My beloved Atman! In this final meeting of the camp there is a little I still wish to say to you. Three days ago the inner journey we began reaches its last stage today. Such is the story of the whole of life—the thing that begins two days ago ends two days later. We do not even get time to think, and the end comes close. In life, everything ends just like this. There is no preparation for farewell, and yet farewell must be taken. As if untimely, it feels we have been torn apart; so too, in life's final stage, it seems we have to separate. But for that, one can prepare. One can live each single moment in such a way that we are always ready to depart. And the person who lives every moment as if the very next moment the end is possible—that person alone gains access to life's perfect bliss, to the amrit of life. I was once on a journey. It was the monsoon. In the middle a stream had flooded. The bridge was submerged. We had to stop the car and wait there for two hours. When the water receded, we would be able to cross. Two more cars came behind and stopped. I did not know the people in those cars, but perhaps they had heard something of my talks. Seeing me sit on a rock by the riverbank, three men from one car came and sat near me and began to talk. We had to be there two hours; I spoke with them. Then the water subsided. They went to drive their car down, and said to me, "We liked your words very much. When we return we will surely meet you, and we will try to experiment with your words." I said to them, "There is no certainty about returning; it may be you return, but I do not survive; it may be I survive and you do not return; it may be both of us survive and we still never meet. Anything can happen." And I told them a small story. Then, smiling, we parted. I told them a small story. I did not know what result that story would bring. I told them: There was an emperor in China who had sentenced his vizier to death by hanging. Some suspicion arose, some doubt; the vizier was imprisoned. In the morning he would be hanged. The rule of that kingdom was that before the hanging the emperor himself would visit the prisoner, and grant his last wish. And this was the vizier, the emperor's chief vizier. The hanging was to be in the morning. That evening the emperor rode his horse to the prison. He tied the horse outside and went in. Behind the bars, right near the door, his chief vizier was confined. When the vizier saw the emperor, tears began to flow from his eyes. The emperor was surprised! The vizier was a brave man. He had faced many hardships in life, and faced death many times. He had not expected that he would weep because of death. The emperor began to console him: "You are weeping? Are you afraid?" The vizier said, "Not from death. I weep for another reason." The emperor said, "What other reason? Say it; I will fulfill it. I have come precisely to fulfill any last wish of yours." He said, "No, you will not be able to. It has become very difficult. I weep for this... let it be, but forgive me, you will not be able to do it." The emperor said, "Even so, speak." The vizier said, "I do not weep because I will die tomorrow. Dying is no question—life is always at stake; one can die any moment. I weep seeing your horse tied at the door." The emperor said, "Seeing the horse? What has that to do with anything?" The vizier said, "I had learned an art—how to teach a horse to fly in the sky. But the breed of horse that can be taught to fly in the sky—I never found it my whole life. And today, when death is coming tomorrow, that horse is standing at the door. The very breed I had been searching for is the horse you rode here. I weep because in life I learned an art, yet could not use it, and death has come near." The emperor's greed soared to the sky. The horse could fly in the sky! Then there would be no emperor like him in the world if his horse were to fly! He said, "Vizier... unlock the chains." And he said to the vizier, "In how many days can this be done? Do not deceive me." The vizier said, "At least one year will be needed." The emperor said, "Do not worry. If in one year the horse learns to fly, you will be restored to your position—and not only that, I will give you half the kingdom as a reward. And if it cannot be done, then fine; after a year you can be hanged." The vizier mounted the horse and reached his home. That evening, no lamps had been lit in his house; in the morning he was to die. His wife, his children, his loved ones were weeping. Seeing him there, they could not believe it. His wife asked, "How have you come back?" He told her the whole matter. She beat her breast and cried, "How mad you are! You have never learned any art of teaching a horse to fly! Why did you go and say a false thing? And if you had to lie, why only for one year? You should have asked for ten or twenty years. One year will pass so quickly; it will become harder to live through this year than to die. Each moment will pass as if death is coming, death is coming." The vizier began to laugh. He said, "Foolish woman, you do not know—a year is very big; even a single moment is very big. Who knows—within a year I may die, the king may die, the horse may die. Anything can happen. A year is very big." And so it happened—not only the vizier did not die, not only the king did not die, not only the horse did not die—in that year all three died. In that year, all three died. The year proved so big. A single moment can prove so vast. So I went to see those friends off to their car and told them this story. They laughed, I laughed, we said goodbye. They drove their big car away. Ten minutes later I too drove my car and crossed the river behind them. Barely two miles on, those whom I had left alive I met as dead. Their car had crashed, and all three had died right there on the spot. My driver said, "When we were parting, you told a story—of three dying. These three... these have died! And they were thinking, when we return, that your words were right, then we will make some experiments." Life is just like this; whether we will meet again or not, nothing can be said. The king can die, the vizier can die, the horse can die. All three can die. Life is just this absurd. Therefore, in this moment of final farewell I wish to say to you: Live each moment in such a way that there is no trust in the next. This very awareness makes a man a sadhak. This awareness—that each single moment can be the last. As a drop of morning dew trembles on the blade of grass, a slight gust of wind and the drop will slip and scatter—so too human life, moment to moment, quivers like a dewdrop on the grass. Any moment the drop will fall, and all will be finished. This life that is only for a moment, this breath that is only for a moment, this thought and contemplation that is only for a moment—this opportunity—can we, with this opportunity, take a step toward that life where there is no death—where there is amrit, where there is the supreme life? Only one thing is to be remembered: what we take to be life is not life; it is a brief opportunity. We can make that opportunity a ladder to attain the supreme life, if we so choose—otherwise it can be lost. This is the meaning of sadhak: he has not taken this life as ultimate, as final; he has made it an opportunity, a chance, so he may take steps toward deeper life, the ultimate life, the amrit life. Understand each moment in such a way that the drop can fall at any instant. Then each moment will become sadhana; each breath will become sadhana; each day, each night can become a path to take life into revolution. This is the first point: remembrance of life's impermanence—so that life is not squandered, not lost; so that life becomes an attainment. The second point: In these three days the direction of sadhana to which I have pointed a little—and you have caught a little, you must have caught. You have walked a few steps, you must have walked—do not stop those steps where they are. Those steps must be given continuity, a flow; only then, someday, the door can open. But we are like that farmer. You must have heard—there was a farmer; he had a large field. He decided to dig a well, so that water could be had and the crops could thrive. He started to dig a well. But after digging four or six hand-depths, water did not appear, so he thought water will not be found here; he left that pit as it was. After resting ten or five days he dug another pit elsewhere. Again he dug ten or five hand-depths, and again there was no water; he thought water will not be found here either. After a few days’ rest he dug another pit. Little by little the entire field filled with pits, but water did not appear anywhere. Then he sat on the edge of his field and began to weep. A fakir was passing by. He asked, "Why are you crying?" He said, "I am exhausted, worn out from digging wells. My year is ruined. I have dug up the whole field, but water does not come." The fakir laughed and said, "Madman! If only—you have made so many pits—had you dug in one place, the water would have appeared long ago. But you dig four or six hand-depths and leave it, dig four or six and leave it—wells are not dug that way." Meditation is like digging a well within oneself. That inner spring of water hidden within; that light hidden within; that life hidden within; that Paramatma hidden within—to reach that, this digging of a well is called meditation. Dhyana is nothing but digging a well within oneself. But we sometimes dig only a little. That farmer was very sensible—he dug four or six hand-depths; we do not dig even skin-deep. Not even the thickness of the skin do we dig before we leave it. Then, after a year or two, the idea comes, we dig a little again, then leave again. In this way life will pass, and in the field of the life-force the well of Paramatma will not be dug. If that well is to be dug, continuity is needed; labor is needed. Continually, in one place, the mind must go on digging, go on digging. Then surely one succeeds in attaining within oneself that which is present, which is one's wealth, one's birthright. But most people do just this: you come to a camp, then you go away; for a day or two perhaps you sit for meditation, then you forget. Nothing will happen in a day or two. There are lifelong wrong habits, a lifelong wrong way of living, the entanglements of wrong thinking. A day or two will not do. Digging two hand-depths will not do. The water is deep; because we ourselves have piled up layers of soil, we ourselves have piled up many rocks. Everything is buried beneath. The soil has to be removed, the rock has to be cut; one must go on digging and digging, then perhaps—why perhaps?—then certainly the inner spring can be found. Without finding which, every person lives thirsty and dies thirsty. And finding which, a fulfillment comes whose end is never. So the second thing I wish to say is this: when you depart from here, do not let the small efforts you have made here be dropped; let them go with you, take them along. Upon them, day by day, a little labor; little by little, a little digging; little by little, some device toward the well—keep it going, keep it going... Whoever has ever dug, has never failed. The water may be far; there may be some strata of soil, some rocks—but water is surely within. The distance may be a little, but water is surely within. And often it happens that a person turns back from almost the place where the spring was very near, extremely near. When the gold mines were first discovered in Colorado, the greedy of the world began to run there, to arrive there. Gold lay scattered like pebbles in the hills of Colorado. Whoever owned a little land became a millionaire. One man thought, what is the point of buying a small piece? He bought an entire mountain. He installed equipment worth lakhs of rupees on the mountain and began to dig for gold mines. He dug and dug; there was no sign of gold—only rocks. He had spent lakhs of rupees; the machinery was great. The small people, with small plots, dug and searched and became rich. And that rich man, investing all his wealth, became poor. There was no sign of gold there. Then he advertised to sell his mountain—with equipment, with machines, with the entire setup. He advertised for over fifty lakhs. His family said, "Do you think there will be some madman who will buy it? Everyone knows you are ruined. Not a grain of gold has come from there. Who will give fifty lakhs and buy it?" The man said, "I am not hopeless. Someone or other, someone or other may be found." And someone was found. His family said to that buyer, "You have gone mad. One man has been ruined, and you wish to enter the business of ruin. There is nothing to be had there." But that man said, "There is no knowing. Up to where he has dug there may be no gold—and ahead there may be gold; and ahead there is still much land remaining." He did not listen. He bought it. And the miracle was that when he began digging, on the very first day the gold vein was found. Just one foot below where the first owner had stopped, the mine began. Only one foot earlier the first owner had turned back. Often in life it happens that from where you turn back, perhaps only a few steps more were needed, and the goal would have been attained. Therefore, keep this in mind: do not turn back leaving it unfinished. If you must go, then go to the end—with courage, with hope, with patience, with labor, with resolve. Pursue within yourself to the very end. Go as far as it is possible to go. It has never happened that anyone who went within returned a failure. Only those fail who never go, who turn back from the outside. In the direction of Paramatma there is no such thing as failure. But if one will not go, will not walk, then even Paramatma can do nothing. If we walk two steps, Paramatma is always ready to walk four. If we extend one hand, Paramatma is always ready to extend two. But if we stand with our back turned, then there is no way. Even if we merely stand with our back turned, perhaps something might still happen; but we are running with our back turned—then there is even less possibility. So the second thing: labor—of sadhana, of dhyana—be continuous. Let your life-energy keep flowing in that direction from moment to moment. Let prayer move daily in that direction. For an hour or two be in solitude, alone, and keep diving into meditation. The third point: No one knows in which instant the doors will open. No one knows. A beggar once asked a millionaire, "How did you become a millionaire?" He said, "I always waited for opportunity, and whenever I got the opportunity, I labored—and I became a millionaire." The beggar said, "Opportunity? Whenever opportunity came you labored; but when will the opportunity come? I too wish to labor." The millionaire said, "Whenever opportunity came, I leapt and mounted it. When opportunity comes, you too leap and mount it." But he said, "That is fine, but when will opportunity come? How will I know? And if, while I get ready to leap, it passes by, then what?" So the millionaire said, "You keep on jumping. Keep on jumping, keep on jumping. When opportunity comes, if you are already jumping, you will be ready; you will pounce and mount it. If you sit and wait, thinking when opportunity comes then I will leap and mount it—opportunity passes so quickly that you will not even be able to jump before it is gone. You keep on jumping. Keep on jumping, keep on jumping. Whenever it comes, it must meet you already in mid-leap, so that you mount it that very instant." The hour of union with the Lord—no one can say when it will come. No prophecy can be made. There are no rules by which one could know the instant when that door will open. Therefore the third point is: moment to moment, preparedness is needed, so that whenever that door opens, I am not found asleep—keep on jumping—lest it happen that he comes to the door and I am asleep; that he comes and I am standing with my back turned. Rabindranath sang a song; it was very dear to him. He said: There was a great temple outside a village. In that temple there were a hundred priests. In that temple there were golden images. Money rained upon that temple. From faraway people came with love for that temple. It was a great pilgrimage place. One night the chief priest dreamed that God said, "Tomorrow I am coming. Tomorrow I am coming to your temple." In the morning, fearful, he told the other priests: "Last night I had a dream. God said, tomorrow I am coming—be ready." At first, it was only a dream—the priest himself did not believe. Yet, who knows, the dream might come true. And if God were to come, and preparations not be made! So the entire temple was cleaned, made pure. Incense, fragrance, lamps. The whole temple was adorned. The day passed, but there was no news of God. Evening came, the sun began to set—but there was no sound of the wheels of his chariot. The priests grew tired. And they began to say, "It was only a dream. Into what madness have we fallen? How can dreams be true! And not just any dream—can a dream of God's coming ever be true!" Then night came. They shut the doors and went to sleep. The lamps went out; the fragrances went out; the incense died. Around midnight, a golden chariot came and stopped at the door of the temple. On that dark, moonless night, someone alighted from the chariot, climbed the steps, and knocked upon the doors. Inside, one priest must have awakened from the knocking. He said, "It seems the king for whom we were waiting has come; it seems the Beloved stands at the door!" But the other priests said, "Do not disturb our sleep; go to sleep quietly. It is the gusting wind. There is no one. The wind rattles the doors; there is no one—sleep." Then the guest who had come descended and sat back in the chariot to go. The wheels rumbled. Then some priest heard the sound and said, "It seems a chariot is coming and going!" The other priests said, "Do not make trouble. Do not babble in your sleep. It is the thunder of clouds; there is no chariot anywhere." In the morning they awoke. They opened the doors. Then all the priests sat at the threshold and wept. The marks of the wheels were etched up to the steps. Footprints were imprinted upon the steps. Someone had climbed to the door. A chariot had come to the door. Someone had surely knocked upon the doors. A mistake was made. What they took to be the gust of wind, what they took to be the thunder of clouds, was the news of the Lord's arrival. But at that time they were asleep. So they wept. The whole village gathered and asked, "Why do you weep?" They said, "We weep because the One for whom we waited all our life—when he came, our doors were closed and we were asleep." No one knows when his chariot will come and halt at your door! No one knows when he will knock upon your door! But if you are not awake, aware, in consciousness, then the chariot will turn back. The Guest will return. And if you ask me, I will say: his chariot comes every day. But sometimes we say, it is the thunder of clouds; sometimes we say, it is the roaring of the ocean; sometimes we say, it is the fluttering of the winds; sometimes we say something, sometimes something else, and stop there. Every day his chariot comes. Every day his feet climb the steps of our temple. Every day his hands knock upon our doors. But we say something to explain it away to ourselves—and go back to sleep. No one knows which moment! Therefore, each moment is to be made a moment of awakening, of awareness, of attention. Each moment is to be made a moment of peace, of silence. Then perhaps we will be found awake when his chariot arrives. And I also wish to tell you: the very moment you are awake and ready, his chariot comes that very moment. With awakening, he comes. With the ray of awakening, his arrival happens. As of now, his signs seem to us like the sound of wind, the thunder of clouds... When we are quiet and awake, in silence and in meditation, the reverse happens. Then the thunder of clouds begins to sound like the wheels of his chariot. Then the noise of the wind begins to feel like the pat of his hand. For this third point, there is a need for continuous, continuous alertness and wakefulness. The fourth point: Sadhana is not some matter that you do for half an hour and it is finished, and you are liberated. Sadhana is not a thing that you can sit in a corner of a temple for half an hour and be free, that by sitting in a corner of your house you are freed. Truly, sadhana is twenty-four hours. What I have said about sitting in silence, sit in silence—but also keep in mind that in the remaining moments of the day the mind remains peaceful, remains silent. Remain silent while walking on the road. Remain silent while eating. Remain silent while sitting in the shop. As far as possible, as deep as possible, let the mind remain silent, peaceful, love-filled, wonder-struck, drenched in rasa; to that extent sadhana slowly spreads over twenty-four hours. A sadhak is one who is a sadhak twenty-four hours. Life is a single, unbroken stream; it does not happen that you are quiet for half an hour and for twenty-three and a half hours you are unquiet. For twenty-three and a half hours you are impure, and for half an hour you become pure—how can this be? For twenty-three and a half hours you are foolish, and for half an hour you become wise—how can this be? For twenty-three and a half hours you are dead, and for half an hour you become alive—how can this be? The Ganga flows from the Himalayas—can she say, I will be pure only at the ghats of Kashi, before that I will be impure, after that I will be impure? How can this be? If the Ganga is to be pure at the ghats of Kashi, she must flow pure from Gangotri itself. And if the Ganga is pure at the ghats of Kashi, then beyond that too she will remain pure. Life is a single, unbroken stream. There is no fragment, no break anywhere. Our Ganga of consciousness flows twenty-four hours. It cannot be that for half an hour when you sit in meditation you become pure and silent, and for twenty-three and a half hours everything is in disorder. Then there will be deception. Remember, then, that what happens during the twenty-three and a half hours is the truth; what happens in the half hour is false. Then that half hour will become self-deception; it will be a fraud. After listening to me, do not think that if you sit with closed eyes for fifteen minutes the work is complete. That is only the beginning of the work, not its completion. The work is complete on the day when there is no need at all to sit with closed eyes. Twenty-four hours—rising, sitting, sleeping, waking—the unbroken stream of peace begins to flow within. It can flow. But for three or four thousand years man has been taught a religion of fragments. It is said, go to the temple, and you are religious. A man bangs his head in a temple for five minutes and returns and becomes religious. Then he struts about, saying, I have become religious. Then he looks upon others as if they are all sinners bound for hell. His going to heaven is guaranteed. He went to the temple for five minutes—or to the mosque, or the gurudwara, or somewhere else. Life is not so cheap. Religion is not so cheap. Paramatma is not so cheap either. A revolution is needed of the whole of life, from the very roots. Twenty-four hours—the fragrance of what you practice for fifteen minutes must be spread over twenty-four hours. It is not difficult. It is very simple. We have never considered it, hence it appears difficult. What need is there to be unquiet while sitting at the shop? Does any shop run better by being unquiet? Does more business happen by being unquiet? What happens by being unquiet? What fruit is there in eating while unquiet? What benefit? The truth is: one who has not eaten in silence has never known the joy of eating. One who has not bathed in silence has never known the joy of bathing. One who has never put on clothes in silence has never known the joy of wearing clothes. One who has never slept in silence has no experience of the wondrous peace and joy of sleep. Let there be awareness, through all twenty-four hours and in every act, whether I remain a stream of peace or not. And only keeping the awareness, you will find that the stream is slowly becoming peaceful. But people think that while dying, in the end, they will become quiet—at the last they will become peaceful. Why do it now? And the dishonest have spread such notions too—that if at the time of death one takes the name of God once, then everything is done. Man can become so cunning as to wish to deceive even God: that at the last moment, while dying, we will take the Name once. And crafty people have even fabricated such stories. That a father was dying; his son's name was Narayan. So at the time of death he said, "Narayan!" And God thought he was calling me. He died and went to heaven! He was calling his son. Even the son would not have been deceived by this, but God was deceived! We have concocted such tales to deceive ourselves, to delude ourselves—that once or twice at the end we will take the Name and it will all be settled. I have heard: A man was dying, lying on the deathbed. Mantras were being recited into his ears; the Gita was being read to him. Priests and pundits were gathered. He was dying. The text of the Gita was being recited to him, mantras were being whispered into his ears; arrangements were being made to send him to heaven. It was evening; the sun was about to set. The whole family had gathered. He opened his eyes and said, "Where is my eldest son?" His wife was by his side. Tears of joy came to her. He had never asked after his son till today. He always asked where the key of the strongbox was. He always asked where the account books were kept. He always asked this and that—wealth, money, fame—he asked about all that. Never had he asked, "Where is my son?" For one who is in the race for money, it is no surprise if love slips his mind. Today, at the moment of dying, he asked, “Where is my son?” Surely love has arisen. Perhaps in the final hour, love has been born. His wife said, “Be at ease—he is sitting right by your feet; he is here.” “And the younger one—where is he?” the man asked, even more anxiously. The wife said, “He is here too.” “The one younger than him—where is he?” The man began to rise from the bed. “He is here as well.” “And the fourth—where is he?” “He too is here.” The man’s anxiety kept increasing, and the wife thought he was remembering all his sons out of love. Then he sat up and said, “Where is the fifth son?” His wife said, “Do not worry needlessly; we are all here.” He said, “Then what does it mean—who is sitting at the shop?” The wife was mistaken; she thought he was remembering his sons. The father was finding out whether the shop was open or closed! And they were reciting the Gita to the poor fellow, chanting mantras for him. But the man was actually at the shop; he wasn’t present there at all. There is nothing to laugh at in this. Nothing at all. It is absolutely natural, obvious. Wherever one has been all one’s life, in the final moment one’s consciousness will be there too. This is as clear as two plus two. Wherever you dwell through your life, your awareness will be there at the last moment as well. Life is a continuity, a single, ongoing stream—an unbroken flow. Keep this one stream in mind, the wholeness of life. This is the fourth thing I want to say: life is indivisible. So if there is to be stillness, if there is to be meditation, if there is to be an entry into love, if the temple of the Lord is to be opened—this is a twenty-four-hour work, a work of every breath. It is not a task you dash into for five minutes and sit down. It has nothing to do with that. Religion is not a fragment of life; religion is life as a whole. Therefore this fourth point I want to leave with you as I close: whatever seems right, let it spread over all twenty-four hours—keep spreading it, keep expanding it. Thread it through every order of life. Let everything be immersed in it. Slowly, slowly let everything sink into it. When all twenty-four hours come together, a revolution can happen. What I call a life-revolution can take place. This is the fourth point. And the fifth, the final point—very memorable—has two parts. First: the journey toward the Divine is very slow, very gentle, very patient, very serene. Because when the supreme peace is to be attained, it cannot be attained through the restlessness of running. If one begins with an agitated rush, one can never reach a peaceful destination. If peace is the goal, then from the very first step the journey must be calm and patient. If the world is to be gained, then impatient haste is needed—madness, fever. If someone wants wealth, to conquer the world, to become a Hitler, a Napoleon, a Genghis Khan—this cannot be done with peace. It can only be done through a restless race, a tense and feverish speed—by running like a madman. The exact opposite world: if love is to be attained, if bliss is to be attained, if God is to be attained—then very, very quietly; like a river that flows without even a ripple rising, with no commotion anywhere—quietly flowing, quietly flowing... Two monks were crossing a river. Sitting in a boat, they said to the boatman, “Quickly, quickly, take us across.” The boatman said, “Forgive me—the current is swift, the winds are strong; I can only take you slowly. The boat is small and old, and I am an old man. If I go slowly, I can get you there. If I hurry, the hope of arriving is small; the likelihood of not arriving is greater.” They had no choice. But the two monks were restless, in a hurry. Again and again they kept saying, “Hurry, hurry.” But the old man took them slowly to the other shore. Their hurry was natural—they had to reach a nearby village, and the sun was about to set. The rule in that village was that after sunset the gates were closed; then the whole night would have to be spent in the dark forest. So the poor fellows were in a hurry. Their hurry was quite natural—just as our hurry seems perfectly natural. Wherever we run, there is fear that the doors might close before we arrive, and the fear that while I am arriving, a neighbor might enter before me. So many fears. They too were afraid. After getting out of the boat, they picked up their belongings and bedrolls. There was an old monk, and with him a young monk. They had big books and scriptures, their baggage. As they were about to set off, they asked the old boatman, who was tying the boat, “Tell us, will we reach the village before the sun sets?” The old man, tying the boat, slowly said, “Yes, you can—if you go slowly. Because I have seen your hurry. If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t even have reached this shore. Still, I tell you—you can reach before sunset, if you go slowly. If you hurry, I cannot assure you.” They thought, “This old fellow is crazy. This boatman is mad. It’s not worth wasting time listening to him. Such things are said by impractical, foolish people—that if you go slowly, you will arrive. The sensible ones, the practical ones, always say: the faster you go, the sooner you arrive.” All the sensible, so-called practical people have this arithmetic: if you want to arrive—hurry, hurry, hurry. But there are some impractical people in the world who say: if you want to arrive—go slowly, slowly, slowly. They ran. The old boatman kept tying the boat and kept laughing. They ran on. The sun sank lower; the forest began to darken; the village was still far, and they kept running. The path was rough and hilly. Then the old monk fell. Both his knees broke, and blood began to flow. The books scattered, and the pages flew away. As it happens with everyone: just before arriving, a man falls; his legs break, blood flows, the pages scatter. Then the boatman came along behind, singing, the oar on his shoulder, and said, “I told you—if you go slowly, you might reach; if you hurry, no one ever reaches.” But by then it was too late. That wise advice, that priceless counsel, had no meaning. That night the boatman entered the village. The old lame monk and his young companion remained outside the village in the dark night, because now the limp old man had to be carried. In this fifth counsel, I too want to say to you: very peacefully, very peacefully, very peacefully—toward the Divine, place your steps slowly, one by one. Peacefully, but alert; peacefully, but resolute; peacefully, but continuous. This is the first part of the fifth sutra. The second part, the final thing: one can place steps peacefully only when one’s waiting is infinite—when one is willing to wait to eternity, when there is no hurry in waiting, when one is not demanding. Little children sow a seed and, an hour later, go and dig it up to see whether it has sprouted. It is still just a seed. They cover it again; fifteen minutes later they go and dig it up again to see whether it has sprouted yet. From being uprooted again and again, that seed loses the capacity to sprout. Patience and waiting! An old monk was sitting under a tree—it is an ancient tale. And Narada passed by. He was moving his fingers over his rosary. Narada asked him, “You have been practicing austerities for many days.” He opened his eyes and said, “Yes, for a very long time. I have heard that you go to God’s house—you come and go.” Narada were the journalists of ancient times, the reporters of that age; they went everywhere. And leaders fear journalists—God must fear them too. They are not stopped anywhere. So God let Narada in and out, everywhere. The old renunciate said, “When you go to God this time, please ask how much longer until my liberation. I have done enough—how long must I sit here with this rosary? There should not be injustice. Please deliver the message.” Narada said, “Certainly. I will ask Him how long it will be.” As Narada moved on, under another tree there was a young man who had become a renunciate that very morning; he was dancing with his tambura. Narada, jokingly, asked, “I will ask about that monk—shall I ask about you too? Shall I ask God what your prospects are, how much longer until your liberation?” But that monk did not even hear; he kept playing his tambura and dancing. Narada went on. When he returned, he went to the old monk and said, “I asked. He said it will take three more births.” The monk flung down his rosary and said, “This is the limit of injustice! Those who came after me have gone ahead, and I still have to take three more births! It seems bribery has started even there. Three more births! What injustice!” Narada said, “That I do not know; but He said three more births.” Then Narada felt a little afraid—whether to tell the second monk or not. Even so, he thought it proper to tell him; having asked, he should say. He went to him; he was still dancing with his tambura, singing. He stopped him and said, “Listen, brother—don’t be upset. I asked. They said: that new renunciate, who became a renunciate today—he will take as many births as there are leaves on the tree under which he is dancing.” Tears of gratitude came into the young monk’s eyes. He said, “In as many births as there are leaves on this tree—I shall be liberated in so few! Such grace! So soon! For how many leaves are there on the earth! This tree has very few leaves. Great is His mercy—so soon!” And he went back to dancing. He said, “Then it is attained. If it is only as many births as the number of leaves on this tree, then it is attained—what delay remains?” He began to dance, for how many leaves are there on the earth! And the story says he was liberated that very evening. Because one whose waiting is so vast, whose patience is so infinite—where is the delay in his liberation? Waiting itself became liberation. He was liberated as this was spoken. So for the seeker, the final and most important thing to know is this: infinite waiting, endless waiting—readiness to wait as long as it takes. Then it can happen in this very moment—here and now. It can happen right now, right here, this very night. But only if the mind is one of such waiting. Impatience and hurry—“let it happen now, now”—all that is fever, madness, delirium. That race may be fine in the deranged world of the worldly, but in the peaceful realm of truth it is not at all appropriate. These five things I want to say to you in parting. Keep them somewhere in your heart. Perhaps, from time to time, they will be remembered, and some result will come from them. In these three days I have said many things to you; many I have also said through silence—those which cannot be said through words. You have listened to all my words with such love and peace; for that I am deeply grateful. For who is willing to listen to the talk of truth? For untruth, people travel far and wide—who is willing to listen to truth? No one agrees, because listening to truth is the beginning of changing one’s life. Listening to untruth, there is no need to change one’s life. Listening to truth becomes the beginning of a new journey. Then one cannot remain as one was; something has to change, a revolution has to be brought. So you listened to my words for three days; for that I am deeply obliged. And in the end I bow to the God who dwells within all. Please accept my pranam. Now, for the final meditation of the night, we will sit for ten minutes—and then we will take leave. It is the last night, so everyone move a little apart. Make your own place and lie down. We will not speak. Even a little conversation destroys the atmosphere. Do not speak at all. Quietly, withdraw into silence. Do not talk. Not a word. Withdraw... Yes, make a little space for yourselves. All right! I will assume you have made your space. Lie down completely at ease. No one is to say a word. Let the body go utterly loose. Close your eyes. I will suggest; experience my suggestions. Feel: the body is relaxing... feel: the body is relaxing... and let the body go completely limp... the body is relaxing... the body is relaxing... the body is relaxing... let the body be utterly loose... The breath is becoming quiet... the breath is becoming quiet... the breath is becoming quiet... the breath is becoming quiet... let the breath loosen as well... The mind too is becoming silent... the mind is becoming silent... the mind is becoming silent... the mind is becoming silent... The body has relaxed and let go... the breath has become quiet... the mind has become silent... now, lying quietly, keep listening to the sounds of the night—the winds are sounding, far away the ocean is roaring, the trees will sway and there will be sounds; all sounds are His. Listen... listen to His sounds... keep listening to the silence... just by listening, the mind will become utterly still... for ten minutes, keep listening... listen... Keep listening to the sounds of the night... listen... listen to the hush of the night... just by listening, the mind goes on becoming still... the mind is becoming still... the mind is becoming still... the mind is becoming still... the mind is becoming still... Like the night, a hush will descend within as well... the mind is becoming still... the mind is becoming still... keep listening... keep listening... keep listening... slowly, slowly only the winds will remain, only the sounds of the night will remain—you will dissolve. The mind is becoming still... the mind is becoming still... the mind is becoming still... the mind has become utterly still... the winds remain, the sounds of the night remain, the roar of the ocean remains—you have dissolved... the mind has become utterly still... in this peace, dive deeper and deeper... the mind has become still... the mind has become still... Now slowly take two or four deep breaths... slowly take two or four deep breaths... then very gently open your eyes... open your eyes while still lying down... you will see stars in the sky, cypress trees; outside too, the same peace will be felt as within. Let the inner and the outer become one. What is within is the same as what is without. Open your eyes slowly and keep looking for a little while... for a little while, gaze steadily toward the sky... then very gently, each in your own place, slowly sit up. No sound, no speech. Those who find it hard to rise, take a few deep breaths and then slowly rise. No talking—rise slowly. Our last meeting of the night is concluded.
Osho's Commentary
In this final meeting of the camp there is a little I still wish to say to you.
Three days ago the inner journey we began reaches its last stage today. Such is the story of the whole of life—the thing that begins two days ago ends two days later. We do not even get time to think, and the end comes close. In life, everything ends just like this.
There is no preparation for farewell, and yet farewell must be taken. As if untimely, it feels we have been torn apart; so too, in life's final stage, it seems we have to separate.
But for that, one can prepare.
One can live each single moment in such a way that we are always ready to depart. And the person who lives every moment as if the very next moment the end is possible—that person alone gains access to life's perfect bliss, to the amrit of life.
I was once on a journey. It was the monsoon. In the middle a stream had flooded. The bridge was submerged. We had to stop the car and wait there for two hours. When the water receded, we would be able to cross. Two more cars came behind and stopped. I did not know the people in those cars, but perhaps they had heard something of my talks. Seeing me sit on a rock by the riverbank, three men from one car came and sat near me and began to talk. We had to be there two hours; I spoke with them. Then the water subsided. They went to drive their car down, and said to me, "We liked your words very much. When we return we will surely meet you, and we will try to experiment with your words."
I said to them, "There is no certainty about returning; it may be you return, but I do not survive; it may be I survive and you do not return; it may be both of us survive and we still never meet. Anything can happen." And I told them a small story. Then, smiling, we parted.
I told them a small story. I did not know what result that story would bring.
I told them: There was an emperor in China who had sentenced his vizier to death by hanging. Some suspicion arose, some doubt; the vizier was imprisoned. In the morning he would be hanged. The rule of that kingdom was that before the hanging the emperor himself would visit the prisoner, and grant his last wish. And this was the vizier, the emperor's chief vizier.
The hanging was to be in the morning. That evening the emperor rode his horse to the prison. He tied the horse outside and went in. Behind the bars, right near the door, his chief vizier was confined. When the vizier saw the emperor, tears began to flow from his eyes. The emperor was surprised! The vizier was a brave man. He had faced many hardships in life, and faced death many times. He had not expected that he would weep because of death. The emperor began to console him: "You are weeping? Are you afraid?"
The vizier said, "Not from death. I weep for another reason."
The emperor said, "What other reason? Say it; I will fulfill it. I have come precisely to fulfill any last wish of yours."
He said, "No, you will not be able to. It has become very difficult. I weep for this... let it be, but forgive me, you will not be able to do it."
The emperor said, "Even so, speak."
The vizier said, "I do not weep because I will die tomorrow. Dying is no question—life is always at stake; one can die any moment. I weep seeing your horse tied at the door."
The emperor said, "Seeing the horse? What has that to do with anything?"
The vizier said, "I had learned an art—how to teach a horse to fly in the sky. But the breed of horse that can be taught to fly in the sky—I never found it my whole life. And today, when death is coming tomorrow, that horse is standing at the door. The very breed I had been searching for is the horse you rode here. I weep because in life I learned an art, yet could not use it, and death has come near."
The emperor's greed soared to the sky. The horse could fly in the sky! Then there would be no emperor like him in the world if his horse were to fly! He said, "Vizier... unlock the chains." And he said to the vizier, "In how many days can this be done? Do not deceive me."
The vizier said, "At least one year will be needed."
The emperor said, "Do not worry. If in one year the horse learns to fly, you will be restored to your position—and not only that, I will give you half the kingdom as a reward. And if it cannot be done, then fine; after a year you can be hanged."
The vizier mounted the horse and reached his home. That evening, no lamps had been lit in his house; in the morning he was to die. His wife, his children, his loved ones were weeping. Seeing him there, they could not believe it. His wife asked, "How have you come back?" He told her the whole matter. She beat her breast and cried, "How mad you are! You have never learned any art of teaching a horse to fly! Why did you go and say a false thing? And if you had to lie, why only for one year? You should have asked for ten or twenty years. One year will pass so quickly; it will become harder to live through this year than to die. Each moment will pass as if death is coming, death is coming."
The vizier began to laugh. He said, "Foolish woman, you do not know—a year is very big; even a single moment is very big. Who knows—within a year I may die, the king may die, the horse may die. Anything can happen. A year is very big."
And so it happened—not only the vizier did not die, not only the king did not die, not only the horse did not die—in that year all three died. In that year, all three died. The year proved so big. A single moment can prove so vast.
So I went to see those friends off to their car and told them this story. They laughed, I laughed, we said goodbye.
They drove their big car away. Ten minutes later I too drove my car and crossed the river behind them. Barely two miles on, those whom I had left alive I met as dead. Their car had crashed, and all three had died right there on the spot.
My driver said, "When we were parting, you told a story—of three dying. These three... these have died! And they were thinking, when we return, that your words were right, then we will make some experiments."
Life is just like this; whether we will meet again or not, nothing can be said.
The king can die, the vizier can die, the horse can die. All three can die. Life is just this absurd.
Therefore, in this moment of final farewell I wish to say to you: Live each moment in such a way that there is no trust in the next. This very awareness makes a man a sadhak. This awareness—that each single moment can be the last. As a drop of morning dew trembles on the blade of grass, a slight gust of wind and the drop will slip and scatter—so too human life, moment to moment, quivers like a dewdrop on the grass. Any moment the drop will fall, and all will be finished.
This life that is only for a moment, this breath that is only for a moment, this thought and contemplation that is only for a moment—this opportunity—can we, with this opportunity, take a step toward that life where there is no death—where there is amrit, where there is the supreme life? Only one thing is to be remembered: what we take to be life is not life; it is a brief opportunity. We can make that opportunity a ladder to attain the supreme life, if we so choose—otherwise it can be lost.
This is the meaning of sadhak: he has not taken this life as ultimate, as final; he has made it an opportunity, a chance, so he may take steps toward deeper life, the ultimate life, the amrit life.
Understand each moment in such a way that the drop can fall at any instant. Then each moment will become sadhana; each breath will become sadhana; each day, each night can become a path to take life into revolution.
This is the first point: remembrance of life's impermanence—so that life is not squandered, not lost; so that life becomes an attainment.
The second point: In these three days the direction of sadhana to which I have pointed a little—and you have caught a little, you must have caught. You have walked a few steps, you must have walked—do not stop those steps where they are. Those steps must be given continuity, a flow; only then, someday, the door can open.
But we are like that farmer. You must have heard—there was a farmer; he had a large field. He decided to dig a well, so that water could be had and the crops could thrive. He started to dig a well. But after digging four or six hand-depths, water did not appear, so he thought water will not be found here; he left that pit as it was. After resting ten or five days he dug another pit elsewhere. Again he dug ten or five hand-depths, and again there was no water; he thought water will not be found here either. After a few days’ rest he dug another pit. Little by little the entire field filled with pits, but water did not appear anywhere.
Then he sat on the edge of his field and began to weep. A fakir was passing by. He asked, "Why are you crying?"
He said, "I am exhausted, worn out from digging wells. My year is ruined. I have dug up the whole field, but water does not come."
The fakir laughed and said, "Madman! If only—you have made so many pits—had you dug in one place, the water would have appeared long ago. But you dig four or six hand-depths and leave it, dig four or six and leave it—wells are not dug that way."
Meditation is like digging a well within oneself.
That inner spring of water hidden within; that light hidden within; that life hidden within; that Paramatma hidden within—to reach that, this digging of a well is called meditation. Dhyana is nothing but digging a well within oneself.
But we sometimes dig only a little. That farmer was very sensible—he dug four or six hand-depths; we do not dig even skin-deep. Not even the thickness of the skin do we dig before we leave it. Then, after a year or two, the idea comes, we dig a little again, then leave again. In this way life will pass, and in the field of the life-force the well of Paramatma will not be dug.
If that well is to be dug, continuity is needed; labor is needed. Continually, in one place, the mind must go on digging, go on digging. Then surely one succeeds in attaining within oneself that which is present, which is one's wealth, one's birthright.
But most people do just this: you come to a camp, then you go away; for a day or two perhaps you sit for meditation, then you forget.
Nothing will happen in a day or two. There are lifelong wrong habits, a lifelong wrong way of living, the entanglements of wrong thinking. A day or two will not do. Digging two hand-depths will not do. The water is deep; because we ourselves have piled up layers of soil, we ourselves have piled up many rocks. Everything is buried beneath. The soil has to be removed, the rock has to be cut; one must go on digging and digging, then perhaps—why perhaps?—then certainly the inner spring can be found. Without finding which, every person lives thirsty and dies thirsty. And finding which, a fulfillment comes whose end is never.
So the second thing I wish to say is this: when you depart from here, do not let the small efforts you have made here be dropped; let them go with you, take them along. Upon them, day by day, a little labor; little by little, a little digging; little by little, some device toward the well—keep it going, keep it going...
Whoever has ever dug, has never failed. The water may be far; there may be some strata of soil, some rocks—but water is surely within. The distance may be a little, but water is surely within. And often it happens that a person turns back from almost the place where the spring was very near, extremely near.
When the gold mines were first discovered in Colorado, the greedy of the world began to run there, to arrive there. Gold lay scattered like pebbles in the hills of Colorado. Whoever owned a little land became a millionaire. One man thought, what is the point of buying a small piece? He bought an entire mountain. He installed equipment worth lakhs of rupees on the mountain and began to dig for gold mines. He dug and dug; there was no sign of gold—only rocks. He had spent lakhs of rupees; the machinery was great. The small people, with small plots, dug and searched and became rich. And that rich man, investing all his wealth, became poor. There was no sign of gold there.
Then he advertised to sell his mountain—with equipment, with machines, with the entire setup. He advertised for over fifty lakhs. His family said, "Do you think there will be some madman who will buy it? Everyone knows you are ruined. Not a grain of gold has come from there. Who will give fifty lakhs and buy it?"
The man said, "I am not hopeless. Someone or other, someone or other may be found."
And someone was found. His family said to that buyer, "You have gone mad. One man has been ruined, and you wish to enter the business of ruin. There is nothing to be had there." But that man said, "There is no knowing. Up to where he has dug there may be no gold—and ahead there may be gold; and ahead there is still much land remaining."
He did not listen. He bought it. And the miracle was that when he began digging, on the very first day the gold vein was found. Just one foot below where the first owner had stopped, the mine began. Only one foot earlier the first owner had turned back.
Often in life it happens that from where you turn back, perhaps only a few steps more were needed, and the goal would have been attained.
Therefore, keep this in mind: do not turn back leaving it unfinished. If you must go, then go to the end—with courage, with hope, with patience, with labor, with resolve. Pursue within yourself to the very end. Go as far as it is possible to go. It has never happened that anyone who went within returned a failure. Only those fail who never go, who turn back from the outside.
In the direction of Paramatma there is no such thing as failure. But if one will not go, will not walk, then even Paramatma can do nothing.
If we walk two steps, Paramatma is always ready to walk four. If we extend one hand, Paramatma is always ready to extend two. But if we stand with our back turned, then there is no way. Even if we merely stand with our back turned, perhaps something might still happen; but we are running with our back turned—then there is even less possibility.
So the second thing: labor—of sadhana, of dhyana—be continuous. Let your life-energy keep flowing in that direction from moment to moment. Let prayer move daily in that direction. For an hour or two be in solitude, alone, and keep diving into meditation.
The third point: No one knows in which instant the doors will open. No one knows.
A beggar once asked a millionaire, "How did you become a millionaire?" He said, "I always waited for opportunity, and whenever I got the opportunity, I labored—and I became a millionaire."
The beggar said, "Opportunity? Whenever opportunity came you labored; but when will the opportunity come? I too wish to labor."
The millionaire said, "Whenever opportunity came, I leapt and mounted it. When opportunity comes, you too leap and mount it."
But he said, "That is fine, but when will opportunity come? How will I know? And if, while I get ready to leap, it passes by, then what?"
So the millionaire said, "You keep on jumping. Keep on jumping, keep on jumping. When opportunity comes, if you are already jumping, you will be ready; you will pounce and mount it. If you sit and wait, thinking when opportunity comes then I will leap and mount it—opportunity passes so quickly that you will not even be able to jump before it is gone. You keep on jumping. Keep on jumping, keep on jumping. Whenever it comes, it must meet you already in mid-leap, so that you mount it that very instant."
The hour of union with the Lord—no one can say when it will come. No prophecy can be made. There are no rules by which one could know the instant when that door will open.
Therefore the third point is: moment to moment, preparedness is needed, so that whenever that door opens, I am not found asleep—keep on jumping—lest it happen that he comes to the door and I am asleep; that he comes and I am standing with my back turned.
Rabindranath sang a song; it was very dear to him. He said: There was a great temple outside a village. In that temple there were a hundred priests. In that temple there were golden images. Money rained upon that temple. From faraway people came with love for that temple. It was a great pilgrimage place. One night the chief priest dreamed that God said, "Tomorrow I am coming. Tomorrow I am coming to your temple." In the morning, fearful, he told the other priests: "Last night I had a dream. God said, tomorrow I am coming—be ready."
At first, it was only a dream—the priest himself did not believe. Yet, who knows, the dream might come true. And if God were to come, and preparations not be made! So the entire temple was cleaned, made pure. Incense, fragrance, lamps. The whole temple was adorned. The day passed, but there was no news of God. Evening came, the sun began to set—but there was no sound of the wheels of his chariot. The priests grew tired. And they began to say, "It was only a dream. Into what madness have we fallen? How can dreams be true! And not just any dream—can a dream of God's coming ever be true!"
Then night came. They shut the doors and went to sleep. The lamps went out; the fragrances went out; the incense died. Around midnight, a golden chariot came and stopped at the door of the temple. On that dark, moonless night, someone alighted from the chariot, climbed the steps, and knocked upon the doors. Inside, one priest must have awakened from the knocking. He said, "It seems the king for whom we were waiting has come; it seems the Beloved stands at the door!" But the other priests said, "Do not disturb our sleep; go to sleep quietly. It is the gusting wind. There is no one. The wind rattles the doors; there is no one—sleep."
Then the guest who had come descended and sat back in the chariot to go. The wheels rumbled. Then some priest heard the sound and said, "It seems a chariot is coming and going!" The other priests said, "Do not make trouble. Do not babble in your sleep. It is the thunder of clouds; there is no chariot anywhere."
In the morning they awoke. They opened the doors. Then all the priests sat at the threshold and wept. The marks of the wheels were etched up to the steps. Footprints were imprinted upon the steps. Someone had climbed to the door. A chariot had come to the door. Someone had surely knocked upon the doors.
A mistake was made. What they took to be the gust of wind, what they took to be the thunder of clouds, was the news of the Lord's arrival. But at that time they were asleep. So they wept. The whole village gathered and asked, "Why do you weep?" They said, "We weep because the One for whom we waited all our life—when he came, our doors were closed and we were asleep."
No one knows when his chariot will come and halt at your door! No one knows when he will knock upon your door! But if you are not awake, aware, in consciousness, then the chariot will turn back. The Guest will return.
And if you ask me, I will say: his chariot comes every day. But sometimes we say, it is the thunder of clouds; sometimes we say, it is the roaring of the ocean; sometimes we say, it is the fluttering of the winds; sometimes we say something, sometimes something else, and stop there. Every day his chariot comes. Every day his feet climb the steps of our temple. Every day his hands knock upon our doors. But we say something to explain it away to ourselves—and go back to sleep.
No one knows which moment! Therefore, each moment is to be made a moment of awakening, of awareness, of attention. Each moment is to be made a moment of peace, of silence. Then perhaps we will be found awake when his chariot arrives.
And I also wish to tell you: the very moment you are awake and ready, his chariot comes that very moment. With awakening, he comes. With the ray of awakening, his arrival happens.
As of now, his signs seem to us like the sound of wind, the thunder of clouds... When we are quiet and awake, in silence and in meditation, the reverse happens. Then the thunder of clouds begins to sound like the wheels of his chariot. Then the noise of the wind begins to feel like the pat of his hand. For this third point, there is a need for continuous, continuous alertness and wakefulness.
The fourth point: Sadhana is not some matter that you do for half an hour and it is finished, and you are liberated. Sadhana is not a thing that you can sit in a corner of a temple for half an hour and be free, that by sitting in a corner of your house you are freed. Truly, sadhana is twenty-four hours.
What I have said about sitting in silence,
sit in silence—but also keep in mind that in the remaining moments of the day the mind remains peaceful, remains silent. Remain silent while walking on the road. Remain silent while eating. Remain silent while sitting in the shop. As far as possible, as deep as possible, let the mind remain silent, peaceful, love-filled, wonder-struck, drenched in rasa; to that extent sadhana slowly spreads over twenty-four hours.
A sadhak is one who is a sadhak twenty-four hours. Life is a single, unbroken stream; it does not happen that you are quiet for half an hour and for twenty-three and a half hours you are unquiet. For twenty-three and a half hours you are impure, and for half an hour you become pure—how can this be? For twenty-three and a half hours you are foolish, and for half an hour you become wise—how can this be? For twenty-three and a half hours you are dead, and for half an hour you become alive—how can this be? The Ganga flows from the Himalayas—can she say, I will be pure only at the ghats of Kashi, before that I will be impure, after that I will be impure? How can this be? If the Ganga is to be pure at the ghats of Kashi, she must flow pure from Gangotri itself. And if the Ganga is pure at the ghats of Kashi, then beyond that too she will remain pure.
Life is a single, unbroken stream. There is no fragment, no break anywhere. Our Ganga of consciousness flows twenty-four hours. It cannot be that for half an hour when you sit in meditation you become pure and silent, and for twenty-three and a half hours everything is in disorder. Then there will be deception. Remember, then, that what happens during the twenty-three and a half hours is the truth; what happens in the half hour is false. Then that half hour will become self-deception; it will be a fraud. After listening to me, do not think that if you sit with closed eyes for fifteen minutes the work is complete. That is only the beginning of the work, not its completion. The work is complete on the day when there is no need at all to sit with closed eyes. Twenty-four hours—rising, sitting, sleeping, waking—the unbroken stream of peace begins to flow within.
It can flow. But for three or four thousand years man has been taught a religion of fragments. It is said, go to the temple, and you are religious. A man bangs his head in a temple for five minutes and returns and becomes religious. Then he struts about, saying, I have become religious. Then he looks upon others as if they are all sinners bound for hell. His going to heaven is guaranteed. He went to the temple for five minutes—or to the mosque, or the gurudwara, or somewhere else. Life is not so cheap. Religion is not so cheap. Paramatma is not so cheap either.
A revolution is needed of the whole of life, from the very roots. Twenty-four hours—the fragrance of what you practice for fifteen minutes must be spread over twenty-four hours. It is not difficult. It is very simple. We have never considered it, hence it appears difficult.
What need is there to be unquiet while sitting at the shop? Does any shop run better by being unquiet? Does more business happen by being unquiet? What happens by being unquiet? What fruit is there in eating while unquiet? What benefit?
The truth is: one who has not eaten in silence has never known the joy of eating. One who has not bathed in silence has never known the joy of bathing. One who has never put on clothes in silence has never known the joy of wearing clothes. One who has never slept in silence has no experience of the wondrous peace and joy of sleep.
Let there be awareness, through all twenty-four hours and in every act, whether I remain a stream of peace or not. And only keeping the awareness, you will find that the stream is slowly becoming peaceful.
But people think that while dying, in the end, they will become quiet—at the last they will become peaceful. Why do it now? And the dishonest have spread such notions too—that if at the time of death one takes the name of God once, then everything is done. Man can become so cunning as to wish to deceive even God: that at the last moment, while dying, we will take the Name once.
And crafty people have even fabricated such stories. That a father was dying; his son's name was Narayan. So at the time of death he said, "Narayan!" And God thought he was calling me. He died and went to heaven! He was calling his son. Even the son would not have been deceived by this, but God was deceived!
We have concocted such tales to deceive ourselves, to delude ourselves—that once or twice at the end we will take the Name and it will all be settled.
I have heard: A man was dying, lying on the deathbed. Mantras were being recited into his ears; the Gita was being read to him. Priests and pundits were gathered. He was dying. The text of the Gita was being recited to him, mantras were being whispered into his ears; arrangements were being made to send him to heaven. It was evening; the sun was about to set. The whole family had gathered. He opened his eyes and said, "Where is my eldest son?"
His wife was by his side. Tears of joy came to her. He had never asked after his son till today. He always asked where the key of the strongbox was. He always asked where the account books were kept. He always asked this and that—wealth, money, fame—he asked about all that. Never had he asked, "Where is my son?"
For one who is in the race for money, it is no surprise if love slips his mind. Today, at the moment of dying, he asked, “Where is my son?” Surely love has arisen. Perhaps in the final hour, love has been born.
His wife said, “Be at ease—he is sitting right by your feet; he is here.”
“And the younger one—where is he?” the man asked, even more anxiously.
The wife said, “He is here too.”
“The one younger than him—where is he?” The man began to rise from the bed. “He is here as well.” “And the fourth—where is he?” “He too is here.” The man’s anxiety kept increasing, and the wife thought he was remembering all his sons out of love. Then he sat up and said, “Where is the fifth son?”
His wife said, “Do not worry needlessly; we are all here.”
He said, “Then what does it mean—who is sitting at the shop?”
The wife was mistaken; she thought he was remembering his sons. The father was finding out whether the shop was open or closed!
And they were reciting the Gita to the poor fellow, chanting mantras for him. But the man was actually at the shop; he wasn’t present there at all.
There is nothing to laugh at in this. Nothing at all. It is absolutely natural, obvious. Wherever one has been all one’s life, in the final moment one’s consciousness will be there too. This is as clear as two plus two. Wherever you dwell through your life, your awareness will be there at the last moment as well.
Life is a continuity, a single, ongoing stream—an unbroken flow. Keep this one stream in mind, the wholeness of life. This is the fourth thing I want to say: life is indivisible.
So if there is to be stillness, if there is to be meditation, if there is to be an entry into love, if the temple of the Lord is to be opened—this is a twenty-four-hour work, a work of every breath. It is not a task you dash into for five minutes and sit down. It has nothing to do with that. Religion is not a fragment of life; religion is life as a whole.
Therefore this fourth point I want to leave with you as I close: whatever seems right, let it spread over all twenty-four hours—keep spreading it, keep expanding it. Thread it through every order of life. Let everything be immersed in it. Slowly, slowly let everything sink into it.
When all twenty-four hours come together, a revolution can happen. What I call a life-revolution can take place. This is the fourth point.
And the fifth, the final point—very memorable—has two parts. First: the journey toward the Divine is very slow, very gentle, very patient, very serene. Because when the supreme peace is to be attained, it cannot be attained through the restlessness of running. If one begins with an agitated rush, one can never reach a peaceful destination. If peace is the goal, then from the very first step the journey must be calm and patient.
If the world is to be gained, then impatient haste is needed—madness, fever. If someone wants wealth, to conquer the world, to become a Hitler, a Napoleon, a Genghis Khan—this cannot be done with peace. It can only be done through a restless race, a tense and feverish speed—by running like a madman.
The exact opposite world: if love is to be attained, if bliss is to be attained, if God is to be attained—then very, very quietly; like a river that flows without even a ripple rising, with no commotion anywhere—quietly flowing, quietly flowing...
Two monks were crossing a river. Sitting in a boat, they said to the boatman, “Quickly, quickly, take us across.” The boatman said, “Forgive me—the current is swift, the winds are strong; I can only take you slowly. The boat is small and old, and I am an old man. If I go slowly, I can get you there. If I hurry, the hope of arriving is small; the likelihood of not arriving is greater.” They had no choice. But the two monks were restless, in a hurry. Again and again they kept saying, “Hurry, hurry.” But the old man took them slowly to the other shore. Their hurry was natural—they had to reach a nearby village, and the sun was about to set. The rule in that village was that after sunset the gates were closed; then the whole night would have to be spent in the dark forest. So the poor fellows were in a hurry. Their hurry was quite natural—just as our hurry seems perfectly natural. Wherever we run, there is fear that the doors might close before we arrive, and the fear that while I am arriving, a neighbor might enter before me. So many fears. They too were afraid.
After getting out of the boat, they picked up their belongings and bedrolls. There was an old monk, and with him a young monk. They had big books and scriptures, their baggage. As they were about to set off, they asked the old boatman, who was tying the boat, “Tell us, will we reach the village before the sun sets?” The old man, tying the boat, slowly said, “Yes, you can—if you go slowly. Because I have seen your hurry. If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t even have reached this shore. Still, I tell you—you can reach before sunset, if you go slowly. If you hurry, I cannot assure you.”
They thought, “This old fellow is crazy. This boatman is mad. It’s not worth wasting time listening to him. Such things are said by impractical, foolish people—that if you go slowly, you will arrive. The sensible ones, the practical ones, always say: the faster you go, the sooner you arrive.” All the sensible, so-called practical people have this arithmetic: if you want to arrive—hurry, hurry, hurry. But there are some impractical people in the world who say: if you want to arrive—go slowly, slowly, slowly.
They ran. The old boatman kept tying the boat and kept laughing. They ran on. The sun sank lower; the forest began to darken; the village was still far, and they kept running. The path was rough and hilly. Then the old monk fell. Both his knees broke, and blood began to flow. The books scattered, and the pages flew away. As it happens with everyone: just before arriving, a man falls; his legs break, blood flows, the pages scatter.
Then the boatman came along behind, singing, the oar on his shoulder, and said, “I told you—if you go slowly, you might reach; if you hurry, no one ever reaches.” But by then it was too late. That wise advice, that priceless counsel, had no meaning.
That night the boatman entered the village. The old lame monk and his young companion remained outside the village in the dark night, because now the limp old man had to be carried.
In this fifth counsel, I too want to say to you: very peacefully, very peacefully, very peacefully—toward the Divine, place your steps slowly, one by one. Peacefully, but alert; peacefully, but resolute; peacefully, but continuous. This is the first part of the fifth sutra.
The second part, the final thing: one can place steps peacefully only when one’s waiting is infinite—when one is willing to wait to eternity, when there is no hurry in waiting, when one is not demanding.
Little children sow a seed and, an hour later, go and dig it up to see whether it has sprouted. It is still just a seed. They cover it again; fifteen minutes later they go and dig it up again to see whether it has sprouted yet. From being uprooted again and again, that seed loses the capacity to sprout. Patience and waiting!
An old monk was sitting under a tree—it is an ancient tale. And Narada passed by. He was moving his fingers over his rosary. Narada asked him, “You have been practicing austerities for many days.” He opened his eyes and said, “Yes, for a very long time. I have heard that you go to God’s house—you come and go.”
Narada were the journalists of ancient times, the reporters of that age; they went everywhere. And leaders fear journalists—God must fear them too. They are not stopped anywhere. So God let Narada in and out, everywhere.
The old renunciate said, “When you go to God this time, please ask how much longer until my liberation. I have done enough—how long must I sit here with this rosary? There should not be injustice. Please deliver the message.”
Narada said, “Certainly. I will ask Him how long it will be.”
As Narada moved on, under another tree there was a young man who had become a renunciate that very morning; he was dancing with his tambura. Narada, jokingly, asked, “I will ask about that monk—shall I ask about you too? Shall I ask God what your prospects are, how much longer until your liberation?” But that monk did not even hear; he kept playing his tambura and dancing. Narada went on.
When he returned, he went to the old monk and said, “I asked. He said it will take three more births.”
The monk flung down his rosary and said, “This is the limit of injustice! Those who came after me have gone ahead, and I still have to take three more births! It seems bribery has started even there. Three more births! What injustice!”
Narada said, “That I do not know; but He said three more births.”
Then Narada felt a little afraid—whether to tell the second monk or not. Even so, he thought it proper to tell him; having asked, he should say. He went to him; he was still dancing with his tambura, singing. He stopped him and said, “Listen, brother—don’t be upset. I asked. They said: that new renunciate, who became a renunciate today—he will take as many births as there are leaves on the tree under which he is dancing.”
Tears of gratitude came into the young monk’s eyes. He said, “In as many births as there are leaves on this tree—I shall be liberated in so few! Such grace! So soon! For how many leaves are there on the earth! This tree has very few leaves. Great is His mercy—so soon!” And he went back to dancing. He said, “Then it is attained. If it is only as many births as the number of leaves on this tree, then it is attained—what delay remains?” He began to dance, for how many leaves are there on the earth! And the story says he was liberated that very evening. Because one whose waiting is so vast, whose patience is so infinite—where is the delay in his liberation? Waiting itself became liberation. He was liberated as this was spoken.
So for the seeker, the final and most important thing to know is this: infinite waiting, endless waiting—readiness to wait as long as it takes. Then it can happen in this very moment—here and now. It can happen right now, right here, this very night. But only if the mind is one of such waiting.
Impatience and hurry—“let it happen now, now”—all that is fever, madness, delirium. That race may be fine in the deranged world of the worldly, but in the peaceful realm of truth it is not at all appropriate.
These five things I want to say to you in parting. Keep them somewhere in your heart. Perhaps, from time to time, they will be remembered, and some result will come from them. In these three days I have said many things to you; many I have also said through silence—those which cannot be said through words.
You have listened to all my words with such love and peace; for that I am deeply grateful. For who is willing to listen to the talk of truth? For untruth, people travel far and wide—who is willing to listen to truth? No one agrees, because listening to truth is the beginning of changing one’s life. Listening to untruth, there is no need to change one’s life. Listening to truth becomes the beginning of a new journey. Then one cannot remain as one was; something has to change, a revolution has to be brought.
So you listened to my words for three days; for that I am deeply obliged. And in the end I bow to the God who dwells within all. Please accept my pranam.
Now, for the final meditation of the night, we will sit for ten minutes—and then we will take leave.
It is the last night, so everyone move a little apart. Make your own place and lie down. We will not speak. Even a little conversation destroys the atmosphere. Do not speak at all. Quietly, withdraw into silence.
Do not talk. Not a word. Withdraw... Yes, make a little space for yourselves.
All right! I will assume you have made your space. Lie down completely at ease. No one is to say a word.
Let the body go utterly loose. Close your eyes. I will suggest; experience my suggestions. Feel: the body is relaxing... feel: the body is relaxing... and let the body go completely limp... the body is relaxing... the body is relaxing... the body is relaxing... let the body be utterly loose...
The breath is becoming quiet... the breath is becoming quiet... the breath is becoming quiet... the breath is becoming quiet... let the breath loosen as well...
The mind too is becoming silent... the mind is becoming silent... the mind is becoming silent... the mind is becoming silent...
The body has relaxed and let go... the breath has become quiet... the mind has become silent... now, lying quietly, keep listening to the sounds of the night—the winds are sounding, far away the ocean is roaring, the trees will sway and there will be sounds; all sounds are His. Listen... listen to His sounds... keep listening to the silence... just by listening, the mind will become utterly still... for ten minutes, keep listening... listen...
Keep listening to the sounds of the night... listen... listen to the hush of the night... just by listening, the mind goes on becoming still... the mind is becoming still... the mind is becoming still... the mind is becoming still... the mind is becoming still...
Like the night, a hush will descend within as well... the mind is becoming still... the mind is becoming still... keep listening... keep listening... keep listening... slowly, slowly only the winds will remain, only the sounds of the night will remain—you will dissolve.
The mind is becoming still... the mind is becoming still... the mind is becoming still... the mind has become utterly still... the winds remain, the sounds of the night remain, the roar of the ocean remains—you have dissolved... the mind has become utterly still... in this peace, dive deeper and deeper... the mind has become still... the mind has become still...
Now slowly take two or four deep breaths... slowly take two or four deep breaths... then very gently open your eyes... open your eyes while still lying down... you will see stars in the sky, cypress trees; outside too, the same peace will be felt as within. Let the inner and the outer become one. What is within is the same as what is without.
Open your eyes slowly and keep looking for a little while... for a little while, gaze steadily toward the sky... then very gently, each in your own place, slowly sit up. No sound, no speech. Those who find it hard to rise, take a few deep breaths and then slowly rise. No talking—rise slowly.
Our last meeting of the night is concluded.