Nirvan Upanishad #4

These are the sutras regarding the inner posture of the seeker. Those who set out to search for the Lord have to become without support. They must lose all other shelters; only then is the refuge of the Lord found. They have to become utterly helpless — helpless — only then does help become available. As long as they feel, I will do it; as long as they feel, I am capable; as long as they feel, I have the means, I have a prop, I have a support — until then they remain deprived of the Lord’s grace.

It is like the rain — it falls on the mountain too, but the mountain remains deprived. It is so filled with itself that there is no space left in it, no convenience for anything more to enter. Rain also falls into hollows, into pits — and they are filled, because they are empty. That which is empty is filled; that which is full remains empty.

Niralamb Peethah.
To be without prop, without support — this is their way of being. This is their seat. No crutch, no support, unprotected. Consider this matter of insecurity a little more deeply.

If there is wealth, a man feels that he has something; if there is position, he feels that he has something; if there is knowledge, he feels that he has something. All these are means. All these are props. All these are shelters. On their basis man strengthens his ego.

Niralamb Peethah.
Sannyasins are those who have no means, who have nothing at all. Nothing at all does not mean they must stand naked without clothes; only then would they have nothing. For one who stands naked without garments may well convert his renunciation into a prop and say, I have renunciation, I have digamberhood, I have nakedness, I have sannyas. I have something. Then again it becomes a prop.

And when you have something, you cannot stand at the door of the Divine as a total beggar; your stiffness remains intact.

This is why Buddha did not give his sannyasins the title swami, master. The word he chose was very wondrous. He called them bhikshu — beggar — one who has nothing. Only a begging bowl in the hand, and nothing else. And that bowl Buddha placed in the hand of the sannyasin was not only for collecting alms; Buddha would say, know yourself also as only a begging bowl, nothing more. Only then can the supreme truth be attained.

Becoming without support is supremely difficult. The mind says, some prop, some support, some shelter — let something be in my hand! I should not be left alone, I should not be left unprotected; let there be some arrangement to escape danger! So we all keep arranging. The meaning of householder is precisely this — one who seeks props. Householder does not mean one who lives in a house. Householder means one who keeps seeking a house of security, who cannot be insecure anywhere.

Alan Watts has written a wondrous book. Its name is The Wisdom of Insecurity.

This is exactly the meaning of sannyas. Sannyas means we have understood this: do whatever you will to secure yourself, security does not happen. Gather as much wealth as you like, man remains poor within, remains a beggar within. Arrange as much power as you please, within one remains impotent. And however many sentries you post to guard against death, who knows by what unknown path, without footfall, death arrives. All the arrangements for safety lie about, and the man is no more.

Sannyas is this very wisdom, this very understanding: even after arranging security, where does security happen? Had it happened, even that would have been fine. It does not happen — it cannot happen. Only deception happens: it seems we are secure; we never become secure.

Life is insecurity. Except for the dead, no one is secure, for only the dead cannot die; the rest will die. Insecurity surrounds on all sides. We are in an ocean of insecurity. There is no knowledge of shore or bank, no destination is seen, there is no boat or oars at hand, drowning is certain. Then, closing our eyes, we construct boats of dreams. We close our eyes and make a support out of straws. Catching at straws we think we have found the shore. Such deception, self-deception, happens.

Sannyasin means one who has understood this truth: however much you seek security, security does not come. However much you try to escape death, death arrives. However much you may wish not to be effaced, effacement is certain. And when security does not yield security, then the sannyasin says, I consent to insecurity. I am ready now. I will no longer build false boats. I will no longer seek paper supports. I will no longer erect palaces of cards. I will no longer post guards. I will no longer clutch at straws. I will know now that there is no shore, there is an ocean of insecurity, and drowning is certain and death inevitable. I shall be effaced; I consent. Now I shall seek no remedy.

And those who become ready to be so, suddenly they find insecurity has disappeared. Suddenly they find the ocean is lost. Suddenly they find they are standing on the shore.

Why? Why does this happen? Why does such a miracle happen — that the one who seeks security does not find it, and the one who consents to insecurity becomes secure? Why does such a miracle occur?

There is a reason. The more we seek security, the more we experience insecurity. The very experience of insecurity is born from the search for security. The more we are afraid, the more we, because of fear, look around and erect defenses. That ocean of insecurity I spoke of is not as such; it is created by our search for security. It is a vicious circle. The very desire to escape insecurity creates insecurity. When insecurity is created, a further desire to escape arises in us; that creates yet more insecurity. The ocean goes on growing. The inner urge to escape grows intense; the same urge goes on enlarging the ocean.

The sannyasin’s experience is this: he who drops even the thought of security — what insecurity can there be for him now? He who has prepared himself to die, who has consented, what death can there be for him now? What can death do to one who is ready to embrace it? Death can only do something to one who would save himself, run away, make arrangements so that death may not come. Death exists only for the one who is afraid of death. For one who is not afraid, who is ready to embrace death, what death can there be? Death is not in dying; death is in the fear of death. Because of that fear we have to die every day. We have to live by dying every day; we never get to live, we go on dying.

Niralamb Peethah.

Sannyasins accept being without support as their essential state. That is the state. They do not ask. They do not say, Save us. They say, We are ready, whatever happens. They become like dry leaves; wherever the winds take them, they go. They do not say, We shall go west because the west is our shore; or, We shall go east because the east is our goal. They do not say, Let the wind lift us to the sky and seat us on the throne of clouds. If the wind drops them below, they rest at the roots of trees; if the wind lifts them up, they circle among the clouds. If the wind carries them east, they go east; if the wind carries them west, they go west. They have no insistence that they must go somewhere.

Those who have no insistence, who are not eager for any particular state — that it must be like this — who are ready for whatever happens, suffering ends in their lives. Hence Alan Watts has said, The wisdom of insecurity. The wise consent to insecurity and become secure.

No one is more secure than the sannyasin, and no one more insecure than the householder. And no one arranges more for security than the householder, and no one arranges less for security than the sannyasin.

Niralamb Peethah.

These are two very wondrous, small words. Their posture, their seat, is to be without support. And when a person gathers such courage, then the prop of the Divine becomes available to him instantly, instantly.

The Divine can be of help only to those whose delusion has dropped that we can be of help to ourselves. Those whose illusion is broken that we can do something; those whose sense of doership is shattered — help from the Divine can be available only to them. There is not even a moment’s delay; the energy of the Divine starts running, permeates every pore of you.

But we keep trusting ourselves. We think we will save ourselves. How many have thought so! Right here where you are sitting — the very place where each one sits — at least ten graves have been dug there, at least. There is not a scrap of ground, not even an inch, where ten graves have not been made. I speak of human beings; the creatures are another matter. They too thought exactly what you are thinking, sitting in the same place; there are ten people buried there, burned there. Ten people’s ashes lie beneath you. They too thought as you are thinking sitting there. After you, others will come and sit in the same place and think the same. What are you thinking? Yet you do not see one thing — that by our devices nothing is ever arranged. Then let us arrange to be without device!

Niralamb Peethah means those who have become without device, without remedy. Those who say, We shall not be able to do anything. Thy will — for that we are ready. If You drown us here, then this is our shore.

Sanyog alone is their initiation. Sanyog Diksha.

These sutras are like the formulas of chemistry. That is why I said the Upanishad is telegraphic.

Sanyog Diksha.

Only so much is said for initiation — that communion itself is their initiation. To be in communion is the initiation. To find the bridge with the Divine; to build a bridge; to find a place of traffic between the Divine and oneself — that is their initiation.

This is the very meaning of diksha. It means: I shall no longer live up to myself. That Vast One, from whom I have come and to whom I shall return, now I will live joined with Him. Now I will not live considering myself separate. Now I shall not be like a drop; I shall live as one with the ocean.

Certainly, to be one with the ocean is dangerous, for the drop dissolves. But this danger is only on the surface. For with the ocean the drop indeed dissolves — but dissolves in the sense that it becomes the ocean. Finitude breaks; union with the Infinite happens. Yet with the Vast one has to gather courage to break one’s petty boundaries.

If you wish to make your courtyard one with the sky, then you will have to break the walls around the courtyard. If you had taken the walls to be your courtyard, you will feel a great loss; but if you had understood the sky enclosed between the walls as the courtyard, you will see there is only gain. It will depend on your understanding. If you had understood the boundary of your ego — This is what I am — then you will feel you are lost. But if you had understood the emptiness, the consciousness, the divinity encircled within your ego, as your very being, then with the falling of the walls you have become one with the limitless. Then the attainment is vast. There is nothing lost, only everything gained.

Sanyog Diksha.

Such union is called initiation, where the walls of your courtyard fall and union with the vast sky happens. Where the drop drops its boundaries. It is a step of courage — of great courage; say, audacity — because the mind-state of all of us is such that we take our boundary to be our very existence. Not that which is encircled by the boundary, but the boundary itself we take as our being. So a great audacity will be needed — to leave oneself, to lose, to be effaced.

Jesus would say: He who saves himself will be lost; and he who loses himself — there is no way to lose him.

One night a young man came to Jesus, Nicodemus. Nicodemus said, I am ready to leave everything; accept me, initiate me. Jesus said, Are you ready to leave yourself? He said, I am ready to leave everything else. Jesus said, Go back. The day you are ready to leave yourself, come. We have no concern that you leave something else; we only concern ourselves that you leave yourself. And unless one leaves oneself, there will be no communion, no initiation.

These are all symbols — that the sannyasin’s name is changed — only to help his old identity, his old identification, to drop. That the name and limits by which until yesterday he took himself to be — may break. His clothes are changed so that his image may change; the figure he had of himself until yesterday — This I am, these clothes, this style — may be shattered. We begin from the outside because we live on the outside. And one who lacks the courage to change on the outside — that he will be ready to change on the inside is a little difficult.

People come to me. They say, Clothes are outer; the change should be inner. I ask them, If you do not have the courage even to change clothes, will you manage the inner change? By changing clothes nothing really changes — I know that. But you do not gather courage even for changing your dress — and you say, We will change the soul. Perhaps it is easier to deceive oneself by talking of changing the soul — because no one will know whether you are changing or not. You yourself will not know. Clothes, at least, are visible.

But one who is ready to change can start anywhere. To start from within is difficult, because we have no acquaintance with the within. While eating food we do not say, This is an outer thing; what is the point of eating! While drinking water we do not say, This is outer; how will inner thirst be quenched! Thirst is inside.

No, we do not say this. But when it comes to taking sannyas we begin to think, What will happen by changing clothes? They are outer. And as you are right now, you are merely an aggregate of the outer — in total. There is no knowledge of the inner at all. To find the inner is precisely the search. The image has to be broken, the idol immersed. That which we have been till now must crack somewhere. And it is good to begin the cracking from the boundaries — because at the boundaries we live; we do not live in the innermost.

But truly, initiation bears fruit only when the inner cord is joined to the Infinite.

When you sit by the sea, become silent. In a little while the distance will fall — who is the sea and who are you. Lie under the sky and become silent. Who is the star and who the seer — in a little while the distance will fall.

All distance is of thought. Separation is of thought; communion is of no-thought. Wherever you become without thought, there communion happens.

Sit near a tree and become without thought, and the tree and the one who sees the tree will not remain two. The observed and the observer will be one. The one who is seeing and the one who is being seen will become one. If even for a single instant there arises such a realization — that the sunshine encircling me and I are one; that the tree shading me and I are one; that the clouds floating in the sky and I are one —

This does not happen by thought; you can think this. You can sit by the tree and think, I and the tree are one. Then communion will not happen, because the thinker is still present. And this that is saying, I am one, is persuading itself that I am one. Persuasion is needed only until the experience happens that I am one.

Sit by the tree without thought, and suddenly the revelation will be: one. It will not be a thought then; it will be a felt sense in every pore. When the leaves of the tree stir, you will feel I am stirring. When flowers bloom on the tree, you will feel I am blooming. When fragrance begins to spread from the tree, you will feel it is my fragrance. It will be felt; it will not be a thought — it will be a realization, an inner experience.

The day this begins to be felt with the whole of existence, that day is initiation — Sanyog Diksha. Rising, sitting, walking — in each breath, in each particle, in each pore such a sense begins to be — one am I, one alone is. Even he who plunges a knife into your chest — that enemy too is one. That hand that has thrust a dagger into the chest — it is my own. Then — then it is initiation. Then communion is.

So the rishi says: Sanyog is initiation. Viyog is instruction.

There is but one instruction — viyog. Separation from what, and communion with what? Separation from that which we are not; communion with that which we are. Separation from that which is dreamlike; communion with that which is truth. Separation from the world of thought which we ourselves have projected; and communion with the world of existence which is prior to us and will remain when we are no more.

We all live by making our own world — a world of our own. Pearl Buck has written a book of her life’s reminiscences, My Several Worlds. The title is apt, because each person lives in different worlds. In one house, if there are seven people, there are seven worlds. For the son’s world cannot be the same as the father’s. Hence there is quarrel in the house. If seven worlds live in one house, quarrel is bound to be. If there is friction even among seven utensils, what of seven worlds? The house is very small. Disturbance is certain. Trespassing will happen. The father’s world will want to sit upon the son’s world; the son’s world will want to sit upon the father’s. The wife will want to occupy the husband’s world.

On this earth at present there are about three billion people; therefore there are three billion worlds. The world is not what is outside us; the world is what we construct. It is our construction.

Understand. You are sitting by a tree. You are a carpenter. A painter sits there too, a poet sits there too, a lover sits there whose beloved has not been found, and another lover sits there whose beloved has been found. For the carpenter, nothing is visible in the tree except furniture. The tree is the same, but the carpenter will sit there in the world of furniture.

To the cobbler nothing is visible about you except your shoes. He recognizes you by the number of your shoes. The tailor recognizes you by the measurements of your clothes. The cobbler need not even look at the face; looking at the condition of shoes of people passing on the road he can tell what the financial condition will be. There is no need to see the face, nor the bank balance. The state of the shoe indicates what the state of the man will be. He has his own world.

So if the carpenter sits beneath the tree, the tree for him is nothing more than potential furniture. In that tree flowers do not bloom; chairs and tables stand. It is his world. Beside him the painter sits; for him the tree is only a play of colors.

There are so many trees here. To the ordinary person trees appear green, and green seems to be one color; but to the painter there are a thousand greens — a thousand shades of green. Those shades are visible only to the painter, not to common people. Green means green, it has no other meaning. But the painter knows that every tree is green in its own way. No two trees are green in the same way. In green too there are a thousand greens. Each leaf is green in its own fashion. So when the painter sees the tree, what he sees is something we never see. He sees the personality of each leaf.

There, beside him, a poet sits. For him the tree becomes poetry. In a little while the tree disappears and he enters the realm of poetry. It will never occur to us what journey the poet has embarked upon. He has his own world.

Beneath that same blossoming tree, where flowers are showering like rain, the lover whose beloved could not be found will see the flowers as thorns. The flowers will appear sad, the tree will appear as if it is weeping, as if it is dying. This has nothing to do with the tree. It is the extension of his own inner world which he spreads upon the tree. The full moon too appears sad to the desolate lover. To the joyous lover even the new-moon night seems quite filled with moonlight, quite bright.

We spread our world from within all around us. It is a projection. Each person carries the seed of his world within, and spreads it around himself.

Viyog from this world. We have continually heard that the sannyasin renounces the world, but we have not understood what this world means. This projected world that each person spreads outside — that world is dream, utterly false. It is my expansion; it will be gone with my death. With the death of each person a world dies. That which is, remains; but that which we had spread, constructed, which was our dream, vanishes.

Renunciation of the world does not mean leaving these rocks, these trees, or these people. Renunciation of the world means dropping our projection. To see what is — as it is; not to impose anything upon it.

If under that same tree — of which I have spoken — a sannyasin stands, he has no world. Sannyasin means one who has no world; he sees things as they are. He does not impose, does not put anything upon them.

To impose anything upon anyone is, in truth, great violence. If I impose my sadness upon a tree and say, The tree appears very sad — I am committing violence. If I impose my exuberance upon the moon and say, The moon seems very joyful — simply because today I am joyful, because I won the lottery — then I am committing great violence. And I am extending a falsehood.

Viyog Upadesh.

The instruction of the Upanishads, of the rishis, is only this: viyog from this world which we spread — to separate from it. There is one world which is the expansion of the Divine; and one world which is our expansion. Our expansion must fall so that we may relate to the world of the Divine. As long as my own expansion is there, how will there be union with That which is the Divine’s?

I had a friend — a university professor, renowned scholar of economics. He was also a professor at Oxford, and then at many universities of India. My first meeting with him was quite strange. I was walking along the road at dusk; the sun had almost set. Darkness was descending. I had gone out for a walk; we two were alone; I did not know him. As I approached him, he pulled a whistle from his pocket and blew it loudly. Then from his other pocket he drew a dagger. I knew his name, though we had never been introduced. I bowed and said, What are you doing? He said, Keep your distance! I asked, What is the matter?

When our acquaintance grew, friendship formed, I came to know that for two years he had been frightened, and every person seemed to him to be coming to murder him. So, seeing anyone alone he kept two arrangements — a whistle in one pocket to blow loudly so people around might know; and a knife in the other pocket.

Now this man is living in a world — of murderers — which is his own projection. No one has any concern, any purpose. Who will kill a professor, and why? For killing there must be some reason, and for being killed there must be some qualification too! Who will go to kill a professor, a harmless professor — and for what? This poor fellow alters nothing in anything. It is as if he is equal to not being. The day people begin murdering schoolteachers, then it will be a great difficulty. There is no creature more harmless than they.

I explained a lot to him that there is no reason anyone would kill you. Who would get into trouble killing you? But in his mind the whole world wants to murder him. And he finds reasons. He keeps watching: that man approaching, how is he walking? What sort of eyes does he have — anything suspicious? And seeing him — his way of looking, his way of standing — the other poor man becomes suspicious. His way is such that another cannot remain at ease with him. The other too becomes a bit uneasy; and his uneasiness makes my friend even more suspicious; the vicious circle begins — in a little while they bring the other into the posture of an enemy.

We are all living like this. Each of us has constructed a world around himself.

The instruction is viyog — separation from this world. It must be left, it must be broken. This is hocus-pocus. It is purely mental, sheer derangement, madness. This separation is what the rishis call their teaching. And only after such separation can there be union with the Divine. That existence which is the Divine’s — when all our projected dreams drop, when our imagined worlds fall — then there is the revelation of truth; then union can happen.

Diksha is contentment, and it is purifying too. Diksha Santosha-Pavanam cha. Diksha is contentment and purifying too.

Two things.

Diksha is contentment.

Perhaps it has never occurred even in thought that apart from meeting the Divine there is any other contentment in this world. Viyog is discontent. As if a mother’s little child has been lost from her and she is discontent — just so we become separated from existence and remain discontent. In that discontent we try many devices for contentment, but all fail, all are frustrated.

There is only one contentment — union, communion with That from which we have become separated — to become one again with the original source. Hence, except for the sannyasin there is no contented man. There cannot be. All others will remain discontent. Whatever they do, discontent will not leave their trail. Whatever they gain or lose, their relationship with discontent will continue. Whether rich or poor; whether destitute or emperor — discontent will pursue them. Discontent clings like a shadow wherever you go. There is only one place where discontent does not go — that meeting with the Divine; only there discontent does not go.

There are many reasons for this. The first is that we have never asked ourselves why we are discontent. A car passes on the road; we think, If only that car were mine, contentment would arrive. A palace is seen; we think, If only that palace were mine, contentment would arrive. An emperor is seen; we think, If only that throne were mine, contentment would arrive. And we have never asked ourselves what the cause of my discontent is. Am I discontent because I do not have a car? Am I discontent because I do not have a palace? Because I do not have position?

Then ponder a little. Suppose the car is obtained, the palace is obtained, the emperor’s throne is obtained — ask yourself: Will contentment come? Immediately it will be felt that no contentment can come. But perhaps this is only what we think — so it is not clear. Then look at the face of the one sitting in the car; circle around the one residing in the palace; go to the one sitting upon the seat of power and ask, Are you content? He too felt the same once. He is a man just like us. He too felt that upon this seat contentment would happen. Now it has been many days since he came to the seat; not a trace of contentment has come. Yes, now he feels that upon some greater seat contentment will come. Thus life becomes thin, empty, spent, broken. As a river gets lost in the desert, so we get lost and scattered.

We have never rightly asked why we are discontent. The total cause of our discontent is only this — only this: that we have become uprooted from our roots. We have no idea where our roots are. To what we are joined, and from what we receive life — we have no sense of that original source. We have been imprisoned in our skull; our connection with our roots is broken. We only go on thinking; we have no meeting with existential being. We go on thinking and live in thought. Thought has no value; being has value. One has to be rooted somewhere; by thinking alone nothing will happen.

So the rishi says: Diksha is contentment.

Because as soon as communion with the Divine happens, even for a moment a contact is made — immediately showers of contentment begin. No discontent remains anywhere. Seek it and you will not find it.

And the second thing the rishi says: Diksha is purifying too.

Pavan is a very precious word; it must be understood a little. Pavan does not merely mean pious. Dictionaries say pavan means pious, but dictionaries have their compulsions. Pavan does mean pious — but with a difference.

Pious is that which can become impious. Pavan is that for which the possibility of impurity does not exist. Pious is that in which there is option — it may become impure. Pavan is that whose purity is intrinsic. Gold is such that it can be adulterated; earth can be mixed into it. So there can be pure gold and impure gold. But the sky — the sky is pavan. There is no way to pollute it, no way to mix impurity into it.

Thus, diksha is contentment and purifying too.

After diksha there is no way to become impure. It is impossible. A sannyasin cannot become impure — he is pavan. If even a small stream has joined with the Divine, there is no way for impurity to arise.

Once, among Buddha’s bhikshus, a monk came and said, There is a courtesan in the village; she has invited me to stay in her house for the rains. Buddha said, Go — because you have become pavan.

Great restlessness spread among the monks. The courtesan was very beautiful. Even emperors had to wait at her door. One monk stood and said, This is not right. Four months in a courtesan’s home — this monk may become impure! Buddha said, That is why I said it. If he were only pious, I would forbid him. He is pavan. We shall speak after four months. The monk said, Then if tomorrow I also say that some courtesan has invited me, will I receive permission? Buddha said, You are not even pious. And a courtesan will not invite you; you are seeking the invitation. You are inviting the courtesan. No — you will not receive permission.

Naturally there was anxiety. For four months the monks tried to find out what that monk who had stayed in the courtesan’s house was doing. They must have peeped through windows and doors, inquired, spread rumors. Reports began to come to Buddha every day: he is corrupted, he is ruined — what have you done! Buddha kept listening. After four months the monk returned — and he did not come alone; the courtesan came as a nun.

That which is merely pious, if it comes in contact with the impure, can become impure. That which is pavan, if it comes in contact with the impure, makes the impure pure. It is a philosopher’s stone — even iron it turns to gold.

Diksha is contentment and purifying too.

For pavan there is the English word pure, and another word holy. Pavan means holy — divine, like the philosopher’s stone. There is no way to touch it. It cannot be stained. As with fire: fire cannot be made impure, for whatever you throw into it will be burned to ash and the fire remains pavan. Therefore there is no impure fire. Even when a corpse burns upon the pyre, those flames are not impure; they remain pavan. In truth, throw the impure into fire — it burns to ash; it cannot touch the fire. The untouched fire stands apart. There is no way to reach it.

Thus the rishis say, diksha is purifying — and contentment too. And those who attain such initiation have the vision of twelve suns.

What is the meaning of twelve suns? We know one sun. Twelve suns is only a way of saying: they experience so much light within, as if twelve suns have arisen within them. Not one sun, but twelve — as if their entire inner sky has filled with suns. They attain to such a luminous state of consciousness as if twelve suns had been lit within.

But enter by this sequence: their seat should be supportless — Niralamb Peethah; their initiation should be communion — Sanyog Diksha; their instruction should be separation from the world; their initiation contentment and purifying; then they attain the vision of twelve suns, of infinite suns. They become capable of knowing that supreme sun which is the source, foundation, refuge of life and consciousness — everything.

And these suns are not to be sought outside. They are hidden within. But we never go within. Outside there is darkness; within there is light. And however many suns there be outside, darkness does not end — it is eternal.

Consider: for countless ages, countless suns have been radiating, yet darkness is eternal. Suns come and go, ignite and extinguish. Do not think that suns burn forever. They too have birth and death. How many suns have been born and died! Our sun is very new. There are suns in the sky older than this. Scientists say so far they have counted about three billion suns. Even that is not the end; only so far has our reach extended. Beyond that too there is an expanse of suns. Among these three billion suns, each day some sun dies, some new sun is born. In some corner of existence a sun dies, is extinguished, turns to ash, scatters. In some other corner a new sun is born.

For infinite ages — say eternal — suns burn, but darkness is eternal. Suns come and go, nothing of darkness is affected. In the morning the sun rises; it seems darkness is lost. It is only hidden. We should rather say: our eyes are so overwhelmed by the sunlight that we cannot see the darkness. In the evening the sun tires and sets. Darkness is at its own place. Darkness does not have to come; it is at its own place.

Consider: light has to come. Darkness is at its own place, eternally settled. Tomorrow our sun will be extinguished; darkness will be eternal. The life of suns is finite; darkness appears eternal. Darkness never goes; it is always. The lamp is lit and it seems darkness has gone. The lamp is put out and it is evident darkness is. It does not even tremble. Light trembles; darkness not even a tremor — unshaken.

Outside it is so. Darkness is eternal; light is momentary. Whether of the lamp or of the suns — light too has a moment, and it is gone. Within, the situation is reversed. Light is eternal; darkness is momentary. However much we wander in ignorance, however much we descend into sins and travel through hells — the inner light is not affected; it is unshaken. Sins come and go. The journey through hells happens and ends. And the day we return within we find there eternal light. Within there is eternal light; outside there is eternal darkness. Outside there is momentary light; within there is momentary darkness.

He who attains to such a state of consciousness — the rishis say — experiences infinite suns. Twelve is only the limit of a dozen; therefore twelve. Twelve means as many suns as possible fill him within.

This light is very different. For the light outside, whether for a moment or for an aeon — there is a source. It comes from the sun, it comes from the lamp. Whatever comes from a source perishes when the source is exhausted. The lamp’s oil is spent; the flame goes out. The sun’s energy is exhausted; the sun is spent.

Scientists say that perhaps this sun will last only about four thousand more years — then it will go out. With its going out these trees, this life, these plants and leaves, we — all will go out, because without its rays we cannot be.

Where there is a source and a limit, all things will be momentary. The sun within — to speak rightly — has no source, it is a source-less light. There is no source there — a light without source. Hence it never gets exhausted. That is why outside darkness does not get exhausted — because darkness has no source.

Do you know from where darkness comes? From nowhere. Darkness simply is. It has no source; therefore the oil does not get spent from which darkness would come. Therefore the lamp does not go out from which darkness would come. Therefore the sun does not end from which darkness would come. Darkness is.

Just so — as outside there is darkness — inside there is light, without source. That which is without source alone can be eternal; that which is without source alone can be everlasting, can be always. All else is exhausted.

Becoming without support — those who attain to communion — to the contentment of communion, to the purifying of communion — they attain that source-less light.

Enough for today.

Now let us move toward that source-less light.

Keep a few things in mind.

Everyone must tie a blindfold over the eyes. Those who do not have blindfolds should procure them. Put plugs in the ears also, so that the ears are closed. And bring your total energy to it. Do not make me say it.

For ten minutes, in the first stage, breathe with your whole life in it. If the whole life enters, the second stage will open.

Then in the second stage, jump so much, dance, shout, laugh, weep — that your whole life is gathered into it. When the second stage happens with totality, the third stage will open.

In the third stage, sound the battle-cry — Hoo — Hoo — so loudly that its strike reaches down to the navel center and its jolt hits the Kundalini, and the Kundalini begins to awaken and rush upward. Then those twelve suns of which we have spoken will begin to become visible to us.

And one last thing.

After meditation, those who wish to remain lying down may remain even after I have finished, if it is their joy. And the moment I say, become silent for ten minutes — after that not even the slightest sound. No one will make a sound, nor dance, nor sway. When it is time to be silent for ten minutes, become utterly still and empty. If any friends have come outside to watch, let them move away, sit at a distance on the hill, and do not talk there either — just watch silently.