand years ago in China. He went for a walk each morning. A friend would go with him. The friend would greet him. Half an hour later Lao Tzu would say, Greetings. In an hour or two, that was all — two greetings. They would return from the hills.
One day the friend brought a guest along. The three walked. On the way, the guest said only this: What a beautiful morning, what lovely weather. Seeing the two silent, he too fell silent. They returned.
At home, Lao Tzu whispered to his friend, Do not bring your guest tomorrow. He seems very talkative. We too could see the morning was beautiful — what need was there to say it? Unnecessary. We were present and seeing. Why speak? Do not bring that talkative friend.
Such a clear distinction between the necessary and unnecessary should be alive within. If, mid-sentence, you become aware you are saying something unnecessary, leave it half-said. Ask forgiveness: I erred — out of habit I began to talk needlessly.
Let these three days become days of silence. This seashore is so wondrous. Go sit near it in your aloneness. These cypress trees are so beautiful — sit by them. Do not talk to your wife, nor to your friend. Speak to the cypress — to the sea.
In this camp you are utterly alone — keep this sense alive. The third thing to remember: there are not six hundred people here — here, I am alone. For the direction we wish to go — the direction of meditation and sadhana — no companions exist. There each one goes alone. So we are all alone here. As sadhaks, there is no crowd. Many are here — but each must experience for three days: I am utterly alone. No one is here with me. Live for three days as if you are absolutely alone. Do not seek company. Do not ask to be quartered with friends. There is no one here. You are utterly alone.
For three days, experiment with total loneliness. For one who becomes capable of being alone, doors open that remain closed to those who live in crowds. The feeling of aloneness — when you go to sleep tonight, do so as if utterly alone, as if in this vast world there is no one but you. Sink quietly into sleep. In the morning rise with the same sense — absolutely alone.
And it is true — man is alone. Birth is alone, death is alone. In between, crowds appear — and we think someone is with us. Bodies touch bodies and we think someone is with us. Words meet words and we think someone is with us. But no one is with anyone. The journey is utterly solitary. Each person is alone. Even amidst a crowd, each is alone. No one is with anyone.
At least for three days deepen this remembrance: I am utterly alone. Consequences will follow. With the thought of utter aloneness, a strange silence will begin within. Speech begins where another exists. Relationships form where another is. Quarrels, friendship, enmity — all arise where the other is. Where I am alone, utterly alone — if a blank hush arises within, do not be surprised.
Silence is the shadow of aloneness.
So in these days, deepen the feeling of being alone. Do not disturb anyone; do not break another’s aloneness. If someone sits alone under the trees, do not go near. If by mistake you approach, move away at once when you realize it. Let everyone be alone, remain alone, live alone, experience alone.
If for three days someone experiences aloneness with intensity, with total urgency, the revolution for which we have gathered can happen.
So the third sutra: remember, we are utterly alone — completely alone — with none beside us.
There was a Greek fakir, Gurdjieff. He conducted an experiment in a small village. Thirty people were shut inside a bungalow. To those thirty it was said: you are not thirty here, but each one alone. Each must experience that I am alone. The experiment would last three months. No one should even think that another is present. Do not speak. Do not even raise your eyes to look at anyone — because the eyes too can speak. Do not remember that anyone is here — you are utterly alone. In those three months they reached where lifetimes of effort would not have taken them. In three months they became perfectly silent. Where the other is absent, speech has no way. Where there is no other, even in the mind there is no talking. We can talk in the mind only after we imagine another, construct the image of another. When there is truly no other, and they sank into the feeling I am utterly alone — all words vanished, all dialogue ceased, thoughts dropped — and in thoughtless silence they came to know that which was hidden within.
So long as we are speaking to the other, we will not know who we are. To know the ‘I’, freedom from ‘thou’ is needed. From that ‘other’ we need release, respite. While we remain bound to ‘thou’, the ‘I’ cannot be known. Our gaze, our attention, our energy, flows to the other — around the other. We revolve around the other and never arrive at ourselves. To arrive at oneself is possible — but it requires the feeling of aloneness, of total loneliness.
Bodhidharma was a bhikshu. One morning a youth came and asked, Who am I? I want the answer. Bodhidharma was very compassionate; his compassion you will now see. He struck — a loud slap. The youth flared up: What are you doing? I came to ask who I am — and you strike me!
He rose and left. He told another monk, I had heard of Bodhidharma; I went to ask — he slapped me. The monk said, Bodhidharma is very compassionate. Have you come to ask me? Then wait — I will bring my staff.
The youth was bewildered. On the way home it struck him: Why would Bodhidharma strike me? He got nothing by hurting his hand. There must be some meaning — there must be!
He returned next morning. As he sat down Bodhidharma said, So you are back? Will you ask again? If you ask, I will strike again — and even if you don’t ask, I will strike. Now speak — what will you do?
The youth was frightened and fell silent. Bodhidharma laughed: Fool! You come to ask me who you are? Ask another, and you will never receive the answer. Whatever answers you get will be false — because how can the other answer who you are? This answer will come only from yourself. Therefore I slapped you — perhaps the shock might turn you away from me and back into yourself. By my slap I tried to turn you back.
If we return to ourselves, perhaps we will come upon who we are. To come upon that is to come upon truth; to come upon that is to come upon Prabhu; to come upon that is to light the lamp in the house of life and let fragrance spread.
For three days I shall try my best to turn you back to yourselves. I am not so compassionate as to slap you — but I shall do all I can to help you return to yourself. Your cooperation will be this: forget the ‘thou’. There is no other here. The Other — drop it, forget that it exists. This is why it is easier with trees, with the sea, with mountains. Why? Because the idea of saying ‘thou’ to a tree does not arise; to the sea it does not arise.
The real difficulty is human relationship — there the ‘thou’ is ever-present. Therefore go to the sea a while — the sea turns you back to yourself, for there is no ‘thou’. Sit by the trees — they return you to yourself. With people it is difficult for now; their presence immediately sets your mind revolving around them. You cannot return to yourself; you reach them. A day will surely come when you can sit with a person just as you sit with a tree or with the sea.
On the day you can sit with a person that way, you will see within a person what cannot be seen in trees or seas — the greatest mystery, the secret of life. But preparation is needed. That day comes gradually. For now, we shall prepare. In these three days we shall try to be utterly alone — seek solitude, sit in seclusion — and remember the three sutras I have given.
Tonight when you lie down to sleep, do so as if in this vast universe you are utterly alone — on this whole earth you are alone — amidst these stars and moon you are alone. There is no one — you are alone. In that aloneness, quietly sink and sleep. In the morning you will awaken with a rare feeling — the feel of aloneness.
The sadhak is alone. He has no companion, no crowd, no sect. The journey to the temple of the Lord must be completed utterly alone.
In these three days I shall try to lead you towards that aloneness. Without your cooperation nothing is possible. If you give your cooperation with your whole heart, it is so simple that it defies measure. Without your cooperation it is so difficult — impossible. Not merely difficult — impossible.
One small incident — and I will close this talk.
Then go silently and sleep. Even as you leave here, do not talk. Say nothing to anyone. Go quietly. For three days I shall keep watch to see you are not chattering uselessly. Be as silent as possible — for three days as if words are lost and you have become dumb; as if speech cannot arise; your lips are sealed.
An emperor longed to hear the music of a great musician’s veena. He sent courtiers and viziers to invite him to court: Come — ask whatever you wish; I want to hear your veena.
The musician said, Perhaps they do not know that music is not something born of command. If they have sent an order, I can come and I can play — but it will not be the veena I play, nor will I be the musician they wish to hear. If they pray, then I will come — some day — but that day will have to be awaited. Not today. When a tide rises in me and my feet move of their own towards the court, I will come.
The king became even more restless. For the first time he saw the difference between order and prayer.
Whatever is significant in life comes by prayer; whatever is trivial comes by order.
But prayer asks for waiting. Order can be fulfilled at once. The king also saw that by ordering the musician to come, he would not hear what he longed to hear. He would play — but...
He was impatient. He asked the court musician for a way.
The musician said, There is a way — not that the musician come to the court, but that we go to the musician’s house.
The king said, What difference is there — he coming here, or we going there?
The court musician said, Great difference — the difference between order and prayer.
For whatever is highest in life, we must go ourselves. Do not summon it sitting at home. We must walk a few steps.
The king agreed. The court musician, who was like a fakir, poor and in beggar’s clothes, said, You cannot go in royal robes to the musician’s home — then it will be the same thing. No difference. Wear clothes like mine.
The king said, What obstacle will garments create? We go to hear music — what will clothes do?
The musician said, Much. If you remain a king there, you will not hear what you wish to hear. Whatever is important in life is not attained as emperors — it is attained as beggars. One must go with outstretched hands. In these robes you cannot stretch your hands. These garments are accustomed to thrones. They will not sit in dust at a poor musician’s door.
The king agreed. He donned the poor man’s clothes. It was evening; night was nearing. They reached the musician’s door. The court musician had taken his veena. They sat by the threshold. He began to play — exactly that which was dearest to the musician, in which his mastery lay — but he made a few mistakes deliberately. The musician flung open the door: Who is playing — and who is playing wrong?
The court musician said, I don’t know much — I play as I can. If someone teaches me, I am always ready to learn.
The musician brought his veena and began to play. The king was spellbound. When the music ended, he said, Perhaps you have not recognized me — I am the emperor who sent for you. And see, I have heard you after all!
The musician said, That is another matter. You have come as a supplicant — I was not summoned. You created the situation, the right climate, so that feeling arose in me and I began to play. I was not commanded.
At the door of Paramatma it is just so. No orders are to be given. One goes as a petitioner — not in royal attire but with humility, with a poor-in-spirit simplicity, with hands outstretched, not seated on thrones.
With such humility — as Christ said, poor in spirit — one stands at that door, and then however he can, with words full of mistakes he begins to pray; however he can, with a veena full of errors he begins to play — and those doors open. The supreme Musician lifts his veena and comes. But we must travel that far. We must be ready for the journey.
From tonight begin the preparation — the three sutras I have spoken. From morning, start the experiments. Then we shall talk and experiment further about what else is essential for sadhana, what steps are to be taken.
Today’s first sitting is complete.
In the end, I bow to the Paramatma seated within all. Please accept my pranam.